On this Mother’s Day, 2017 I’m reflecting back on how my late, wonderful mother affected me in my work life.
It started in the 1960’s when I had my first job folding laundry at Mel’s Laundromat on Union Turnpike in Queens, NY. It was in a strip of stores that ranged from Glen Oaks Pharmacy where Richie the owner and pharmacist kept the store guarded by a massive German Shepherd who would sometimes snuggle up to your crotch while you were shopping….to Sol and Lefty’s candy store/luncheonette that served as a lunch counter, candy stand, place to get your school supplies and bookie joint. Yes..it was always safe to shop at Sol and Lefty’s because there was always one of NYPD’s finest on site…to place a bet. In between there was Ray’s Anchorage/old man’s bar, the Cracker Barrel supermarket a dry cleaner and deli. Mel’s was closer to the north end of the strip where Sol and Lefty’s was located.
Mel was a crappy boss. He was crazy and yelled a lot and made sure half the machines didn’t work right so customers would have to toss in extra quarters. I was 8 years old and even so, the 25 cents a day he paid me seemed like a screw job. My mother gave me my first workplace advice at that point. “Edward,” she said, “try not to work for assholes.” But I was young and impetuous and I didn’t obey that sage advice, for more than 40 years.
Later, as a teenager, I worked at a day camp in tony Great Neck, Long Island where the skinflint owner paid us 25 bucks a summer plus tips, but you had to pool your tips. Mom advice number two. “Pool your tips? What? So the lazy schlemiels can get some of your money? Screw ‘em! Toss in five bucks and pocket the rest. You earned it.” Smart mommy.
When I started my career as a broadcaster it was at a truly crappy station in Fulton, New York. Fulton is about a half hour north of Syracuse, which puts it squarely in the area commonly known as “Nowhere.” The station was located in a field in a concrete block building next to the transmission tower. Occasionally, the St. Bernard that lived in the farm that surrounded the station would walk up to the door, bang it with his massive head and wait for belly rubs. We always complied. When I brought my parents to see where I worked, my mother offered work advice number 3. “Edward, make sure your next job isn’t in such a shithole.” I dutifully obeyed and moved on to another station, in Auburn, N.Y. which was located in the top floor of an office building and had the best studios and equipment.
For the benefit of time and space I’ll skip ahead to when I eventually landed a job at CNN in Atlanta. My parents were duly impressed but were not familiar with either Atlanta or Georgia. This precipitated mom job advice number 4. “Edward,” she intoned, “this is a big deal. Do whatever they say, try your hardest, show them what you’ve got and whatever you do, do NOT start saying ‘y’all.’” I did everything she said and lasted two decades at the most manic place I had ever worked.
My last fulltime job was a Chrysler. I was hired to manage and ghost write a blog on behalf of the head of PR. This was 2005. My parents just could not fathom exactly what it is I was hired to do. Despite many explanations, blogging and social media did not compute with them. They attempted to send emails via the ghastly WebTV service, which was so slow, snail mail would arrive faster. It only frustrated my father who received a lot of useless “forwards” from other alta cockers at their Florida condo community. My father would respond to each and every one with “please don’t send any more of this stupid shit.” It got him elected to the condo board of directors and captain of the shuffleboard team.
It also led to my mother’s final work advice: “Edward,” she said patiently. “I really don’t know what the hell you do or why you do it but if it pays better than the laundramat I’m happy for you.” It did, indeed, pay much better than the laundramat, and led to a nice management job, an office and free coffee…which only proves, you should always listen to your mother.
Since taking on a part-time position as a video reporter at Automotive News I’ve found myself filling in every few weeks for the regular anchor of our daily afternoon newscast, AutoNews Now. I hadn’t anchored any sort of newscast since 1988 when I anchored Newsnight Update for awhile on CNN. If you’re not familiar with that show, that’s because it aired 1:30 a.m.-2:30 a.m. Eastern time and was aimed at west coast viewers and those in other time zones working off a hard night of drinking bad muscatel.
