It takes all kinds to make up this world, and the world lost a unique kind last week.
John T. Schmidt, long-time agricultural journalist and self-described Exchequer of Chancellor, died in Strathmore, Alta., at the age of 82.
Alberta readers in particular may recognize his name as the author of Agricultural Alberta, a column published in a number of weekly community newspapers. In that column, Schmidt wrote candidly about farm issues of the day, frequently goring oxen and attacking sacred cows.
Descriptions of the man by the farm-writing set almost invariably include “eccentric” as an adjective. The reasons are legion. As one example, Schmidt allegedly lashed at garbage cans with a pizzle whip while on staff at the Calgary Herald, where he was hired in 1958 as a farm writer and fired in 1986 “as a madman,” according to a brief biography in the foreword of one of his books.
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For guidance on madness and eccentricity, however, we may look to Edith Sitwell, who describes the latter trait thusly: “Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.”
That definition would have tickled Schmidt, I think. And it seems to fit.
I met the man only once in person, but our correspondence extended over a 15-year span and several newspaper stints.
An inveterate letter writer, he eschewed computers and was fond of sending typewritten pages sprinkled with xxxs over the spelling errors, corrections written in.
His tone was that of a likable curmudgeon, and he often gave compliments to Western Producer agricultural coverage. But not always.
In fall 2003, Schmidt wrote a column that cast aspersions on the editorial integrity of the Producer. It got me hot under the collar, and I fired off a letter (computer generated, spell checked, laser copied, on letterhead, that’ll show him!) designed to straighten him out.
Schmidt wrote back, of course. And chided me for spending time on him when I should instead be concentrating fully on the publishing of the farmers’ bible.
Newspapers were in Schmidt’s blood. He set type at the family newspaper at age 13. But I think he would want me to add that cancer, not printing ink, caused his death.
Goodbye, and 30, my farm-writing friend.
