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Editor’s note: Language in this column may not be suitable for audiences of all ages. But hopefully, the message is.
He knew other words. He had to. We knew he knew other words because we’d read his writing, his columns.
For most of us, Terry knew about four words. The first three — for purposes of this publication — are only spelled with asterisks and ampersands. The fourth word was a grunt, a cross between “heh-heh” and “hrumph.” For extra flair, he’d always had one of those sword toothpicks dangling from his lips, when there wasn’t a smoke there.
Terry also knew how to edit. The giant body with a voice that could shake the entire floor when it bellowed could also silently hulk over a story and those giant mitts could clean up copy with a butterfly’s grace.
Terry also knew how to make a reporter cry, or at least fight like hell from showing tears. He was old school, and when a reporter had it coming, everyone that side of the Red River knew about it.
I’ll never forget the morning I heard an unmistakable “G@$!!# it!” with my last name attached to it.
I slunk my way to his desk, which was not only the metaphoric epicenter of the newsroom, but also about the true center.
“Ehrlick, would you mind telling me how the hell you spell families?” he asked.
The typing stopped. Most reporters looked straight ahead — ahead at nothing, their backs unmistakably tensing.
“F-A-M-I,” I started.
“Dammit, I know you know how to spell it. Why the hell didn’t you in your story?” he asked.
Never in my life can I remember violating the plural spelling rule. I can still hear Mrs. Ranney, my second-grade teacher saying, “drop the ‘y’ and add ‘i-e.’”
But not me. Not that day. Whether the whole newsroom wanted to hear about it, every reporter took the lumps along with me. Communal learning, I suppose.
The words that followed are lost to some serious repression, but the message wasn’t: Don’t let this happen again.
Terry expected more, and he didn’t care how many copy editors were also on the hook for such a gaffe. I scurried back to my desk, justifiably shaken, deservedly punished.
He walked by on his way from the coffee vending machine about an hour later.
“Ehrlick, you look horrible. Are you feeling OK?” he asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, fine, Terry, thanks,” I muttered.
He then started to talk about another story I was working on. He was already on to the next story. And I couldn’t help but crack a smile at his storytelling, animated with an often underappreciated wit. I think he was almost oblivious to our previous conversation. Or was he, I still wonder?
The lesson had been swift and given without a grudge. For an old-school dressing down, it was surprisingly forward-thinking. For Terry, there was no other honesty than brutal, and talk was never small but always sincere (even if painful).
Now, nearly 15 years later, what he didn’t know seems somehow more poignant.
He’d told me he thought it was a mistake to go to graduate school instead of jumping right into the newsroom. I don’t think he ever knew that the grad school thing turned out to be temporary — I dropped out after a year, missing the hustle of a newsroom, just as he had predicted.
I don’t think he knew how good of a storyteller he could be, and the passion he had for a good story rubbed off on a few us. I remember him telling about his time in Vietnam and some of the shocking, horrifying, but thoroughly fascinating things he’d seen.
The worst of what most of us had seen was a car accident or two. But Terry had seen much, much worse. Nonchalantly, he sit around telling us about being a Marine in Vietnam. Somewhere in the middle of the stories, he’d inevitably snap back to the present and realize there was a gathering throng of wide-eyed journalists hanging, clinging to every word he said.
“What the hell are you all staring at?” he’d ask, continuing, but nonetheless bothered that we could be so enraptured by stories he considered just part of the background of his otherwise normal life.
He might not have known that the seeds journalism that I first experienced in his newsroom kindled a passion.
And, I am sure he didn’t know that I loved imitating him down to the nodding off during company meetings that were invariably held right after Terry’s noon meal.
Like all folks, Terry wouldn’t have known — couldn’t have known — his life would be too short-lived. Terry DeVine, longtime managing editor at the Forum in Fargo, N.D., died a week ago today of leukemia. He was 62.
DeVine didn’t know some of these things. He didn’t know that I appreciated every chance he gave me, including the internship one summer and some part-time work, even after I wouldn’t quit pestering him. It was probably just easier to let me through the door than to ignore the phone messages. He’ll never know that I’ve used his “fire in the belly” phrase on many of the reporters with whom I’ve been blessed to work. He’ll never know how much I appreciated him calling me into the office, telling me what a waste it would be not to stay in journalism.
He’ll never know, because in this goofy word business, you sometimes leave the most important ones behind.
Sentimentality didn’t go far on Terry. That’s why I had to write something like this after he died. If he were here, I know what’d he say: He’d tell me to go write some real news.
With his military background, I image he’ll get a salute with rifles. That’s as it should be. Every craft has ways of honoring its own.
So, I honor him the only way that’s fitting — with ink. And please excuse me, but there’s only one fitting way to say this: Thanks Terry, and g*&##@ it, we’ll miss you.
Ehrlick is the editor of the Winona Daily News. Contact him at darrell.ehrlick@lee.net,
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