Local journalism’s grand dame moves on
I was privileged last Saturday to attend Ann Lausten’s memorial
service.
That’s the kind of lede sentence (that is the correct way to
spell lede) that she liked. It’s short, plain spoken and
grammatically correct.
Local journalism’s grand dame moves on
I was privileged last Saturday to attend Ann Lausten’s memorial service.
That’s the kind of lede sentence (that is the correct way to spell lede) that she liked. It’s short, plain spoken and grammatically correct.
Ann worked as society editor, proofreader and den mother at the Free Lance for more than two decades.
It was my good fortune to learn this dubious trade at her side.
She tolerated a steady stream of freshly minted journalists with good humor and patience – usually. She reluctantly swapped her aged typewriter for a computer; an appliance that she always suspected was a malevolent manifestation of Satan. She changed and adapted – reluctantly – as the business did, becoming the greatest constant the paper ever knew.
Ann died during the Christmas season, at an age I refuse to repeat. While her obituary notices did reveal her age, Ann never did so voluntarily. Nor will I.
She taught us so much, and in such a uniquely “Ann” way, that the memories keep flooding back in no particular order.
Ann was not a large woman. She was thin and fit all her life, just like the five children she raised to her own exacting standards. She knew right from wrong, and she had an abiding love for order.
It seems a million years ago, but it was August, 1978 when then-owner Millard Hoyle displayed a rare lapse in judgment and invited me to join the staff of the Free Lance. I was 21 years old, still enrolled in college, and as cocksure as they come.
On my first day, I was presented with a stack of obituaries to rewrite. Upon completing the task, I submitted a stack of half sheets of foolscap paper, the stuff that journalism was committed upon at the time.
A few minutes later, City Editor Marian Pearce and Ann approached me to let me know that the letter “A” appears nowhere in the word “cemetery.”
Oh.
That might have been the end of a career, but for the patience of people like Ann.
The daughter of a teacher, Ann was not an easy teacher herself. One longtime editor was fond of saying that he had worked for the paper for six months before he finally figured out she was not the owner’s wife.
That’s a fair assessment. Ann had three loves: her family, horses and animals and the newspaper. She guarded all three with passion.
Even her own children probably do not know how fiercely she loved them. But all of us who worked with Ann did. We were treated to daily stories about the adventures and misadventures of Carol, Ralph, Jane, Nancy and Helen.
Ann grew up in the Pinnacles area. She remembered the arrival of phones and she understood the power of a party line like no other.
She knew the meaning of hard work. During her long tenure at the Free Lance, I do not ever recall her calling in sick. Occasionally she would phone in to let us know that the road to the family home was too rain slicked to traverse. “Sorry, but we’re mudded in,” she’d report. On another occasion, she arrived late. As she reached under the kitchen sink to deposit something in the trash that morning, she heard an angry buzzing. A rattlesnake had made its home in her kitchen. It took Ann a few minutes to send that viper to the Great Beyond with the help of a shovel. Burying the animal put her a few minutes behind schedule.
Ann worked tirelessly to ensure that all the college boys and college girls who came through her office knew the rudiments of grammar, usage and Associated Press style. She was not always pleasant about it, but every young reporter with enough sense to listen was better for the experience. Her high school education and her sharp wit and dedication to the English language were unmatched by the fanciest university diplomas.
Some of her lessons still escape most of us. Ann is the only person I know who understood the subtle differences between the verbs “bring” and “take.” She insisted that “barns are raised. Children are reared” to the point that we would recite the phrase along with her when the lecture started.
Ann loved to read, to laugh and to keep up with her neighbors. And nearly everybody in San Benito County qualified as a neighbor. Ann was responsible for putting more local names and local news in the paper, week after week, than anyone else before or since. She knew what local journalism is about.
For a period during the 1980s, the two of us worked under an editor unlike any other. An emotionally stunted man, capable of compassion only for himself, he astounded us all with his daily antics.
While he insisted we arrive at work at 7, he usually showed up in a foul humor at 9. Once, we listened in mute horror at his end of a phone conversation: “Ma’am, now ma’am. Listen to me! I’ll ask the questions here. Now, when did your husband die?”
That’s right. He was browbeating a grieving widow, the better to wrest an obituary out of her without wasting any time letting her prattle on about the man she loved.
One weekend, that editor set about reorganizing the newsroom to suit his whim. Ann’s desk was moved across the room.
He did not yet know it, but he was outmatched by a country mile. Ann arrived at the office, carrying as always some grocery bags stuffed with a host of essentials. She took a long look at the desk, and without a word and without any help, pushed the heavy desk back across the room to its former location.
Her spot.
A quiet battle was launched. But when we all waved a heartfelt good-bye to the man who had shown us all how bad a boss can be, Ann was still there.
She was gracious enough never to gloat over her quiet victory. The rest of us, who lacked her backbone, silently celebrated every chapter in the quiet war between Ann and the man we so loathed.
Ann’s love for the paper was born of her love for the community. She treasured local history, and most valued the institutions that are unique to us.
Until the last years of her life, she would never miss the Saddle Horse Show Parade on San Benito Street each June. She hated to have her photo taken, but loved the attention a carefully arranged costume could bring. One Halloween, she arrived at work dressed as a frontier woman, complete with a working revolver on her hip.
Prompted by nervous co-workers, it was my charge to approach her to ask, “Ann, please tell me that that hog leg is not loaded.”
When she assured me that the cartridges were at home, I knew I didn’t need to ask her to drop the cylinder to show me.
I knew from long experience that if it was not true, Ann would have nothing to do with it.
