• Atlanta

    Olympic Nibbling

    July 4, 1999

    Three years ago this summer, our overachieving citizens took a collective deep breath and heaved ourselves across the finish line of one of the greatest achievements by an underdog: the successful winning and staging of the largest Olympics in the 100 years of the global games.

    Now we are going through an excruciating process that has become an American tradition in the last years of this century: turning the bright lights of hindsight on the past behavior of (insert name of politician, founding father, pro player or Olympic leader here). This dribbling out of information, draped across daily headlines, must be akin to being nibbled to death by ducks.

    It could have been so different.

    We spent so much of the early 1990s wringing our hands over our “Olympic legacy.” Who among us, if asked in 1995, would have predicted that as we prepare for the 2000 games, we would be focused on a tug of war over boxes of old documents stored at the Atlanta History Center.

    People who complain about the Atlanta Journal-Constitution conducting Chinese water torture on our Olympic heritage are missing the point. The AJC is only performing its historical watchdog role, albeit a bit late. Why weren’t we asking questions about the incredible odds of Atlanta winning IOC votes back in 1991? Didn’t we have the same open records laws back then?

    The media’s current tenacious pursuit is the sad result of a history lesson many of today’s leaders refuse to learn: When You Screw Up, Come Clean.

    Surely, they watched the same pursuit of Bill Clinton’s impeachment that we did. When some of the Republican congressmen were confronted with similar charges, they called a press conference, admitted to the wrongdoing and moved on. Do we even remember their names? When one of the more prominent Atlanta Braves went public with his indiscretion, he took his lumps honestly and responsibly. Last time I picked up the sports page, the writers were focused on his on-field batting average.

    How different it would have been had the Atlanta Olympic Committee called a press conference, released the facts that they went a little overboard in their enthusiasm to win the games and asked for public forgiveness? I bet we’d be back to reading about the building of an Olympic museum.

    So, let’s concede this: In their zeal, our local Olympic leaders broke some rules. Do we really need to know to what degree they were broken? If so, let’s quietly assemble an investigative team and have them give us a full report sometime next year. We’ve waited this long. Why must we get incomplete daily drippings from reporters?

    Meanwhile, this month, let’s sit in the warm evening of an Atlanta July and watch old videotapes of gymnasts Kerri Shrug’s injured leap at the Georgia Dome or Michael Johnson’s record-breaking run around our Olympic stadium. While we’re at it, let’s reflect upon some related remarkable events that occurred this decade:

    • A lawyer named Billy Payne had an inspirational early-morning vision and defied all odds, bring the Centennial Games to Atlanta. His tenacity and focus is an epic lesson for us all.
    • Thousands of volunteers throughout the area gave of their time, their homes and hearts to host a superb show for the world.
    • Dozens of athletes showed why a big heart and determination often overcome an opponent of Goliath proportions.
    • And we as a city pulled together, planted trees, improved streetscapes, erected facilities and built a park that generations after us will enjoy long after we’ve opened the last dusty box of a dissolved Olympic bureaucracy.

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  • Media

    It’s a Dirty Business

    June 1, 1999

    In the past few weeks, our company has been working with a consultant. One of his exercises is for us to define our purpose. As part of this he had us review business magazines and study company slogans that appear in their ads.

    A horrible repressed memory emerged.

    One day, when I was working in marketing for a paper in Charlotte, the powers that be decided the company needed a new slogan. There was only one problem: Enduring slogans were often invented by expensive advertising agencies and my newspaper didn’t want to spend a dime.

    So I bought a bunch of coffee and doughnuts and gathered my staff of creative artists and writers in the promotion department into a conference room for a brainstorming session. You never knew where one of these wandering pursuits of excellence would lead, but one thing was certain: No one could leave until we came up with an answer to whatever great question that was put before us.

    So began a two-hour session that produced nothing of note, until one woman in the back of the room muttered the immortal words: “The Charlotte Observer: It Rubs Off on You.” There was stunned silence in the room. Then it hit us all at once. You could see the smiles of realization open up across the room in one big wave. We were tired and if we voted yes on this slogan, we could all go home and drink beer.

