By Dot Clark (June 2023)
Memories are like lightning bugs – flickering into your mind when you least expect them. A muddy field, an approaching tropical storm, or a train derailment can bring them sharply back when you least expect them. But first, you need some background on how I found my way to the Cecil Whig more than 50 years ago.
My husband, Bob, and I were both newspaper junkies. After I finished college at Frostburg with an A.A. degree in English, my first job was at the (then) Salisbury Times.
I spent the first few months proofreading. Apparently, I did well and was shortly transferred to the newsroom. All men, of course, except me and the Woman’s Page editor. At first, my tasks were primarily writing headlines and doing re-writes, i.e., taking stories from another newspaper and re-writing those that pertained to the lower shore. Next, I transcribed articles from a microfilm machine for the “Look Back” series.
My First Front-Page Story
My first big front-page story was an interview with Miss America 1962, Maria Beale Fletcher. She had also been crowned Miss North Carolina in 1961. Another big story was an Interview in Chincoteague with Misty and her new foal Stormy, born March 11, 1962, during the infamous March Storm that inundated the shore. A photographer who went with me was Mel Toadvine, who later became the Editor.
Bob was working in the printing department reading linotype galleys (backwards) and running proofs for the proofreading team. We were married a year later and subsequently moved to Washington, DC, where he was able to finish his printing apprenticeship at Merkel Press (Sports Illustrated, and other magazines). After taking typing classes and shorthand in Salisbury, I transferred from reporter to secretary at the U. Md.
In 1968, we moved to Cecil County to a small 20-acre farm near Calvert. Now a certified printer, Bob joined the printing division at the News Journal. Happily, unemployed and with a toddler to chase. I turned my attention to horses and gardening. When our second child was six months old, it was time for me to get back to doing something that earned a paycheck. A classified ad for a proofreader at the Cecil Whig lured me in for an interview. But there, my plans changed. Instead of proofreading, the editor (Steve van Cleve, or was it Larry O’Hara?) squashed the proof room idea and offered me a job as the Woman’s Page editor.
Twelve Years at the Cecil Whig
And so began my 12-year (1970-1982) stretch with the Cecil Whig. At that time, prospective brides filled out a form that then had to be typed into an article. “Social News” was handwritten by little old ladies all over the county. It wasn’t long before some of the ladies found out I lived near Calvert and saved so much time by just bringing them to my home on Sundays.
I hadn’t been there very long when a new editor was hired. Don Herring from a major newspaper in Indiana. He was a friend of Steve Van Cleve and arrived to take over when Steve moved on to California.
The Whig was published weekly on Wednesdays. Mondays were quite busy for all of us. Carty Dennison was the Sports Editor. Clark Samuel, who was the editor at the Cecil Democrat, brought in copy for his paper, which was printed at the Whig. Others I remember who worked in our department over the next few years (not all at the same time) were: Trudy Wilson, Beth and Neil Hannum, Barbara Halliday, Frank Fantini, Terri Peddicord. Paul McKnight, and Jeff Mezzatesta. Dick Frear was our photographer.
When Dick grabbed a job with Congressman Mills, he moved on and eventually got his dream job with National Geographic. He was replaced by Jim Cheeseman.
In addition to the Woman’s Page, I was also responsible on Mondays for calling funeral homes for obituaries and calling Union and Harford hospitals for new babies born.
Typing them into stories as well as sometimes a feature story for the Woman’s Page. By Wednesday, we collapsed in relief and eagerly read the paper front to back, looking for typos and to see what other members of our crew had been doing during the past week.
Rodeo Earl
An occasional visitor to the Whig was Rodeo Earl Smith. It was always exciting when someone recognized his old beat-up red pickup truck and people started to escape out the back and side door! It was a comical sight at the Whig. I don’t think a fire alarm would have had the same reaction. The reason for his visits was simply to talk to his friends.
Apparently, it was only the Big-Whigs he wanted to see (no pun intended). I don’t think he ever came into my office. And I won’t mention the names of those who disappeared. Ted Rue and Jerry Rutt (advertising) didn’t seem to mind his appearance. He didn’t particularly want to talk to any of the females in the office. And then he’d leave an hour or so later. And the miscreants would magically re-appear. I think they were hiding upstairs…..
