I first met Ted Henry eight years ago as I was making the rounds as the new publisher of the Times-Journal. With list in hand, I spent several weeks introducing myself to business and civic leaders, talking and listening – mostly listening – to what they thought about the newspaper and about Selma.

Before meeting Ted, I felt as though I already knew him. Boone Newspapers Chairman of the Board Jim Boone told me “(Ted) will always stand on the right side of issues. If you are on the other side, you need to examine your position and make sure you are right.”

Jim and Ted had known each other for years, serving together on boards at Rhodes College and the University of Alabama, so I knew Jim’s assessment was one that came from experience.

Knowing he and Jim were friends, I was a bit nervous meeting Ted, but any anxiety I had quickly melted as he walked from behind his desk, a broad smile filling his face and extended his hand to greet me.

I remember our conversation that day like it was yesterday. He had a deep interest in finding out about me, my family and shared his love of Selma, and his conviction that I would grow to love Selma, too. He was right, just as I found he always was when I sought his advice.

Ted would often send me emails about happenings in the community or about stories we published. He was always constructive and encouraging, something that was helpful to me and lifted my spirits. Many times his emails were about Alabama football, a passion we both shared.

As the months and years passed, I came to understand more about who Ted was and what he represented. Ted was Selma.

He loved this city and its people like they were his own family. In a sense, they were. In a city that often gets a bad rap, Ted was unashamed about where he was from, telling everyone he met about his hometown.

Imagine what the perception about Selma would be if we all did that.

In 2010, I interviewed him for a story about his retirement, and what the future held for Henry Brick under what he called “G3,” or generation three, a term he used to describe those in his family who would run the business after he retired.

He shared many thoughts with me that day, but one thing he told me was “Whatever you do, one of the most important things is your attitude. You can’t do anything about what the other person does, but if you have a good attitude about what you’re involved in you can overcome difficulties.” He also said “The most important thing you can do is show up. And if you show up with a good attitude you can do a lot of things.”

I still have that interview on my recorder. Ted’s gravely southern voice sometimes blares from the speaker as I’m trying to find something else I recorded.

Although I have my notes from that interview, for some reason I’ve never deleted the file from my recorder.

When Ted first told me he’d been diagnosed with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, I didn’t know what to think.

The manner that he described it, and the treatment he was seeking, led me to believe he’d be fine. Looking back, I think he didn’t want me to worry about him.

Being the reporter I am, I looked the disease up and the first sentence I read was “(IPF) is a chronic and ultimately fatal disease characterized by a progressive decline in lung function.” My heart sank as I thought about what he and his family were going through and would go through as the disease progressed.

Ted died Tuesday, surrounded by the family he loved, in the city he loved, in the house made from brick he was so proud of. He was an inspiration to me and to those he knew and, sadly, the Queen City has lost another jewel from her crown.

My thoughts and prayers are with his family and I draw comfort in knowing I’ll see Ted again someday; his hand extended welcoming me home again.