A Poignant Look Back

Yesterday, at a joyous memorial service, Max and I reminisced about our personal contacts with Ron Jennings, the Sedalia Democrat's most well-known columnist. Ron died last week after finally succumbing to brain cancer, which had dogged him for about 20 years. He was diagnosed shortly after he and I shared the stage in Annie, I as Grace and he as an extra, but really as the proud father of the prepubescent star of the show, who now is a lovely, confident, talented young woman with two children of her own.

Ron was one of those guys who, when first we met, seemed to be comfortable in his own skin, although that skin seemed to be kind of geeky. It wasn't long afterward, though, that I realized that Ron was the real deal - a truly nice guy who had been dealt a hand that would have been difficult for most: he wore a hearing aid and had a slight speech impediment, and his glasses were thicker than mine. I found out yesterday that his situation was more dire than I had thought: he had been diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy after his birth, and his devoted mother had massaged his little legs ceaselessly to help him do what his doctors told him he would never do - walk.

And walk he did. He also, contrary to his doctors' predictions, went to school and to college, even attending the prestigious School of Journalism at the University of Missouri. That is how Max met him, because they were at that school at the same time. Ron went out of his way to be kind to Max when he found out that Max, a fellow BJ, had ended up in Sedalia, where Ron had made his home.

Over the years, our paths crossed often in different ways, but most usually having something to do with theater. When I decided that only I could be Nellie in South Pacific, and the director agreed, Ron came to preview night and gave me a fabulous review as a newcomer to Sedalia Community Theater. He never saw me without asking what play I was going to audition for next. Even after I quit trying because my schedule prevented three hours of rehearsal every night for six weeks, Ron always reminded me that I had talent and the community missed seeing me on the stage.

I will never forget the one time someone other than Ron did a review of the current play for the paper. It was Annie, and the reason Ron didn't review the play was that he was in it! The person who did the review instead didn't quite understand that the review wasn't really a review, but was instead a preview of pleasant things to come for the people in the community who attended the show. This person actually made critcal comments! Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, was buzzing about how the paper had made a terrible mistake in letting anyone other than Ron tell the community through the paper that the show would be worth seeing.

Ron and I also shared a most interesting night sometime around 1985 or so. I was the coordinator for the State Fair Queen contest, and Ron was the columnist who dug up the story that the very first State Fair Queen had moved back to and was then living in Sedalia. She was a piece of work, as they say, and was basking in the glory of being the most newsworthy item in Sedalia that summer. Ron did a column about her, and I invited her to be a part of the Queen contest by making an appearance and being interviewed as a time killer while the judges were out tabulating their ballots.

She, enamored with both of us for showering her with attention, asked us to bring our spouses to a dinner at her home a couple of weeks after the Fair ended. Max had something else to do that night (or so he said), so I attended without my steady date, and Ron and his wife Pat attended. The evening was a nightmare. We arrived around 7, on time, and The Queen served cocktails while the person who was cooking and serving readied dinner in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the server was not too experienced, and so dinner was not served until around 10, after we all had several cocktails and were a little unsteady on our feet. I left almost immediately after we finished dinner, knowing that my mother would not approve of eating and running, but Ron and Pat showed much better manners than did I, staying at least a little longer.

Ron showed good manners, too, in his writing, which was the highlight of our little newspaper. He, like I, believed that everyone has a story, and he spent time discovering and telling those stories. He had a wonderful sense of humor, evidenced by the loud laughter of the crowd at his memorial service when his words flashed across the video screen, interspersed with pictures of Ron's family and of him growing up in Maryville. I remembered reading some of those columns, wondering how he made the most mundane of human experiences come alive to be not mundane, but instead interesting and exquisite.

When Ron's brain tumor was found and when he was diagnosed with brain cancer, he underwent surgery, coming out on top of the world and cancer-free. He also came out without hair on one side of his head. Just as he had with his prior physical failings, he handled his semi-baldness with good humor and acceptance, all of that lasting for 20 years, during those years when most of us become discouraged about the ravages of time on our bodies and our physical appearances.

All in all, Ron Jennings was a gift to as many people as he knew. He lived life well, had a loving wife and two daughters, and was a light for many people who might otherwise not see that each of us is important in the whole scheme of things. I am thankful that I knew him and that our paths crossed. I wish I had taken the time to tell him so.