Brenda G.'s eulogy for Vic*

Query: What’s the word most Posties think of when they think of Vic Edmonson?

For many of you, that word, more than any other, evoked memories of Vic. Former Post features desker Robin Dalmas, now of Redmond, Wash., said that “Vic distilled a six-word sentence, ‘I have a question for you,’ into one simple word that we understood immediately. How could writers and editors not love that?”

Vic was one of the first people I met when I went to work at the Houston Post in December 1990. He was the first friend I made there and continued to be my friend when our lives took us in different directions after the Post closed in 1995.

At first I didn’t know what to make of him. When I would greet him or thank him for helping me, he would make a comment about buying small bearded people pizza. He did it in such a deadpan manner that I wasn’t sure if he was going to give me trouble down the road. Instead, he came to be the Postie I relied upon most of all.

In April 1995, when it became apparent that the Post would close soon, Vic and I agreed that we’d call each other the minute either of us heard any news. When my phone rang April 18 at 9:30 a.m., I knew what it meant. That was the shortest conversation we ever had, because Vic had more people to call.

Another onetime Post newbie, features writer Randall Patterson, offered this story:

When I came to the Post, Vic gave me the tour of the building. Such an enormous place it was, and I was already giddy when Vic opened a door into the pressroom and the roar and spectacle of the giant presses churning out the big-city newspaper. Whatever they were printing lay on pallets, in stacks of thousands, and I was thinking about where I was, in a sort of reverie as I reached for a single copy, and heard Vic, behind me, telling me to put that back, that stealing is forbidden at the Houston Post, and I could get fired. He was so decent and vivid, I don't think I'll ever forget him.

Martha Liebrum, the former Post features editor and assistant managing editor, had a keen appreciation of Vic’s abilities. She explained it this way:

You said Vic was my right-hand man, but in fact, he was much more: He was my left brain ... the part that’s supposed to be linear, logical and calm.

Before Vic, I paid most attention to what I valued: good and accurate stories. The administrative stuff was necessary but of least interest to me. Vic helped us build a reputation for running efficiently. He didn’t help; he caused us to have that reputation.

Before Vic, I almost always managed to have people come in for a scheduled appointment, and I’d be shocked because I had lost my notes about the schedule. After Vic, no more awkward moments.

He took on a tremendous burden in watching that people got paid, that their overtime was on the check, that their expense accounts cleared F&A.

He put up with a lot of guff from some of our hard-to-live-with personalities, but he still got the job done, facing down fire-breathing dragons who shall go unnamed.

When he finished a long day in Features, he’d often work overtime in Sports, or wherever he could. He was loyal to the Post and would have been there forever, as I would have been if it had stayed in business.

I’ve worked at a variety of things since The Post and often thought how much many of those enterprises would have benefited from having Vic there.

Lori Colvin, former features desk editor, agreed, saying, “He was more than Martha’s right-hand man; he was everyone’s right-hand man. And I suspect things won’t be any different up there in his new heavenly place. He will probably be St. Peter’s right-hand man!"

Vic had dirt on all of us. He loved to hear the latest gossip but seldom contributed any, saying he was out of the loop. But we all knew better. Just as securely as he locked those Features file cabinets at the end of the week, walking off in his Friday flip-flops, Vic took his secrets with him when he left this world.

Ken Hoffman, a columnist at the Post and now at the Chronicle, offered this anecdote that pays tribute to Vic’s finely tuned attention to detail.

Dick Clark was having a TV special about the history of rock ’n’ roll, and I scheduled a phone interview with Fabian.

Remember him? Big teen idol from the early ’60s. Went by one name, sort of like Charo or Fabio or Bono.

Fabian was late calling me, so I went out for lunch with Rusty San Juan.

When I got back to the Post, there was a note on my desk from Vic.

It said, “Mr. Forte called for his interview.”

Now let's imagine that conversation.

Fabian calls and asks for me. Vic says I'm not there, but can he take a message?

Fabian says, sure, tell him that Fabian called.

Vic says, OK, but is Fabian your first or last name?

Uh, it's my first name. I'm Fabian.

May I have your last name?

Huh? OK, it's Forte.

In 40 years, he hasn't used his last name. He's just Fabian.

I get a message that Mr. Forte called.

Vic took casual Fridays seriously. His ensembles almost always included flip-flops and often included tank tops. On Friday evenings, he made a point to tell people who left before him to drive carefully. On one such evening, Mark Hanna, the Post’s entertainment editor, prepared to leave. As usual, Vic said, “Drive carefully.” Mark stopped, looked at Vic, said, “No, Vic. I’m going to drive like hell,” and prepared to storm off. Vic looked a little stunned but didn’t miss a beat. He smiled and told Mark to “drive like hell,” establishing a new Friday routine.

Jay Frank, the Post’s radio reporter, offered the following anecdote:

One day I was working on a column and called Brent Musburger, the longtime CBS sportscaster (now with ABC). His assistant said he was out but that he'd call me back in 45 minutes. So I decided to go downstairs and get something to eat. I got my usual ham sandwich, with an added treat — navy bean soup. If you recall, it was actually pretty good.

When I came back, there was a message on my desk that Musburger had returned my call. When I called him back, I thanked him and told him I was working on a column on whatever.

"No problem; we'll get to that. But first, how was that ham sandwich?" he asked. "And did you have the navy bean soup with it?"

I said something like, "Wow. How did you know that?" I was sort of puzzled as to where he got that piece of information. What else does he know?

"That fella who answered the phone filled me in," he said. "Very polite young man ... and good with details."

"Yes, he is," I replied.

Ernie Williamson, the Post’s executive editor and now assistant managing editor at the Chronicle, made the following observation.

As years roll by, I find myself reminiscing more and more about the good times at the Post. It’s strange, really. Lower pay, fewer resources and some strange bosses. But we had a good time, largely because we had the best people.

Vic certainly would be among the most memorable. He would, and could, do almost anything asked of him. And he did it well.

Former assistant entertainment editor Rebecca Goodballet recalled that Vic “was always donating blood. One time he came in to work and told Ann Valentine that he had given blood for her, even though she didn't need it.”

Former Features reporter Clifford Pugh, now style critic at the Houston Chronicle, said Vic “had an unbridled capacity for seeing the good in life and the good in people. Vic was a major reason I have such fond memories of the Post. Even when I think of him now, I can’t help but smile and have a good feeling about life.”

The last time Vic and I talked, the conversation drifted toward TV, as it inevitably did. I told him I had been watching a lot of “Magnum P.I.” reruns lately, knowing it was one of his favorite shows. He said the thing he liked about Magnum was that even though the characters would give each other a hard time on a regular basis, they would have done anything for each other when one of them was in need. He frequently made that same observation about his Postie friends. It’s the sort of thing he would have called an odd coincidence.

I’ll conclude with a comment from Lynn Ashby, former editor-in-chief of the Post, now editor of H magazine. “Vic was always a happy soul in a city room that was not always that happy. He had a way of making me smile. In a world that was bold font, he was italics.”

— 30 —

* Except for the "drive like hell" story, which she saved for the after-party.