The absence of 29 years from the anchor desk was quite an awakening, especially when it comes to that thing called a teleprompter. Oh, I guess technically I’m supposed to spell it TelePrompTer since it’s a brand name that’s become generic like Kleenex for tissues.
My first anchor experience was in the late 1970’s at KGUN-TV in Tucson, Arizona where I’d occasionally handle “Good Morning Tucson,” the local cut-ins during “Good Morning America.” Back then the prompter was simply a little conveyer belt onto which the operator loaded the script pages end to end. The operator would then use a little thumbwheel to get the conveyer belt moving, passing each page under a small camera, which sent the image of the script to a monitor placed under the anchor’s camera lens, reflecting it onto a two-way mirror over the lens so the anchor could look directly into it and make people believe they either memorized the whole thing or made it up on the spot.
This simple technology worked for a long time, but had it’s limitations. At KGUN the prompter was located next to a door that led from the studio to the parking lot. Every time someone went in or out during a newscast, all the script pages would go flying off the belt and the poor operator was stuck trying to gather them up and place them back on the belt in the correct order. This almost never was successful causing the anchor to deliver such non sequiturs as “A plane crash near Phoenix today resulted in lower than expected attendance at the 4H Club’s bake sale. The city council voted unanimously to plead guilty to sexual harassment charges.”
By the time I anchored at CNN the technology had actually not changed one bit. The difference at CNN is, due to the nature of its 24-hour broadcast schedule, scripts were constantly being written and delivered to the prompter and the rest of the crew just moments before they were to be read.
One night the scripts were running particularly late and the production assistant charged with delivering the scripts was running like crazy and became completely unhinged. In her rush she simply tossed the pile of scripts to the prompter operator and, as you might expect, they immediately were shuffled out of order. All I could see from the anchor desk was a young person behind the prompter mouthing, “oh crap oh crap oh crap!” while the fallen pages remained on the ground.
I should interject at this point, anchors are also provided hard copies of scripts just in case there should be an unfortunate prompter problem. The trick is, turning the pages of your hard copy in sync with the prompter so, if needed, you can dive down to the hard copy and continue reading. It’s tougher than it looks and many anchors simply use their hard copies as placemats for the coffee and danish they bring on the set, just out of view.
Now fast forward to 2012. By then I was head of digital communications at Fiat Chrysler Automobiles. A good part of my duties involved setting up a video operation at the automaker and that included having a small studio built for recording and transmitting executive interviews. The long time gap since my last studio experience became quickly apparent when the prompter was installed. I looked high and low but couldn’t find the conveyer belt/camera apparatus. When I asked someone about it, the much-younger person laughed at me as she said, “are you, like 100?” before explaining prompters had long before moved to the digital age where all you had to do was load a Word file of the script into a laptop that’s connected to the monitor/two-way mirror set up on the camera.
This worked very well except for when, in the spirit of teamwork, I ran the prompter for one of our Italian executives who needed to record a message totally in Spanish. Not being able to understand a word of the script I just kept moving the lines up at the executive’s pace. He finally stopped in frustration and said to me, in perfect English, “you suck!” Ah, the joys of multi-linguilism.
I retired from FCA at the end of July, 2016, but was offered the part-time job I have now at Automotive News, which I enjoy very much. Every so often, as I mentioned at the start, I fill in for our regular anchor. The first time he showed me the studio the issue of the prompter came up. He smiled as he handed me the thumb-operated controller and informed me there weren’t enough people on the team to have a prompter operator so anchors were on their own.
If you watch any of our newscasts, you’ll notice we keep one hand, the hand operating the prompter, out of view. I’ve gotten the hang of it pretty well. It just takes a little practice. It seems to be a problem for some of our viewers however, since they have no idea what’s going on under the table and it’s prompted a few to ask some inappropriate questions. Let’s just say my thumb’s pretty busy.
Like many people beaten to boredom by the endless Oscar ceremony, I went to bed early and missed the monumental screw up in announcing the wrong movie as best picture. So I’ve already wasted half my morning reading about it and watching the clips. It also got me thinking about mistakes I either made or affected me.
