Roy Exum: One More About Tat

  • Sunday, June 19, 2016
  • Roy Exum
Roy Exum
Roy Exum

Mark Twain wrote a story once long ago about a man going to his own funeral. I have thought about that since my iconic uncle Lee Anderson died on Thursday and what a colossal misfortune it is that the dead cannot hear the plaudits. Every compliment was deserved, the countless comments on the longtime newspaper editor’s ability to conduct himself with aplomb above the fray were all true. I only wish my great friend, a key member of my personal family, and a man loved by all could have heard them and, better still, warmly acknowledged them in his most-humble way.

Lee Anderson will be buried Monday at the National Cemetery (10:30 a.m.) and then his funeral will be held at 2 o’clock tomorrow afternoon at First Presbyterian Church, this in the very sanctuary where he marvelously taught Sunday School and the Bible for many years. Since he has passed, dozens of friends long adored by my extended family have triggered an avalanche of memories. I have received a great slew of emails and so have many others who were touched by him.

One morning my mother, Lee (who our family all called ‘Tat’) and myself were in my grandfather’s office when my uncle brought up what became a matter of style. We always had a bevy of visitors at 400 East 11th Street and Tat felt pretty strongly that we as a family should welcome them. Of course, it was Lee who attracted most of the politicians, civic leaders and the like but he had come up with an idea he hoped would let others of us say hello yet not appear to interrupt.

The way the move would work is whenever there was a dignitary or someone of note in any office, we were to immediately enter the room, apologizing for the intrusion while at the same time thanking whoever it was – friend or enemy – for coming to see us. Lee was masterful as the host. The second one of us would enter the room, he would stand up and say, “Judge, you remember Roy Exum, don’t you?” and “Hizzoner” would smile just so. You didn’t dare start a conversation, just a quick hello, and you’d be gone in 30 seconds. Lee Anderson adored that, and it was because he truly sought out kindness in his every waking hour.

Down through the years, it became a masterstroke for our family, adding warmth to the visitors while displaying how nice and kind our entire family seemed to be (even if one or two of us really weren’t!). Roy McDonald’s children and grandchildren were long on good manners but ‘Tat’ took it to a much higher level. I’ve been in his office countless times where some misguided blowhard would scream the very worst expletives over the telephone. So help me, sitting beside his desk you could actually hear the rage and profanity.

But ‘Tat,’ in a calm and measured voice, would never rise to the bait. “I am so sorry you feel this way,” or, “I look forward to talking more about this after things settle down a bit,” or, “I am pleased we can agree to disagree … and I appreciate your standing up for what you believe in.” It is exactly what ol’ Elmer taught me before I was four years old: “Sonny boy, a smile never goes out of style.”

Lee Anderson, who everyone agrees was one on the nicest people who ever lived, was the very best I have ever seen emulating a daily walk with his Christ. I asked him, “How can you possibly be nice to someone who calls you such names?” and he would smile and say the trick to any argument or unpleasant encounter was “to heap fiery coals upon their heads.”

The notion comes from the book of Proverbs, one of Tat’s favorites, where in the 25th chapter we read, “If your enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink: For you shall heap coals of fire on his head, and the Lord shall reward you …”

Nothing disarms rage like kindness. I waited for years hoping he would cuss – just once – but it was in vain. When something tragic or distasteful would happen, Lee would usually just shake his head, maybe offering, “It’s a shame it has come to this …” I’ve also heard him say, “This gives us something else to pray about.” He was always steady, level, and had great compassion.

Once both he and my grandfather were out of the building when the first edition started rolling off the presses about 10:30 (we were an afternoon newspaper). I remember I was on the phone talking to somebody when I absent-mindedly thumbed through some of that day’s pages and spied an enticing story where a prominent but obviously disturbed local man had been caught in a terribly compromising way in a shopping-mall rest room. The cub reporter had no idea who the man really was. Oh lordy! I immediately stopped the presses.

Forget Hollywood and all the drama. Brother, you better have a darn good reason to stop the presses because the aftermath can cost both time and money. About that time Lee came running and asked what on earth had I done. I pointed to the story that had slipped by our city editors. “Well, this is unfortunate but we shouldn’t … oh, no … this is awful … of course you did the right thing; how many copies do you think got out on the street?”

