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Whoa! Isn't this too long to print? Part two
Editors note: Part one of this column appeared in the Tuesday, Oct. 5, edition.
A letter to Gary Rust
By that time, the winds of change in the newspaper business were already stirring, and the company -- lock, stock and barrel -- was sold. That's when I wrote to Gary Rust, whom I had met at several newspaper-industry meetings over the years and admired because he was the only other publisher I knew who wasn't afraid to speak his mind. I said to myself: "He sounds a lot like me."
Thanks to Gary and the late Wally Lage, I came to Cape Girardeau in 1994. The 16 years my wife and I have been here is the longest stretch we've stayed anywhere. We have no plans to move.
Speaking of my wife, who regular readers of this column already know is featured a lot in this space: I could write a million columns thanking all the masters of newspapering for helping me along in my career, but no one deserves more credit than the person so many of you know and love: my Marge. It would be embarrassing to list for you all the times she has uprooted her own career so we could move on -- and up -- to another newspaper assignment. And our two sons also deserve special commendations for their endurance.
Two quick stories, both true, about our sons.
When older son was about 10 years old, he liked to answer the phone at home, knowing that often it would be an irate subscriber or advertiser wanting to rail at his father. He became an adept assuager of angry callers. This is, word for word, one call he took:
"Hello? Yes, my dad is the publisher of the newspaper. No, he can't come to the phone right now. Could I take a message?"
Pause, as he listens to the caller.
"Yes, ma'am."
Another pause.
"Yes, ma'am."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Yes, ma'am."
Another pause. Then:
"No, ma'am. My father is not a goddam sonofabitch. He's a goddam newspaper publisher!"
And he hung up.
Younger son also liked to answer the phone, but his second-grade education left him guessing at how to spell many of the words he wrote when taking messages. These scraps of paper would be left on the island in the kitchen, next to the phone. My wife or I would find the scribbled communications -- and then spend several minutes trying to unscramble them. Occasionally we collaborated. Sometimes we had to go to the source and watch as younger son tried to make something out of his own notes.
OK, so I'm proud
These are the two sons we are so proud of, the MIT and K-State grads who do amazing grown-up things with their knowledge and acumen and determination. If my wife and I have any reason for pride over the last 45 years, it would be the remarkable men our sons turned out to be.
Over those years, I have trained about a hundred aspiring journalists, mostly young men and women with no formal training but with a passion for gathering information and passing it on to readers in useful ways Among them is my best college friend, Giles Lambertson, who went on to key editor posts at several newspapers and became one of the most recognized conservative voices in North Carolina. He is the godfather of both our sons.
And Darrell Delamaide, who went from Jesuit philosopher to newspaper reporter in a flash, used his experience to land a job with the Associated Press covering a war in Lebanon and became an authority on international finance and economics, authoring highly regarded books on those topics.
And Scott Williams, who is the most persevering reporter I've ever known, who spent the entire time he was at the Blue Springs Examiner trying to get hired by the Kansas City Star by having his photograph printed on matchbook covers with the inscription "Need news? Hire Scott Williams." He wound up at the Milwaukee Journal.
And there was Chris Stanfield, who attended Southeast Missouri State University and had an amazing eye for storytelling photojournalism. I hired Chris to be the Southeast Missourian's photo editor when other folks thought he was too young and too inexperienced. He went on to be photo editor at the Columbia Daily Tribune, St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Milwaukee Journal and Atlanta Constitution. Well, at least he has a decent resume now.
Speaking of the Daily Tribune: I affectionately call it our Columbia bureau. With the recent departure of Rudi Keller, another fine reporter, the Tribune now has five news staffers all hired from the Southeast Missourian. There's a sixth Southeast Missourian alum in Columbia: Laura Johnston, a wonderful and competent editor who joined the faculty of the University of Missouri School of Journalism a few years ago and works with student reporters at the Columbia Missourian.
On top of all that, I wish you could meet everyone in the Southeast Missourian newsroom today. Those bright, energetic, young journalists I mentioned? There they are, doing their best to keep this newspaper abreast of all the latest gizmos and doodads.
In conclusion ...
So, here's how I sum it all up.
I began writing a column, sometimes twice a week, in 1971 in Idaho. Since them I've churned out 2,184 columns. Some of them were worth reading.
I started writing editorials in 1978 in Maryville, Mo., and claim authorship of 14,196 of them.
In addition, I managed to squeeze in countless corrections. I tried to figure out how many, but my calculator broke.
I have tried to have fun along the way. In Maryville I took bribes (Hershey bars) from a judge who was hellbent on winning my annual Best Pothole Contest. He won. As far as I know he's still a respected member of the judiciary.
For better or worse, Cape Girardeau is, thanks to me, left with a downtown golf tournament, a better appreciation of the noble fruitcake, a growing cadre of readers who share my loathing of squirrels and endless tales of a spoiled cat who will never be the grandchild we are still waiting for but who is nonetheless worming her way into our wills.
What more can I say? I've had a blast. I have loved coming to work all those days (16,380, but who's counting?). What's left for me to do?
Well, this may or may not be good news for some of you, but look for my columns every Friday. I'll write them as long as my geezer brain lets me.
Or until I start some new career. Maybe hang-gliding. Or computer repair. Or not.
To paraphrase Oscar Stauffer: Count the day lost that you haven't done something you like.
Finally: Thank you.