For 45 years, Harold Finley kept a secret. Friends, business associates and even his step-mother-in-law didn’t know that the highly successful Lockport man shared a common bond with the likes of notorious Nathan Leopold, who graduated from the University of Chicago at 18, one year before he and Richard Loeb “thrill-killed” Bobby Franks 71 years ago.
Or William James Sidis, who read four languages by age 5 and entered Harvard at 11, but never earned a living. Although his 250-plus IQ was higher than Albert Einstein’s 200, Sidis’ only legacy when he died destitute at age 46 was his collection of 2,000 street car transfers.
Then there was Christopher Harding of Australia, whose IQ of 197 earned him a place in the Guinness Book but who spent much of his 50-plus years washing cars, stocking library shelves and dumping trash.
Fearing guilt by association with these brilliant societal misfits, Finley, 79, kept quiet about the fact that he had been a child prodigy, possessing an IQ to match that of Harding.
“These three people with very high IQs were not very socially acceptable,” said Finley, first vice president of investments with Howe Barnes Investments Inc. of Chicago. “I think people think all prodigies are like this. I want to be sure I don’t fit those characteristics. I know how to earn a living.”
Finley is a soft-spoken gentleman whose small frame bears no resemblance to his stature as one of LaSalle Street’s financial wizards with a pedigree of honorary doctorates and board appointments; a modest man who was featured in Time magazine and was the subject of a book, play and musical.
When Finley first heard the term “prodigy” as a 5-year-old, he didn’t like the feel of it. Two years later, his classmates bullied him for having the second highest recorded IQ in the nation.
By the time Finley was 17, the stereotypes of prodigies–social misfits with thick glasses, little grip on reality, no sense of practical things and odd interests–drove him to believe it was the nastiest word in the world.
Harold Marshall Finley was born to Judge Harry and Kate Finley, on Feb. 24, 1916, in McConnelsville, a small town in southeastern Ohio.
At nine months, Finley walked 30 feet across the floor. By 2, he taught himself to read and, 10 months later, could tell time even with his pocket watch upside down. Finley wrote a 100-page book at age 5, the same year he took a Stanford-Binet intelligence quotient test administered by Ohio State University students. When his 168 score was challenged, he took it again and earned 197 on another test, the second highest IQ ever recorded in the country at that time.
Weighing just 40 pounds, 6-year-old Harold Finley started school in the 4th grade on Labor Day 1922. One month later, he skipped to the 5th grade, reading a library book a day. But he was too small to defend himself against classmates who claimed he was “mollycoddled” and accused his father of doing his homework.
He was 7 in the 7th grade and led a prayer meeting at his parents’ Presbyterian church one year later, vowing to become an ordained minister, a promise he later fulfilled.
Fascinated with numbers, Harold, 10, won the first prize of $2 on amateur night at the local opera house. He loved numbers so much he had memorized every license plate in his small town, and audience members who told him their names were amazed when he matched them with their plate numbers. He even knew the numbers on a stranger’s car parked at the local hotel.
The valedictorian of the Class of 1929, Finley, 13, spoke to his classmates about the importance of thrift. “It’s terrible how people borrow money to buy a piano,” he said, five months before the stock market crashed. Finley’s financial wisdom gave him little clout when kids picked teams for basketball. Small in size and five years younger than classmates, he was thankful to enter college before dealing with the social and emotional problems of adolescence.
Although Finley’s father feared he would be “a fish out of water,” the 76-pound teen drove part of the 400 miles to Evanston and enrolled as a freshman at Northwestern University, receiving full scholarships if he maintained A- grades. Four years later, Time magazine wrote about the 17-year-old economics major who made Phi Beta Kappa, earned a 95 percent grade average and graduated fourth in the Class of 1933.
James L. Carey of Lisle remembers his classmate: “Harold fit into all niches and had a wonderful sense of humor. Socially, he was remarkably adjusted and well liked.”
Although Northwestern’s president, Walter Dill Scott, promised to help Finley find a job after graduation, little work was available because of the Depression. Scott suggested Finley work at the Century of Progress World’s Fair in Chicago.
But breaking from the stereotype of prodigies who can’t make a living, Finley landed a job with Lamson Brothers, a brokerage firm, two days after graduation. It was then that Finley, because of the harassment he had endured as a child, decided to keep his intellect a secret.
Although Finley couldn’t register as a representative of the New York Stock Exchange until he was 21, two years later the 19-year-old received special dispensation to register and became one of the firm’s top producers by 1935.