Rodeo was a character around the county for many years. Usually dressed in his best cowboy outfit and a big hat, he was also known to visit the local “watering holes” around town on Friday nights. In fact, I was told (by a reliable source) that it was not unusual for him to have a police escort to see that he safely got to his home in Perryville after a night on the town. One car in front of him to lead the way, and another behind….. (so I was told).
Somewhere during those years, I also became responsible for weather-related stories. Storms, hurricanes, snow, and floods dropped into my lap. Suddenly, my stories were on the front page with a byline. I thought I had reached the pinnacle of my career – but I was wrong there was more to come.
Our office at the front of the building was U-shaped with two entrances next to each other. A brick wall separated two desks on one side and two on the other. The wall ended about 10 feet before the outside wall. We were continuously walking around from one side to the other. At some point in the early ’70s, Don popped over to my desk and said, “How would you like to be our police reporter?”
The Police Reporter
I’m sure I stared at him for several seconds before I said, “Sure, why not?” Now I had a real beat. We had sports covered, county government was a beat, and now I had my own. And then suddenly realized I was the first female to cover the police beat in the Whig’s history. My whole schedule changed. Woman’s Page stuff had to be done by Friday, except obits and births.
On Monday mornings I left from home and drove to the MSP barrack in North East. There were no press releases in those days. It didn’t take long for the sergeant on duty at the front desk to just hit the unlock button and let me into the offices. The last sergeant I remember was Frank Horseman. Betty Weed was the secretary. I always stopped first in the captain’s office for a quick overview of the past week. I don’t remember all of their names except Larry Rush and Murray Szep. From there, I freely walked downstairs to the criminal division for the latest on drug raids, homicides, etc.
The troopers down there were a select bunch of professional sleuths. Two of them I remember well were Bob Ventura and Fran Dixon. One day I admitted I didn’t have a clue what marijuana smelled like. One of them took me into the lab in a back room where a small dead plant was sitting on the counter and promptly set it aflame with his lighter. “There ya go,” he said. I guess that was my test for entry into the criminal division.
I was similarly initiated at the Cecil County Sheriff’s office, then in the old building on North Street. After being welcomed by Sheriff Sam duPont, he sent me upstairs to meet their criminal investigator – Bernie Johnson. Bernie didn’t waste any time to introduce me to criminal cases. After greetings and introductions, he walked across the room, opened a closet and threw me a pair of boxer shorts covered in dried blood. I caught it just as he asked, “What do you think of that?” And I said something like: “Looks like somebody needed a really big band-aid.” He burst out laughing and said, “You’re gonna be OK.”
At another time in my career, I entered the NE MSP barrack one morning. Sgt. Horseman smiled and unlocked the door and I walked downstairs to the criminal department, opened the door and faced a group of men in outlandish attire. Gold chains, tattoos, long dirty hair, and I turned right around and left. Then, just a few steps away, I heard laughter, and one of the men opened the door and ushered me safely back into the office. Turned out the motley crew were part of undercover troopers on the narcotics squad. They had a big laugh about my misunderstanding.
Somewhere along my history with MSP Barrack, I got an offer for a ride in their helicopter. I was just figuring out how to get aboard when they got an emergency call and my flight was cancelled. On another occasion, I rode with a trooper when they had just received the latest radar speed detectors.
I did bump into Larry Rush some months after he had retired. He was a “greeter” at Walmart. I almost didn’t recognize him. He had sprouted a handsome mustache! He admitted he had waited years to have one.
It wasn’t unusual for me to be sitting at my desk writing up a police story from my collection of notes and stop suddenly. Was that statement “on the record” or not? And I always called to be sure it was ok to print. Or not.
I also recall a Sunday when I was driving on 272 from the grocery store in North East and suddenly saw a blinking red light behind me. Now who in the heck would pull me over? They all knew my 1963 beige Buick. But this trooper I had never seen before. There I am attired in my old ragged red quilted barn coat and an “old lady” bandana tied under my chin. After showing my license and registration, he gave me a warning for doing 55 in a 50 mph zone.
On Monday, I made my usual first stop at the NE Barrack. Sgt. Horseman let me in and I stopped at the Captain’s desk to find out who had written me a warning the day before. And he burst out laughing. It could only have been their newest rookie sent to the barrack last week. I hope the poor guy didn’t get too much ribbing from his new flock of buddies.
