Someone special left earth Monday night. I met Jim Newton when I was a whipper snapper still in college, a senior holding down my studies and commuting an hour from school to the 1982 World's Fair in Knoxville where I was the communications director for an on-site pavilion. We became friends and he, also a professional adviser to me. Two years later, when I left my next job, which would be in Nashville, I'd learn that he'd asked my employers if they'd loan me to be his communications assistant for a special assignment in Lausanne, Switzerland. They said no. (Insert explicative for male dogs and an exclamation point.) You'da bet I'd of said "YES!" and been packin' my bags if he'd asked me directly. But then the dogs and I eventually had a parting of ways and I ended up in Atlanta working for Jim.
This seasoned, veteran newsman, turned savvy public relations adviser was brutally honest. He cut me no slack in editing my youngster’s too-often sloppy copy. I learned from him as he wrote both pr strategies and disaster plans, literally pounding out their drafts on an old, noisy clunker electric typewriter. And while he could cut my ego to its knees, he always had a kind word to add that encouraged me to keep going.
Those were some of the best years of my youth. We had a special team of 20- to 40somethings working together in the communications department of a nonprofit agency. In our wing, we dissected world news, talked about art, politics, our shared the love our burgeoning city and our lust for good food. We eagerly consumed that food during lunch hours that were beyond the legal limits rightfully dictated by our employer.
Jim was my first mentor. There had been others before, but he was the first to whom I pinned that name. This was the mid-80s and "mentor" back then had another connotation in certain contexts. And Jim would grin slyly when I said that and remind me of that double meaning. But that was Jim. He loved the fact that he was "just a dirty old man." He flaunted it as a badge of honor. Back then he was the age then that I am now. And I remember well the belly dancer we whisked quickly into the building foyer and up to the fifth floor for a surprise performance on his 50th birthday. This was not an ordinary workplace. It was a religious organization. A conservative one. And what we'd done was delightfully taboo. And, frowned upon when word got out. Oops. Too late.
Jim thought that tagging himself as a dirty old man meant he could get away with certain comments and approving looks regarding a woman's appearance. In one of my angriest moments I'm sure I shook with anger as I fiercely glared at him, pointed my finger and threatened: "If this were IBM you couldn't get away with those kinds of comments! For the record they were mostly somewhat benign, but then they weren't. This was the 80s and women--particularly nice Southern girls like me working in religious organizations--didn't have words and categories to describe these situations. That was before Anita Hill.
Anita Hill left her mark in history, bless her, more than two decades ago. And she left one on my mentor, Jim. Internet technology reconnected us over the last decade and more than once via phone and email, he told me that he now got it, that commenting on a woman's appearance in the manner that he did within the workplace was not acceptable. Thanks to Anita, he now understood my anger. And he apologized. Humbly. Repeatedly.
And now I am humbled. During the holidays the "call Jim" notation never made it off my to-do list into an actually phone call. I had heard that his leukemia had returned and things weren't looking good. And then week before last, I heard that he had been moved to hospice. I exchanged emails with one of my former colleagues. It looked to be too late to call. And then, last Monday, it really was too late. Time was up...
Time has long been up, too, for my whipper snapper days. Despite his “dirty old man" behavior, I loved Jim. I am grateful for having worked with him. I am grateful for his honesty, even when it was a bit abrasive. For his kindness to me. For his belief in me. I sometimes then did not feel worthy. I think maybe he saw in me what I could become. I am appreciative in how he shared his knowledge. He took me under his wing. Maybe I wasn't the only one he mentored that way. He loved me and he loved us all, all the talented people he chose so carefully to be a part of his team. He was good to us. But then he did expect something of all of us in return....
Every one of us in the department had a tale of being interrupted in our work in the late afternoon by a frantic Jim, high on coffee and sometimes antihistamines (this was Atlanta and pollen was plenty,) plus mega doses of adrenaline. (Jim subsisted on those three ingredients back then.) Could we take him to the airport he'd ask, his eyeballs and neck veins popping? And, he always asked us this wee favor with one hour (or less) to spare before his flight departed. Again, this was decades before 911 changed everything and now that one hour will barely allow a traveler to reach their gate. Jim always made it to the plane. Everytime. But by the time he leaped out of the passenger side and slammed the door, the veins and eyeballs of his once calm chauffer were also popping, their own heart pounding with adrenaline. I made that trek from midtown Atlanta to the airport, maneuvering rush hour jams more than once. At one point, we my colleagues and I may have made a pact, in those Nancy Reagan days, to "Just Say 'No'" to Jim.
The world has changed since 1982, when I first met Jim. But my fondness, my gratitude, they are eternal. Like the place that he has gone to now. Jim: I join so many who will miss you. Thank you for the multitude of blessings (and laughs...often at your expense) you gifted us here with your presence. I hope you are happy and that there are lots of coffee and maybe a few pretty women, cause, you know...some things never completely change....