Early in my newspaper career I realized, quite by accident, that I was more than a writer or reporter, even more than an editor.
It happened in the late 1970s. I’d just hand-delivered the weekly newspaper I edited to a local pianist who played nightly at a popular steak house in town. I’d heard that his music was unusually elegant, so I interviewed him, wrote a thoughtful profile and had just brought him a copy.
He held the article as if it were a rare and precious object. When he glanced at me I was surprised to see a sheen of tears in his eyes. “I’ve been playing here for almost twenty years,” he said. “And this is the first time I’ve had anything written about me.”
“It’s our pleasure to feature you,” I said in my business-like editor’s voice.
But as I walked away, I felt enveloped by a burst of warmth. Here was a man probably in his fifties, and I’d given him (for the first time) the public spotlight. People would read his story and mention it to him. They’d tell him how much they loved his playing. He’d feel appreciated. He’d feel acknowledged.
Pondering our brief interaction and the unexpected pleasure I felt at his happiness, I realized my work encompassed more than simply reporting facts. As improbable as it may sound, I suddenly saw myself as his fairytale godmother, tapping him with my magic wand and illuminating his accomplishments for all to see.
For more than a decade I reported on important events, edited newspapers and magazines, and wrote scores of people profiles in the San Francisco Bay Area. With each profile, I imagined my fairytale godmother role, bestowing the gift of public approval.
Then I moved on to the communications department of Santa Clara University, then to UC Berkeley and eventually retired.
Years rushed by and in 2015 my husband and I left California for the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. We began writing travel memoirs and found an appreciative audience online. When Covid-19 hit, we hunkered down in our home.But one sunny Saturday, restless to get out, we donned masks and ventured forth to an open-air farmer’s market. There everyone was masked including the vendors. Among the stalls we found one selling pumpkin whoopie pies. Pumpkin is a favorite flavor of mine so I bought a few of the baked goods and engaged the young woman behind the counter in conversation. She said she’d been born in Maine and so had named her bakery “A Piece of Maine.” She said whoopie pies were famous in Maine, that they had quite a storied history, and during our casual conversation she mentioned her age. Eleven. I was shocked. Who could tell age when everyone’s masked?
My long retired reporter instincts snapped to attention. I asked her father, who was nearby, if any newspaper had approached her for a story. He said, “No.” I asked if
I might interview her and he said, “Yes.”
Back home, I emailed a pitch to our local weekly newspaper, but got no response. So I pitched a glossy arts and culture magazine and received an immediate “yes” from the publisher.
Soon, Aunica Tomlinson and her whoopie pie business had a colorful spread in Bold Life Magazine. I was back in fairytale godmother mode.
Shortly after the magazine hit the stands, I found myself reminiscing. Hadn’t I profiled Debra Fields as she was starting her Mrs. Fields Chocolate Chip Cookie business? The more I tried to remember, the more I wanted to find that story. I searched through bookshelves and file drawers.
And at the bottom of a dusty cardboard box in the garage I located a fat scrapbook filled with my long ago newspaper stories. There were articles about local celebrities, business owners, artists, teachers, athletes, race car drivers, musicians, and more. Some stories I remembered writing. Most I did not. Finally, 109 pages into the scrapbook, there was the Mrs. Fields’ profile, dated May 2, 1979. She had been twenty-four at the time.
She described how difficult it had been to get her business off the ground. She’d rented a small space in downtown Palo Alto, but no one entered her tiny store. So after several days of baking and no customers, in desperation she filled a large platter with her cookies and walked the sidewalk during lunch hour offering everyone a sample of her wares. That’s how it had started.
By the time I interviewed her two years later, she had four stores in the San Francisco Bay Area and long lines at her cookie counters.
A pleasant glow filled me as I read. I wanted to share Mrs. Field’s story with Aunica and her family. Maybe to inspire them. Maybe to plant the aspirational seed that I write about successful bakers. When they saw the story, Aunica loved the part of Debra Fields walking along the sidewalk giving away her cookies.
