Prior to him, I had never met a newspaper editor before. But as soon as I saw him, I thought “yup, that’s what they look like.”
He was straight out of central casting. A salt-and-peppered-haired chainsmoker with poor posture that was terminally busy and professionally rumpled. He had been the only editor within a 75-mile radius of my small midwestern hometown to respond to my desperate plea for a summer internship. I had one semester of college left and absolutely zero journalism experience, save for one melodramatic letter to the editor I wrote when I was 12 about the abysmal lunch menu at my school.
(That I never ended up sending anyway because I couldn’t find a stamp).
Within a few weeks at The Daily Advocate in Greenville, Ohio, after showing up 15 minutes late every single morning, I felt I had the hang of the entire profession and brazenly walked into his office asking for my own newspaper column. I was determined to be the next Erma Bombeck. Instead of throwing a stapler at my head and yelling at me to get back to typing in the names of the local fair winners (which was well within his rights), he looked at me for a long time before replying “let’s see what you got, kid.”
Because that’s who Bob Robinson was. Whereas the rest of the world saw an idiot college kid wearing way too much eyeliner, he saw an idiot college kid wearing way too much eyeliner that needed someone to take a chance on them.
I ended up being a newspaper columnist for almost 20 years, both for his newspaper and a handful of others.
I was just one of the many he took a chance on. Throughout his life, he did this for hundreds of other young people in his community. He taught and mentored, patiently and tirelessly. All the while always writing. Always reading. After a long career in the newspaper business, he should have been a jaded dried up husk of a human being like the rest of us. But Bob cared. Deeply. And as he got older, he only cared more deeply. He devoted his life to helping the next generation. And the one after that. And even the one after that because as the man went from middle aged to just this side of old to downright flirting with elderly, he still would not retire and lord help you if you suggested he slow down.
I like to think that when the Grim Reaper showed up at his door last Saturday, he held up one finger and said “hang on, let me finish this first.” And the Grim Reaper politely stepped back and let him finish.
Over the years, Bob became family to me. We shared stories over beers when I was in town for a visit and lengthy emails when I wasn’t. He gave the best hugs, had a contagious smile and absolutely no tolerance for pity parties. When I once complained about having writer’s block, he told me to “get off your duff and go do something to write about, kid.”
Which is why when I told him I was quitting writing a few years ago, I fully expected a stern lecture. What I received instead was this:
“You have made me laugh, cry, blew me away, run over me like a truck, knocked my socks off, hit repeated home runs… all with your words. I can’t begin to tell you the joy I’ve had anticipating and reading your columns each week.”
What kind of beautiful bastard does that? One that doesn’t think you should give up writing, that’s who. But one that also knows you need to come to that conclusion on your own.
It worked. I stepped back and took a break from writing, but I never fully stopped. It’s less frequent now, but I still write. And I always will write. I’ll always take care of my family. I’ll always try to give back to my community. Until the Grim Reaper comes and I hold up one finger and tell him “hang on, let me finish this first.”
Because I was taught by the best.
Everyone deserves a Bob in their life. And because of his kindness and selflessness, innumerable people got to have that experience during his much too brief 79 years on Earth.
Legends aren’t supposed to die. But at least there is some small comfort in knowing that he’ll always be the voice inside my head. And as soon as I figure out how to stitch back up the gaping hole his death left in my heart, a place of honor in there as well.
Chick Writes Stuff 