    For the stunning debut of our new slogan our designers produced full-page ads about how wonderful our award-winning reporters were and about how no one in their right mind would leave the house each morning before digesting every page of the daily product that we so proudly produced and placed carefully at their front doors.

    At the bottom we added our new slogan. But the designers weren’t satisfied with just words. They liked pictures. So in case our readers didn’t pick up the double-meaning of this brilliant slogan, they added a little thumbprint next to the words and had a little smear mark of ink trailing off to the right.

    Oh we were good, weren’t we? Brilliant, we presumed. We scheduled a couple of ads in the morning paper and let these babies fly. The next morning I cruised with confidence to my desk and – whoa – what was this? A note to come see the publisher and editor immediately.

    They hated it. As did the production manager who was so proud of his new press that supposedly had less ink-rub-off than the previous model (it didn’t). As did the circulation manager who wanted our campaign to sell more papers (it wouldn’t). There was an emergency meeting of all the newspaper powers that day and after a heated session, the publisher cast the deciding vote: (inky) thumbs down.

    The ad campaign was dead. Our faces were red. Our hearts were crushed, but our directive was the same: Come up with a slogan, stupid. So we met again, came up with something innocuous that pleased all and remains wonderfully forgettable to this day. Unfortunately, the other one lived long after.

    In fact, the newsroom got the last word (it always does). Eight months later, on New Years Day, in the paper’s annual retrospective of “The Best and Worst of Charlotte” we won special recognition. Our rub-off slogan was awarded worst advertising campaign of the year.

    Recently, I picked up another newspaper here in Atlanta and saw it proudly boasting a new slogan: It Rubs Off on Your Mind, Not on Your Hands. I wondered if they paid an advertising agency a lot of money to come up with it. And if their publisher saw it before it went out.

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  • Atlanta,  Life Stories

    Nun the Wiser

    May 1, 1999

    When I went to grade school at Christ the King School on Peachtree Road many of the classes were taught by Catholic nuns. Most of the nuns ruled by terror and we, the saintly little grade school boys and girls, lived in mortal fear much of the time.

    Nuns were intimidating to us just by what they wore: military style shoes, heavy stockings, undergarments that went all the way to the ground and must have been at least three or four layers thick, even in summer.
    These were covered by several more layers of clothes, topped by a cape-like garment that draped over their shoulders and down around their waists. Their heads were covered with a habit, made of black cloth.

    They looked like one of the aliens on Star Trek.

    We wagered it probably took them about two hours to get dressed every morning.

    One of our favorite tricks was to ask nuns what time it was. It usually took them about five minutes to find their watches.

    Every afternoon we had our favorite activity: show and tell. Kids read articles from the paper or brought in unusual items from home. One time I brought in my new pet hamster. It was a beautiful thing: all white with pink ears and beady little eyes. It loved to crawl all over me and I loved the feeling of its little nails tickling my arms or my neck.

    At show and tell, everyone had to play with it. One of the girls suggested that Sister Mary Sean, our teacher, pick it up. With some reluctance, she let me to place it carefully on her hand. She laughed as it tickled her palm.

    Then that hamster ran right up Sister’s arm and underneath one of those hundreds of layers of fabric she wore. I froze and looked at Sister. Her eyebrows launched up and her eyes got as big as billiard balls and she froze too. Then, she started grabbing her shoulder, and her chest and her stomach. She started hooting and hollering and running around the front of the classroom like folks did in those charismatic churches.

    All the girls acted very concerned and gasped in horror. Several rushed to Sister’s rescue, but they couldn’t find that hamster anywhere. Suddenly, Sister went screaming out the door and down the hallway toward the bathroom, followed by all of the girls in the class.

    There was bedlam in the class. All the boys were on the floor laughing and screaming. Then, the parade of girls started back and the boys all jumped back into our seats. As each girl walked in the door, she would look at me with her best Catholic-girl scowl. I felt as if a jury was reentering the courtroom to sentence me to death. One whispered that they had to take every bit of clothing off of Sister before they found the hamster in her bra.

