Ron Poe had no patience for incompetence or stupidity.
I learned that in 1972 when I was hired as the often incompetent and sometimes stupid 27-year-old news editor of this newspaper.
Ron and I sat at opposite ends of a long, overhead conveyor belt that ran from the newsroom to the production department. In those days of typewriters, pencils and typesetting machines, my job was to edit the stories turned in by reporters. Then I had to sketch the location of the story on a “page dummy,” write a headline, scribble instructions for the production department about type sizes and layout specifications, then stick it all on the constantly moving conveyor to be whisked to the “composing room.”
Ron — three years my senior in age and 12 years my senior in newspaper experience — sat at the other end of that conveyor. His job was to figure out what I wanted based on all my “chicken tracks,” turn my thoughts into machine codes and divide the task among various production workers.
That collision of journalistic “visioning” and printing “reality” often caused the 6-foot-3-inch lanky body of Ron Poe to appear suddenly in front of my desk with a face full of scowl and a fist full of my most recent attempt at editing. He would hold the stack of copy and layout pages slightly above my eye level, then wordlessly drop it all on my desk, shake his head and walk away.
Never in my memory did “Stretch” (a nickname for Ron used back in the production department, but one I was afraid to utter) ever tell me what was wrong with my work. His attitude told me he did not have the time, patience or responsibility to train me — that my job was to figure out what I had screwed up and stick it on the conveyor belt one more time.
As frightening as the process was for a young man in his first real editing job, and in spite of Ron’s professed lack of interest in training me, he indeed turned out to be my teacher.
Ron was recruited by The Evening Republican (now The Republic) in 1960 when he was just out of high school and attending a trade school in English, Indiana. There he learned to operate the typesetting machine of the day, a Linotype — a huge, clanging iron contraption that set metal type for letterpress printing plants throughout the nation.
Good Linotype operators were not easy to find in those days. The machines were complicated and temperamental. Ron was a catch. But, as Ron proved over the next 43 years of employment, his contribution to the newspaper was much more than technical, production knowledge. Ron was a perfectionist with a work ethic second to none. He expected the best out of himself, and he pushed others to follow suit.
Through the years, I worked with Ron as each of us took on a series of different roles for the newspaper, and I can think of no fellow employee I respected more. I would quickly learn that the gruff scowl of disapproval was only a few seconds away from a broad smile and an unforgettable laugh.
At its base, I think Ron’s greatest quality was not just his unflagging dedication to “doing the job right,” but his pride in his chosen vocation. He was secure within himself and within his own values. He judged no one on the basis of the color of the shirt worn to work, the job title or the number of numerals on the paycheck. A dedicated worker sweeping a floor garnered more respect from him than a lazy executive with a sports car.
The week before Christmas, I opened this newspaper to find Ron’s name in the listing of Area Deaths at the bottom of the front page.
I had been out of touch with him for some time — since both of us had retired several years ago. His death, nonetheless, was a shock.
Ron’s wife, Sharon, later told me he had died Dec. 20 at age 76 after an 18-month battle with throat cancer.
Sharon said the Ron that I knew at work wasn’t much different than the one their three children, eight grandchildren and three great-grandchildren knew at home. Ron had standards and values that said commitments and hard work are among life’s greatest responsibilities and greatest blessings.
That “shape up, you can do better” stare I experienced all those years ago as I tried to become a news editor was the same one Ron freely gave to anyone he felt needed the advice. Best of all, that was the advice he gave himself and the ethic he lived every day.
Bud Herron is a retired editor and newspaper publisher who lives in Columbus. He served as publisher of The Republic from 1998 to 2007. His weekly column appears on the Opinion page each Sunday. Contact him at [email protected].
