What Peggy Noonan (and I) learned from ancient radio newsmen
A friend and former coworker recently alerted me to a Wall Street Journal piece penned by Peggy Noonan, the renowned journalist, author and former presidential speechwriter. In it, Noonan explained how she was a college-educated writer at CBS News in the 1970s, yet her ability to effectively tell stories was limited, at least in part, because she was trained to carefully write for the eye, rather than less formally for the ear. That is, until she took the advice of her seasoned coworkers whose prime years were spent in radio news.
"I had spent three years in college writing features and editorials for the student newspaper, and naturally wrote for readers. But the old men in the newsroom had made their careers writing for listeners, for people absorbing information not through the eye but the ear. They knew how to write words in the air, which is different from words on the page."
Noonan reflected on how these ancient newsmen -- some in their 50s and 60s! -- graciously worked with her to improve her reporting skills.
"Some were no longer considered at the top of their game, some hadn’t succeeded at TV, some had never wanted to leave radio. I was getting the last of them. They went over my copy, crossed out the mess of the second sentence, connected the first with the third, made it all mean something important. And in time, with their guidance and almost by osmosis, I learned a great craft."
Noonan's experiences aren’t so different from my own.Â
While not a formally trained writer, I did sit at the feet of experienced radio newsmen for three consecutive summers during my college years. Chief among them was the legendary Joe Holstead, whose distinctive, authoritative voice graced the airwaves of Dallas/Fort Worth for decades. When I met Joe in the WBAP-AM newsroom, he was no longer news director -- he had been relegated to a small, corner cubicle where he talked to sources on the phone, recorded and edited audio, and dutifully wrote and edited scripts. This was a guy accustomed to filling in for a vacationing Paul Harvey for coast-to-coast consumption, but appeared to have assumed a subordinate role by the time I showed up. With a bit more time on his hands, Joe didn't hesitate to roll his chair into my cube to show me better ways to ask questions and write compelling story ledes, and how to miraculously summarize three hours worth of courtroom testimony into a 30-second script. And it had better make sense.
"It has to pass the VW Test," he told me. "If someone driving down the road in a VW with the windows rolled down hears your story, but doesn't understand what you were trying to say, you've failed."
The amazing Jim Ryan and the velvet-voiced Gary Daniels picked up where Joe left off, and for the next two summers I became increasingly confident writing stories for the ear.Â
But a few years later, the internet came along and changed everything.Â
No longer could people only listen to my stories; now they could read them -- over and over, critiquing every word. I remember feeling enormously intimidated by this; especially, since most of my listeners held PhDs. (Only a slight exaggeration, considering Texas A&M University is the epicenter of this market.)
In the end, things turned out fine, of course. Our station, WTAW-AM, won the Texas Associated Press Broadcasters' very first Best News Website Award -- topping competitors from Dallas, Houston, San Antonio and Austin.Â
The writing and story-telling skills I learned during those memorable summer internships still serve me well today: Fifteen years removed from running a newsroom, my work in local government PR and marketing reflects a conversational voice that isn't as common in my field as it should be.
While my career achievements will never be Noonan-esque, she and I certainly benefited from the same kindness and skills shared by uber-talented radio professionals who came before us. Now that I'm not far from "ancient" status myself, Noonan's story -- which is also my story -- is a great reminder to pay things forward to those who eventually will replace us, and to share the magic of writing words in the air, rather than on a page.
One of the singer-songwriters I’ve come to identify with more as I’ve aged is John (Cougar) Mellencamp. Chief among the songs that resonate is Small Town. Though I left Breckenridge, Texas – home of the Buckaroos! – behind for a bigger town 26 years ago, I still have more of a connection to that place than I probably care to admit.
 No, I cannot forget where it is that I come from,
I cannot forget the people who love me.
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town,
And people let me be just what I want to be.
But most adventures away from Breckenridge were business-related, when my parents would take us to Dallas a few times a year for clothing markets. Mom and Dad would choose clothing and shoes at the Apparel Mart for the next season at our family-owned department store and almost always would stay at the same hotel: the La Quinta on North Central Expressway, just north of Walnut Hill. I don’t know how La Quinta stacked up against other hotels or motels in the early- to mid-1970s, but I recall a real yearning to take it up a notch or two by staying at a Howard Johnson’s or at a Holiday Inn. Sadly, that never happened. Nevertheless, this particular La Quinta offered something beyond special for Steve and me – special because it was otherwise forbidden in our hometown. Breckenridge had just one of these, but we were never allowed to experience it (no, not a prostitute). At La Quinta, though, it was ours any time we wanted – and, oh, we wanted it, my friend.
 An elevator.
