A view of a friend

By Susan M. Wicker Guerrero

The View today is about friendship, fear, hope and love.

More than 40 years ago, as a fresh-out-of-college journalist, my first newspaper job was on The Springfield Union (now called The Republican).

Everything learned as a journalism major in college certainly came in handy, but on-the-job training on a daily newspaper was the real deal.

One of the editors, Joseph W. Mooney put the scare of “bejesus” in every reporter on the staff. Those who were green-behind-the-ears especially drew his fury.

This guy didn’t just bark an order. He yelled in a voice so loud that it rattled those around him right down to the toes of their shoes.

God forbid if a reporter was late in turning in a story, the editor would scream across the newsroom so everyone could hear. He’d remind the reporter he was writing for today’s newspaper, not yesterday’s, and get it in gear or get out.

More than once my cheeks burned red with shame and humiliation, but I learned very quickly to make the deadlines.

Today, decades later, that early lesson in getting my stories in on time still plays out very strongly.

During those early years in journalism, a fellow reporter came on board The Union. His name was George Carlton Jordan III. He had a political science/sociology degree from Parsons College in Iowa but was from the eastern part of Massachusetts.

In those days, my nickname for him was “Giggie” (pronounced jidge-jee). He loved journalism and eagerly jumped at doing any story that came  his way.

He preferred hard news while I favored writing feature stories. He probably thought the kind of stories I wrote were “fluff,” but that’s what makes a newspaper good, a little bit of this mixed with a little bit of that.

Giggie definitely felt the wrath of the curmudgeon editor. Because Giggie and I became close  and dear friends, every time he’d get the “what for,” I’d feel badly for him and vice versa. But by gosh, we learned to get our stories in on time.

The Springfield Union days eventually ended for both of us. Giggie married Christine Walger, a dear friend of mine. I left the country to marry my forever love, who is from a Central American country.

All through the decades, Giggie and I kept in touch, sometimes sporadically but nonetheless faithfully.

He had a dream for decades to start his own newspaper. He did it once in the late 1990s and called it The Berkshire Beacon, but for financial and other  reasons, it was short-lived. Still, I was proud of my friend for reaching a life-long goal.

The dream of resurrecting The Beacon never died. Giggie, or George, as he prefers to be called, was relentless in pursuing that dream. He did a lot of research and attended annual meetings of newspaper associations.

He drummed up people who could sell ads and talked incessantly about restarting The Beacon.

Now how many people do you know who have dreams but never make them into reality? I know dozens, but George is not one of them.

Despite hard economic times and an army of naysayers, he moved forward with all the gusto of that former crabby editor who, by the way, was not all gruff. Like George, that editor had some marshmallow deep inside his heart.

A year ago May, The Berkshire Beacon hit the newsstands. Its hard-working staff, many new college graduates, have hit the pavement ever since, miraculously churning out stories on just about everything on a weekly basis. Now, there have been more than 70 issues.

George maintains a blustery presence in the makeshift offices of The Beacon. Offices, after all, do not make a good newspaper, people do.

George is still a dedicated and fearless journalist. He’s also still blustery and tells it like it is.

Some people hate him, others love him and then there are those in between. He doesn’t care a twit if getting a story ticks somebody off.

“Kameron,” he’ll say to The Beacon editorial assistant, “who cares if it’s going to make somebody mad? We have a newspaper to get out. Go get the story.”

Hmm, now who does that sound like?

George believes in his adopted community, Lenox. He’s been a staunch advocate of local goings-on for decades. While not from the town, he’s been a resident there for a long time. He knows just about every resident of Lenox and then some.

While he can be very gruff and loud, too, George is still basically a good and kind man. He cares about people from every walk of life.

It doesn’t matter to George if the person is a janitor or bank president. He cares about everyone and feels badly when someone is hurting or down on their luck.

When he hires somebody from out-of-town who is unfamiliar with the area, George will even do his best to help find housing for the new recruit.

He’s the first to help celebrate special occasions and toast with his favorite white wine.

A couple of weeks ago, when I got the horrible message that he was hospitalized, my heart nearly froze. Friendships that have lasted more than 40 years are few and far between.

Somehow, I managed to put the fear aside and send up an immediate petition to God to watch over George and help him recover. I knew my prayers were answered when one of the advertising staff made the mistake of going to the hospital to visit him too soon.

“Get out of there and go sell ads,” a voice boomed from behind the closed curtain.

Yep, George was definitely on-the-mend. Not only that, less than a week passed before he asked his wife  to bring her iPad to Berkshire Medical Center.

The Beacon will go on in all its glory and so, God-willing, will George Carlton Jordan III.

He is a passionate journalist, a good person and a precious friend. The Beacon needs him and so do all his friends and readers.

Posted by Susan M. Wicker Guerrero on October 25, 2012. Filed under Columns,From the Heart,Opinion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry