The Day I Met Jimmy Stewart: A Moment That Lasted a Lifetime

 

Autumn in Charlottesville, 1989

Long before Facebook events or Instagram announcements, before viral tweets or TikTok invitations, information traveled differently. A flyer tacked to a bulletin board at a local bookstore. A poster in a record shop window. Word of mouth passed between fellow enthusiasts who shared your particular obsessions.

That's how I learned about the classic film festival at the University of Virginia in the autumn of 1989. Somehow—probably a flyer at a Richmond bookstore—news reached me that Hollywood legends Jimmy Stewart and Gregory Peck would be attending screenings of their classic films, including "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington."

My best friend and I made immediate plans. We were driving to Charlottesville, no question. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The day we left Richmond was crisp and perfect—that ideal fall weather when the air carries just enough chill to make you grateful for a good jacket. The leaves had turned in Charlottesville, that beautiful town nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and as we drove closer, the landscape transformed into those rich golds and deep reds that make Virginia autumns legendary.

My 1978 Chevette struggled mightily with the long, drawn-out stretches of highway that ascended into the mountains. The little car wasn't built for such climbs, and I could hear the engine protesting as we pushed it up each grade. But we made it, because missing this event was simply not an option.

A Lifelong Admiration

I had been a fan of Jimmy Stewart since I was a child. There wasn't a time I could remember when I didn't know the legendary actor—George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life," Jefferson Smith in "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," Elwood P. Dowd in "Harvey." These weren't just performances; they were templates for how a man should carry himself in the world.

There was always a wholesome, honest quality that Mr. Stewart possessed that reminded me of my father. Along with John Walton from "The Waltons," Jimmy Stewart was the cinematic embodiment of my dad—decent, principled, standing up for what was right even when it cost him something.

At that time in my life, I was a huge film nerd. More than that, it was the closest I would ever come—until now in 2025—to living a sartorial life, obsessed with fine menswear. Mr. Stewart and that entire Hollywood golden age were enormous influences on my fashion sense.

I worked at Suncoast Motion Picture Company, a mall store that sold mainly VHS tapes of blockbuster and classic movies, along with movie-related paraphernalia. I dressed the part—tailored trousers, dress shirts, vintage-inspired ties, polished shoes. I remember customers coming into the store and remarking, "Whoa! High fashion!"

I can honestly admit I backslid deep for many years after that period, abandoning that attention to appearance and the values it represented. But eventually, I decided there was something meaningful about a man taking pride in his dress—that being an honorable man could be expressed, in part, by dressing as an honorable man. Stewart's era understood this instinctively. Appearance wasn't vanity; it was respect—for yourself, for others, for the occasion.

The Preparation

Upon arrival in Charlottesville, before heading to the campus grounds where the festival was being held, I made a strategic stop at the university bookstore. They had pre-signed copies of Jimmy Stewart's book, "Jimmy Stewart and His Poems"—a collection of his humorous verse that revealed yet another dimension of this remarkable man.

I purchased a copy immediately. Insurance, I told myself. In case he didn't have time to sign for me personally, I would already have that base covered. Looking back, it reveals how desperately I wanted some tangible connection to this man I admired so profoundly.

The tension grew as it neared time for the celebrities to emerge and meet with the hundreds of assembled fans gathering outside the campus grounds. The atmosphere was electric with anticipation—fellow cinephiles, film students, elderly fans who'd grown up watching Stewart's films in first-run theaters, young people like me discovering these classics on VHS.

The Encounter

Then I spotted the limousines arriving. My heart rate accelerated. I positioned myself strategically near where the cars had stopped, knowing this was my best chance for an up-close encounter with my Hollywood hero.

Then there he was.

An entourage surrounded him, moving through the crowd with practiced efficiency. I could see Mr. Stewart from about a car length away. He looked older than he had in 1939, naturally—fifty years had passed since "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington"—but I knew without a doubt it was him. That distinctive tall frame, the face that had graced so many screens, the bearing of a man who'd lived an extraordinary life.

And at his side was Gregory Peck—the star of both "Cape Fear" films, "To Kill a Mockingbird," "Roman Holiday," and dozens of other classics. Mr. Peck looked stern and rather intimidating, his strong features and commanding presence immediately recognizable.

He was the closer of the two, walking slightly ahead, and I saw my opportunity. I extended my hand. He gave a firm shake in return—brief but genuine—and kept moving. One legend down.

The Moment

Then it was my time to shine.

I approached Mr. Stewart with what I'm certain was a full grin and a probably bright red face. My heart was pounding. This was the man who'd represented everything good about American cinema, about American masculinity, about decency and integrity and standing up for what's right.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Stewart," I managed to say.

He gave a slight smile and reached out to shake my hand. His grip was gentle but firm—the handshake of an older man who'd shaken countless hands over decades of public life.

"Well, thank you very much," he said in that iconic Jimmy Stewart voice—the stammering, aw-shucks delivery that had become one of the most recognizable sounds in American cinema.

And then, as if I'd awakened from a dream, he was gone. The crowd had swallowed the duo up, the entourage had moved them along, and they were whisked away in their limousines faster than they'd appeared.

The entire encounter lasted perhaps thirty seconds. But I've carried it for thirty-six years.

The Meaning We Make

I've told many people since 1989 about that encounter, but I don't think I've ever met a superfan quite like I am. Stewart represented an era in Hollywood when true legends were made and people lived by real values—or at least, when Hollywood portrayed those values with conviction and sincerity.

Not only was Mr. Stewart honorable onscreen, but he was a Brigadier General in the U.S. Air Force in real life—the highest-ranking film star to serve in the military. He flew combat missions over Germany during World War II. He didn't just play heroes; he was one. That authenticity shone through in every role he inhabited.

The Second Visit

Many years later, in the summer of 2010, I had the privilege of standing at his grave at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Los Angeles. It was the second time I'd been that close to him, and in some ways, it meant more.

There, in the complete silence of that place, I could offer him a prayer without the chaos of crowds, without the pressure of a thirty-second encounter, without my nervous stammering. I closed my eyes for a long moment and remembered not only how much he'd meant to me growing up but how much more he meant to me from that great place beyond.

The values he represented—decency, integrity, service, humility—hadn't died with him. They lived on in everyone who'd been touched by his work, everyone who'd been inspired by his example, everyone who'd shaken his hand at a film festival thirty years earlier and carried that moment forward into their own attempts to be better men.

The Legacy

Jimmy Stewart died in 1997, eight years after I met him in Charlottesville. When I heard the news, I felt a genuine loss—not just for another Hollywood legend passing, but for what he represented. An era ended with him, a particular kind of American masculinity that balanced strength with gentleness, conviction with humility, courage with kindness.

Standing at his grave in 2010, I realized that our brief encounter in 1989 had given me something precious: a moment of connection with a man who'd unknowingly shaped my understanding of who I wanted to be. Not through preaching or lecturing, but simply by embodying certain values consistently, both on screen and off.

That handshake, that "Well, thank you very much" in that unmistakable voice—it was enough. More than enough. It was a gift I didn't fully appreciate at nineteen but have come to treasure more with each passing year.

Some people collect autographs or photographs. I collected a moment, a memory, a connection to something larger than myself. And in the end, that's all any of us really have—the moments we were present for, the people we encountered, the values we chose to carry forward.

Thank you, Mr. Stewart. It truly was an honor.