Former president Jimmy Carter is dead and the rush is on to share memories, some of them personal. Allow me to join the crowd.
I was a young reporter, working nights at the local Woke Gazette, back when it still was a legitimate newspaper, and the night managing editor decided to give me a learning experience. Jimmy Carter (I presume it was his Johnstown stop during primary season of 1976, but my memory is unclear on this point) was landing at the Johnstown airport and I was told to accompany a veteran reporter to greet Carter, just to see how such things were done.
I still recall the veteran griping on the car ride to the airport about having been sent to interview the “Peanut Farmer from Georgia.”
This veteran reporter was a Democrat and a liberal, which at the time meant he was a lot of things populist Republicans are today, not some far left supporter of illegal immigrants, transsexuals and the general demise of the nation. He kept lamenting the fact that our political writer, typical for the time, worked daylight Monday through Friday, and couldn’t be budged from his home even to report on the arrival of a guy who would go on to be president.
As an aside, this same absent political reporter was a bit of an egomaniac. Years later, when the sports column format began running the names of the writers in huge, 48-point type, this guy went to management and griped to get his name larger, too, on his political columns! As long as he didn’t have to work nights and weekends, as sports columnists did.
Back to our Carter story. We reached the airport and waited. Carter’s plane landed and, in those less paranoid security times, we walked to fence to await him. My veteran reporter mentor still was griping, presuming – correctly – that Carter would identify us as media and rush to talk to us.
Carter flashed his famous toothy grin and indeed rushed to the fence. As I recall, we both shook his hand, there was a brief interview and I was quickly hustled to the car by my guide, who wanted to get back to the office, write something and be done with it all before heading to Brownie’s, the Kernville establishment favored by nightside news people.
Through the years it was determined that Carter, while a decent man, was a bust as president. Ronald Reagan sent Carter back to Plains, Georgia, in a 1980 landslide win. Carter presided over high energy prices, high inflation and the decline of the American image abroad. The populace couldn’t wait to get rid of him. Sound familiar?
In later years, I developed a friendship with Dr. Robert Hartnett, who was active in local sports, including running for years the local Junior Baseball League, which provided the Johnstown team or teams for the AAABA Tournament.
Dr. Hartnett knew that I fished, but did not fly fish and he was determined to change that. It was like the night news reporter who insisted I try golf. We went to Richand Greens, hit a bucket of balls at the range, then I shot some high number for nine holes. I never again played golf.
Dr. Hartnett owned a “cottage” on Spruce Creek, which is to say probably a $200,000 house. One of Doc’s selling points was this was the creek frequented by Carter as a fly fisherman. I drove over to the cottage one afternoon. I fly fished at or near where Carter had fished – me unsuccessfully – and came home. Like my golf experience, I never again picked up a fly rod.
But it was entertaining to see the “trained trout” rise as the caretaker threw pellets of food into the creek after we were done fishing. I am confident Jimmy did better on his fishing trips to Spruce Creek.
RIP, James Earl Carter.
Sam Ross Jr's site 