Remembering Fred Smock

Dedicated to E. Frederick "Chip" Smock, III

1954-2022

At the beginning of June, I received an email letting me know a flash fiction piece I submitted for publication had been accepted to an online literary magazine. This was my first acceptance since 2017. Fred was the first person I wanted to tell. I left the gym and drove to his apartment, which was close by. He was sitting on his porch where he could usually be found barefoot, reading, and drinking a glass of wine. I shared the exciting news and he poured me a glass of merlot. 

 Fred Smock was more than a mentor, he was my friend. His kindness and authenticity separated him from other teachers. He was compassionate and listened to what his students had to say. His love for the written word was infectious. Years ago, he suggested the name of the MFA program where I would eventually graduate from in 2019. He wrote me a letter of recommendation and encouraged me to keep writing.

On Saturdays, Fred could be seen sitting in the back room of my parent's restaurant, Lilly’s Bistro, often with his friend and former colleague, Tony O’Keeffe. It wasn’t lost on them that they enjoyed sitting at a table next to a painting of two donkeys (read: jackasses).  

“Robert Frost was a dick,” said Fred. “He got Truman Capote fired from the New Yorker.” It’s hard to say if this was something that was said in a creative writing class or if Fred had mentioned this on a random afternoon when I would join them for glasses of wine at the restaurant. 

 During my time at Carmichael’s Bookstore, I saw Fred regularly. I even delivered the paper to his home while he was confined to his bed recovering from a hip replacement. It was my first time seeing where he lived. The creak of the old hardwood floors followed me into different spaces as I looked for his bedroom. The walls were lined with bookshelves, almost glowing from the yellow light coming through the French door windows. A poet definitely lived here, the air seemed to say. 

Unequivocally, one of the highlights of my college career was celebrating the end of the semester with our creative writing class at Shenanigan’s Pub, an off-campus home away from home. Unfortunately, the details of that afternoon remain a bit of a blur. My friend John remembers Fred bumming a cigarette from a student and ripping off the filter and lighting it. I remember beautiful weather and tequila shots. In the early summer afternoon, Fred was one of us. 

Wherever you are, Fred, I hope you’re sipping on a glass of merlot, with ice cubes, of course.