Kes: Influences Can Come in Small Packages

I don’t know for sure if Lou Owens wrote for the McKenzie Banner or the Carroll County Democrat. Or both! I don’t think she wrote for The Star or The Apalachicola Times. Although I would not completely rule that out. She had one of her articles framed and hanging behind the cluttered desk in her office.

It was from the Commercial Appeal in Memphis.

I can tell you this, Miss Owens was a newspaper person. Through and through. And here is the humorous part; she thought that I ought to be one also!

She was not as tall as a minute. She wore a mite more makeup than anyone that I had ever seen. Mostly rouge and lipstick. Her hair was pinned up around her head. She wore a lot of black. I couldn’t hardly guess her age. But I almost asked her once if she was a news correspondent during the Civil War.

She rented an apartment in a great big house near the railroad tracks on West Paris Avenue in Huntingdon. Mom drove us over there several times. I have no idea to this day why.

She and Mom were friends. But for the life of me I could not see or understand any connection. Miss Owens was all about the news business. Mother was about as plain and down to earth as they come. Certainly, she was not the type newspaper people sought out for a story.

Miss Owens apparently grew up with two guys named Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst. I think she might have dated one of them for a while.

She showed me the numerous plaques and awards she had gathered throughout her journalistic career. There was a pile of them. But she was not bragging at all. It was more like she was reporting on them to perk my interest. She used words like “rewarding” and “fulfilling” when she talked about me “getting into the business.”

I didn’t take her too seriously. Mostly because it was 1957. I was ten years old and had already passed the fourth grade. That is tantamount to this story because I had written a report on George Washington in school. It was the worst thing you could ever image.

And mind boggling for me! I finally copied some stuff directly out of the encyclopedia. Leon told me to misspell a couple of words so Miss Belle wouldn’t know I got a little help on the assignment. Writing was not my thing. A man has got to know his limitations…I don’t care how early that comes in life.

Lou Owens was a hard person to discourage. She thought I had a gift. Now, mind you, she had never read a word of my George Washington Story. I think she was mostly wishing. But she didn’t give up.

We were up town on the square, talking one day. And she liked to have gotten me killed! She was bending my ear about the joys of the written word when she decided to walk across the street. Folks, we didn’t go down to the corner. She didn’t wait for the traffic light to change. She didn’t look both ways before crossing. She raised her hand, like it was some kind of “I’m crossing now” beacon, and we took off.

You probably won’t remember those 1955 Buick Roadmaster Sedans. They weighed six tons! And didn’t stop on a dime. I thought we were run-over for sure. The alert driver hit the brakes and swerved behind us narrowly missing a good chance of keeping either of us out of the writing business forever!

Miss Lou never batted an eye. I reckon if you were a war correspondent during two world wars, you were not too worried about a Buick Roadmaster.

She didn’t drive or own a car. But the next summer she had someone pick us up and we all rode down to Jackson, Tennessee, to a program spotlighting underprivileged children. I assumed she was doing a story on the charity event. I was too young to be there. And she was probably too old. What a pair we made!

Brooklyn Dodgers’ pitcher, Carl Erskine, was the guest speaker. The evening immediately turned in my favor. What an unforgettable night that I have cherished forever. I do not know if Miss Owens was trying to whet my writing appetite, or simply get me face to face with a major league baseball star.

Lou Owens passed away while I was away at college.

No one, before or since, has cared whether I wrote down one little jot or tittle. You know I don’t count myself as a writer today. Never have. I might tell a story from week to week if a good one crosses my mind. But that’s telling, not writing.

I do, however, genuinely appreciate Miss Owens, once upon a time, turning aside to touch my life. I pray you don’t think this prideful of me, but sometimes I wish she could have read just one of my little stories….

Respectfully,
Kes
kesley45@aol.com