In January 2001, a scholarship fund was established to honor Virginia teacher, publications adviser and mentor, Richard J. Fitz Jr. He attended over 35 consecutive CSPA conventions, helped found the VHSL Scholastic Publications Advisory Committee and presented at VHSL workshops from 1970-1994. He remained active after that, helping with workshop registration and serving on the Savedge Scholarship Award selection committee.

Contributions to the Richard Fitz Memorial Scholarship Fund can be sent to P.O. Box 310, South Boston, VA  24592.

Who was Richard Fitz? If you did not have the pleasure of meeting him, let us introduce you to him.

The man who taught scores of aspiring journalists how to write news ledes and headlines died on January 12, 2001. Longtime high school journalism and English teacher Richard J. Fitz Jr. succumbed to a heart attack while vacationing in Paris. He was 70.

Fitz taught at Halifax County High School from 1952 until his retirement in 1988, and garnered a reputation for his outstanding yearbook, the Haliscope, and newspaper, The Star, many of which won top national awards. In South Boston and Halifax, he was known as a theater patron and opera buff.

The youngest child and only boy among five siblings, he was born Oct. 4, 1930, in Chase City. He received his B.A. from the University of Richmond in 1951 and a Master’s from the University of Virginia in 1967. Fresh out of college, he taught first at Clover High School, and then joined the original faculty of Halifax County High School when the small schools consolidated in 1952.

While he never married and had no children, Fitz may have considered as his legacy the countless students he subtly steered into careers in communications. Among them are newspaper publishers, editors, reporters, magazine writers, professional photographers, a pharmaceutical information company executive, a documentary filmmaker and a television journalist.

In the classroom, Fitz was phlegmatic and unruffled, a man who taught with low-key determination — and never, ever in a rush. In his later years, he tended to ignore print deadlines yet still inspire teenagers to pursue journalism as a vocation. Students looked to him not just as an authority on pica poles and layouts, but on the most interesting literature of the year, the proper color of a man’s tuxedo ("The only color is black!" he once decreed) and the best colleges.

In 1984 Fitz was selected the outstanding journalism teacher from the Richmond Times-Dispatch and Richmond News Leader and in 1996 he was recipient of the Journalism Education Association’s Lifetime Achievement award. In 1998 he was inducted into the Virginia High School League Hall of Fame. Yearbooks he advised won Medalist and Trendsetter awards from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association.

Many thought his passing — instantly, on the grounds of the beautiful Cathedral at Montmartre, in the early evening with the lights of Paris twinkling below — was precisely the sort of death with a flourish that Fitz would have wanted for himself.

In order to know the man in whose honor the Richard Fitz Memorial Scholarship Fund is established and to remind advisers of the reason many teachers choose to advise publications for a lifetime, we share a few of the tributes to Richard Fitz. They were among many shared on Friday, January 19, 2001, during a memorial service at the First Presbyterian Church in South Boston, Va.

About the time — in the early 1980s — that I had Mr. Fitz for a teacher, I developed a highly annoying, extremely sophomoric habit of dropping foreign phrases into conversations. In one such display of affected sophistication, I used the term “bon vivant.” 

“What’s that?” asked a friend. “Use it in a sentence.”

I hestitated, trying to think of some example among our truck-driving, Lynyrd-Skynyrd-loving, television-addicted  contemporaries. Finally I had it: “Mr. Fitz is a bon vivant.”  I offered.

“Ahhhhhh.” The friend got my drift.

I submit to you today that Mr. Fitz was not only the beloved teacher of many a student –– but also a friend who taught us ALL how to live life well.

And, I might add, die with a certain flair.

He was hardly rich — and famous only to those who moved in high school yearbook circles — and not possessed of movie-star looks nor connections to the politically powerful — yet he never let limitations — limitations and circumstances common to virtually ALL of us — keep him from pursuing the things he wanted to pursue and indulging in passions for the finer things in life: travel, opera, literature, gourmet food, conversation. Fun. At The Prizery, at cocktail parties, at ball games, I was always struck by what a fabulous time he seemed to be having.

Without question, Fitz passed on tricks of the trade that I use every single day of my working life, but equally important to me was what he taught outside of headline counts and pica poles. He read what seemed to us — in 1983 — chi-chi magazines: GQ and The New Yorker.

He dared criticize the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

I never saw him in blue jeans; never encountered him without after-shave.

He was always dashing off to see a Broadway play or classical music – or The Rolling Stones.

Fitz was a paradox of sorts to me — all his interests pointed to life far beyond the red-clay dirt of Halifax County, yet he never, to my ears, disparaged his life or the good people of his home. He was involved in THIS place. He treasured his friends HERE. He never talked of moving on, or of being left behind. He did not speak of greener pastures elsewhere.

