On a sunny June day in 1969 I climbed the steps of the Kansas City Star building, passed the bronze relief portrait of founder William Rockhill Nelson that still watches over the front door, and began my career as a newspaperman.
Actually it was only a summer internship, but those three months at The Star provided a crash course in practical journalism, allowed me to show what I could do and paved the way for a full-time gig when I graduated from college a year later.
Up in the second floor newsroom I reported to Don T. Jones, the daytime assignment editor of The Times, then The Star’s morning edition (the two papers merged many years ago).
Don T., as he was universally known, is best described as a chain-smoking bantam rooster. He was very short and trim, had leathery skin (the result of weekends spent on his boat down at the Lake of the Ozarks) and early on provided me with a bit of dubious advice I’ve never forgotten:
“Kid, don’t go verifying yourself out of a good story.”
Anyway, on this my first day at The Star, Don T. introduced himself and announced that I would spend the next eight hours “cruising.”
Back then the word “cruising” didn’t have the sexual connotations it does today, but it still puzzled me.
What, I asked, was cruising?
Don T. explained that I would be paired with one of the staff photographers. We’d drive around town in the photographer’s car, which was equipped with a two-way radio that would allow us to communicate with the city desk (this was way before cell phones).
Don T. would monitor the police radio and direct us to whatever hot spot was generating news. It might be a fire, a car wreck, a robbery or shooting…any newsy event that might end up on the pages of the morning paper.
I was introduced to Les (not his real name), a photographer maybe 10 years my senior although his hair and moustache already were a premature silver (the result of genetics or hard living I was never able to figure out). We loaded up in Les’ car and headed south, making idle chitchat — at least until he parked on the street in front of a three-story red brick apartment building a block north of the Nelson Art Gallery.
“Here’s the deal,” he announced. “I’m going to visit my girlfriend in that building. You stay here and listen to the radio.
“If the city desk calls, tell them we’re getting gas at the 7-Eleven over on Main Street and that I’m in the bathroom.
“Then you go inside and knock on the door to apartment 3B. Got it?”
Uh, yeah.
So here I was, first day on the job, 20 years old, sitting in a car on a shady street while my journalistic colleague — whom I soon learned was married — dallied with his current squeeze.
“Goddam,” I thought to myself. “Working for a newspaper is going to be fun.”
And for 40 years it was.
| Robert W. Butler
Great story Bob. We can all recall our first steps up those hallowed stairs, and the swinging doors into the raucous, smokey newsroom filled with the respective staffs of two daily real newspapers. Sorry days, now.
Much enjoyed the post, Bob. I’ll take a wild guess: was the last two letters of the photographer’s name correct? If so, give me an email shout.
Randy
Les, which rhymes with….yup, you’ve got it.
Butler
Great story. Starting this Monday off with a smile.
Thanks Bob. Indeed, those were the days. Two papers, genuine characters, Les’s pint of I. W. Harper stashed behind the enlarger post in the darkroom, and honest bonhomie instead of job-loss fears. Thanks for the memories.
Love that story!!!
Super story, and I would bet a weeks pay that I can name the real Les. But I guess I better not do it here :~)
Hey Bob…I think I know that guy Les also.
Your story reminds me of my tenure there. Cigarette smoke, carbon paper scattered in various overflowing trash baskets (this was back in the days when they wanted reporters to keep a carbon copy of all stories because it was too expensive to use the genuine Xerox brand copy machine) accompanied by the aroma of recently spilled coffee,
Rather than sipping at the desk though, many went out the side door to the nearby pub across the street for a brief jolt. Interesting Times.
More often than not though, they put out a good product in those days.
Great story, Bob! I see a short film in Black and White..good shots, but not with alot of dialog..just enough to tell the story :~)
Les told me that all the guys in his family were prematurely grey. His turned at the age of 16. Love the story :) And that was one of the tamer ones, as I recall.
Les’s identify is the poorest kept secret in town.
I have a picture of Les in bed with a sheep. It’s on an old ad club picnic poster. The event was Sheep Thrills
Ask Rick Ralls about the time Les tried to hit someone who insulted him with a thrown beer bottle, hit Rick instead and opened a big cut on Rick’s noggin.
G. Fred Wickman
Terrific blog Bob. Keep up the good work. I read you daily now!
Good story about the “good” old days.
#&$%@#…reading your blog is going to be fun!
Great story. thank you.
I encountered a Star photographer when I was the Asst Public Affairs Officer at Ft Leavenworth (1969-1972). When I got in his car to guide him around the post, he asked me if I wanted a drink and pulled out a bottle of vodka from under his seat. Surprised the heck out of me.
I could tell you his name, but I won’t. See my previous blog about my first day as a reporter. Betcha it was THAT guy.
My starting date at the K.C. Star/Times was in the
Fall of 1955. Oaken desks, brass spitoons, telephone bank in the center of the room, and penurious pay checks. But a damn good paper…