“(Finley’s) been a very astute judge of investments and made a lot of money for a lot of people,” said Charles V. Doherty, former president of the Chicago Stock Exchange. “He has an exceedingly strong sense of integrity and serves by example what someone in the investment district ought to be.”
During World War II, the army rejected Finley because he weighed less than 125 pounds, similar to his weight today. Finley returned to his religious roots, graduating from Chicago Theological Seminary in 1944 and becoming a Congregational minister.
On Feb. 15, 1942, Finley, 25, preached his first sermon to a struggling Congregational church in Homer Township. Stepping to the pulpit, he realized he left his sermon notes in the coat room and preached by memory, impressing a girl in the front row. One year later, Jean Rowley became his wife.
Finley served as pastor at six churches over 15 years. Although he accepted an offer to work for Chicago Title & Trust in 1950, he continued his ministry and still preaches and counsels inmates at the Joliet Correctional Center. Describing Finley as “a very humble man,” Thomas Ewing, Finley’s pastor at the First Congregational Church of Lockport, said, “I think God has called Harold in a unique way to take his Christianity into the business practice and work in a different way.”
Finley worked as an investment manager with Chicago Title & Trust for 23 years and authored “Everybody’s Guide to the Stock Market,” which is now out of print after going through four editions since its 1956 publication. He later became senior vice president of investments at Kemper Securities Inc. of Chicago before joining Howe Barnes Investments with his son, Robert, last year.
For 20 years, he wrote market trends columns for the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Today, becoming syndicated in 46 newspapers. He also was named to Who’s Who in America and served on 10 boards, from Kobe College in Japan to Lincoln Memorial University in Harrogate, Tenn., where a building bears his name.
But it was after serving as president of the Rotary Club of Chicago in 1979 that his longtime secret was discovered when members researched his past for a farewell roast. Members told him afterward, “You’re the smartest person I ever met. We’ve known you for years and never knew that you were smarter than others.”
Their acceptance prompted Finley to admit he had been a prodigy.
“I was kind of pleased they hadn’t suspected I was strange or different,” Finley said. “It got me thinking this wasn’t so bad.”
A play, “Harold,” based on Finley’s early years, was written in 1990 by two professors from Finley’s home state, Jerry L. Martin of Muskingum College and Gregory M. Miller of the University of Rio Grande, as part of a centennial observance. Two years later, the writing partners followed up with a musical, “Hinky Dink,” Finley’s nickname, and co-authored with Finley a book titled, “Harold: The Gifted Small Town Boy.”
“I really was pleased these men felt I was in the tradition of people who were interesting enough to write about,” Finley said. “For the most part, people didn’t think I was an oddball.”
Another area of normalcy has been the Finleys’ 52-year marriage. “Harold’s very bright in statistics and memory but has no ability mechanically and can’t keep things organized,” said Jean, 77, who credits their strong marriage to “(Harold’s) success financially and my ability to take care of things at home.”
Their son, Robert, 50, of Lockport, struggled to make top grades in school but memorized the names of musicians featured at concerts and charted stocks at age 6. He marvels at how his father rattles off stock market fluctuations for any given day and performs calculations in his head.
On weekdays, Finley wakes at 5:30 a.m. and rides with Robert to the train station for their commute downtown, where they share an office at Howe Barnes, before returning home at 6.
In the meantime, he’s busy helping others, using his abilities for more than making money.
Finley crusades to support gifted kids and keep them from becoming misfits. “A gifted kid who committed suicide because he felt out of step with society might have been another Einstein,” he said.
Finley serves as a trustee of the Science and Arts Academy, a not-for-profit school for gifted students from pre-kindergarten through high school in Des Plaines. “It’s been a dream of mine that children with outstanding abilities would have a school that gives them special attention,” he said. “I feel it’s a great investment in the lives of bright youngsters. So many kids with high IQs feel out of step with the crowd and shunned by kids.”
Finley spoke at the school’s commencement service last spring, encouraging students to be themselves, work hard and excel.
“The students really appreciated what he said because here is a person who understands them,” said Helene Bartz, director of the academy. “The gifted kids cannot make it on their own. One of the greatest contributions he has made is that he has understood why we are here and financially supported us.”
Among life’s ironies, two prodigies once lived near Joliet: Nathan Leopold served 33 years of his life-plus-99-year sentence at the Stateville Correctional Center in Crest Hill, while Harold Finley chose a life of service.
“(Finley) comes close to being what every man ought to try to be,” said George R. Means, former general secretary of Rotary International and a client from Greenwood, Ind. “He touches people in all walks of life.”