    Finally, Sister walked back in and marched over to me and asked me to open the box I had brought the hamster in. She opened up her hands and dropped the hamster back in the box. She told me to never bring an animal to show and tell again.

    Then her eyes locked on me just before she went back to the front of the room. I’m not quite sure to this day, but I think I saw a little smile break out across her face and just a bit of a twinkle in her eyes.
    That afternoon, all the boys in the school wanted to see my hamster. After all, he had “boldly gone” where no man had gone before.

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  • Family,  Fatherhood

    Dearly Beloved

    April 1, 1999

    This month I would be celebrating my 20th wedding anniversary, except for the minor fact that my marriage ended seven years ago. There was a period when I would have predicted this milestone would represent a painful speedbump in the road of life. Instead, I’ll probably pass the day much like any other.

    When I first started dating again I was sure that I had a large scarlet “D” branded on my forehead. Over time, I realized I was part of a growing majority of marital refugees.

    Thomas_schroder_at_the_line_11

    In grade school, I could count on one hand the number of kids whose parents were divorced. Times have changed. Recently, a young employee in my company recalled how in his group of high school friends, he was one of only two whose parents were still together.

    It is all too easy for our moral guardians to argue that society is breaking down because the traditional family units are disintegrating. But that argument loses its charge when you realize many of the leaders of the conservative movement have a family breakup in their pasts. I think we are in the midst of a time of redefinition of what “family” means. Much like we are becoming a global economic society, we are becoming a global blended family and the results don’t have to be devastating.

    I suppose the people you worry about the most in this blending trend are the kids. They are the passengers on their parents’ unpredictable journey of change. Frankly, I think we are not giving the next generation enough credit. In many cases, they have adapted to this societal shift better than the adults. I’ve found that if the parents remain stable and focus on giving their children love, the children are nurtured in ways the older generations may not understand.

    My ex-wife Callender remarried and moved to Charlotte nearly five years ago and even though I don’t see my children as much as if they lived in my house, when I do have them here, I focus totally on them. A friend says I spend more time with my children than do many of the fathers in intact families. God knows, I’d love to believe that.

    Thomas_on_the_court

    Time has allowed Callender and me to be friends again while our relationship consists of discussing what’s best for our children. I wish her the best with her husband Jim because he is a good man and if their marriage is stable, our children will be much stronger.

    Even though it is sometimes awkward for me to stand in their kitchen and talk casually while our kids get ready to go off for a weekend with me, I remind myself that those images of us together are important for our children to record in their memory banks.

    A couple of months ago, I drove to Charlotte to watch my son’s basketball game. He was playing against his step-brother Mark’s team. I sat in the bleachers with Callender, my daughter Sally, her step-sister Leigh and Jim’s ex-wife, Jane. Jim hurried in from the airport during the second quarter and took a seat between Jane and Callender. I thought for a moment how I was sort of an outsider to this new model of a blended family.

    But then I looked across the gym floor at my son Thomas. He was on the bench sitting with his buddies, watching his step-brother going up for a shot. He then looked over toward us and studied the six of us sitting together in the bleachers. A gentle smile came across his face.

    Then it hit me. This is my son’s family. And we were all together for the first time.

    Photos: Thomas Schroder playing basketball in high school

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  • Atlanta,  Life Stories,  Spirituality

    Forgiving Our Heroes

    March 4, 1999

    It must be hard to be a hero. Maybe we ask too much of them. Just the other day I was reading about one in particular.

    He was a leader at the height of his glory. Saw a woman one day. Desired her. Did the wrong thing. Denied it. Got caught. Suffered public and private embarrassment. Was faced with losing his lofty position. Suffered tremendous consequences.

    Sound familiar? It could be Bill Clinton, Thomas Jefferson, or even King David – the Old Testament author of so many beautiful psalms. Or for a more parochial example, Eugene Robinson of the Atlanta Falcons on the eve of our city’s only Super Bowl.

