Good evening, 919 Gang. The U-T ran a very extensive obit
on Don Freeman, starting on A-1 (yes, page one) in Saturday’s paper.
MICHAEL
CAVNA writes:
Don
Freeman always called me "Doctor." I called him "Good sir,"
sometimes with a half-nod and a rolling arm flourish, like Ed McMahon
introducing the mighty Carson. He knew it was a gesture replete not just with
respect, but also nostalgic context. We shared a love of classic TV, and to me,
with great affection, he was the mighty Freeman.
I
may have been his editor, but like any good TV sidekick, I was also his
conspirator: Our job was to keep the audience informed and entertained, and my
job included helping to ensure that Don's words shined in the best possible
center light. My, what a personally rewarding gig.
I
edited arts and entertainment and media columnists daily for 15 years before
becoming one myself, and I never went a week without drawing upon something I
learned from, or discovered in service to, the mighty Don.
When
I later edited Tom Shales's TV columns, I drew upon Don. When I later edited
Marc Fisher's radio columns, I drew upon Don. And just last month, in writing a
column about "Maus" creator Art Spiegelman, I cited an opinion that
became crystallized for me only when I heard it from the lips of Don. (That
opinion, which I subsequently repeated to Ken Burns, crediting Don himself:
"America's three greatest original cultural contributions have been jazz,
baseball and the newspaper comic strip.")
The
three toughest words I ever had to say to Don, because of deadline, were:
"Can't talk now." Tough, because I loved listening to his stories,
which really is a ritual of honoring the man and his many amazing experiences.
(Don soon got my cue wordlessly, like a base runner who anticipates the base
coach's signs before he even throws them down.)
What
a century Don so fully lived. Even director Robert Zemeckis, master of the
"Forrest Gump" celebrity splice, would have a hard time believing
Don's highlight reel as a journalist.
Several
of my favorite Don anecdotes from our hundreds of joyful hours of conversation:
*
Don once took one of his then-young sons (John will know which) to a Ted Geisel
interview. Turns out, the children's author was so awkward and unsure of
himself around kids -- unable to make small-fry talk -- that instead of trying
to converse, "Dr. Seuss" just kept offering the stuffed boy more cookies
and milk.
*
Don once asked then-actor Reagan his age. The rouge-cheeked Reagan, sitting
there on a San Diego tarmac in uniformed costume, savvily laid out why he
didn't provide that information, explaining how certain milestone ages altered
the types of roles you would be offered, as well as how the movie-going public
viewed you. Don recalled how Reagan warmly won you over to keeping his side of
the secret.
* I
asked Don about his famed '50s Elvis interview, when Col. Tom Parker waved Don
toward the future King. Don, that lover of so many things Southern, recalled
how profoundly polite and humble and gentlemanly Elvis came across.
Mostly,
from Don, I was reminded how it behooves a journalist to be culturally curious
about most everything. Once, for instance, we were waxing on about Midwestern
and Southern barbecue sauces, and I shared that my mother, a native of Cape
Girardeau, Mo., always proudly pronounced her home state
"Missour-RAW." Don then offered the best theory I've heard, then and
now: "The closer you get to St. Loui-EE, the nearer the pronunciation gets
to Missour-REE."
I
don't think I ever told Don this, but when my family moved from Northern
California to San Diego during my teen years, I used to hang out in bookstores
whenever I wasn't on the courts or diamond, and I must have been 15 when I
stumbled upon Don's column collections (including "Flea") in
University City's Bo Tree Books. I didn't have the money to buy it, so I sat
there in the aisle, glued, cover to cover. What a glorious way to make your
living.
Two
decades later, as his editor, I felt privileged to befriend the man I had known
through his columns for so long. I got the '90s model Don, the man clad in
sweaters and khakis and vintage stories.
Frankie
Laine's pipes. Dean Martin's catcher's mitt-sized handshake. Bambi Alworth's
footwork. Andy Griffith's folksy timing. Don recalled and regaled, and in doing
so, seemed utterly alive and engaged.
Don
once offered to arrange to have my nearly 800 U-T sports-cartoon originals housed
in the collection of the San Diego Hall of Champions. The arrangement
ultimately didn't pan out, but Don's generosity of effort was above and beyond.
I
can't imagine what I would have missed and lost professionally if Don hadn't
decided to accept me. I was damned lucky. I learned as much from him as my own
storyteller of a grandfather, who died several years ago just shy of 99.