I think he was especially blessed in that his vocation so perfectly suited him. He could have gone into newspapers or magazines, but I’m inclined to say the hurly-burly of daily journalism wouldn’t have been in step with his more leisurely stride. So somehow he wound up in the rarified world that he did: Yearbook design, at which he excelled — channeled all his artistry and aesthetic sensibilities. In its content, he summed up the themes of a given school year, crafting a history book, a memento of a specific time and a specific place too soon forgotten.

In mentoring teenagers, Mr. Fitz — despite his premature gray — stayed forever kind of young, kind of hip.

Many a day at work — writing — I have thought of him. Many a trip, I have thought of him. Many a day when I’ve felt broke and stuck in a small town and decidedly unglamorous and tired of the burden of newspaper deadlines, I’ve thought of him — and the example he set with his modest apartment, his sensible car, his grossly undervalued profession of teaching — his never ceasing to take in the wonders of the world and the best that it had to offer.

This is my take on him: He was a teacher, yes, but his life is a testament to the notion that all of us are teachers to someone, not strictly in the cold, hard facts and skills we pass on, but in the examples we set, in what we embrace, in what we eschew. In how we prioritize, how we spend our money, in how we LIVE.

Long before he died last Friday, I would sit a blank computer screen with a story to write or a page to lay out, and it would occur to me that Mr. Fitz was kind of like an angel on my shoulder. Now, I like to think, he is the real thing.

— Mary Eva Cassada
former student

Please offer my condolences and say I wanted to be there but I’m involved in planning the Daily News coverage of next week’s Super Bowl involving the Giants and Ravens.

I will never forget my first byline in The Star, the student paper at Halifax County Senior High School. It was a feature on hot spots in South Boston after a Friday night football game. I did a lot of work on the story, but I was not sure if it was going to make the paper.

On the day the paper was published, I walked into Fitz’ journalism class. He said: “The story was pretty good.”

It was those five words that spurred me to write a second story. Those words came at a time when I was not sure about my future. If not for his encouragement, I probably would have chosen another career. I was thrilled to see Mr. Fitz a few years ago in Richmond at a VHSL workshop and I am glad I had a chance to thank him.

He had a passion for good journalism. He pushed us to write good stories and good headlines. And sometimes when the stories and headlines were good, he wanted to see if we could write better ones. Many of us went on do great things in the journalism.

I am the highest ranking African American journalist at the New York Daily News, the country’s fourth largest paper. I am one of only four African American sports editors in the country. If it were not for those five words by Mr. Fitz — "The story was pretty good" — I doubt I would be where I am today.

— Leon Carter, sports editor, New York Daily News
former student of Mr. Fitz

As I thought about what I’d say about Richard Fitz today, a wide variety of ideas came to mind.  He was a friend, a mentor, a nationally recognized yearbook expert, an opera buff, a theater fan and so much more ...

But he was my first and probably only encounter with a traditional Southern gentleman of the old school. He was always soft-spoken in his broad Southern accent, always held the doors for me, which took some getting used to because I was a young independent Yankee girl who was used to doing things herself, and always slow and relaxed in his approach to life. He never rushed into anything — except the time we went to the wrong terminal at Newark Airport and they were holding the plane for us. That was as close as I, or anyone, ever came to seeing Richard running!

His casual approach to punctuality was familiar to all who knew him — his fellow teachers at school, his principals — one of whom lay in wait for him behind a bush at the door he used to sneak in late — his printing company, and his journalism buddies. While I was living in the same apartment complex as he, whenever we were headed for a workshop, I would be sure to see his white hair bobbing along in the glow of the street light at nine o’clock as he went to wash and dry the shirts he needed to pack for departure the next morning.

That memory sparked a realization for me of how good I had it when I lived near him. I could scoot down the hill, hop over the creek bed, round the brick wall that reminded him of Mistah Jefferson’s University, and find him lounging in his living room that was filled with glass knicknacks, books, magazines, stacks of yearbooks, and dust bunnies under the tables. There, I could vent my frustration with kids and deadlines or pick his brain for new ways to do layouts and copy. In his quiet, calm way, he’d listen, offer a few suggestions, and I’d go back up the hill calmer and with an idea of how to solve the latest crisis.

I owe my 32-year love affair with scholastic journalism in great part to Richard Fitz who suggested I apply for a Newspaper Fund scholarship after I volunteered to sponsor a newspaper at the newly created junior high in 1970. I was accepted, and went to Oklahoma where I met his buddy, Jimmy Paschal, and other folks he had spoken of. (I had kept confusing the colonels—Murphy and Savedge — until Chuck’s strong personality quickly cured me of that once I’d met him.)

It was only a few years after my Oklahoma experience that I realized I was traveling in high company as I began to hang out with Fitz and his pals at workshops and conventions.  These folks were the cream of the crop — the top names in our unique world of journalism advisers — and I got to know them as real people, not just names in judging books.

