*The following contains material taken from one of my own blog posts that I had dedicated to the incomparable professor of journalism, Conrad Fink. Professor Fink passed away last night after a 20-year illness. Words, although they were what he knew best, cannot capture the essence and spirit of that man.
I'd heard a lot of whispering about the eyebrows. Those of us classified as "pre-journalism" considered them legendary, and considered him terrifying. He was a mystery, the way he carried himself with confidence through the halls of the Grady College, down the stairs and onto the second floor, where he sat at his desk surrounded by books, articles, and a couple of framed excuses from his students...one written by a veterinarian and one written by an arresting officer.
There was always a line of students outside the door, waiting to get in and hear what he had to say. Some of them left laughing, some of them left crying, but ALL of them came back time after time...for help, for guidance, for advice, or to talk over a problem that wasn't necessarily always school related. I envied them. I pitied them. But, I knew with a concentration in print journalism that in good time I would BE one of them, and the thought scared me and thrilled me at the same time.
I'm talking, of course, about Conrad Fink, legendary professor of journalism at the University of Georgia Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. The first class I had with Professor Fink was Public Affairs Reporting, and it was in the spring in the early nineties. We sat there, still as statues, waiting for him to walk in on that first day. He entered the room with the presence of royalty, dressed in a powder blue suit and carrying several newspapers in his hands. He started barking out headlines and immediately calling us by our last names. It sounds impersonal, but it was far from it. Twenty years later, although the name has changed AND he also taught my husband, when we corresponded recently he still called me "Boone." I wouldn't have had it any other way.
As I left that first class and headed home that day, something strange occurred to me. I had forgotten to look for the eyebrows. Anyone who has had the privilege of being his student will know that after just one class, the eyebrows no longer matter. Yes, I am sure they were his signature, but what really stood out were the bright, engaging eyes underneath the brows, and the complete and utter passion for his work that had spanned several decades already, from the Marines to the Associated Press, to foreign correspondent and all kinds of other things.
One of our early assignments in that first class was to get published, so I marched myself over to The Red and Black and took on a story…a real page turned about how the opening of Highway 316 was going to hurt business along old Highway 29. I drove all over Athens, Bogart, and Statham, interviewing owners of businesses such as Peanut’s Redneck Barbecue and Sun Your Buns Tanning Salon. I got some great quotes and I wrote a heartbreaking story about suffering business and Main Street woes. I was so proud of it, but there was a problem…it seems I made no mention of money in my heart wrenching economic story. Professor Fink was quick to point this out in class, although he refrained from mentioning who had written the story. Being 19 and being completely full of myself, I took offense and raised my hand, taking ownership of my lame little story and explaining my even lamer reasons for leaving that oh-so-vital information out.
Professor Fink would later that day take me aside and praise me for raising my hand and defending my sad little piece. From that day on, we were friends, and I never wrote another story that didn’t win some praise from him. I felt like I could go to him for writing advice and not try to do it all on my own, and that I would get answers and guidance that would mold me into a better writer.
We all had a fine time that spring quarter, learning to write news stories and thrilling in seeing ourselves published. Our professor and by then, our friend, delighted along with us and was always proud and always had advice on how to make the story even better. And then one afternoon he walked into the room and hushed the crowd as if he was beginning a press conference. He dropped a bomb that left us all speechless, and some of us in tears. He told us he was ill and would be taking the rest of the quarter off to recover. He delivered the news with so little emotion that I feared at the time he was going to make us write up a story. Thankfully he didn’t make us write a story, but he did tell us we’d be finishing out the quarter with another professor, a professor whose name I don’t even remember because nothing mattered after that announcement except making sure he was back in the fall.
After the shock wore off, and thanks to phone calls to the second floor from his family (this was before cell phones and internet) we were able to go visit him in the hospital. We spent class time irritating our substitute professor while organizing who would make what food and who was going to ride together, so that he had a constant stream of student visitors. We enjoyed meeting his family, although we tried to shake the memory of seeing him in a hospital gown.
And true to his word, he returned with a vengeance, and I was crazy enough as a senior to take two classes in the same quarter with him. I remember when he saw me for the second time that first day. “Glutton for punishment, aren’t you, Boone?” I guess so, but I wasn’t missing an opportunity to become schooled in Contemporary American Newspapers or Journalism Ethics. My greatest accomplishment in college was earning an A in every class I took from Conrad Fink. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was probably the hardest thing I’ve done to this day besides be a parent, but it was worth it because Mr. Fink was the kind of professor you simply didn’t want to disappoint, and you sure didn’t want to become a Grady Grad without those classes.
Twenty years ago when he carted bags of newspapers into the classroom and gave us some crazy talk about how one day we’d be reading the newspaper on a handheld device, subscribing to magazines electronically, and choosing our news outlets, we thought perhaps he was going on around the bend a little. That sounded absolutely insane, yet here I sit, reading the newspaper on an iPhone, subscribing to National Geographic on my Kindle and listening to CNN on the Roku. He was ahead of his time. He even had a Facebook page, which is how we corresponded in the last year or so.
I never brandish the red pen without thinking of him. All these years, and all these turns my life has taken, and every single day I still use something he taught me, still hear his voice of reason, and still credit him with pretty much everything I know about writing and editing. I have often wondered if he was disappointed in his students who chose to work behind the scenes, wielding the red pen, and then I think that he was probably proud that he taught us how to do it properly.
And now here I am…four children, countless books edited and behind me, and I am back in college again, to become a teacher. I don’t intend to scare those kindergarteners quite like he scared us, but I do carry his spirit and inspiration with me every day. My own child is sitting on the sofa as I type reading The New York Times. I hope he knows this. I hope he sees this. His influence reaches far and wide.
Last night, Professor Fink published the ultimate story. After a full life he has moved on to the great newsroom in the sky. I am not dealing very well with this loss tonight, friends, but I can tell you this much…I certainly hope St. Peter’s list doesn’t have any typos on it, because Fink is headed his way with the red pen.
Goodbye to one of the greatest men that has ever lived. I’ll see you again someday, but until then, I’m going to continue to write like you taught me.
So long, you old rascal.
~Boone
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