You only get one

Paul Struck was always on my case to write a column. Randomly, he’d call out suggestions, shouting them down the hallway or over the top of my cubicle wall on his way out the door. “How about ‘Erin’ on the side of caution?” was one. “Absolutely not,” I replied. “Rydgren rambles,” got the response of “I know I do, but no.” Then he tried to make a play on my hometown, “What’s Brewing with Erin,” where I asked him if he was trying to get me run out of town. There are dozens of others, none of which especially come to mind to share with you, but know that they were always turned down, scoffed at, or given a deadpan expression, maybe an eye roll or two. For a boss, he was pretty understanding when I told him flat out that I highly doubted anyone cared about my opinions and that I was perfectly content writing the news, not being the news.

“One day, you’ll be moved to write one, and I’ll have you,” he would say. “Maybe when I die.”. Well, sir, I guess here you are. You get ONE.

I met Paul because he tracked me down. I had given a short speech after accepting an award on behalf of the Washta Public Library at the annual CAEDC banquet. I only remember that I talked about the importance of libraries in rural communities and that I was busy trying to not 1. Throw Up or 2. Trip and fall down the stairs. Public speaking is not my thing. 

Ironically, my sister-in-law worked at the newspaper, so when he showed up at the office asking about trying to find this “Erin Ryde-something-whatshername from the Washta Library,” Beth knew exactly who he meant. I swear that man operated on a surplus of kismet from somewhere. He always managed to find just who he needed to ask to get exactly the information he wanted.

Imagine my surprise to be called up and invited to the newspaper office. Apparently he enjoyed my speech and thought I would do the Cherokee Chronicle Times justice if I was interested in freelancing. The fact I live in Quimby was a bonus, as they were always looking for people to do feature stories and cover area events. I explained that I had been trained as an academic writer and researcher (not many of you know that!) and had written student testing and preparatory materials, research articles and even encyclopedia entries. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just use smaller words.”

Smaller words indeed. 

Over the next several years he and I worked together, and at first he would give me assignments. Then he moved into suggestions and tips because he thought I was capable enough to manage myself. He teased me mercilessly about “fancy” words, sure, but he complimented me more. “Don’t listen to those sons of *****es,” he said. “You’re doing great.”

Paul believed it was newspaper’s job to inform the people of Cherokee and Cherokee County about what was going on. He encouraged me to remain neutral and report faithfully what I heard and saw at meetings, as well as never being afraid to introduce myself and get to know the people I was writing about. And it worked for him. He could pick up the phone and call anyone, and most of the time, they would talk back. 

Remember that part about public speaking? I was the same way about talking to people I didn’t know well. And since I’m not from here, I didn’t know a lot of people. He taught me that it was alright to go outside of my comfort zone and how to look for common ground to build relationships with people and businesses. 

He also taught me how to irritate and piss people off, which is another reason why I resolutely declined my own column. No, thank you.

Paul always told me that it wasn’t my job to create the drama but to tell people what was really happening at meetings. It also wasn’t my job to take an interviewee’s trust and twist things out of context to make them look like a fool. “If you write it right, the people will see for themselves who the fool is,” he’d say. 

Just as important were his encouragements to respect the line between on and off the record. “More people will talk to you if they don’t think you’re constantly scoping them out for dirt,” he’d advise. 

His opinion column had its fair share of lovers and haters, but he always joked that if they were reading his editorial, at least they bought the paper first and would look at some of the other stuff. If not, well then they could blow it out their you know whats. I admit that some of his columns were a bit much, but many others are wonderful, funny, poignant, ironic, sarcastic, and straightforward. 

At their core, Paul’s editorials were a piece of himself that he offered up to readers on a regular basis. I’ve been pulling them out of our archives for his family, so I’ve been reading them. Ones that he wrote before I was even born, and ones that I checked for typos just a year and a half ago. I told his daughter, It’s been cathartic for me. 

Paul never doubted me. He never treated me like an outsider or assumed I wasn’t as dedicated because I hadn’t been to journalism school or had no aspirations for journalism awards. Maybe a little bit because I’m from Massachusetts, but that’s only because I’m a Red Sox fan.

He was wonderful to my children and always made time to talk to them when they came by the office. When my youngest was born in October 2023, he thought it was great that I brought her to work with me and still got so much done. Not to mention, he would coo at her and shake her tiny hands. It was a little ridiculous, but they made it work. They will miss him.

“I’ve won plenty of awards,” he told me. “They just gather dust on the wall, and in the end, it won’t matter to anyone,” he said. To him, it was about the people and serving our community. He was a wonderful mentor and a better friend. I will miss him.