But my curiosity about past profiles didn’t end there. I wondered about all those other people in the scrapbook. What had become of them? I read through their profiles. And with the help of Google searched for more recent information about several.
Almost all the adults I’d written about have since passed away. Except for Paul Diamond, who owns The Jew and Gentile Deli in Mountain View. He’s still serving his hand-crafted sandwiches, along with hilariously snarky remarks.
Among the young people profiled, there was a 1978 article about Brenden McBrien. At the time a Sunnyvale High School senior, Brenden had been playing French horn since fourth grade.
While he loved the horn, he told me, “In junior high I got bored with the crummy parts the French horns always got, so I started composing my own. I’d write my own melodies and tape record them. Then I’d play along with the recording and try different things to see how they sounded.”
By eighth grade, he was adding chords. And when I interviewed him, he’d been commissioned to compose a symphonic work for the El Camino Youth Symphony.
“That will be my first full-orchestral composition,” he said with a smile.
It was not his last. Googling his name, I learned he’d earned bachelor and master degrees in composition and conducting from California State University, Long Beach. He became a distinguished composer and arranger for a number of well-respected music companies and also served as a music teacher and conductor throughout southern
California. As a musician, he’d played his horn in symphony orchestras, and for opera, musical theater, movie and television work.
I felt like a proud grandma reading about him and his career.
His last quote in my story was, “Music is 90 percent of what I want to do for the rest of my life.”
It pleased me to know that his youthful dream became his reality.
And there was petite 14-year-old Karen McMullin. Determined to become an elite gymnast, she worked out half of every school day on the bars. Even the photo with her article revealed a pretty, elfin face, intensely focused on her goal. I found little about her as an adult. But I did see that she was named a UCLA All-American on the bars and beam in 1984.
I’m surprised at how attached I felt to these “kids” I’d profiled nearly fifty years ago. How delighted I was to find that their young dreams had blossomed into fulfilling lives.
I was astonished to discover I’d profiled figure skating champion Brian Boitano in 1978. A 14-year old full of energy and bursting with enthusiasm, he was spending about five hours a day practicing twirls, glides, spins and leaps. He said what he loved about ice skating was the speed.
“I used to roller skate a lot on my driveway,” he told me. “Then I saw the Ice Follies and decided to go into ice skating.” He went in seriously, competing in state and regional contests and usually winning top spot. “I want to go as high as I can in competition,” he said. “I want to go to the Olympics, but that will take a long time and a lot of work.”
Ten years later he achieved international fame when he won the figure skating gold in the 1988 Olympic Winter Games. There had been other significant awards, but it was the Olympic gold that secured his place in figure skating history.
Wandering through these long-ago lives made my heart swell. It seemed, I’d morphed from a fairytale godmother into a warm-hearted grandma, gazing fondly at photos and articles about her grandchildren.
Eventually, I put away the scrapbook. Yet the pleasure in discovering the rest of their stories has remained. What can explain my emotional attachment to these strangers?
Perhaps it’s not so unusual. Don’t we all carry soft spots in our hearts for some we’ve known in years gone by? Especially when we learn that they’re happy and doing well. Psychologists and poets expound on the power of reunion for those who have been separated.
Yet, it’s more than that. My scrapbook “reunions” revealed how intimate my reporting really was. It brought me, like a doctor, minister or priest, unusually close to my subjects. As a reporter, I was genuinely interested in those I profiled. I asked delving questions and I listened intently to the answers. In return, my subjects shared dreams and fears with me that may not have been shared with casual friends or even family members.
And, unbeknownst to me at the time, what they shared with me mattered more than simply wanting to write a good story. Here I am, half a century later, still caring about these individuals.
Fairytale godmother, affectionate grandma, or merely a retired reporter, my experience convinces me that the phrase “we’re all connected” isn’t just an empty, feel-good expression. I believe life’s fabric is woven of real, though often unrecognized connections linking us across time and space, no matter how brief our past interactions may have been.
I’ve come to consider those links, those connections, life’s threads of love.