While I didn’t visit the MSP Barrack on 1-95 very often, I did call them regularly. On one occasion, I got a telephone call from one of our readers asking why he hadn’t covered the terrible accident last week on 1-95. I was totally blank. How could I have missed that? I had talked to the sergeant at the barrack and was told all was quiet that week. I called them again to figure out how this accident was missed. The sergeant admitted to me that there had been an accident, but there were no injuries and certainly not a fatality.
What happened? The driver had lost control of the vehicle and on its first roll, the driver was thrown out of the car and landed on the embankment. From there he watched his car continue to roll down the highway over and over and finally came to rest on the shoulder. And then he had walked down to see what was left of the car. I did return that call to the person who had made the inquiry and explained what happened and why it wasn’t published.
Another regular Monday visit for news was the Elkton Police Department, located behind the City Building on North Street downtown. Tom McIntire was the chief of the department. And I fondly remember Willie May, Ray Murphy, Joe Zurolo and Marshal Purner. One of the memorable stories from them was when Zurolo fell and broke a leg chasing a suspect.
Photography
Photography was not on my list of duties. But there came a day when Don handed me a camera and sent me off to an accident at the intersection of Rt. 279 and Blueball Road. Cheeseman was not available. My expertise with a camera was a little Brownie. It’s OK, he said. Just look into that little window and push this button. That was my first lesson in how to operate a camera. The incident turned out to be a double fatal accident. I took a couple of shots of the damaged vehicles. But the most poignant photo I did not take. I couldn’t. It was one of the MSP troopers that I knew and he was holding a small bundle in his arms with tears in his eyes. He didn’t see me. And I turned away.
There were only three photographs that I keenly remember that were published during my years at the Whig. I don’t remember who took them. But one was a shot of an MSP trooper driving really slow along the shoulder of 273 – with a horse walking behind the car and a rope attached to the bumper. The second one I remember was probably taken by Cheeseman: An MSP car parked near the Courthouse with an Elkton Police Department ticket on the windshield. The third was a photo by Dick Frear. One of his most famous pictures was a butterfly sitting on an empty beer can. I was crushed when he told me that the butterfly in fact was a dead one that he had picked up and staged on the beer can.
Rosemary Culley
One of my best friends to be was Rosemary Culley. At the time, she was an emergency operator located in the basement of the county courthouse. She was widely known throughout the county when she had initially single-handedly dealt with the major airplane crash at the Turnquist Development on Delancy Road in 1963. That deadly crash was a few years before I met her. However, there was an event several years after that crash that was never published.
A woman who lived in that area came into the Whig one day and wanted to know why we had never published the story about the ghost in that development. She then told me her story: She claimed that several of the folks who lived there had seen the ghost of a little boy. She described him as about 5 years old. He had blonde hair and always seemed to be looking for his mother. She said she had seen him herself a few times, always at the top of her stairs and crying. Most of the homes in that area had been built on the site where the plane crashed.
Unfortunately, none of the witnesses who had seen that ghost wanted to be named publicly. And I had to tell her that without names to document their story, it could not be published. Rosemary and several others I asked later had not heard the story.
One of the many memorable events with Rosemary occurred at the “Housing” (Grand Opening) of the new firehouse on Singerly Road. After all the speeches were over, she came to me and said, “Come on. The crew is going to give us a ride in the snorkel.” What? I thought she meant the truck. But the ride turned out to be in the lift basket. And I’m scared to death of heights! But there we were with no turning back and a few minutes later we were high enough up to see the traffic on Route 40. All the whooping and hollering below quickly made us realize it was windy up there and we were both wearing skirts! I think we were “set up” for that hoist to the skies!
As I mentioned before, my old ’63 Buick was widely known by most police around the county. But it really came in handy for another local plane crash. It had happened about 4 a.m. in a wooded area on Middle Road. When I got to work, Don sent me up there to see what I could learn. I hadn’t even thought that other news media would be ahead of me. But there they were. All the area TV stations: Baltimore, Wilmington – all lined up and parked on the side of the narrow road. Fire police weren’t allowing anybody into the site. The road was blocked by yellow tape. They were all just sitting there – waiting. And then the fire policeman recognized my old unmarked Buick and waved me in! I’m sure all the news crews didn’t have a clue who I was – maybe a member of the family? I didn’t care what they thought. Another fire police member showed me to a parking spot. I could have hugged him – but didn’t. It was Tuesday. Our deadline day.
