Standing on my mother's shoulders

By TAD BARTIMUS

When I was a teenager my mother got us breakfast every day, then rushed off in her cotton shirtwaist to put out the "weekly miracle." At first she'd gotten a secretarial job at the local newspaper because she and dad needed extra income to put us through college. Then a big chain tried to buy the Star-Herald. Mom and a few other foolhardy souls believing passionately that a newspaper should be independent and community-based decided to put up their life savings to back their principles. Overnight, my mother became associate editor, a position that entitled her to work harder, get dirtier and earn less money than the day before.

But mother did more than just "write a little." For nearly two decades, she put in 10-hour days, four days a week, grinding out school lunch menus, the occasional car accident and obituaries of people she knew, because she knew everybody.

Because Mom didn't have any formal training she never referred to herself as a newspaperwoman. Instead, she disparaged her contribution to journalism with the throwaway line "I write a little" when somebody asked her about her job. But mother did more than just "write a little." For nearly two decades, she put in 10-hour days, four days a week, grinding out school lunch menus, the occasional car accident and obituaries of people she knew, because she knew everybody.

On Wednesdays, when the paper went to press, she usually didn't get home until midnight because she had to stuff, wrap and get the miracle in the mail in time for Thursday delivery. She never left the house without her trusty clipboard in hand, driving her old Ford around town to sell ads to the local car dealer, cover the city council meeting, interview the school board or challenge the police department to clean up its act. Her thousands of words helped stitch our community together.

When Mom wasn't pounding away on her old typewriter or taking pictures with her Polaroid she crusaded for First Amendment issues through the Society of Professional Journalists, supported the state press association and took in every stray intern who needed a job. Along the way she also earned (barely) enough money to help me get through journalism school, ever after referring to me as "the journalist in the family." No matter how much I protested her self-deprecation, she refused to take any credit for being a role model or inspiration to all the young women she fed and housed as she taught us to set hot type and ask cool questions.

My mother's spirit was in a fancy hotel meeting room recently when I introduced myself as a new member of the American Society of Newspaper Editors. Around me stood about 50 other women, also members of what once was almost entirely an organization of powerful newsmen. One after another we went around in a circle, speaking our names, journalistic affiliations and job titles. From Florence, Alabama, to Los Angeles; from Norfolk, Virginia, to Houston, Texas; from Lexington, Kentucky, to Denver, Colorado, with increasing vigor and resonance, women many of them mothers squared their shoulders and called out: "editor," "managing editor," "features editor," "columnist." As the recitation came to a close it had the rhythm and cadence of a hymn.

Diane McFarlin, editor of the Sarasota (Fla.) Herald-Tribune, was at the microphone to congratulate Karen Jurgensen on her appointment as the new editor of USA Today, America's biggest circulation newspaper. We collectively remembered pioneering newswomen, particularly the late Nancy Woodhull of Gannett Co., and the late Janet Chusmir of Knight Ridder Co., both of whom died at the pinnacle of their journalistic careers.

My mother seller of advertising, reporter of record, editor of the highest principles, mailer of the "weekly miracle" -- was not mentioned in the tributes. But I knew that I was in that room because I stood on her shoulders to reach my goal. Truth be told, all of those women did. It's up to us to be worthy enough for more women to stand on ours.

© Copyright 1998-2000 The Women Syndicate. The content on these pages is the property of The Women Syndicate and may not be used without express permission. Contact friends@tadbartimus.com