 Breckenridge has just one building that exceeds three floors – a bank building that stands a whopping 10 stories and can be seen from miles away, thanks to an impressively flat, West Texas landscape. It was built as a hotel, but later became a bank with apartments on the upper floors. In my 18 years of living in the town, I never had a chance, or even a reason, to use that elevator. But the elevator at the Dallas La Quinta was like our personal theme park thrill ride. Sure, the hotel only had two floors, but we rode from 1 to 2, then 2 to 1, over and over and over…
 The trip to New York City in 1978 may have been an end-of-the-innocence experience, and not just because I got an up-close view of street-walkers. A main highlight was getting to stand on the rooftop of one of the World Trade Center towers and, thanks to a WTC employee being nice to this sleepy-eyed, curly-headed boy from Texas, getting to operate the elevator the entire way up and down. Considering each of the twin towers was nearly 1,370 feet tall and contained 110 stories, La Quinta’s elevator never seemed very exciting after that.
 More than three decades later, Steve and I still laugh and talk about the La Quinta elevator. Funny, but I don’t recall us ever talking much about the trip to New York City.
One year ago: Blowing the biggest countdown in Aggieland
Through a rather strange set of circumstances, there I stood one year ago today: On stage in front of thousands of onlookers, and with thousands more watching live on television and via internet. A 17-story eyesore would come down on this day, but not before a few VIPs addressed the crowd and my countdown seemingly triggered the implosion. It was a relatively easy assignment: welcome the crowd, introduce speakers and be cued when 10 seconds remained. I was prepared.
May 24, 2012 was a highly anticipated day in Bryan-College Station. The 32-year-old tower at the corner of University Drive and Texas Avenue, near the Texas A&M University campus, was predicted to collapse upon itself in seven seconds — at precisely 6:30 a.m. — producing a 40-foot-tall pile of debris and a giant dust cloud, making room for a brand-new development.
Everyone wanted a piece of this event; after all, it’s likely the only implosion we’ll witness in College Station in our lifetime. Radio stations wanted their call letters on or near the building, non-profits wanted to sell chances at “pushing the button” in order to raise funds and awareness for their causes, and local dignitaries just wanted a front-row seat. The new owner chose to keep things relatively simple by having a few people speak and then jointly push a ceremonial plunger that, to me, resembled something from a Coyote-and-Roadrunner plot line.
Once I provided opening remarks, the speaker line-up was College Station Mayor Nancy Berry, Texas A&M University System Chancellor John Sharp, new owner Michael Rosenfeld, and the man who built the tower in 1980, 92-year-old Joe Ferreri. Unexpectedly, all kept their remarks to a matter of seconds, rather than minutes, which left a lot of time until the scheduled implosion. For the crowd and media, the waiting turned into more waiting when I announced (to boos) that there was about a 10-minute delay to allow crews to further protect a neighboring hotel from what would be a wall of dust.
During this very awkward pause, the conversation onstage, yet off-microphone, ranged from a debate over who served the best local breakfast tacos — “Is it a taco or a burrito?” Rosenfeld asked — to whether or not the Plaza would’ve been a good spot from which to hang-glide. It helped calm my nerves.
All of us were waiting for sirens to signal two minutes, then one minute before the implosion, but we never heard them. Suddenly, a man in radio communication with the person whose finger was on the REAL detonation button walked up and told me there were only 30 seconds left.
“What about the sirens?!” I practically yelled at him.
“They went off, but the wind blew the sound the other direction,” he said.
I told the VIPs to quickly gather at the plunger — it was about to happen.
“Ten…” the worker said to me.
“Nine!” I spoke into the microphone.
But then the man with the radio said nothing else…no countdown for me to follow. I had to wing the timing.
“Eight…seven…six…” I called out at a steady pace, with the crowd counting with me.
As soon as I said, “Five,” the worker finally looked up from his radio and blurted: “TWO!”
A sick feeling hit me: I was three seconds off, and there was nothing I could do.
“…Four…Three…”
The sound of the first charges going off only a thousand feet away startled the crowd and literally caused the mayor and others at the plunger to jump. They instinctively pushed the plunger a good two seconds after the explosions began.
We never made it to “One,” and while the sight of the building crashing to the earth was amazing, prompting the crowd to whoop and cheer, I soon found myself crouching behind the lectern, holding my face in my hands because I’d blown an important, highly viewed countdown by an entire three seconds. The video clip that captures the big moment was, as I now call it, a “Three-Boom.”
The worker with the radio couldn’t have been happier — and rightly so — due to a successful and safe implosion, and was doing his best to assure me that all went perfectly. It was a tremendously kind gesture, but I was crushed that a great amount of preparation hadn’t thoroughly covered the most-important part: the last 10 seconds.
Now, a year after the event, I can finally talk about the gaffe and focus more on the nationwide media coverage the implosion produced. It made for nice video for all the major networks. One TV station in Los Angeles spiced-up the story a bit by stating The Plaza reportedly was haunted. And, thanks to smartphones and similar technology, I estimate it to be among the most-documented events in the history of Aggieland. YouTube now is filled with implosion videos shot by amateurs and professionals alike.
