Remembering 'Ronald L.'
One of the greatest men I had the privilege of knowing passed away yesterday.
It is very difficult to describe what made Ronald L. Speer unique, but Tony Germanotta, with assistance from Cate Kozak, does a nice job of it in today’s obituary.
Even more difficult is putting into words how influential Ron was to me and, by extension, to those around me. At least at this moment it’s difficult, even with the crying jags now three or four hours apart. Ron retired a few months after I left for Massachusetts, and though I didn’t keep the letter someone read aloud at his big bash, I remember some highlights that tell a little about him. But just a little.
He knew squat about pop culture. After covering a visit by then-President Bill Clinton, I wrote a column and included a reference to Forrest Gump. Ron said he didn’t know who this Ferris Gump was. So after arguing over his ignorance and strongly suggesting he see a movie now and then, I went back to my computer terminal and cranked out a far superior ending. That’s how he worked his magic.
His advice was golden. Once, I was assigned to write about a 10-year-old gospel singer on tour and Ron insisted I go see her in Richmond and take my time returning the next day…or two. I got daring and asked if he’d approve my staying in a five-star hotel downtown. We then conspired to get it through the chain of command. I wrote about my adventure in such fancy digs a week later in my Saturday column. That Monday morning, he called to say, in deadpan voice, “Next time you stay in a five-star hotel on the company dime? Don’t go brag in print until they’ve paid the bills.”
When you walked into a room for a meeting, he’d greet you as “one of the all-time greats.” No matter how often he said it, you stood a little taller in your seat.
He told dirty jokes, but he giggled hardest at the ones the rest of us had outgrown by second grade. And he knew you’d laugh -- at him.
After I was back from running the New York City Marathon, he was the first one I called. I told him how I’d lost my shorts at Mile 4. I mean, they literally fell down while I was running. Instead of first asking, “Did you fall?” or “Did you finish?” he asked, “Did you have on underwear?”
He once wrote a column about me. Sure I milked the title for months in public, but privately I marveled that the man had kept such close track of the two things that mattered most to me, motherhood and marathons.
He hosted my going-away party, and he and his wife Joanne were the consummate hosts. For dessert, we ate Ron’s homemade ice cream and wafer-thin pastilles. I remember my friend Annie leaning over her plate and telling me that this showed how much Ron cared about me, and she said I was so lucky to have such a wonderful boss.
She was so right.
It is very difficult to describe what made Ronald L. Speer unique, but Tony Germanotta, with assistance from Cate Kozak, does a nice job of it in today’s obituary.
Even more difficult is putting into words how influential Ron was to me and, by extension, to those around me. At least at this moment it’s difficult, even with the crying jags now three or four hours apart. Ron retired a few months after I left for Massachusetts, and though I didn’t keep the letter someone read aloud at his big bash, I remember some highlights that tell a little about him. But just a little.
He knew squat about pop culture. After covering a visit by then-President Bill Clinton, I wrote a column and included a reference to Forrest Gump. Ron said he didn’t know who this Ferris Gump was. So after arguing over his ignorance and strongly suggesting he see a movie now and then, I went back to my computer terminal and cranked out a far superior ending. That’s how he worked his magic.
His advice was golden. Once, I was assigned to write about a 10-year-old gospel singer on tour and Ron insisted I go see her in Richmond and take my time returning the next day…or two. I got daring and asked if he’d approve my staying in a five-star hotel downtown. We then conspired to get it through the chain of command. I wrote about my adventure in such fancy digs a week later in my Saturday column. That Monday morning, he called to say, in deadpan voice, “Next time you stay in a five-star hotel on the company dime? Don’t go brag in print until they’ve paid the bills.”
When you walked into a room for a meeting, he’d greet you as “one of the all-time greats.” No matter how often he said it, you stood a little taller in your seat.
He told dirty jokes, but he giggled hardest at the ones the rest of us had outgrown by second grade. And he knew you’d laugh -- at him.
After I was back from running the New York City Marathon, he was the first one I called. I told him how I’d lost my shorts at Mile 4. I mean, they literally fell down while I was running. Instead of first asking, “Did you fall?” or “Did you finish?” he asked, “Did you have on underwear?”
He once wrote a column about me. Sure I milked the title for months in public, but privately I marveled that the man had kept such close track of the two things that mattered most to me, motherhood and marathons.
He hosted my going-away party, and he and his wife Joanne were the consummate hosts. For dessert, we ate Ron’s homemade ice cream and wafer-thin pastilles. I remember my friend Annie leaning over her plate and telling me that this showed how much Ron cared about me, and she said I was so lucky to have such a wonderful boss.
She was so right.
