Jennifer Biggs and I used to say we were going to be the first two people to never die.
We said (not sure if we really thought it) that we were going to be the exception to the rule. It had never happened before in history. But who was to say — besides everybody — that it couldn’t happen?
Jennifer, the food editor for The Daily Memphian, died August 16th. Cancer. It was for me, like everybody I know, a shock. It just doesn’t seem like it was time for her to go. Not yet. She was always there for everybody who loved her. And even for those who just knew her from her newspaper writing, and appearances on TV and radio.
We met when we both worked at The Commercial Appeal. We shared the same sense of humor. We worked on stories together a few times. I remember both of us tag-team covering food stories where we’d set out early and eat at six or seven places from Memphis to Mumford, and then back to some places on Winchester Road. And we’d still squeeze in one more place before we called it quits.
When we weren’t working, we’d go out to eat. Sunday night dinners at Sakura on Poplar Avenue — usually, with John and Missy Stivers — were common. Or we’d go to fancy places with Peggy Burch. And then sometimes with Jennifer’s daughter, Megan Brooks Biggs, and Jennifer’s grandchildren, Jack and Chloe. Every time I went to her house before dinner her dogs Henry and Rouxby (both rescues — by Jennifer) would bark and bang on the inside of her front door.
Often it was just me and Jennifer at The Pancake Shop. We both religiously ordered the “Everyday Special.”
It was always fun to make Jennifer laugh. She loved pratfalls. There was a two-wheeler in the features department one afternoon at the CA. I told photographer Dave Darnell I was the “King of the Two Wheeler.” I told him to stand on the two wheeler and lean back. I announced I could pull anything on a two wheeler. He stood on it, leaned back, and we both immediately fell down. My head clanged when it hit a metal wastebasket. Dave and I immediately jumped up to show we were tough and this didn’t hurt us at all. Even though it did. Jennifer shrieked.
She also shrieked when I showed up for work one afternoon with coffee all over my shirt. I told her a guy at the paper decided to empty the rest of the coffee in his mug at the same moment I was walking by the truck garage. He threw the coffee on me.
I remember when I moved to the Memphis Flyer and Jennifer was still at the CA. She said she hated the idea of us competing with each other instead of being on the same paper. When I began covering food more for the Flyer, Jennifer and I were very competitive. We both loved scoops. We wanted to be the first to announce some restaurant opening or food news. But it was understood between us that was our job. We tried to get the story first for our own newspaper. I will admit, though, it felt so good to scoop Jennifer.
Jennifer became the acclaimed food editor for The Daily Memphian. I watched her become an even bigger celebrity than she already was at the CA. She was in the top three “Best Columnist” category in the Flyer’s “Best of Memphis.” Her photo was on the side of MATA buses.
We never talked about our newspaper stories much. We’d get together at Sakura and talk about other things. People usually.
I recently realized I don’t know Jennifer’s favorite book, favorite song, favorite band, or favorite movie. We never talked about that kind of thing. We just talked, texted, and laughed about whatever.
We had a poster someone made in the features department at The Commercial Appeal. It read “WWJD.” It stood for “What Would Jennifer Do.” She had all the answers. And she usually was right. It seemed like she knew everything. She was the person I first asked what “AI” stood for. She calmly explained. “Artificial Intelligence.”
One more story. … Jennifer and I ran into each other in New Orleans many years ago. A buddy of mine, Blakney Gower, and I were there doing a get-out-of-town-go-to-New Orleans-weekend-bar-and-restaurant thing. Jennifer and her then-husband, Bob Brooks, and Blakney and I had dinner at Antoine’s, my favorite New Orleans restaurant. Many Beefeater gin martinis on my end. Lobster Thermidor, probably, for dinner. And Baked Alaska.
After dinner, our server took us on a tour of Antoine’s. I saw a piano in a ballroom and, of course, sat down and began playing. Jennifer and Bob danced. It was just one of those magical nights. Like you dream that your favorite restaurant just happens to also have a ballroom upstairs and you never knew it before. It was also a happy night.
And now she’s gone. No more new adventures with her to turn into memories.
But I keep seeing Jennifer at different places. Not the person. Just reminders. Like a plastic bag jammed full of metal — not plastic — forks she gave me a few years ago when I had a family Easter dinner at my home. They’re on top of a cupboard in my kitchen. Jennifer always took care of whatever you happened to need. All you had to do was ask her.
I went by to visit Jennifer the day she died. When I saw her, I knew that was the last time I was going to see her alive. She was in bed. Her head was turned to one side.
I walked up to the bed and I said, “Jennifer, it’s Michael. Let’s go eat at Sakura.” She opened her eyes wider. I’m not sure she was able to physically smile. But I think she was smiling just the same. I said, “I love you, Jennifer.” And then I left. This was family time. I didn’t want to be in the way.
I didn’t know until the next morning that Jennifer was gone. I was charging my phone when the texts and phone calls about her death began.
That morning, I had to write a Flyer story on deadline. It was a self-imposed deadline. It was about an artist, Alexandra Baker. I could have waited, I guess, but I wanted to post the story before the opening of her art show, which was the next night. Like every reporter has had to do at least once, I wrote the story even though I was very sad. It’s never an easy thing to do.
While writing the story about Alexandra, I came upon a quote in my notes. It suddenly took on more meaning. Alexandra said, “I lost some friends along the way in life. And family members. But friends hurt more because they’re so young. And I felt life was kind of softened by them.”
Jennifer softened my life as well as the lives of countless others.
And I’ve now learned that Jennifer was right — as usual — when she said she was never going to die. She won’t. My memories of her will continue to live as long as I do.
See you later, Jennifer.