    How could they be so stupid, we ask? How could they risk so much for such a momentary fleeting indulgence? We feel betrayed, angry, depressed, lose respect for them and interest in the other things they stand for that once meant so much to us.

    But I am partly to blame for the severity of these downfalls. Perhaps you are too.

    I get caught up the fervor. I am at first attracted to these people for their brilliant professional skills. I expect them to be brilliant in all areas of their lives. But, alas, they are only men. They screw up just like me, and maybe even you. But because they are who they are, their mistakes are magnified to Herculean proportions. I immediately pass a harsh judgment on them.

    I try to remember the lesson of the married woman in the Biblical story who was caught in an adulterous situation. She was hauled before a huge crowd in her town. The crowd wanted Jesus to confirm the traditional Jewish law and demanded that he order an immediate death sentence. Turning the mirror back on the crowd, he said “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

    Then I think about an even harder challenge: forgiveness. Jesus predicted one of his apostles would betray him to the soldiers, resulting in his crucifixion. He knew it would be Judas Iscariot and possibly knew it the moment he asked Judas to join his band of 12. Yet Jesus showed up at the Last Supper anyway. Perhaps he even forgave Judas before the betrayal had taken place.

    Then I’m faced with so many questions. Should we have known that our presidents would not stand up to moral scrutiny? Is the very pedestal we thrust these men on too high for mere mortals? Is the international adulation and heavy responsibility we heap on their shoulders too heavy for their souls? Does the intensity of our need to look up to them squeeze out the darkness that otherwise lurks in the corners of their minds? In their most private moments, are they shamed by their realization that they are, after all, only men, that while capable of great good, also succumb to temptation?

    Perhaps we should reverse the cycle. Maybe we should forgive these heroes before their betrayal. Next time a leader takes a turn at the top, we could expect mistakes. When our sports icons are preparing for the big game, we could wager which one will be weak at the worst moment.

    The rise and fall of men, just like civilizations, is a consistent theme in our history and our literature. Why not anticipate it? Our disappointment and sense of betrayal will be lessened. Our judgment will be less harsh. And if we don’t thrust such undue pressure on our heroes, maybe they will perform better in the roles they have been selected to play.

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  • Atlanta

    Naked Dog Walking

    February 4, 1999

    I’ve made an effort in the past few years to eat more fruits and vegetables. I’ve even cut back a little on my meat consumption, but I will make an exception for one place – the Varsity. It is one of my life’s goals to eat at every Varsity.

    I read recently that the Varsity had purchased some land in Cobb County to build another restaurant. I will be one of the first in line when it opens.

    For readers who might be grease-challenged, I should clarify that the Varsity is the “World’s Largest Drive-in,” has been operating since 1928 on North Avenue and is one of Atlanta’s most historic spots. Like many significant cultures, it even developed its own language (Naked dog walking, an FO and a bag of rags …).
    The article reported it will be the Varsity’s fourth restaurant, but as I count it, I’ve eaten at six already. I fancy myself as a Varsity connoisseur – two words that have probably never been printed next to each other.

    In fact my first childhood memory is sitting on the front steps of our apartments, at the intersection of Peachtree and Spring streets and crying hysterically as I waved good-bye to my family as they drove off down Spring Street. I thought they might be driving off forever. Turns out, they were just heading to the “Greasy V” for a few chili dogs and fries. Maybe I’ve felt deprived ever since.

    A big moment in my life occurred when the Varsity branched out closer to my neighborhood and opened the Varsity Jr. on Lindbergh (which I think serves the freshest food and has the snappiest service). Two more locations were built in Athens and became mandatory stops on the way to Georgia football games as a child or late at night after visiting friends attending college there. A great tragedy occurred when the company decided to close the famous downtown location right across from “The Arch.”

    I was among the first visitors when a Varsity opened in Gwinnett County. I was most impressed by the conveyer belts that transport the food from the “chefs.” They were a color I had never seen before at other Varsitys: white!

    I have sometimes suffered in my goal to eat at every Varsity. When I attended one of the first events at the Georgia Dome I had already eaten a big meal. But when I spotted a new Varsity Express I found the fortitude to eat another.

