Just The Other Day

Just the other day, it seems, I left my small farm outside Massena and headed for town to get a job. I was a newcomer to St. Lawrence County, knew nobody, had no connections. There, in the bowels of the old Massena Observer office on Main Street, I met a man named Chuck Kelly. He was in his late 30s, maybe early 40s, a jolly looking fellow with long sideburns and a firm handshake. He said he ran the St. Lawrence County Newspapers.

We hit it off. He asked me lots of questions, about where I came from, about my newspaper background, my community goals. He was impressed with my family pedigree. As he talked his voice got louder and louder, his thick finger jabbed the air, his hand slapped the desk, and he suspended himself toward me with the kind of menacing glare I came to recognize as Pure Chuck Kelly.

I enjoyed the conversation but he wasn't at all jolly.

I just wanted part time work, I told him; my kids and I had a farm to run and broccoli to pick. I didn't want to owe my soul to any company nor be obligated to any guy for a paycheck.

It was 1975, the same year Mitchell, Haldeman and Erlichman were sentenced to prison for conspiracy in the Watergate matter, the year Margaret Thatcher became Britain's first female Conservative Party leader, and South Vietnam surrendered to the Communists.

I was hired two days a week, plenty of time left over to tend the hogs. Then three days. Then full time. Then his Massena editor, which meant day and night, non-stop, never ending. From Ogdensburg, Chuck ran the Potsdam Courier-Freeman, the Canton Plaindealer, the Ogdensburg Journal & Advance News, the Rural News and, with me at the helm, the Massena Observer.

It's hard to describe those years without wincing. The work seemed eternal and there was always more. Just when we all thought everything was covered, every cop story was reported, edited and run, every school board, every town and village board was covered, every bit of news we could squeeze out of a suspect community was discussed, rehashed, written about, rehashed some more, edited and run, we knew Chuck would always find more.

For 25 cents, then 35 cents, the community had a newspaper. It won awards, looked good, and the crossword puzzle was always included, right before the classifieds.

Still, like clockwork, Chuck called the office the moment the paper hit the streets screaming about what wasn't in it, demanding to know why we were so lax, what we could be thinking, then, in great rage, slamming the phone down on the poor slob who answered.

Usually me.

When Chuck was in Ogdensburg he was still only an irate phone call away. When he was in Potsdam, the staff would warn me that Massena was the next stop. When he came to Massena, he alternately ripped the heads off the editorial staff or bypassed any of us who wanted a raise, sneaking in and out the back door without a glance.

When he'd call me at home he would announce himself sharply. "PatChuck." My kids thought it was one word. They laughed, I didn't.

And so it went, year in and year out.

Through my time with him I came to know that every moment spent was worth more than any j-school could offer. He was fair, honest and forthcoming. He never asked any more of his staff than he was willing to do himself. This self-made newspaper editor, this devoted community leader, this earnest reporter was without question the best teacher any of us ever had.

Chuck Kelly could - and still can - smell a news story before any of us even know there is one. He knew the towns, the villages, the players; he knew how they thought, knew what motivated and drove each one, and used that knowledge to edify his readers - and his reporters.

Although he was concerned with the bottom line, it was never his motivator. He wanted the North Country to count, to not be ignored by politicians in Albany and Washington, and he could - and did - blister his newspapers with insults and invectives until the errant politicos came to heel.

Chuck accepted freshness in his staff but never laziness. For $10,000 a year we were there to work non-stop to empower the communities we worked in, never to make names for ourselves. He wanted a strong independent county with truthful leaders, and insisted we do our jobs to keep people informed and the politicians honest.

Along the way many of us moved on and new youngsters arrived, fresh from the colleges Chuck never attended. We just stood back and watched as the newcomers learned from the master. Good enough was never good enough.

Now, at the age of 75, with more than a half century of service, to both news professionals and communities, it's time for Chuck Kelly to leave the typewriter, end the two-finger keyboard pecking, and slam the phone down for the last time.

Those of us who have known him a while know that he will never be able to sit idly by as trusted officials dip their fingers into the taxpayers' cash drawer. We know that there is no way he will slip quietly into the twilight if there's barn fire or a fatal accident. And we know that despite his bragging, Chuck Kelly will never bake anybody a pie for Thanksgiving.

There are no carbon copies of Charles W. Kelly coming along and although many people will rejoice, I am not one of them. I know that when this era ends and reporters turn their beats over to pretty faces and slothful research, our democracy is increasingly at risk. I also know that when the lists are made, of passionate journalists and community defenders, Chuck Kelly's name will be among them.

We will miss you, Chuck. I am proud to know you and proud to call you friend.