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Connie Buie Elkins

I’m old enough and responsible enough that I no longer try to avoid funerals. I’m heading to one on Tuesday of one of my mentors, Connie. Now that I’ve attended a variety, eulogies have become fascinating. The best-intentioned speakers try to illuminate the mourners on less commonly known aspects of the deceased but alway end up talking about themselves. The less-self-conscious eulogizers spew on, not a biography of the departed but about what he or she meant to them.

No matter the bereaved, it’s always more about them. It can’t be helped. Still, the best remembrances accomplish the intent: We mourners learn about the one who left.

Infamous Arkansas editor John R. Starr was discovered at his service to have been a good father and devoted husband. A man with a reputation among politicians and his employees as a bully had coached youth baseball for years. This was imparted by family members and tearful former baseball proteges. They were talking about themselves.

Starr hired my friend Connie Elkins some years before he offered me an evening-shift copy editing job in 1985.

Connie Buie Elkins
Connie Elkins, family photo, via Robinson Funeral Home, Pine Bluff

She was a copy editor but one who worked 7:30-3:30 editing features for the sections built in advance — style, society, religion, travel and so on. I was aware of her but had not grown close until early in 1987, when I was promoted to wire editor, selecting and further editing of national and international articles from wire services, with a 10-6 shift.

Until Connie’s retirement in June 1991, I sat between her and Celia Storey, then another day copy editor and now in charge of recreation and fitness coverage. If my first 18 months on the night desk confirmed the rightness of returning to Arkansas to live and newspapering as the right career, the weekdays spent next to Connie cemented them. (Celia starting in 1988 would encourage and edit my humor column Mirthology.)

Connie Elkins was a consummate newspaper professional. A conventional professional — a lawyer or dentist — looks quiet, serious, competent and knows their power and uses it well. The best newspapermen and newspaperwomen are all of those as well, except they’re rarely quiet and don’t keep their seriousness in check. Connie would bemoan careless reporting when she came across it and was merciless about bad grammar and carelessness about people’s names. But what other newsroom personnel would remember are her peals of near-raucous laughter that traveled even to corner offices. She roared at the work, but more often she laughed at the cracks made by her colleagues while working (merge in your imagination the TV shows Lou Grant and M*A*S*H).

A newsroom structurally can influence that attitude. Until 1992, the Arkansas Democrat’s city room comprised most of the early 20th-century building’s second story, holding around a hundred editors and reporters, writers and photographers. Everything was dingy and old, except for the occasional fresh, cheap chair to replace a worn-out one. Smoking — that would not be banned until the move to a renovated, previously unused third floor — yellowed the paint. Smoke would have smudged clear windows, but ages earlier those had been replaced with milk glass so the space had no direct light. The second floor was Linoleum, the 12-inch tiles alternated black and white into a surreal checkerboard. In the 1980s, however, it was free of typewriter clacking, due to the company having gone largely electronic. Thus while it felt like the 1950s, you could hear yourself think and easily converse.

My first memories of Connie Elkins thus have that strong visual and aural component, besides her personality. As an editor, Connie was meticulous; nothing got past her. We would discuss the news of the day, and her wise eye would help me prepare for the daily 1A budget meeting. The only part of her life outside of work of which I was aware would be that her youngest daughter, Cynda, a bit younger than me, came in sometimes so they could enjoy a lunch out.

The second phase of our friendship began the night of her 1991 retirement party. I went out of my fondness for Connie. Also, I was anxious to meet Paul Greenberg, who had just accepted the position of editorial page editor of the Democrat, resigning from the similar post at the Pine Bluff Commercial. Paul knew Connie from her years there.  The party was at the home of George Wells, a reporter with the Arkansas Gazette, where Connie also had worked. This was a warm, chatty evening where competition was left behind. Cynda and her fiance brought along Cynda’s cute best friend. That woman in a couple of years became My Beloved.

When MB had moved to Little Rock in the mid-1980 and grew close to Cynda, Connie took on the role of MB’s local mom. She welcomed MB to virtually all family gatherings, from Christmas mornings to Buffalo River float trips. When MB and I married in 1993, I became in turn something of an adopto-quasi-son-in-law. Work invariably kept me from the long weekend outings, though MB went, but I spent Christmases and some pleasant afternoons in Connie’s Pine Bluff home and in recent years, her place in Little Rock.

Her conversation with MB was intimate, familial. With me, through our last visit many months ago, Connie just wanted to talk shop: newsroom politics, newsroom gossip and the world news of the day.

Yet when I picture Connie now, I see her in the newsroom, chortling loudly while typing really fast, multitasking as copy editors do. Her appearance in the office was matriarchal, perhaps a little intimidating to staff who didn’t know her. It never took long for anyone who cared to look to see past the gruff grande dame editor persona to see a wide-ranging intelligence and that her quips and laughter never had an edge.

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