Timothy Alden Williams, reporter and teacher, died wistfully on February 24, 2017 in Hendersonville, North Carolina after a brief quarrel with the calendar. He was 84.
Williams
was variously called Alden (family and classroom) or Timothy (Army and
newsroom). He said having two names is
“mnemonically mnifty” when meeting old friends in unfamiliar circumstances. In either case, he was born November 16, 1932
in Charlotte, NC, to Irena Louise Foreman, a poet and teacher, and John Payne
Williams, an economics professor at Davidson College.
Williams
attended Lower Merion public schools in suburban Philadelphia and was graduated
in history from Davidson College. He was
commissioned in the Army Infantry and served as platoon leader and, thanks to
forgiving NCOs, as company commander in the Third Division at Fort Benning.
Williams
transferred to counterespionage in Berlin.
His protean doings there are secret, boring, or not fit telling in mixed
company.
After
the Army, he parlayed experience on four daily newspapers into reporting for
United Press as it became UP International in Chicago. Big town/small staff yielded opportunities to
cover people like radiography pioneer Emil Grubbé, Harry Truman, Dwight
Eisenhower, Adlai Stevenson, and John Kennedy.
Williams’
most vivid images came, however, from stories he heard from Robert (Bobby)
Loughran. Loughran, a newspaper UP
veteran when he covered the St. Valentine’s Day massacre in 1929.
Williams
learned, as generations before him, that the best news stories wouldn’t work as
fiction. He happily wrote little pieces
of history like these:
SOMEWHERE, WI January 15
(UPI)—Street cleaning today was slow as molasses in January.
A
tanker truck overturned and spilled 6,000 gallons of the black syrup
on Main Street.
SOMEWHERE ELSE, IL (UPI)—- Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey? his wife pleaded on the telephone.
William Bailey, a volunteer fireman, arrived home in time to extinguish a grease fire in their two bedroom bungalow.
SOMEWHERE ELSE, IL (UPI)—- Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey? his wife pleaded on the telephone.
William Bailey, a volunteer fireman, arrived home in time to extinguish a grease fire in their two bedroom bungalow.
He
enjoyed rewriting to put colleagues’ fine lines up top, as in this piece about
deaf and blind children at the Shrine Circus:
Chicago (UPI) - The deaf children laughed first because they could see.
Then their blind playmates laughed, and the circus was the most exciting place in the world.
Then their blind playmates laughed, and the circus was the most exciting place in the world.
It wasn’t just the annual Shrine
Circus. It was an afternoon away from class for more than 200 youngsters…
The partially deaf and the blind
wore earphones to “see” the action, but the headsets didn’t get in the way of
peanuts and cotton candy. The blind children couldn’t run up and down the
aisle, but no one said they had to sit all the way back in their seats.
The deaf children couldn’t hear the
lions roar or the dogs bark or the music for prancing horses. But they could
shudder and shriek and clap for the clowns, and fear for the pretty girl on the
elephant…
The blind children were led to the
lion tamer’s cage. They asked whether his gun was loaded. They paced off the
distance lions would jump from stand to stand. The lion tamer offered his
leather whip to a child who was born blind. “Yes, yes!” he cried.
The clowns were luckier than people
who sat near the children. Grease paint masked their eyes.
His
fondest beat at UPI was his gifted and beautiful colleague, Joyce Elaine
Schuller. They collaborated on two adored and devoted children, Evan Charles
and Heather Lee.
Their
marriage began at Chapel Hill, NC, midway to a doctorate in political
science. They spent two years in the
Mershon program at Ohio State University and a year teaching in Denver’s
Graduate School of International Studies.
Thirty years later, he found himself as emeritus professor of
political science at a middle western land grant school.
Williams
specialized in what states do in the name of security. He defined collective or personal “security”
as a dynamic popular (or individual)
expectation of relative constitutional integrity. His field ignored it. He quantified it.
Nobody cared. He rephrased it as
“How much folks feel yawned.” Williams
consigned it to his obituary.
Williams
wasn’t a scholar, but he loved students and loved learning with them and from
them. He asked each new student his or
her “home of the heart.” He cherished
replies like “Where light is.” He wept
at a reply like, “No home, no place, no people.”
He invited questions, the less comfortable the
better. A cheeky graduate student asked
him, “Professor, what are you really
interested in?” An older undergraduate
in U.S. foreign policy asked, “How does a person get involved without getting
beat up?” Williams spent most of his
career answering them.
Williams
rarely mentioned Nobel and Pulitzer awards, having earned neither one. He nominated himself for the Berklee-Lassus
Tutorial in Euphonium-Trombone-Baritone Horn, but withdrew when he remembered
he couldn’t play a lick on the euphonium.
He did receive an American
Legion medal in ninth grade, a secret he kept until very late in life when he
told his barber.
He
liked the banjo a lot. He never played the banjo in a Presbyterian church,
where he was baptized, or in a Congregational, Methodist, Unitarian, or Quaker
meeting, all of which he found uplifting, albeit in need of banjos.
When
he finally retired to his native North Carolina, tremors silenced his banjo.
But one man’s tremor is another man’s trope. He liked limericks, he said,
because they’re fun to write…and because they’re the only art form, besides
puns and dark verse who highest praise is “That’s terrible.” For example, from
“Cool Prophets”:
Joshua
fought the battle of Jericho
With Canaan
brought low, Israel’s good to go.
His other
cool stunts
(He parted
the sea once)
Were old
news. Moses pulled them off years befo’.
A feminist
icon named Jezebel
Was tossed
out a window in Jezre’el
For her
worship of Baal
She was
last heard to wail
“I
shouldn’a led Jews down the road to hell.”
Scholastics
don’t care for Maimonides,
They don’t
dig his contrary negateeves.
Preaching
what God is not,
Just look
what it got
Him: M.D.,
LLB., but no Ph.D.’s.
Lots
of kin and kith succeed him. They know who and how precious they are, and they
all mind Mammy Yokum: “Good is better than evil because it’s nicer.”
Williams
liked flowers, but not to celebrate his death. The beloved, unexpected, and
fascinating people in his life were their own hillside of blooms. In lieu of
flowers, he would prefer that anyone who gives a hoot do at least one thing
that they would not otherwise have done. A hoot is a good start.