I could have walked to the crash site – but was told it was deep in the woods and muddy. But they were all talking about it – and I listened. The plane was upside down. A small plane and the two men had been identified as navy personnel. Both dead and hanging from their seat belts in the upside-down plane. The original theory was that they had been flying in the dark and somehow were flying upside down when the plane crashed – with no evidence they had even tried to avoid the crash.
Blissfully, I sailed back to the Whig, waving to all the reporters and camera crews as I went thru the long lines on both sides of /the road. The story was the top front-page headline when the Whig was run on the press Tuesday night and “on the streets” (as we say) on Wednesday morning. Don was ecstatic. The TV crews held back were too late for morning editions and what was published in evening papers had only the basic facts and apparently they had not been given the details that had freely been given to the local paper. Maybe by then they had figured out who that strange lady in the old car had been.
My Most Challenging Interview
My most challenging interview came unexpectantly and was never published. It was a quiet day in the newsroom with just Don and I working in the newsroom. A man walked into the Whig and told the receptionist he wanted to talk to the police reporter. She directed him to me and as he approached my desk introduced himself as Bruce Johnston. He wanted to tell me a story about our Sheriff Jack deWitt. According to him, deWitt had “set him up” for an encounter in Chester County. First of all, he complained the Sheriff had no business or authority in the state of Pennsylvania. He rambled on and I dutifully took notes. I knew his reputation, of course and my comments were basically: “Is that so?” “Really? I didn’t know that.” while scribbling on my notepad. Don had quietly positioned himself behind the wall that separated us and was listening intently but unseen by Johnston. He occasionally peeked around the wall to let me know he was there.
Johnston finally left, and I sat there stunned. Don flattered me, saying I handled the situation perfectly. I don’t remember when this interview occurred. But it was obviously before the numerous homicides that ended his criminal career.
Johnston was the leader of one of the most notorious gangs in the history of Pennsylvania. The gang formed in the 1960s and had a long history of daring thefts and calculated robberies. The gang split in 1978 after an altercation between them. Johnston’s career ended in 1978 with a shootout between the two sides that killed six people – including his son James. His son, Bruce Johnston Jr. survived the shootout and testified against his father Bruce, Sr. Johnston and two others were convicted for the murders and sentenced to six years for each of the victims and the attempted murder of his son, Bruce Jr. He died of liver cancer in 2002 in the Graterford Prison in Pennsylvania. There was even a movie released in 1986 about the Johnston Gang titled “At Close Range.”
Working With Don Herring
Working with Don for 12 years was never a dull moment. During the first few days of his newly appointed position, we learned that his antique typewriter was a hallmark of his newspaper days even before he arrived in Elkton from a busy major newspaper in Indiana. We laughed at it. For antique, it was. An old black upright with round keys and clacked away as he typed with two fingers. He was actually quite fast at his typing, and we soon just ignored it. I hope somehow that old machine has made its way into a history museum somewhere.
There were no computers in those days. No cell phones for instant communication. No cameras as part of those phones. We all had typewriters. Mine was an IBM Selectric. Even the thought of”voice” typing was unheard of. Our photographer, Jim Cheeseman, didn’t have any of the new fancy camera equipment. All of our photos were on film that he rolled by hand and developed in a darkroom where he also made our prints. Before police/fire scanners came along, we had monitors. A green box with an antenna sat on the window sill in our office. Later I also had one at home.
As for the paper on which we typed our stories – that paper came from the giant rolls of paper used on the printing press. When we got low on paper, one of the guys in the press room cut a huge stack of letter size paper from those rolls – cutting it with a piece of equipment that could only be called a guillotine with the finished stack 1-2 feet high.
I have memories of Don that are not in the history books and not important in any way. They have stuck in my mind only because they were comical. Don had a sarcastic sense of humor and those who knew him will probably remember. For instance:
One year he gave me a present for Christmas. It was a fully typed page of just commas. He gave it to me as a one-year supply and said I should be sure to use them more often.
We went together to a train derailment along Route 40 near Elkton. Unable to even get into the area with roadblocks everywhere, he parked his car on the shoulder of the highway. We could see the overturned train and he hopped out of his car and said,” Come on – We’ll just walk across this field.” Midway across the field, we sank into a nice, cold, wet patch of mud. “I’ll ruin my shoes!” I said. “It’s OK,” he said, “Come on – We can buy you a new pair of shoes.” (The train derailment was the end-result of a test run of a high speed train. All traffic on the tracks had been closed for the event and there were no injuries to the train crew.)