I have two brief examples, both of which occurred while I worked at CNN. I was producing the morning show, then called “Daybreak,” back in the 1980’s. There had been a train wreck in Oregon. It wasn’t fatal, but it was a mess and there was fear hazardous fumes were leaking from some of the tanker cars. It was a pretty slow news day so it led the hour. Our assignment desk jumped into action to get us someone on the phone they identified as both a witness and employee of the railroad. Remember that word “witness.” We were about to witness another disaster from the control room. During that era, CNN was still located in a former Jewish Country Club across the street from Georgia Tech. The newsroom was the old gym and it was a completely open floorplan. The writer and producer work stations, assignment desks, satellite desk, anchor set and control room were within a shout from each other…no walls. Someone from the assignment desk yells “got a phoner with a witness!” We quickly arrange to put the guy on the air and I tell the anchor, through her earpiece who she’ll be speaking with.
Anchor: “We have with us now on the phone (guy’s name)…a witness to the Oregon train wreck. Tell me sir. What does it look like from your vantage point?
Guy on phone: “Well, considering I’m about 350 miles away, pretty small!”
Anchor: “Thank you sir. Goodbye.”
Then there was the time I was assigned a story on the 40th anniversary of the Ford Edsel. I must have missed a key note in the background material before interviewing the grandson of the failed car’s namesake.
Me: “How did you grandfather feel about the car being such a failure?”
Edsel Ford II.: “He didn’t really care. He died before the car was produced. Would you like to ask that question again…a different way?”
Which I did…after many apologies and my shooter confirming he had the whole thing on tape and would make “good use” of it.
James Nichols, the brother of convicted Oklahoma City bombing conspirator, Terry, died last week and that brought back all sorts of memories, since I got to know James a bit, covering his case for CNN. Indeed, covering James Nichols ranged from boring to blasphemous to hilarious.
I was on my way back from vacation when news that the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City was bombed. At the time, it was the worst case of domestic terrorism in the U.S.
The next day I returned to work as CNN Detroit Bureau Chief and Correspondent and was catching up on story planning and paperwork when late that afternoon we got a call that the FBI had raided a farm in Decker, Michigan and that the raid was connected to the OKC bombing. We dropped everything and drove the 90 minutes up to Michigan’s Thumb area to what amounted to a four-corners surrounded by farms. We quickly found out the farm on the northeast corner was owned by James Nichols, brother of Terry, who was arrested in connection with the bombing and that they were both friends with Timothy McVeigh, who was eventually convicted and executed for carrying out the bombing. The feds were looking for bomb-making materials on the farm and found some, since it also came out McVeigh stayed at the farm on and off and actually exploded some small bombs there.
They laid siege on the Nichols farm and while the scores of media staking out the place from a short distance it came out they arrested James Nichols as a material witness. Of course, every news organization was anxious to learn more about him.
We landed an interview with a guy who ran the local grain silo and knew Nichols. This was big stuff so Larry King’s producers booked us. I was told “just take your time with the guest. Find out as much as you can about Nichols. Don’t rush the interview.”
I get on the air during King’s show and start to lead the guest through how he knew Nichols and could he tell us about him and what we had heard were strong anti-government views. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two before Larry King broke in and barked, “yeah, but sir…just tell me. Is this guy a nutcase?” The next time I spoke was 20 minutes later to thank the guest. King took over the interview with the one motive…to find out if James Nichols was a nutcase. The guest insisted he wasn’t but King didn’t believe it.
In further pursuit of the story we contacted Nichols’s friend Phil Murawski who lived down the road. He said he’d be glad to do the interview but “first I have to be interviewed by the FBI and eat a sandwich.”
Nichols was arrested and taken to Milan Federal Prison in Milan (MY-lan), Michigan. That’s where I first got a look at him. I was one of the pool reporters covering his arraignment, held in a prison day room. What struck me was his voice. I expected a growling, angry voice and what I heard was a high-pitched squeaky squawk. Book, cover, no match. Honestly, the most memorable aspects of that day were being treated to a prison lunch of de-boned chicken wings–we were told prisoners could make weapons out of the bones..and meeting AP reporter Brian Akre who was also in the coverage pool. Over the years we would always joke “we met in the joint.”