    When I lived in other states during the early part of my career I would always look for a suitable substitute for my favorite meal: a chili dog, chili pickle steak – both with Vidalia onions – a fry and a ring and a Frosted Orange. But there was none. Thus, any return to Atlanta started – and ended – with a stop there.

    Not everyone shares my obsession. Once I took a college friend there and she was horrified by the experience. Years later we were in a group and someone mentioned the Varsity. I overheard her say, “Someone took me there a few years ago. I can’t believe anyone would take me to such a place.”

    When my friends Charles Driebe and Mike Egan and I threw a joint 40th birthday party, we didn’t hesitate on choosing the caterer. Susan Gordy of the Varsity Jr. pulled a truck up into the Egan’s driveway and set up a deep fat fryer. We served onion rings, French fries and fried pies to all our friends and families – even to my Mom, brothers and sisters who had driven there without me years ago.

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  • Atlanta,  Media

    Paper Chase

    January 5, 1999

    Make a mistake on television or radio and you can correct it in the next breath. But in the print business, a mistake is there for all to see and usually you have to wait until the next edition to correct it.

    Three times in my career, I’ve tried to fix a mistake after a paper was printed – with mixed results. I was reminded of this recently when we found out that our Atlanta Real Estate section was mailed with our Atlanta Buckhead and Atlanta Intown papers but had been left out of the portion of Intowns that we put in stores and restaurants.

    Our distributors had just put out nearly 8,000 copies in more than 100 locations around town. A call to our printer confirmed our worst fears: The sections were still sitting on pallets in their warehouse. I quickly marshaled employees from our company and the printers’ and we visited each location and hand inserted the sections.

    In high school our overzealous and undersupervised staff printed a front-page cartoon of questionable taste. After we had distributed them all over campus, the school’s president demanded we collect all the papers and reprint the paper without the offending cartoon. We did – after a lot of exhausting work – and the few surviving original copies quickly became collectors’ items.

    I went to college at the University of Virginia, where there are several “secret” societies. Some more secret than others when its comes to the selection of new members. Some groups place ridiculous gowns on their newest inductees, make them drink lots of beer and parade them around parties in a crazy marching band replete with drums and a raucous song list. One group does not reveal its members until they die.

    In my last year, the rising group of editors on my newspaper staff decided to play a practical joke on me by printing the names of new inductees in a secret group of which I was a member – a group that never revealed its members, even after their deaths. After the papers were distributed, my group moved into retaliatory action. A few of us gathered up thousands of papers from libraries, classrooms and stores. One even snuck in the window of a rival secret group member and took his paper when he went to the restroom.
    Other members went to the newspaper office, replaced the offending page 2 item and drove an hour south to the printer, who reprinted the cover sheet.

    The rest of us drove to a secluded wooded hilltop and began “skinning” the thousands of original papers. It was fun for a while, but by the time the others arrived at sunrise with new covers, our zeal was long gone. What seemed like a great idea at midnight suddenly began to look like a college prank gone terribly wrong.

    Someone left for coffee and distributed a few of the “new” papers. Reports filtered in from the valley below: a rival group was debating whether we should be charged with “stealing” the papers, a grievous offense of the honor system; the rival daily newspaper’s editor launched an investigation; the dean of students wanted to see me.

    It took my group until early afternoon to reassemble the papers. Some headed off for a nap, others went to class. I had to attend a round of meetings with my furious staff, an angry dean and a zealous rival reporter.
    After that long day in college, I began to wonder if I should go into television journalism. A few weeks ago, as I sat inserting newspapers once again, I began to wonder if I made the right decision. I wonder how I’d look in a toupee?

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  • Family

    Sweet Sixteen

    December 1, 1998

    Every once in a while, a reader will ask about my daughter Sally. For three years she wrote a monthly column for these newspapers called “Teens” and they miss catching up on her. Her column took us on a journey back into time, looking through the eyes of a young girl.

