From Music in Cincinnati

About Endings

Posted in: 2006

By Mary Ellyn Hutton
Dec 8, 2006 - 10:32:32 AM

For me, 2006 has been about endings, about saying goodbye when you don't know it's goodbye. Think about it: A wave of the hand or a click of the phone may be the last time you touch an important person in your life.

There were no goodbyes for several people in my life this year. A beloved editor, two friends I came to know late in their lives and a woman who delighted all who knew her.

Wayne Perry, my editor at The Cincinnati Post -- who I will always remember as the young man on the copy desk who put my first important story in the paper -- suffered a fatal heart attack in the early hours of June 8. It was the time of day (way before daylight) when he and his wife Jan prepared to head to the office on Court Street and edit copy for the early edition, sometimes including a story of mine from the night before. He was just 54.

Wayne was a constant inspiration and support, especially during these difficult times as The Post nears its final print edition (Dec. 31, 2007). His heart, indeed his whole system, was broken by overwork and by caring so much for the quality of the paper. Something of the Post died with him. His work station has been cleared. A throw rug with the word "Hope" on it has been left on the floor where he kept it. My last contact with Wayne was on the phone about some routine matter. I was trying to reach him in the pre-dawn hours at his desk when I learned he had died.

Raja and Hugo Roomann followed each other in death in March and June, just two months and two days apart. Married for 60 years and survivors of wartime Estonia, they were beacons of humanity for me. Hugo, the perfect gentleman, lost a leg in his country's futile struggle against Soviet occupation during the closing days of World War II. He taught me Estonian. More than that, he taught me what courage is, the willingness to risk your own comfort and well-being, even your life, for a worthy cause. A retired architect, Hugo was a giver -- to his church, First Lutheran in Over-the-Rhine, and its literacy program, to Estonia and Estonians, with whom he maintained lifelong contact, and to the earth. He was a talented gardener and like many former soldiers, wanted to leave the world a better place.

Raja, an intellectual who went to sea on a cargo ship at 17, flattered me with her attention. I loved hearing her speak of growing up in Narva-Joessu, of being "different" by being brainy and of finding Hugo in a hospital in Germany after the war (Hugo made coffee and cake for us after our lesson each week). I loved Raja's smile and her wisdom. She was writing a journal for their two daughters when a heart ailment took her (she did not survive surgery). Hugo's heart failed, too, when half of him died. I had canceled our lesson that afternoon because I had a bad cold and did not want him to catch it.

Barbara Gross was my daughter-in-law Sandy's mother, a devoted wife who missed her husband Wally terribly after his death in 2001. Always impeccably groomed, she turned heads in her 70s and had a childlike spirit and sense of humor that sparked any room she entered. Best friend to all of God's creatures, she loved animals, fed the raccoons in her yard and made the best macaroni and cheese on the planet. She succumbed to a long illness in May. She was a December child and we will miss her even more during the holidays.

A final note about waiting too long. Robert Manley, lawyer and Cincinnati legend, who aligned his advocacy with conscience and the best interests of his hometown, died suddenly in March at the age of 70. Though I had met him earlier (he and his firm had just hired our daughter Elizabeth), I wanted to get to know him better. We planned to have lunch when the weather got warm. Manley knew Cincinnati like no one else, and we were going to walk through the downtown area together. How sad I was when I picked up the newspaper and learned he had died, just hours after meeting with Liz.

Remember to treasure the people in your lives. Make time for human contact. You never know when the opportunity will be gone forever.