The feds finally dropped the charges and I caught up with him again at his farm. This time we had an actual conversation. He had written a book alleging his it was the Federal government and not his brother or McVeigh who had carried out the OKC bombing. That’s why he agreed to the interview..to help publicize the book that no publisher would touch. It was during that interview he uttered a phrase that stuck with me and my crew to this day. In his screechy voice he hollered, “we was frauded upon!”
He seemed to enjoy speaking with us, especially because he was enamored with our rather attractive female sound tech. This worked to our advantage because we were dying to get inside that farmhouse the feds had been so interested in. So….our sound tech flashed a big smile and asked if she could use the washroom. No problem! She did use the washroom and took a quick peek around but there really wasn’t anything worth noting. If anything, James was very neat.
After that day, we pretty much forgot about James Nichols. He was just another character you run into as a reporter, but every once in awhile when we thought we’d been screwed somehow a member of the crew would smile and announce, “we got frauded upon!”
Thanks for that, James Nichols. RIP
The South likes to do things its own way. Screw Punxsutawney Phil. Deep in the heart of biscuit and grits country, the rodent with the lowdown on how much longer winter will last is named for the man who surrendered to Gen. Grant in the Civil War. Yes..it’s General Lee who’s rousted from his roost and grabbed by the scruff of his furry neck as a couple of good old boys who imbibe for breakfast decided whether or not the sleepy soldier saw his shadow. At least, that’s how it was when my assignment manager at CNN’s Southeast Bureau in Atlanta tossed this one in my lap. I duly showed up at 5:45am at the Yellow River Wildlife Ranch in suburban Snellville to wait for the big moment. To keep us reporters, um, engaged until then, there were bottles of something alcoholic, along with dozens of ham, bacon, egg and sausage biscuits. By the time poor old General Lee was poked until he came out of his slumber and investigated who the hell was bothering him, we were pretty well loaded and larded. It was dark when he emerged from his faux plantation home but the Yellow River boys insisted he saw his shadow. Fine. Six more weeks of winter in Atlanta just means six more weeks of spring. Oh, they had snow once or twice in the 8 years I lived there. I think it totalled a quarter inch, which sent the Georgia peaches into a hissy fit.
Personally, I think the whole groundhog thing is a ruse. A better gauge might be whether or not Ryan Gosling looks in the mirror and sees his five o’clock shadow. He’s Canadian, you know. It’s always winter to him.
Epilogue: You don’t see me in the package above. I did shoot a standup but a prissy anchor had it killed. I was in front of groundhog pelt nailed on the wall of the cabin across from General Lee’s enclosure. I said “…and if the ground hog is wrong….” and turned towards the pelt. Some people just have no sense of humor.
The Electoral College is this nebulous “thing” that no one ever really sees and the members seem to come and go in relative anonymity. So I appreciated very much the opportunity to cover for CNN Tennessee’s Electoral College vote after the chaotic 2000 election that saw Al Gore lose his home state to George W. Bush.
The night before the vote we met with several of Tennessee’s 11 electors at steak joint not too far from the state capitol in Nashville. It was December and it was unexpectedly frigid with the prospect of snow on the day of the actual vote. They were mostly down to earth folks who felt the gravity of their task and a devotion to the unique method the nation’s Founding Fathers conjured to basically ratify the election held a month earlier. None of them had any desire to flip their vote to their state’s native son. I don’t recall any of the electors using the term “rubber stamp,” but that’s pretty much the way they saw their responsibility. One even went to far as to say “that boy ain’t really a Tennessean anymore…he’s long gone D.C.”