    Sally_and_jessie

    We learned about her obsession for a 16-year-old rock star from Australia and about leaving temporary dye in her hair too long and turning it strange colors. She wrote about how she would design her room if her mother would let her, about wearing wide-leg jeans and about what really goes on at those teen parties. She had a wicked, dry sense of humor.

    Sally_hitting_the_ball

    Sally had years ago given up any interest in playing sports, even though she could hit any ball thrown in her direction. Four years ago, she had a brief but brilliant career as an artist. Before she turned in her paintbrushes, she painted two canvasses that still hang in my living room – and designed the logo for our first paper, Atlanta 30306.

    So last year when she said she wanted to retire from the column-writing business, I was disappointed but not too surprised.

    Those who are close to Sally know one thing: she wants to be in control. This probably dates to her lengthy stay in the womb. She was due to be born during the full moon in October, but she wasn’t born until the full moon in November. That waiting period must have driven her crazy and ever since, she’s been in a hurry to grow up and hell-bent to control her environment.

    Sally_at_christmas_4

    Without her permission, family members in her presence are not allowed to sing the words to a song on the radio, chew too loudly, wear a cap in a restaurant or participate in a conversation she’s not privy to. She’s been subject to many of the ups and downs of girls her age: grade fluctuation, friend obsession and battles with her parents. She is engaged in a constant battle now with her mother, which I remind them both is common for this age.

    But in the past year, I’ve noticed a change. She has gained enough confidence to begin wearing shorts or skirts. The baggy sweaters have given way to better fitting ones. She spends a few minutes applying makeup before we go out. She looks beautiful, has one of the most captivating smiles I’ve seen and is showing it a little more each day.

    Although she attends a magnet school for the arts, she resists being forced to produce art. But recently, she picked up a birdhouse at home and painted a beautiful landscape on one side. And I’m hoping she’ll write a column again one day.

    She just turned 16 and I’m sure the battles with her mom will cease in another year or two. Sally admits she may one day name her first daughter after her. They will probably end up best friends.

    I like taking her out to dinner and hearing about what goes on in her life. She has learned to trust me with the truth. I love it when we exchange, “I love you’s.”

    She has a few hurdles yet to go in life, including dealing with those boyfriends. Wherever Sally ends up, I know she will get there according to her own road map and at her own speed. I pretend to be driving but I’m just happy to be along for the ride. I just have to remember not to make a noise when I chew or sing. But she’s worth it.

    Photos: Sally Schroder with next door neighbor, Jessie Perlik, hitting the ball in our Charlotte backyard, with me and Thomas at Christmas in Atlanta

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  • Family

    Moving Van

    November 1, 1998

    When I was born a few years ago, the nurse wrapped me in a blanket and handed me to my mother, who was delighted to see me – even though my arrival had not exactly been planned. She had already given birth to four children, beginning 17 years earlier. As she cuddled me, she told herself that her only regret was that she was already past 40 and would probably not live long enough to see my children.

    But 40 years later, she is still on the go. She has never been one to stand still. As a child, her parents moved from Atlanta to Miami and back to Atlanta, where they lived in several neighborhoods, including Poncey-Highland and Garden Hills. When my Dad was getting ready to go overseas in World War II, she and her two daughters joined him in his training camp in Tennessee. During his absence, he bought a house on Atwood Road in Garden Hills that he didn’t see until his return from the Philippines.

    Van_schroder_photos

    Seven years later, they moved to Sandy Springs. Seven years later, they moved to Buckhead. Seven years later, they built a new house in their side yard. We always kidded Mom about having her own version of the seven-year itch. At the new house, my father put his foot down. “You’ll have to carry me out of here in a pine box,” he promised.

    After a few years, Mom started talking about buying a house at the beach. But Dad was against the idea. “We can’t afford it,” was his standard response. They settled on building a retirement home in what was then a new mountain development north of Atlanta called Big Canoe. After a few years (I think it was seven, to be exact), my mother started saying it was time to sell the mountain house and get a beach house. Dad’s response: “We can’t afford it.”

