Meeting Jean Martin
There are people in life that you meet that you know instantly that they will have a profound effect on you. No matter where you go in life, no matter what you do, you know that the person's influence will be a part of you until the day you die.
I met one of those people today.
Her name is Jean Martin, and for more than 20 years, she was the community editor at the newspaper. I had heard some stories about her, how she would come into the newsroom displeased when her entire column was run, etc. It was enough to make me almost scared of her. Okay, I WAS scared of her. Mrs. Martin holds a lot of influence in Selma. Pretty much, meeting her would make or break my journalism career here. So, when my editor calls me into his office and goes, "Megan, I would like for you to meet Jean Martin. She needs someone to pick up her column since she's still recovering from surgery and you need to meet her." Since her column runs in my section, he does have a point.
So, I call her to get her address. She sounds thrilled over the phone to talk to me. She invites me right over and gives me the address. She lives just two blocks from my apartment complex. After getting lost a couple of times and discovering a gorgeous elementary school a block from the apartment, I arrive on the doorstep of Mrs. Martin's home.
It is a gorgeous home, a true tribute to the historic homes in the area. It's not listed on the historic homes tour that I took last week, but nevertheless, it was beautiful. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a scruffy man with a long unkempt beard. I swallowed and asked if Mrs. Martin was home.
An elderly woman comes walking out of the side room and introduces herself to me. I recognize Mrs. Martin by her photo in the paper, but she looked a little more worn than her picture reveals. She shows me to a formal sitting parlor and we begin to talk.
During the conversation, I reveal things such as my family, my boyfriend, my moral views on things such as living together before marriage, family, etc. Through it all, Mrs. Martin kept up a lively narrative, talking about Selma and giving me insight into the way things worked in this town. She showed me pictures of her grandchildren (all three handsome. If I didn't have Lance...) and talked about her sons with pride. The scruffy man? That was her eldest, who had something happen to him in Vietnam. That explained it. As she was talking about her children, she mentioned his education. "He went to Auburn and then to the University (she refers to Alabama as the University)." She pauses for a moment, shakes her head and says, "What a waste," in a sad voice. My throat clogged. The terrorist attacks on New York City were the closest things I'd ever come to seeing the effects of war. With Mrs. Martin's sadness over her son, I understand now why many people did not want us to be in Vietnam.
I stayed there an hour and went away throughly enchanted. I gave Mrs. Martin my home phone number and urged her to call me if she needed me to run errands or do anything for her. She said when Lance comes to visit me, she would take the two of us out to dinner. After that, I headed back to the paper with her column and started formatting it to put into the Lifestyles section.
It was one of the most awesome things I have ever read. It was a poem describing her childhood summers in Destin, Florida, then how things changed as an adult. Then, this one little boy comes along and reminds her of the simpler ways things were when she was a child. I am not a beach-goer by any means (I like to avoid them when I can), but her vivid descriptions made me want to go the beach. I want to hear the sea oats rustle. I want to play in the surf as it dashes over my toes. I wanted all of these things I have never felt before. That is the mark of a wonderful writer.
Jean Martin is an excellent reporter. She is quick, witty, and has a remarkable way with people. She can take something ordinary and turn it, using her words, into a powerful experience. She can put people such as me at ease. I realized then and there that I have so much to learn from her as a journalist, a writer and a woman. I am thankful I am being given the opportunity to know Mrs. Martin. I will not take it forgranted.
I met one of those people today.
Her name is Jean Martin, and for more than 20 years, she was the community editor at the newspaper. I had heard some stories about her, how she would come into the newsroom displeased when her entire column was run, etc. It was enough to make me almost scared of her. Okay, I WAS scared of her. Mrs. Martin holds a lot of influence in Selma. Pretty much, meeting her would make or break my journalism career here. So, when my editor calls me into his office and goes, "Megan, I would like for you to meet Jean Martin. She needs someone to pick up her column since she's still recovering from surgery and you need to meet her." Since her column runs in my section, he does have a point.
So, I call her to get her address. She sounds thrilled over the phone to talk to me. She invites me right over and gives me the address. She lives just two blocks from my apartment complex. After getting lost a couple of times and discovering a gorgeous elementary school a block from the apartment, I arrive on the doorstep of Mrs. Martin's home.
It is a gorgeous home, a true tribute to the historic homes in the area. It's not listed on the historic homes tour that I took last week, but nevertheless, it was beautiful. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a scruffy man with a long unkempt beard. I swallowed and asked if Mrs. Martin was home.
An elderly woman comes walking out of the side room and introduces herself to me. I recognize Mrs. Martin by her photo in the paper, but she looked a little more worn than her picture reveals. She shows me to a formal sitting parlor and we begin to talk.
During the conversation, I reveal things such as my family, my boyfriend, my moral views on things such as living together before marriage, family, etc. Through it all, Mrs. Martin kept up a lively narrative, talking about Selma and giving me insight into the way things worked in this town. She showed me pictures of her grandchildren (all three handsome. If I didn't have Lance...) and talked about her sons with pride. The scruffy man? That was her eldest, who had something happen to him in Vietnam. That explained it. As she was talking about her children, she mentioned his education. "He went to Auburn and then to the University (she refers to Alabama as the University)." She pauses for a moment, shakes her head and says, "What a waste," in a sad voice. My throat clogged. The terrorist attacks on New York City were the closest things I'd ever come to seeing the effects of war. With Mrs. Martin's sadness over her son, I understand now why many people did not want us to be in Vietnam.
I stayed there an hour and went away throughly enchanted. I gave Mrs. Martin my home phone number and urged her to call me if she needed me to run errands or do anything for her. She said when Lance comes to visit me, she would take the two of us out to dinner. After that, I headed back to the paper with her column and started formatting it to put into the Lifestyles section.
It was one of the most awesome things I have ever read. It was a poem describing her childhood summers in Destin, Florida, then how things changed as an adult. Then, this one little boy comes along and reminds her of the simpler ways things were when she was a child. I am not a beach-goer by any means (I like to avoid them when I can), but her vivid descriptions made me want to go the beach. I want to hear the sea oats rustle. I want to play in the surf as it dashes over my toes. I wanted all of these things I have never felt before. That is the mark of a wonderful writer.
Jean Martin is an excellent reporter. She is quick, witty, and has a remarkable way with people. She can take something ordinary and turn it, using her words, into a powerful experience. She can put people such as me at ease. I realized then and there that I have so much to learn from her as a journalist, a writer and a woman. I am thankful I am being given the opportunity to know Mrs. Martin. I will not take it forgranted.