The point I make is Lee was the epitome of compassion and decency. Sure, every so often we used to hold a story if we thought it would cause greater problems. Back then we didn’t publish the names of drunk drivers or nasty divorces. Those people had enough problems. We would bend over backwards not to name kids in any story – they have to go to school the next day – and while we never shirked reporting the truth, I can now say that often we would omit much of the garnish the gossipers so adore.

Once a prominent executive of the Chattanooga Times was arrested for DUI and we had the police reports, officer’s candid statements and, believe this, some real juicy tidbits. Yet we wouldn’t dare publish the story, even though the Times was our archenemy. (The Times reported it but we never printed a word.)

I can name other incidents where public ridicule was a key factor in a story never going public, which is hardly the case today. And I know Lee’s sound judgment would often come into play when someone’s good reputation was at stake. My family actually kept a well-guarded comp list, where we would mail complimentary papers to people we knew were in prison for a while, and there were other things like that we did that nobody ever knew about. Trust me, more often than not I was the “drop pigeon,” the “bag man,” and, if I dare say, I became really good in not getting caught at it.

The funniest story ever was when our Parade magazine came out with a sex survey one week. The weekly Sunday supplement would get delivered on pallets on the Monday prior before it would appear so it could be joined with the other “inserts” included in the Sunday paper. I vividly remember Tat, standing aghast in my grandfather’s office, his eyes wide as he held a first copy, where one of the questions on the survey asked about anal sex. Oh, mother of pearl!

Understand … this was some 30-odd years ago when society’s standards were much higher than today. My grandfather got on the phone and defiantly told Parade’s officials he didn’t pander to filth and he was refusing to degrade his Sunday editions with such trash. They threatened to discontinue our contract before hearing a chilly, “It’s your nickel …”

Well, the up-north liberals went crazy and soon our stand to leave sex alone was a topic of national news. When a few customers complained that we were denying them of what they paid to subscribe, we answered by publicly informing our readers on the front of a daily section that we would gladly mail them a copy, at our expense, but we knew many children read our paper, too. It would not be in our delivery.

Truth be known, we mailed out less than 150 copies but the story got a little bigger until finally there came the moment when some pompous journalism-school phony at the Washington Post called, quite full of himself, and crassly demanded to know our stance and belief about censorship in the Land of the Free.

My grandfather got on the phone and said succinctly, “This is Roy McDonald … I am the sole owner of this newspaper. Censorship has nothing to do with my decision. I instead operate based on ownership. This is my newspaper … mine ... and we don’t deliver filth. Good day.” End of story.

It was a most sublime moment.

As a Sunday School teacher, Lee and Betsy also took that to a higher level. If a member of the Lee Anderson class was in the hospital, Tat and Betsy would visit several times. He attended thousands of funerals with all the right words to say. His out-of-the-blue telephone calls, more to encourage than to express concern, were legendary and it was Tat himself who taught me that any kind or sensitive note would one day return like a boomerang.

Ironically, as we pause for Father’s Day, I think of my cousins Corinne and Mary Stewart. They have become perfect reflections of their parents’ goodness, just as so many news reporters who worked with Lee down through the years and soon embraced their editor’s ideals. Tat was a great teacher, no question about it, but how he used example as his brush created many a beautiful painting, this with wide strokes.

Candidly, I know all good men must die and, honestly, I didn’t think Lee would endure his late-life afflictions as long as he did. Since Thursday, as so many memories of good times and bad we endured as a family come in a tsunami of a way, I have come to realize Tat was more than an uncle to me. He was most certainly a role model, an ever-willing ear and trusted confidante, but in just the last couple of days I have come to realize the two of us were once wound a little tighter than that long ago.

When I take a stark look at my life, my failures as well as my accomplishments, I can say after 40 years spent with each other every day, Lee Anderson had more to do with who I am than I’ll ever realize. My blessing, if you please, is that so many of those with whom we have shared a mutual love have known exactly that for years.

royexum@aol.com


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