I have fond memories from the late fifties, early sixties of dad coming home from work wearing a trench-coat and fedora, with a white card that said “News” sticking out of the hat band, just like Clark Kent, Superman’s alter-ego. We were big fans of the Superman series on TV. Dad always portrayed his editors as having the same abrasive, yet endearing qualities as Clark Kent’s editor, Perry White.
Here’s a story that shows dad’s love for journalism. It gives a glimpse into the often mundane, yet ripe for adventure, art of Journalism. He had many more stories about his misadventures and non-adventures as a beat reporter and editor. This story is not one of his better stabs at prose. If I were his editor, I would have hollered “Tschirhart!” with a huge cigar caught between my teeth (my Perry White visual), “Get in Here!” “You have a good story idea but, you need to go back to grade school and learn how to put a story together!!!” Dad always said “If it weren’t for editors, I’d be out of a job . . . ”
I hope you enjoy this story as I do,
David T
No News Stories
By Don Tschirhart
When I was a kid — just a couple of years ago, it seems — everyone wanted to be a fireman, cop or a pilot. Not me. I wanted to be a doctor.
My math and language scores stopped me. Instead, I became a news reporter. I’m happy I did.
There wasn’t a day I didn’t want to go to work. I might have worked free if I didn’t have a family.
Much of the time I covered the city of Detroit and suburbs. There were boring times and thrilling times. The unknown was exciting.
Some events never got into the paper; some made front-page headlines. Here are a couple of examples:
On Thanksgiving morning in 1976 I got a call at home from my managing editor (and friend) who said he had lost track of a French girl who was a semi-ward.
The girl, a daughter of a couple killed during the German occupation, had been cared for by a friend of his in France and was visiting the U.S. for the first time.
My editor had not heard from the girl recently and wanted her to come to their house for Thanksgiving dinner. All he knew was that the girl was in Detroit’s tenderloin district called the Cass Corridor north of downtown. As the News’ urban affairs writer I knew the area well and had contacts there.
On a hunch I called a friend who handled the intake of poor people for the Cass Methodist Church, a social fixture in the corridor.
The contact said — believe it or not– that she knew the French girl and provided an address — a seedy apartment on Brainard street.
My editor, his wife and I met in the area about noon. As we started into the apartment house who should be walking out but none other than the girl.
No bonus or story. Just satisfaction a tragic story had been averted by getting the girl out of the Cass Corridor.
It was a quiet 12:30 a.m. on Thanksgiving in 1955 at our Police Headquarters press room when City Editor George Bick asked me to interview a 55-year-old man who had been picked up by police and stashed in the Receiving Hospital mental ward.
Relatives and police had been looking for the man’s mother for a year. Earlier the day before, a homicide detective and a Detroit Times (competitor) reporter had searched their home unsuccessfully.
I went to the mental ward and asked him where his mother was. He said, “Oh, she’s home.” Startled I asked, “Where ‘at home’?” He said, “She’s in bed.” I told him the home had been searched, and he explained, “Mom died about a year ago and we didn’t have money to bury her so we wrapped her in a mattress and put the mattress on the bed.”
I thought, “Wow! Is this guy nuts or did the cop and Times reporter miss the beat.” I called my city desk from the lobby. My editor said to talk with the inspector in charge of the police department that night and tell him a reporter would meet him at the house.
The inspector, a husky cop by the name of Kerrigan, said, “Aw the guy’s nuts. But I better make sure.” He went to the house himself, met the reporter and as they broke in the front door they heard a shot from inside the house.
They both dived for the floor and then cautiously began searching. They found the younger brother on the upstairs floor with a bullet hole in his mouth. Our News reporter went into a bedroom and could see hair sticking out the end of the mattress.
After calling a squad car to isolate the scene and the morgue the inspector went back to headquarters where he cussed me out for causing trouble on a quiet Thanksgiving morning before calling the homicide sergeant and screaming at him for not being thorough.
I’m sure the Detroit Times editor did the same with his reporter.
In the late 1950s I was home nursing a cold rather than covering my beat in Garden City when I got a call from a contact saying that builder Lester Ellerhorst had shot Garden City Mayor James Tierney at a council meeting.
Ellerhorst walked into the meeting and plugged Tierney three times before fleeing. Tierney survived. Ellerhorst was later caught and jailed.
I was lucky. When I visited the council chambers there was a bullet hole chest high in the chair that I always sat in. Whew!!!
It’s the only time I blessed a common cold.
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