Sally Mason Archives » Lynda Waddington

19Jan 2015 by Lynda Waddington

Let Mason departure herald new age of messy

Gazette Column

The People’s Republic of Johnson County is a messy place, often overrun with public meetings and task force investigations. Everyone, it seems, wants a voice. Because of this, Johnson County and many of its subdivisions — the Iowa City Community School District, city governments and subcommittees — receive a lot of public and media attention, not all of it positive. There is no shortage of people, including me, who are willing to dig through the messy remnants and eek out an opinion on what should have been — the vast majority of such wisdom resting on the perch of hindsight. And while there is and should be a place for those who look behind, hopefully wrapping and presenting past experiences for the benefit of others, we should always be grateful…

Sally Mason refills DI’s dance card

Gazette Column

Don’t forget to enjoy the dance. That’s the advice my first newspaper editor offered nearly every time I left to do an interview. A good-natured cynic with an internal scale for fairness, I’m convinced Rudy embodied most stereotypes surrounding newspaper guys. His clothes were rarely free of wrinkles, not that he noticed or cared. He could remember the name of the old city manager’s brother’s cousin’s side business, but couldn’t find his keys. The top of his desk was the inspiration for Jenga; his bottom left drawer the keeper of whiskey and Dixie cups. And I was the green banana that soaked up his advice like sunlight. Rudy had a theory on interviews. They were, he said, a lot like dancing, with each person hoping to show off their own…

Bringing the University of Iowa out of its fog

Gazette Column

Sally Mason, spokesmen could benefit from sunlight Last Friday morning, as I turned the corner of Clinton and Washington streets en route to a breakfast meeting, a figure on the Pentacrest caught my eye. It was early and still foggy as I stared, my brain racing to register what it was seeing. I flipped through scenarios: a mostly white trench coat, maybe a homeless person, a lighthearted holiday sock-top with an elven point at the top. Bile rose as I moved forward, seeing the shape of a person in the ceremonial garb of white supremacists. Anger percolated. Hateful scenes, talk and writing from my past in the South flickered. A sign on a country road announcing a curfew, punishable by death, for people of color. Students teasing a new white…