A friend's passing

The news was expected, but no less painful. Joseph A. McAnally, a friend of mine for more than 40 years, died July 6 after a courageous battle with cancer.

He was an American original, an independent thinker of the first order, a man who marched to the beat of his own drum, who refused to graze with the rest of the herd, who followed his own code.

We met at the University of North Texas in the early 1970s. I was green as grass, a transfer student from West Texas and much younger than my 20 years would indicate. Mac was older, a veteran of the U.S. Air Force who had seen the world, who knew things that many of us didn’t. He was cool, in a natural, unforced way, and could be incredibly charming when it suited him. It didn’t suit him often. Mostly, he was irascible, sarcastic and impatient with fools, who abounded then, as now.

If he was your friend, you could have none more fiercely loyal or more dependable. If you were his enemy, you might not know it until the moment of truth when such knowledge came too little, too late.

We became friends in a way that seems silly and inconsequential today. But to UNT journalism students back in the spring of 1972, the selection of North Texas Daily editor was an issue of paramount importance. I was running for fall editor against a popular current editor who wanted another shot at the job. She was a senior who had attended all four years at UNT and was well respected by the faculty. I was a junior college transfer at the end of only my second semester at UNT. It seemed then to be a Goliath versus David contest.

Mac McAnally was finishing his second year at UNT and greatly coveted a job on the student newspaper staff, which was selected by the incoming editor. His best bet at the time would have been to throw in his lot with my opponent, or at very least to stay on the sidelines and wait for a winner.

Instead, Mac publicly endorsed me, a snub that my opponent was unlikely to forget – or forgive. I told him at the time, “Mac, are you sure you want to do this?” Truth be told, I was immensely grateful for his support. He and a colleague had been standout sophomore reporters for the paper, and their endorsement of me had lifted my candidacy considerably.

“Gunnels,” he replied, “I give us no better odds than 50-50, but what the hell?” Such are the ways that heterosexual males expressed affection in those by-gone days. His gamble forged a strong friendship, and it paid off for both of us. I became editor the next fall, and Mac was the first person I hired for my staff. He followed me as editor soon after.

As I said, it was a minor incident, barely a hiccup in both our lives. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot today. And I believe it’s useful in coloring in the essentials of what kind of man Mac was.

He was a man who evaluated things with a dispassionate focus you might be tempted to explain away as cold-bloodedness and disinterest. But Mac was passionate about the things he loved. He had strong beliefs that he could defend, when he wished, with a withering intellect that swept his opponents before him. To family and friends, he was a stalwart ally and a trusted confidant. To them, he occasionally lowered his guard a bit to let them see the man behind the façade.

When he left North Texas, he became a public relations expert, first for the Air Force and later for the VA. He handled media relations when the deposed Shah of Iran arrived at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio after fleeing the revolution in his country. Mac was the trusted counsel of generals far and wide. His guiding principle: Tell the truth and let the cards fall where they may. Because in the end, the truth wins out. Always. Those who failed to follow his advice learned their mistake quickly and brutally.

When I entered the PR field myself, I would get regular emails from Mac full of war stories and advice. The stories were colorful and eye-opening, the advice practical and valuable. I shall miss those emails very much.

If he had wished, Mac could have written one hell of a book about his military PR experiences. It would have been a page-turner full of wisdom and amusing tales. His untimely death has robbed us of that – and of his unique personality and insight.

The last time I saw Mac was several months ago at a North Texas Daily reunion in Denton. He was terribly thin and looked tired. I was shocked but not surprised when he told me about the cancer and the dismal prognosis. Characteristically, he talked matter-of-factly about the limited treatment options. When we shook hands to leave, I knew in my gut it was for the last time.