The next day we showed up early to do our morning live shots but had the opportunity to eyeball the chamber where the 15-minute process would take place. We were told, very sternly, to remain in the visitor’s gallery and not to wander onto the floor. No problem. We were set up outside on the capitol steps to do our live shots and could only hear, vaguely, what was happening. At one point the anchor asked me to describe what was going on at that second even though I was 20 steps and at least 200 feet and a couple of doors away. No, I did not have a monitor to see the feed from the floor.
Check out the transcript from that liveshot I think I faked it pretty well! The magic of preparation. I’m certain it all went down just the way I reported it since no one called to correct me and the producer didn’t yell at me through my earpiece.
Afterwards, the deed done, we retreated to the visitor’s gallery, ostensibly to do a live interview with Lamar Alexander…an elector and former Tennessee governor, U.S. Senator and onetime presidential candidate. Nice man. As we waited for our slot to come up we made small talk, discussed the election and had a great old time. He didn’t seem to be in a rush. After about 30 minutes of this my field producer called down to the Atlanta control room to find out if/when we were going on since we were hanging onto a prominent politician who must have had plenty of better things to do than sit around jawing with a reporter awaiting a two-minute live interview. I got the word through my earpiece and immediately turned redder than Memphis barbecue sauce. “Um…I’m sorry Senator. The producer just informed me something else in the world has happened and our spot was dropped. I’m extremely sorry for holding you up for so long. It was a real pleasure to meet you.” Guess what? Sen. Alexander cracked up, shook my hand and said, “Honestly, the pleasure was mine. If you hadn’t kept me here I’d have to go back out in the cold and figure out what the hell to do the rest of the day.”
On February 20, 1962 I was in second grade at P.S. 186 in the New York City borough of Queens. Our teacher, a bubbly little delight with curly, dark brown hair, Mrs. Kantor, rolled in a TV set and we watched John Glenn become the first American in space orbit.
Once he touched down, our assignment was to write a “composition” relating our feelings about Glenn’s accomplishment.
I was already astounded by the pioneering sub-orbital flights of Alan Shepard and Virgil “Gus” Grissom, but this one rocked my world and touched my 10-year old heart. Instead of simply a summary of the event, my composition turned out to be a letter to Col. John Glenn. I told him how brave he was and how scary it must have been hurtling back down to Earth in a little capsule that had a suspect heat shield, leading TV commentators to wonder if after everything Glenn had gone through, he’d be burned to a crisp on his way back home. I told him how proud the country was of him and that I hoped, one day, to do something in my life as significant as he had just done.
That day stayed with me as I watched Glenn cruise down New York’s “Canyon of Heroes” in Manhattan during a celebratory ticker tape parade. I rooted for him during his down and up and down and up political career and hoped his bid for the Presidency would be successful.
Fast-forward to June 14, 1990. I was the CNN Detroit Bureau Chief and correspondent. There had been a terrible rainstorm causing a massive mudslide in a little Ohio River hamlet called Shadyside. 26 people died. My crew and I were quickly dispatched to cover the story. We hadn’t been on the ground more than 30 minutes when a couple of familiar looking figures arrived. I don’t often become starstruck since reporters often come in contact with celebrities. But I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of awe at my first site of Sen. John Glenn . Along with fellow Ohio Senator Howard Metzenbaum, he had arrived to survey the scene and give comfort to the citizens of this devastated little burg.
They both came up to our camera and agreed to a short interview. As February 20, 1962 came roaring into my brain, I was suddenly shaking hands with the man to whom I’d written that letter, but never sent, all those years ago. I was looking into the eyes of a genuine hero and he was looking at me. Given the tragic situation that triggered this encounter, it was no time for small talk or any sort of personal discourse. I asked my questions related to the story, which he answered directly and respectfully. I detected a glistening in his eyes that had moments ago teared up on hearing of the extent of the loss of life and structural damage to the town. What struck me was that unlike some other politicians I had interviewed over the years, the only reference to “I” in his comments related to his profound concern for his constituents and the promise to get whatever emergency services and funding they needed.
The interview probably lasted less than two minutes, but to have shaken the hand of my hero, spoken to him, well, in that short moment, a part of my life had come full orbit.