One of THE best "professors" I had in college wasn't a journalism prof by trade. He was a journalist by trade. He was brilliant. (I realized later.) Worked his way up from a pre-teen paper boy to city/state night editor to something during the daytime at the Statesman. Then, he got his Ph.D, but that was long after I was gone. During my tenure, he was "Lecturer Rice."
He strode into class on the first day of Editorial Columns and Reviews w/ no books or notes. He was short. He wore little round, wire glasses. And pointy BOOTS. He told newsroom "war stories."
He challenged us. He challenged us to get our noses out of periodicals and textbooks and get the phone to our ear and CALL people. REAL people. Real people who a journalism student might think she was unqualified to call.
Real people like J.W. Fulbright; former governors, current governors, NASCAR legends. (Did I mention he was REAAALLY into NASCAR?)
I talked to Fulbright just before he died -- but just after he'd returned from a months-long trip to Japan (checking on scholars.) I was scared to death. Rice said I could do it and I did.
I learned to contact judges, elected officials, investigators, felons. I wasn't scared anymore.
Years later, working for a cotton growers organization that got a lot of flack from the press, elected officials and EVERYONE, a phone call came in one afternoon from "a reporter." The message hit the desk of the executive director.
He turned pale.
I looked at the message.
Molly Ivins.
I was scared.
No, I could do this. Rice said I could.
I never got to talk to Molly. Her assistant took the call. Just fact-checking. "How many cotton bales per acre in a GOOD year?"
But, I still felt brave. I would've like her. I would've liked to share a meal or a glass of wine.
I later worked w/ a very smart woman who was a friend of mine and a friend of Molly's.
"So, how's Molly these days?" I'd ask leaning against the door of her office.
Just wanting or needing to feel like I was a part of this tough, clever, smart legion of journalists who weren't scared to pick up the phone and ask tough questions, often already having a feel for the answers.
I love that she didn't change her column photo for years and years. Even tho' she never looked 62, she'll always have long, blonde, wavy hair; slightly chubby cheeks and a big ol' fun smile.
I hate that she had cancer. I hate that she died from cancer. I hate that my friend lost a friend.
I'm glad Rice gave me the courage to call.