Newsrooms
need their Don Freemans, perhaps now as much as ever, to teach and enrich the
next generations. Thank you deeply, Don. While I was splicing commas or
tweaking your lede -- aiming to be surgical in my precision -- you always
brought it back to the passion.
I
offer a deep bow and a rolling arm flourish to you, Don. Strike up the band and
fire up the audience. You are forever the Mighty Freeman, my friend.
NOEL
OSMENT writes:
I
am so sad to hear we have lost Don. An important part of my retirement years
were our monthly lunches and Don's stories and remembrances. And his
appreciation of others. Saw him last about a year ago (??) maybe more in
Escondido. Several of us lunched with him and Mary and he still had his tales.
He
was a perfectionist in his writing and when, for a time, I processed his
column, I appreciated his perfection - he said exactly what he wanted said, no
words wasted and, without fail, the exact length. Nor did he suffer fools
playing about with his writing.
DAVID ELLIOTT
writes:
My penny's worth on Don Freeman:
Don was probably a gent of the "old school" even
in his brimming youth. I relished his zest in later years, whether in a vein of
nostalgia, celebration, jokey bantering or indignation (he was no fan of the
Copley regime in its late descent). Often he'd come to my cubby-hole on the
fourth floor to do some kibbitzing or venting. We (mostly he) would shmooze on
at length about celebrities, San Diego, movies, etc., to the amusement and
saintly, tested patience of my dear colleagues crammed into the same metal box
(Arthur Salm, Alison DaRosa, Mark Maynard). For me, Don was an ace, and also a
treasure trail to the show-biz of my '50s to '70s youth. Sadly, I never could
match his visits with Victor Mature.
It took me some years after arriving at the Union (1984),
often by finding old library folders, or his books at Wahrenbrock's, to realize
that Don Freeman was a pillar of S.D. journalism and even had a wider,
well-earned reputation. In his long prime, he was one of those fabled
columnists who really mattered in their towns, like Royko and Harris in
Chicago, Sullivan and Breslin and Kempton in New York, Holmes in Houston,
Osborne in L.A., Caen in San Francisco, whose verve and savvy were considered
essential fixtures. As a writer he was a gifted craftsman, and a newsman whose
success did not congeal into pomposity (he kept his humor). As the regime
steeply declined, the rather dismissive treatment shown Don by certain
"chiefs" (without a feather of his achievement) struck me as
unusually gauche. Valerie Scher, Don's fond colleague (and my wife) joins in
sending our deep respects to John and the rest of Don's family.
CHUCK BOYD
writes:
When I was the newest photographer in the Photo Lab in the
sixties, Don came in, introduced himself and sat for portraits by me to perhaps
replace his column picture.
He later said he liked them but, grinned and added, I
didn't catch that "twinkle in his eye."
DON BAUDER
writes:
There
are so many things to say about Don Freeman -- a friend to so many people in
the newsroom. He was my friend, too. A year or so ago, his son John asked me to
call Don. I did, and we had splendid chat. I was amazed that he was so lucid in
his 90s. The mental agility that made him such a deft writer had not deserted
him. Today, people are concerned that the U-T might not give him an appropriate
sendoff. If so, there is irony there. The U-T is now under the control of a
company named tronc, based in Chicago. That company grew out of the Chicago
Tribune, where Don worked in his early days. He used to tell stories about
"the Colonel," Robert R. McCormick, the fabled newsman who ran the
Tribune. (His family owned it.) His stories matched those by Dick Desick, who
had so many tales about "the Chief," or William Randolph Hearst, whom
Dick worked for over so many years.
MICHAEL GRANT writes:
Thank you, Carl Larsen, for the Don Freeman columns. To me,
his style was simple. A short, declarative sentence, with something in ii. That
sentence leading to the next one, also short and declarative with something in
it. A series of these sentences, coupled like a train headed for Chicago,
ending when the column ended. He never got in the way of the story. How did he
do that?
REBER: I believe all of Don’s columns
have been preserved. He zipped into my office one day with a look that was a
lot brighter than his usual smile. “Well, I did it,” he said with about six
pounds of glee. What did you do, Don? He said that he had saved all his columns;
that he had boxes of them, and that he had found them a new home. He said he
donated the entire collection to San Diego State.
P.O. Box 2239
Ramona, CA 92065
U.S.A.
