I really came to know Richard Smith only after his 'accident' [abuse and mutilation at the hands of medico-legal brotherhood]. Perhaps that's fortunate for me because I experienced him as the person he was not whom he had become. To me he was the subject of the sentence he wrote for himself, not the object.

The Richard that I knew was inordinately kind, considerate, gentle, polite, sensual, compassionate and acutely perceptive. He loved the sounds, smells and pretty dancing girls of the Caribbean and West Indian festival held every spring at State College. And conversation. In his element, he was abundantly and enthusiastically conversant.But other times he was quiet. He and I shared a reticence brought on by the imposition of our two different handicaps. But in that commonality we shared a bond.

Around the turn of the millennium, the borough celebrated Independence Day by a parade, with all manner of antiquated armaments in tow, that terminated at the Civil War monument just across S 3rd St. from Richard's and Yvonne's porch. Friends of the Smiths were invited to sit in the shade, sip beverages and listen to the filibustering and patriotic fervor whipped up by the surviving reminiscences of aging war heroes and the drone of ancient military aircraft buzzing the crowd.

The first such ceremony of the new century, just after their obtaining their citizenship, I arrived at the Smith's as the annual I-day festivities were beginning. I climbed the steps to the porch where I found Richard sitting alone, reading a theological paper. I greeted him, sat down on the couch and after a moment said, " .. the last refuge of scoundrels, eh?"

He laughed politely. "Who said that?" I mused, half to myself. I waited in the ensuing a pause until at last he said, with just a hint of chagrin, "I used to know that." We paused again. Then I remarked, "You know I have finally discovered why men our age so rarely speak." "Why is that?" he asked a little hesitantly. "Not because we don't have anything to say, but because we are so tired of forever having to explain the obvious to those who don't want to take the trouble to hear, think or listen." He laughed again, this time genuinely.

Wine and food were his two fondest pleasures. Caribbean, West Indian, east Indian, north or south Indian, the spicier the better, thank you very much. Juli and I took Richard and Yvonne to Passage to India in Harrisburg for his 70th birthday. Juli wore her chauffeur's cap and jacket; I was the foot- and door-man; Richard and Yvonne rode in the back seat. We knew he was happy when, toward the end of the meal, he took out his kerchief and mopped his sopping pate, glistening with perspiration. "Would you like some more?" "Yes!" was the enthusiastic reply.

Richard was a gentleman's gentleman. A giant among gentle giants. With me, please remember him as the subject of the life he wrote, not as an object of one writ by others.

-- Professor John Cooper