On another occasion, I was headed off to an event I don’t even remember when I discovered my dear old Buick wouldn’t start. I headed back into the office and Don said, “It’s ok. Take my car.” and handed me his keys. On my way out the door, he said. “Be careful where you park. It doesn’t go in reverse.”
I distinctly remember another day when he was getting ready to leave for a meeting. It was raining hard and he pulled on his raincoat. I said to him, “You can’t wear that. The hem in the back is hanging down.” He promptly took off the offending raincoat. Laid it on his desk and used his stapler to “fix” it. Then he donned the coat and left totally unperturbed by the event. I’m pretty sure that incident confirmed my lesson to ”think outside of the box.”
One of his favorite personal stories: While stationed in Korea during that war, he was excited to have been among a huge crowd of young military officers and recruits to see Marilyn Monroe in person on a mission to cheer the troops. With hundreds of whistles and shouts, the crowd was thrilled to see her. It was the highlight of his military service. And the only one he ever talked about.
Tropical Storm Agnes
One of the major events in my years at the Whig was Tropical Storm Agnes in 1972. There were photographers from everywhere converging on the lower Susquehanna. Cheeseman was already out there, and I decided to stay in the office and make lots and lots of phone calls.
One of the reports from the local fire marshal was that two finished tunnel tubes at Wiley Manufacturing had been towed out into the middle of the river and loaded with explosives. The reasoning behind this action was that IF the Conowingo Dam collapsed the massive flood that would follow could tear the tunnels loose from their moorings at Wiley and rage downriver. If that had occurred, they could have slammed into the 1-95 and route 40 bridges and perhaps even the CSX and Amtrak railroad bridges. But that, fortunately, didn’t happen. In the local towns along the river evacuations were underway. In Cecil and Harford County police, fire and rescue crews scrambled to stay ahead of the imminent danger. Rosemary Culley and her crew in the basement of the courthouse made announcements and calls for help throughout the day.
Late in the afternoon, a spokesman at the North East MSP barrack told me the water level on the north side of the dam was being monitored continually. An unidentified expert (I assumed a state engineer) had estimated a specific maximum height at which the dam could likely fail. I don’t’ remember the exact height. At home that evening, I listened to the monitor as MSP regularly reported the water height. I dared not lay down and fall asleep. Finally, at 4 a.m. the dam report was within inches of the danger zone. I drove down to the NE Barrack and waited for news. Within the next hour the water height had slowed and then stopped rising. We all cheered at that moment when the announcement was made and I went home to catch some sleep before going into work.
During those years as a police reporter, I sometimes noticed a mild rift between the State Police and the Sheriff’s Office. It was never mentioned or discussed. I assumed that the situation had begun in the 1940s when families flocked to Cecil County for jobs at the huge Triumph Explosives site near Elkton. Several families had also followed William duPont from Virginia. But for hundreds of years even preceding the increase in population, the sheriff’s departments had been responsible for serving warrants and other court related duties, maintaining security, and the local jail. The sheriff deputies were directly accountable to the citizens and their locally elected sheriff.
In those southern states from where most of those new arrivals came, were accustomed to a different range of duties. When they needed emergency help or assistance, they had routinely called the Sheriff’s office. At that time State Police handled traffic accidents, homicides, and criminal activities. In Cecil County both units had duties and responsibilities that frequently overlapped.
Returning to Cecil County
On my return to Cecil County after 15 years in Wicomico County, I realized that relations had improved. MSP and sheriff’s vehicles are now often seen working together at local incidents.
Another new advantage I quickly discovered upon my return must be a blessing for fire and police reporters today. The fire companies now take their own photos at the site of fires and post them to their websites. Reporters today don’t have to freeze their fingers and toes on a dark night taking photos and comments while stepping over a web of fire hoses and gratefully huddle on the nice warm side of a fire truck.
Over the past 40 years, Don and I kept in touch mostly by the old-fashioned telephone. At some point, we started referring to the paper as the “Whiglet.” When he and his parrot (Moe) moved to Hurlock to be closer to family, we occasionally met at the Cambridge Diner for a quick get-together as Bob and I traveled back and forth from Wicomico to Cecil County. I still miss my dear friend.