All of them adored Richard and he enjoyed traveling with them to workshops and on vacations. When he’d come back from these trips, he’d share a few tales with me so I was up on the latest inside stories. He was not above dishing some good gossip when he heard it! How his eyes would twinkle as he began a good story!

In the midst of this week of shock and memories of Richard, grades had to be finalized and as I read a quote from Emily Dickinson, I was reminded of several things about Fitz. He liked Emily and we visited her house in Amherst when we taught a summer workshop there for several years. He grumbled about the hills of the campus, but taught his classes with his usual understated enthusiasm. The quote goes —

… It was a common night,
Except the dying; this to us
Made nature different.
We noticed smallest things, —
Things overlooked before,
By this great light upon our minds
Italicized, as ‘t were.

As friends have asked how the plans for this service were coming, I’d answer. “Well enough — we’ve just got to get our ducks in a row.” It hit me finally — I’d learned that phrase from Fitz.  A Southernism! I teased him about it when he first said it to me, but now it is part of me— just as he is now a part of me, and of all of us gathered here — one of many little things his life has brought to ours.

Who knows how far along they will ripple — how many students will say that phrase, or appreciate theater or music, or use their journalism skills in their lives — lives richer for having known Richard Fitz.

—    Linda Mercer, friend, publications adviser,
Director of Virginia Association of Journalism Teachers and Advisers,
January19, 2001, South Boston, Va.

The Fitz Buffet

I vividly remember the first time I saw Richard Fitz. I was a beginning yearbook adviser who didn't know a pica from an ice pick, and I was sitting at the feet of one of the most decorated journalism teachers in the country at a summer yearbook workshop. Mr. Fitz, as I called him fondly over the next three decades, ambled to the blackboard and scribbled the word buffet.

"I teach yearbook design," he said, looking calm and confident in his handsome sweater, "using the method of the Fitz Buffet " Then he began to fill in the blanks by each letter.

B was for balance. Every yearbook layout had to have it.
U stood for unity. Something to make two pages seem like one.
F represented focus. A large photo would do nicely.
Flair — that took care of the second f. The right graphics were needed for flair.
E reminded us to seek excitement in our designs.
The last letter — T — suggested temperance. "The best designs have simple elegance," he advised.

Yearbook design isn't really that simple, of course. But the Fitz Buffet gave us fledgling yearbook advisers something to remember as we maneuvered our squares representing photos and copy, headlines and captions, onto the 9" x 12" layout sheets that would later become pages in the world's most beloved memory books.

Even as a novice teacher myself, I could recognize that a master teacher stood before us, his southern accent as thick as the chalk dust he clapped from his hands. He was patient. He was encouraging. He never hurried a question or rushed through an answer. I didn't know it then, but after teaching with him at so many journalism workshops over the next 25 years, I came to understand something. The same words he had chosen to remind us of the elements of good design applied to Mr. Fitz himself.

Balance?
He balanced the ability to achieve so much with the gift of knowing when to do not so much. He treasured his work, but he also loved his leisure.

Unity?
Often tempers fray as workshop tensions mount or deadlines approach. Mr. Fitz could unify frequently exhausted and sometimes exasperated colleagues and staff members with his quick wit and unflappable countenance.

Focus?
His life's focus was his teaching, but he always held his friends and family in sharp focus, too. The newspaper and yearbook editors who often became lifelong friends and a nation of new advisers who felt comfortable asking for his help — they flourished in his focus as well.

Flair?
Definitely. His was a quiet flair. Never flashy. He knew that good taste and good manners are always in style, and he wore them impeccably.

Excitement?
He found excitement in the awe of Maria Callas' operas and in the magic of favorite Broadway musicals. He found excitement in the majesty of the Grand Canyon and, I'm absolutely certain, on the promenades of Paris. He found excitement in a sunset shared with old friends who gathered for a belated Christmas celebration at Colonel Joe Murphy's house in Maine — Chuck Savedge, Charles O'Malley, Jim Pascal, Grady Locklear — the sages of scholastic journalism exchanging stories as the sun slid into the rocky shore. He found excitement at "Christmas at Alice’s," a late January tradition begun at the South Carolina home of his friend Alice James, another icon of scholastic journalism. There, his workshop colleagues gathered to skirt a towering tree high with presents, many containing what Mr. Fitz dubbed "uglies." I remember in particular Mr. Fitz' glee when someone opened an exquisitely-wrapped package that contained a particularly unattractive ceramic squirrel with glowing eyes or a florescent pink pig with three nursing piglets. "Tacky, tacky, tacky," he'd say, his deep laugh literally squeezing tears from his eyes.

Temperance?
His strength was tempered by gentleness, his wisdom tempered with wit, his pleasures with perspective. He was the original, even-tempered, gentle giant.

All who had the good fortune to banquet at the Fitz Buffet are fuller for the privilege of knowing him and are thankful for the feast of his friendship.

—Nancy Ruth Patterson
A Tribute