Just a few hours before the end of 2018, I learned that Stu Phillips had died. An obituary announcement by Swearingen Funeral Home confirmed it. Phillips was 55 years old.

Many people knew Stu far longer than I did, and far better. The following isn’t meant to be a eulogy or obituary, but simply my memories of how he interacted with my life.

I first met Stu on a Tuesday — October 16, 2001, on my first day as a staff writer for The Seminole Producer, when then-managing editor Karen Anson showed me around the office and introduced me to my new co-workers. Stu was affable but clearly busy; I remember only a brief introduction and handshake before he returned to his office. He was “the boss”, running the day-to-day operations of the newspaper, though his father Ted Phillips was still listed as the owner and publisher.

But I had heard of Stu before that. The most important road in the town of Seminole, Oklahoma, is named after his grandfather, Milt Phillips — who had purchased the city’s daily newspaper in 1946 and run it for decades. (The Oklahoma Press Association’s highest award is named after Milt Phillips.) Most of my life, Milt’s son Ted had run the newspaper — in which my birth announcement was printed in 1972, and which was ubiquitous throughout my life because no matter where we lived we always visited Seminole — my grandparents on both sides lived just outside of the town. By the time I finally moved there, Stu was in charge.

He was kind, funny, curious, and hard-working. In my memory, one thing always sat on Stu’s mind more heavily than anything else, and that was the intertwined fate of our small town and our daily newspaper. He was keenly aware that his Seminole was far different than his grandfather’s Seminole. Fifty years earlier the city had been riding an oil boom high and was developing faster than anyone could plan for. By the time I came to know the town, it had only 8,000 people, crumbling infrastructure, and a usually-hidden but always perceptible air of resignation. Stu was also aware of the ongoing nationwide deaths of small-town newspapers, which only accelerated with the spread and rise of social media and handheld internet devices. Much of his effort during the time I knew him was spent finding ways to keep our paper afloat and out of the hands of some faraway corporation.

In July 2002, after I had worked for him less than a year, Stu called me at home on a Sunday, saying he was seriously considering buying the Prague (Okla.) newspaper, and wondered if I would be interested in running it as managing editor. I was “stunned” at the offer, according to my journal, but “I told Stu to let me mull it over for a week or so.” The next day, I drove to Prague and scouted the town, bought a newspaper, and thought about it. I thought about the immense amount of trust Stu was placing in me, purely by making the offer, after having known me for less than a year. I eventually agreed to take the position, but the deal never went through. Still, I always remembered our conversations about it and how much of a compliment it was from a man who had grown up in the newspaper business. Later he offered me the position of managing editor at The Wewoka Times, which he also owned; I turned it down as gently as I could (for private reasons), but again relished the trust and respect Stu placed in me. By the time he offered me the position of managing editor at The Producer, I had already met my wife and began to suspect that I might not stay in Seminole forever, so I turned that down too, though I occasionally regretted it. Instead I worked to support the person who eventually did get the job.

 

 

He had a small boat and annually brought it to our staff get-togethers at local lakes. He enjoyed zipping it around the lakes while we took turns trailing it on inner tubes.

In late summer 2002, I had driven my 1993 Chevy Corsica to Oklahoma City (about an hour away) in order to see a friend’s blues band perform at a night club. Upon leaving, my car wouldn’t start and I hitched a ride home with the band’s drummer. The next day, Stu loaned me his pickup truck and a trailer so I could pick up my car and bring it back to Seminole. He and his wife showed up to help secure the car to the trailer. Then he allowed me to park the trailer (with my car still on it) in the newspaper’s parking lot over the weekend until I could figure out what was wrong with it. In the meantime, he let me keep his truck for personal use until my car was fixed. This is another kindness I never forgot.

Continuing a longtime tradition at the newspaper, Stu hosted election night results parties at the offices. We employees would drive from polling place to polling place, collecting results from the outlying schools and churches where people voted, and calling the county’s election board to collect other results. Back at the office, Stu would carefully add all the new tallies onto a web page while his family operated the phones as people called from all over the county to see what we knew so far. He always bought stacks and stacks of pizza for these events, and occasionally shared his immense knowledge on local politics and governance.

On one of those election nights, in early 2003, my car was again having problems. Stu still needed me to help collect election results, so he again lent me a vehicle — this time a mint-condition 1984 Corvette, the only time I’ve ever driven a Corvette.

On multiple occasions, Stu stood by me as angry readers came into the office to scream or throw things (occasionally punches). He often interposed his considerable physical bulk between them and me, while at the same time using his calm and friendly voice to bring everything to an acceptable close.

In June 2005, a local car salesman angry over a story I’d written burst into the office shouting and then pretended to calm down when Stu walked over. Then he sucker-punched me in the jaw. Stu moved quickly to corral the man and held him until police arrived. Stu went with us to the police station and we all talked it out. When I declined to file charges against the man, Stu supported me. When we later received an anonymous blackmail-type letter about the incident, threatening Stu’s livelihood, he published a front-page editorial defending me (“We admired the way Wil Fry literally ‘took it on the chin’ and went right on about his business, an admirable trait many more of us could use”) and directly answering the letter’s accusations.

After I met my wife, and Stu found out she was helping me format my pages and edit press releases, he made it official and began paying her for the work she did. When I was on assignment at a Konawa softball game and a foul ball went through the windshield of my car, Stu not only recommended a trustworthy repair shop but paid my entire bill. Any time there was snow or ice, he called employees to see who needed a ride to work.

I’m sure I have already forgotten many other anecdotes about him and kindnesses he showed over the years; it’s been nine years since I left his employ and I think I only saw him once or twice since then. The last time I visited The Producer’s offices, he still had half a dozen of my photos — printed very large — hanging on the walls.

I know he will be missed by the Seminole community at large, but he will also be missed by me. Rest in peace, Stu.