Photo courtesy Gayle Rose, 2013.
The first aircraft in the FedEx fleet, FedEx Dassault Falcon 20, nicknamed “Wendy” (after Fred Smith’s daughter), on display at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.
There are certain people so deeply woven into the fabric of a city that it’s hard to imagine the place without them. Fred Smith was one of those people for Memphis.
He was more than a CEO or a visionary entrepreneur, though he was certainly both. He was something more elemental: a builder of belief. In himself and in the city that raised him, and in the people whose lives were transformed by his vision.
Today, Memphis grieves. And beyond mourning the loss of a global business leader, we’re mourning a man who, for nearly five decades, stood like a steady current beneath the psyche of our city; a quiet, unwavering force of possibility and hope.
I met Fred 46 years ago, shortly after moving to Memphis to work for the Memphis Arts Council. Over the years, I came to know Fred and his wife Dianne not as public figures, but as people. And in those glimpses behind the scenes, I saw a man who was loyal, curious, quick to laugh, deeply protective of his family, and generous with his time and trust.
When I lost my son, Max, Fred called me. He had lost his daughter, Wendy, and he knew the terrain. “Gayle,” he said, “it’s awful. It’s just awful.” There were no platitudes. He offered presence. And then he told me something I’ve never forgotten: “You’ll never get over it, but you will learn to live with it.” Even in grief, he told the truth.
Fred showed up in so many ways.
He showed up in a sweltering gym at Treadwell High School, sitting on hard bleachers to watch his son, Cannon, and my son, Max, play basketball together. He showed up when the Memphis Symphony Orchestra was on the brink of collapse, helping us imagine a partnership with the University of Memphis that still sustains the symphony to this day. He picked up the phone, created momentum, and then quietly stepped back. That was his style.
He wasn’t a season-ticket holder. He didn’t pretend to be a symphony patron. But he understood something essential: That if Memphis was going to compete, recruit, and retain talent, we needed a professional orchestra. For the largest employer in Memphis, the arts are not window dressing; they are the foundation.
Once, I teased him about the constant stream of FedEx planes flying over my house at 3:30 in the morning, no matter where I lived in Memphis. He smiled and said, “Gayle, that’s the sound of money.” But I think it was more than that. It was the sound of movement. Of ambition. Of an idea that took flight and never looked back.
He carried his visibility with grace and a wry sense of humor. I remember sitting next to him at a game when a parent came over, shook his hand, and handed him a résumé. Afterward, I said, “It must be hard to be you.” Fred laughed and told me that once, while being wheeled into surgery, wearing a paper hat, blue gown, and a thin sheet over his body, the man pushing the gurney leaned down and asked if he could give him his résumé. We laughed hard. It was hard to be Fred Smith. But he bore it with patience and perspective.
And there’s one night I’ll never forget.
Dianne and I went out to hear her father, a jazz trombone player, perform in a club. Fred stayed home to watch the kids. When we returned, baby Samantha was in his arms as he read a heavy tome of history. And there, in the elegant entry hall of their home, a chaotic scene lay abandoned: a Barbie swimming pool filled with a half-dozen naked dolls, some floating face down. I still laugh when I picture it. But more than anything, I remember how it felt. That night, it was clear: in this household, family mattered more than pretense. Even in a world that demanded polish and power, love came first.
So what does it mean when a city loses its hero?
It means we pause. We remember. And we ask ourselves who we want to become in the shadow of that loss. Fred never asked for a spotlight. He simply moved, decisively, generously, with vision. Memphis is different because he lived here. I am different because I knew him.
And tonight, as the planes hum overhead, I hear more than money.
I hear the heartbeat of a city; grieving, grateful, and still rising.
