One-of-a-kind journalist remembered; John O. Jones’ missed byline returns

by Benita Fuzzell
Former Fulton Leader and Hickman Courier Editor John O’Neal Jones in 2004.
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When I first learned of the passing of a teenaged acquaintance, a one-time co-worker, eventual boss and forever friend, I was sad.

The sadness didn’t last long.

There would be no way that anyone who ever knew John O’Neal Jones, who I also called Johnny, and often, John-Oh (as in John O. Jones), could maintain a solemn countenance for too long when the memories started to surface, involving this one-of-a-kind, master of journalistic creativity, genius photographer, absolutely quirky and hilarious human.

The present staff of The Current, as well as any and all past employees of The Fulton Daily Leader, The Fulton Leader and The Hickman Courier, no doubt, offer our sincere sympathies to Johnny’s wife, Karen, his daughters, Melissa and Allison.

I have conveyed to Karen, that Johnny was one of few people who could make me laugh, when I was taking myself a bit too seriously. Those times would usually include deadline days, examinations of weekly ad sales quotas, staff meetings and such.

After knowing him as an acquaintance, both of us having grown up in the Twin Cities, I became acquainted with John O’Neal Jones, when he was a reporter for The Fulton Daily Leader in the late 70s-early 80s. I was a proofreader.

Our bosses then were William and Rita Mitchell, and it was a different world.

Many years, and a few babies later, I reconnected with Johnny when the Mitchells sold the Leader, and Johnny had been hired as the Editor. By then, our “babies” were in high school. I was hired as the Advertising Manager.

Those brief years of working with him once again, made me appreciate and respect his abilities and talents so much more than before. He loved a great debate. He enjoyed conversation. He thrived on the inner workings of the mind. He was artistic and creative and a word master.

The team that he and I formed was balanced. His wife Karen called me his “work wife”, and I assume it’s because (as I cringe) I had to keep him in line, to put it delicately.

OK, I bossed him.

Although he was my boss and I absolutely deferred top level decisions to him, I guess I often had to reel him back in to the somewhat humdrum, mundane, day-to-day business of the newspaper.

He would hover in that realm for a few minutes, listen intently as I spouted off statistics and goals and scheduling and assignments.

Then, he had no choice but to return to “his” world, and respond to me with the most bizarre, hilarious, out-of-this world, physical-comedy-classic, contorted, animated facial expressions and comebacks.

Among the retorts, were “Benita! Don’t give me no STUUUFFF!”

I would glare at him for as long as possible, until my clenched jaw loosened, and ever so slowly, a smile, and eventually, laughter erupted.

One day, Johnny left the office for lunch, to get in a quick workout at the gym. That had become his habit. He would go for a workout, dash home for lunch and then return for the afternoon, to his office, where he seldom stayed, because he would have much rather been at the front counter, greeting each customer as they entered the doors.

It had not been long, after he left, that it was heard on our office scanner, emergency personnel had been dispatched to the gym. Being the hard core “office wife” I was, I remember thinking I needed to see if Johnny was still at the gym, and if he was, I was going to “encourage” him to pick up on any potential bit of news about the incident.

I called the gym, asked to speak to him, and the person who answered the telephone paused for a moment. After hearing the next few words through the receiver, I was on my way to the gym.

Things changed that day, for Karen and Melissa and Allison. Things changed for many of us who knew and loved John O’Neal Jones.

That was not the end, though, for my encounters with the man, the myth, the legend, that was John-Oh.

I had occasions after his recovery, to pick him up for lunch, and boy! He sure enjoyed lunch. We would talk and reminisce. He had vivid memories of our early days at the Fulton Daily Leader office. There were also times he would pick up his landline and have no problem remembering the longtime telephone number at the paper office. If I answered, he knew my voice immediately.

The Current co-worker Barbara Atwill and I both share that relationship and association with Johnny, as she was in the same position, to have worked with him at The Hickman Courier.

Barbara, too, was considered by Karen, to be Johnny’s “work wife” at the Courier.

In this week’s edition, we publish the obituary of John O’Neal Jones, found on page 5.

But, I also wanted to publish an original work by my friend.
The Fulton Leader and The Hickman Courier repeatedly published this short story, usually each Christmas season.

It’s titled Monty & the Magic Rock.

The story ran for the last time, before today, in our Nov. 24, 2004 issue of The Fulton Leader.

In the absence of our beloved editor, I wrote a lead, about why we were running this story once again. I wrote that it had, at that time, been a few months since we had seen John O. Jones’ byline, and we missed it. By then, he was in full-on recovery mode from more than one procedure, after his aneurysm a couple of months prior.

(Editor’s Note: Following, is an excerpt from that original short story, Monty and the Magic Rock, from the pen of John O’Neal Jones)

John O. Jones

“That’s a mighty nice-looking rock,” grandmother said, examining the stone like a jeweler.

“I found it on the church lot,” Monty explained.

“And how do you get it to work magic?,” she asked.

Monty took the rock from her and cupped it in his hands.

“You see,” he said, “you put it in your hands like this, and then you blow on it while you make a wish.”

“Make one for your mother,” grandmother said.

“I have already,” Monty said. “Wishing twice doesn’t help.”

“Maybe I could try it then,” she said.

“OK,” he said, and handed her back the rock.

She cupped her hands around the rock. “Like this?” Grandmother asked.

“Yeah,” Monty replied.

“Now hold it close to your mouth and make a wish,” he said. Grandmother brought her hands near her mouth and whispered inaudibly to the rock.

“What’d you say?” Monty asked.

“I wished your mother would get better,” she answered.

“I wished she wouldn’t have any more pain,” he said.

“Well, that’s good, too” said grandmother, giving the rock back to Monty.

“Now let’s go in and see about her,” she said.

As Monty and grandmother walked down the corridor to the cancer ward, he saw nurses moving out equipment from his mother’s room, octopus-like machines with lots of hoses and tubes. Aunt Peg was leaning against a corridor wall with her head in her hands.

After seeing Aunt Peg, grandmother suddenly pulled his arm and ran toward the room. He had never seen grandmother run before.

“Peg?” she called out. Aunt Peg looked up. Her face was red and swollen. She shook her head at grandmother.

“You stand right here, next to Aunt Peg, Monty,” grandmother said, and rushed into the room.

“Has mom died?” Monty asked.

“Yes,” Aunt Peg said.

She put an arm around Monty while he watched through a crack in the doorway as grandmother hugged his father. Caroline had an arm locked around one of father’s legs. She was sucking her thumb.

Monty hid behind Aunt Peg when father came out of the room.

“Monty, grandmother told me about your rock,” he said. “Your wish came true. She’s not hurting anymore.”

Monty said, “I know.”