In case you missed it, here are a couple of excellent ones from my City of College Station Public Communications Office.
Short video: (30 seconds)
Long video: (2 minutes)
Notice how the long one works around the “Three-Boom”…
I knew that when I was a kid from seeing them advertised in magazines, or maybe spotting a kit in a big-city hobby shop. I didn't actually know anyone who built and launched rockets, but whoever they were, they clearly kicked ass.
Three decades later, my son received a beginner's rocket kit as a gift, and I was way more excited about it than he was, but oh-so-nervous: Would I set my son and myself on fire? Would I look like a failure if I couldn't figure out the instructions or make it fly?
Quick history lesson: My father spent his childhood, and even into his adult years, building and flying gasoline-powered model airplanes (prior to radio-controlled technology), so there's a legacy issue here in terms of earning and keeping my man-card.
What I quickly learned was that it takes a fair amount of effort to get everything ready prior to launch: Assembly, wadding, engine, igniter, plug, launchpad, etc. My very young son had no patience, or even interest, in such things. But we made it work -- the tiny rocket streaked upward, deployed its parachute and fluttered to Earth -- and his brief excitement soon turned to disinterest when retrieving the rocket meant wandering through a pasture full of tall grasses, cactus and other inconveniences, then repeating the preparation steps before another launch could occur. As a friend of mine says, "That smacks of effort."
Bottom line, my son appeared fairly underwhelmed and the hobby was set aside. But sporadically over the following years, he would mention rockets and ask when we would do it again, and that surprised me.
Flash ahead to Christmas 2012, which was late in my son's eleventh year, and a stroll through a local hobby shop once again caused me to stop at a shelf full of model rockets. He's older now, so maybe something bigger is in order...the gift was purchased and given.Â
Last week, we headed to the in-laws' property out in the county -- my son brought a friend this time -- and we spent a good while doing the pre-assembly routine that I remembered. One launchpad, two tall rockets, much bigger engines. This time, there was some outward enthusiasm and much more participation from my son, but some skepticism from his friend. My mind was focused on the familiar: Would I set my son, his friend and myself on fire? Would I look like a failure if I couldn't figure out the instructions or make it fly?
Three flawless launches took place, each causing us to squint into the sky as the little missiles reached more than 1,000 feet in altitude before beginning their descent. The boys ran through the field to retrieve the rockets and parachutes, then returned with smiles and admired their iPhone and iPod photography and videography skills.
One of the things I've grown to enjoy about my birthday is the annual telling of The Birthday Story.
In short, my father tells the same short tale, with slight variations, about me being in Stephens Memorial Hospital in Breckenridge, Tex., at the same time as Lynn, who was born the day before. This year's telling of The Birthday Story occurred when Dad left it on my voice mail. The exact transcription:
"The reason why I called -- I need to apologize to you because I tried to trade you off for a little girl there in the hospital right after you were born. And she was so cute, and she had more hair on her head. But after a few months, and you got your curls and everything, I was glad I kept you."
Even Lynn, with whom I remain Facebook friends, wrote me on my birthday -- the day after hers -- to see if I'd heard the story yet. I replied that I had.
Someday, I'm going to miss the annual telling of that story.
Sad news for those who spent many years listening to the WBAP-AM morning show duo of Hal Jay & Dick Siegel. Siegel died this week at the age of 73.
Fort Worth Star-Telegram story about Dick Siegel
Broadcasting from DFW, Hal and Dick were iconic figures in the 1980s and 1990s. And because WBAP throws its 50,000-watt signal so far, the team entertained residents of small towns (like my hometown of Breckenridge), farms and ranches when few other radio options were available.
During the summers of 1989, 1990 and 1991, I spent nearly every weekday driving from my parents’ home in Dallas to the Fort Worth studios of WBAP/KSCS to learn the ropes of news reporting and anchoring. They took great advantage of an eager, unpaid student, but it planted the seeds of a first career, and I remain eternally grateful.
My interactions with Siegel weren’t numerous, but he often would land his Bell Jet Ranger — aka JetCopter 820 — near the studios and I would run various scripts, stories and paperwork to him. He’d thank me and fly away to continue reporting traffic and providing more laughs.
Around the end of my final internship, I asked if he’d take me up and he agreed. I remember Dick doing a power climb between the guy wires of the enormous broadcast tower and doing his very best to scare the hell out of me. He chased cattle low across pastures, he hovered just above his lake house until his neighbors wandered out and mooned us, he stopped in the middle of nowhere to fuel up. And he did his job while I gawked from the seat next to him.
I became a better reporter and anchor, thanks to kind and patient people at WBAP like Joe Holstead, Dan Potter, Jim Ryan, Gary Daniels and Deborah Ferguson because they helped teach me the right ways to approach the news business. But my day in JetCopter 820 is something I’ll never forget.