    Somewhere in the 1970s, when CB radios were the rage and drivers on the highway were talking in code to truckers, looking for highway patrol “bears,” Mom bought a new station wagon that had a CB installed. Every driver with a CB had to have a “handle” or a code name to use on the highway so the patrol couldn’t prove it was you alerting other drivers to a “bear with his ears up (radar).” Someone in my family suggested that Mom, whose name is Van, adopt the appropriate handle of “Moving Van.” She did.

    In the late ’80s, my parents sold the mountain house and began renting houses at the beach. Mom kept lobbying everyone in the family that it was time to make an investment in a beach house. But Dad wasn’t buying. “We still can’t afford it,” he’d say. After Dad died in 1994, Mom checked the financial picture and announced to the family, “Now we can afford it.” I helped her find a house at the beach.

    A few days ago, my mother celebrated her 82rd birthday. She hasn’t slowed down a beat. She drives with friends to the mountains or jumps in her car by herself and heads to the beach. She has moved into her second Buckhead condo in as many years. And she has done more than just see my kids. She has been a constant, prodding and supportive voice in their lives and those of her many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The rest of us only marvel at her energy and drive. We hope we can be half as mobile when we’re 82.

    Happy Birthday, Mom. Keep on movin’.

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  • Atlanta,  Life Stories

    Second Chances

    September 4, 1998

    You don’t get many second chances in life. Sometimes the best you can hope for is to learn the lessons and be ready should similar circumstances reappear.

    At lunch with Susan Weltner Yow, an longtime friend a few months ago, I asked about her husband. He was in the doghouse for having let Mother’s Day pass without getting her a present. Having missed a few such occasions myself, I suggested to her something I have sometimes wished for: a second chance.

    That afternoon she forgave her husband and proposed a “do-over”: She would pretend the following Sunday was Mother’s Day. Later that night I got a message from him. “Thanks, buddy,” he said with a touch of hyperbole. “You saved my marriage.”

    This summer, I attended a 90th birthday party for someone who once gave me a “do-over.” Dr. William Pressly spent a lifetime nurturing a private school in Atlanta called Westminster into a reality, despite several early crises in which he nearly closed the doors for lack of funding. Today it has a showcase campus with a reputation and an endowment that rivals the finest prep schools in New England.

    I attended his school in seventh and eighth grade and following my family tradition, left for boarding school in ninth grade. There, I fell in with a tough crowd and flirted with all kinds of trouble. Midway through my junior year, my family urged me to go see Dr. Pressly and ask to return to Westminster.

    I didn’t present an impressive case. My grades were mixed and, in the style of the day, my hair reached down to my shoulder blades. As I sat in his office, he looked me over and, despite some hesitation, agreed to roll the dice. It was the break I needed. Returning to Atlanta and Westminster, I had a surge of energy and appreciation for both. I made lifelong friends, joined several groups – and found my life’s work when I signed up as a reporter and then an editor for the school newspaper.

    My debut, however, was an ignoble one. With little training and less direction, I was given an assignment to write the lead story and an accompanying editorial about Dr. Pressly’s retirement after 22 years as the school’s founder and only president. On deadline, my editor gave me what he thought was a press release on Dr. Pressly’s life and said I could run all or part of it. It ran with little alteration – under my byline. Much to my embarrassment, we learned upon publication that what I had been given was a draft of an article prepared by the school’s development director for the alumni magazine. I learned a hard lesson about being careful about your sources – and about plagiarism.

    My debut as an editorialist was even less gracious. I took on the style of the rebellious journalism of the day and wrote that our school was fine under Dr. Pressly’s leadership, but would profit from new direction under a different president. Despite the insults, Dr. and Mrs. Pressly were gracious to my family at graduation, saying nothing when the subject of the newspaper came up in polite conversation.

    Years later, seeing the Presslys again after all these years, I realized that most people will honor them for their extraordinary contributions to the institution that flourishes today in Buckhead. But I will remember much more: a lifelong commitment to taking chances on some marginal students and to maintaining a level of charm, graciousness and polish that is rare in today’s world – and a willingness to provide me with my own “do-over” nearly 25 years later:

    Thank you.

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