I got wind of the passing by Googling him, out of idle curiosity.
I landed on his obit.
Bernie was, first, a great newspaperman. No matter the hour, no matter the weather, no matter whether or not is was a weekend, if news broke, Bernie was there with a Capital T.
He was also an extremely talented news photographer -- the only man I have ever known to have owned not one-- but Two -- Leicas with complete lens sets.
I had the pleasure of working and learning from Bernie back in the days when I was a Cub Reporter, slaving away covering councils, cops and car crashes in the South-Central Massachusetts Boondocks for the Worcester Telegram & Evening Gazette.
I had some classroom knowledge of what the news business was about, And Bernie made it come alive. He taught me how to really structure my stories, how to conduct an effective interview, how to dig through public records, and how to play nice with the cops and the firemen.
Those are the fellas who really, really know the score.
And so it happened that on early New Years Day, 1971, one of the largest industrial fires ever seen in New England, raged in Webster, a mid-sized town in Massachusetts that kissed the Connecticut and Rhode Island borders.
Your humble scribe, I must confess, got himself extremely over-served on the Eve.
When the phone rang, I was still pretty incoherent. A couple of other sympathetic colleagues, Bruce Baker and Joe Capillo, -- actually, they were Ball Busters of the First Magnitude -- drove about 20 miles out of their way to pick me up.
At least I was sober enough to dress warmly. The temperature, you see, had set in at Minus 8 that very early morning.
As Bruce drove the 20 mile route over to Webster, I came fully around when I witnessed a visible Fireball hanging over Webster as though it had been hit during the Blitz.
In less than a half-hour, say about 3:30 AM, Bruce parked the car and we three walked towards the blaze.
Uncountable numbers of streams of water, from high-pressure hoses, rained down upon the 200,000 square foot mill -- now fully engulfed in flames reaching over 150 feet into the sky.
The blaze raged so intensely that steam from the fire hoses turned into a sooty kind of snow. Glazed ice was everywhere under foot, making our work, and that of the firemen, treacherous.
Capillo ordered me to account for the number of fire departments which responded to this general alarm -- there were over 40 of them, mostly volunteer units, arriving at the scene from a 30-mile radius encompassing three states. More important from the news side, he asked me to learn if there were any deaths or injuries.
As I strode carefully off, in the direction of the Fire Command Center, I ran into Bernie. He had taken seven rolls of film -- changing rolls bare-fingered in Minus Zero weather. He asked if any of the other reporters were on the way.
When I told him where Baker and Capillo were, he started heading off in their direction -- but not before I asked him how he had learned about the fire. Bernie told me that he had seen a Big Red Ball hovering in the night sky -- from his house in Providence, Rhode Island, some 40 miles away.
Here's his direct quote: "I knew that something big was happening."
Indeed...
Besides "shooting" numerous and amazing photos of the blaze, Bernie was the first to learn, from the fire marshal, that the blaze was an act of Arson. I think he received a few awards for his work that very, very cold night many years ago.
The most important lessons in journalism that I learned from Bernie were these: no matter what the circumstance, always, always, always treat people with respect. Help them feel comfortable in difficult situations. Listen to their story. Get the facts straight. Ask questions. And when you write, write clearly and concisely. If you don't understand all aspects of the story, don't submit it to the editors until you clear things up. Finally, never, ever miss a deadline!
A snot-nosed kid right out of college could not have asked for a better or more patient teacher and mentor.
Bernie was also proud of the fact that one of his "proteges" so-to-speak went on to become a managing editor and had worked for a United States senator.
Bernie loved to be called by his nick-name, Shue (a term of endearment from the Armenian language), he went on to have two of his novels published, and he wasn't bad on the golf course.
Wherever he is now, and in whatever form, I'm sure we'll hear from Shue ... that is, if there's any news breaking.
Bernard A. Dupont
No comments:
Post a Comment