By Love Cruikshane, Tribune columnist

The story told to a journalism class back in the 1930s was supposed to be true. Something had gone wrong with the plane in which Eleanor Roosevelt was a passenger and the plane was going to crash. Only the crew and the reporters aboard knew this. The passengers didn’t.

The reporter personally covering Mrs. Roosevelt used what she supposed were her last moments to record final activities.

If the passengers didn’t know what was happening, when she started, they must have known by the time she finished. She was writing frantically on little bits of paper and putting them in her compact, in various pockets and other receptacles that might survive the crash.

The journalism professor was magnificent in his enthusiasm on how a good reporter puts the story first. Not for an instant must the dedicated one waste time on anything so self-centered as demanding a parachute or trying to hail a passing airplane. Any available time must be devoted to THE STORY.

I doubt if there was a student in that class that wasn’t thrilled to the eyelashes and toenails by that story. Such courage &045; we all wanted to be soldiers of dedication.

And then came that anti-climax always to be associated by me with journalistic endeavors.

&uot;I suppose some people are more impressed than I am,&uot; said the professor. &uot;After all, I’m a Republican.&uot;

The first time I visited the deep South, I had immersed myself in &uot;Huck Finn,&uot; and &uot;Life on the Mississippi,&uot; before starting on the trip (by train). When we swept into view of the first sight of the majestic river under the southern sun, still lost among my dreams of scenes from Mark Twain, I let out a mew of pure ecstasy.

&uot;That’s really the Mississippi?&uot; I breathed with awe.

&uot;Why yes, Ma’am,&uot; said the porter looking a little uncomfortable. &uot;But tell me, don’t they have the Mississippi in Minnesota, too?&uot;

One of the most stylish examples of anti-climax I ever saw occurred during the first big story to which I was assigned. I think it was the American Association of University Women during a convention here, either a national or a state. It was during the extreme McCarthy era and some dame had accused the AAUW of being Communist. As a result, the event was covered by reporters from the Twin Cities papers and from the Chicago Tribune.

My assignment had been given by chance and having no background in journalism, I was totally immersed in apprehension. Fortunately, at my lunch table was an experienced young reporter from Minneapolis. She took one look at me and guessed my panic and took me under her wing.

&uot;When I get up from the table,&uot; she told me, &uot;you get up, too, and follow me. I’ve got a hunch that this dame who’s screaming Communist is going to have a little private interview with a sympathetic listener. I want to hear it.&uot;

The moment came. She walked. I walked. The anti-Communist informer, a rather attractive, expensively-dressed woman who should have appeared distinguished but didn’t was mewed up with the reporter from the Chicago Tribune &045; a broad-of-beam creature wearing a wide-brimmed black-and-white picture hat. She wore other clothes, too, I hasten to add. It’s that hat that lingers in the memory.

Evidence presented by the undistinguished one was neutral as anything could possibly be. The reporters listened, two of us without comment. Chicago Tribune’s girl was enthusiastic.

She fronted us confidentially. &uot;Well, that’s it,&uot; she announced. &uot;The straight Commie line. Wouldn’t you say?&uot;

We’re here to report the news,&uot; said my new friend, &uot;Not interpret it.&uot;

She departed the room with some dignity and I scampered after her like a squirrel, realizing I’d just been given a rule of journalism that would forever stand me in good stead.

The reputation of AAUW was forever cleared. I’d like to say I achieved control and dignity, but the sense of anti-climax accompanied me throughout my journalistic career.

I’ve always blamed it in part on the weekly family stories.

I almost always liked the families about whom I wrote and sometimes during the interview, a friendship would grow between us. After the interview, I would say kindly things to the hostess and she would say kindly things to me. As the close of these lingering farewells, I would almost always say good-bye and walk &045; not out of the outside door &045; but into her broom closet.

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column runs Thursday.)