As long-term managing editor of the Robinson-Blackmore chain, Ron Ennis mentored many of the journalists who were the voices for the tiny outports that dot this island. Those journalists now telling stories right across this country are Ron’s greatest legacy.
Ron believed in community journalism. He believed that it could right wrongs and bring people together. And because he believed so strongly in the good journalism can do, he always treated those he worked with with respect and dignity, something you rarely experience in this business.
He taught his people to be empathetic, to care about their communities and their readers. He made them think about the words they wrote and the power behind them.
He taught me that, too.
I arrived in Clarenville in the midst of a February snowstorm as an editor at one of the papers Ron managed. When Ron came to the office to deal with an underperforming reporter, he treated the reporter with kid gloves.
“There’s no sense leaving a trail of bodies in your wake,” he told me in his trademark gentle tone.
I never forgot that as I moved around the country. And I always heard those words ringing in my ears when strangling an offending reporter seemed like the only option.
Ron was an imposing figure, but he was the most gentle of giants. Most of his hair had long ago vanished or turned white, either because of the business or maybe it was hereditary. He spoke in gentle tones and often used words that one only understood within the context of the sentence he placed them so thoughtfully in.
He could only stay a moment. As usual, he was on his way to a newspaper office somewhere to deal with some sort of crisis.
Regularly, Ron would call me to vent. He spent his day’s fending off bean counters and myopic executives who couldn’t give a damn about doing the right thing – not unless it made them money. To Ron, it was all about doing the right thing. Every day was a battle for Ron. He fought each one with far more grace and dignity than those he battled with. Ron could have thrown his hands up and walked away. It would have been far easier for him to just acquiesce to the demands of the bean counters and the profiteers in St. John’s, but he didn’t.
“This is a brutal, brutal business,” he would say during each of those venting moments, while, at the same time, always trying to shield his young charges from that brutality.
On my final day with the chain, Ron drove four hours through a snowstorm to say goodbye. He didn’t have to make the trip. A few words over the phone would have sufficed, but this is what made Ron, Ron. He could only stay a moment. As usual, he was on his way to a newspaper office somewhere to deal with some sort of crisis. I met him outside by his truck that had crisscrossed the island hundreds of times. He handed me a Swiss Army knife, hugged me and told me to take care of myself. I still have that little red knife and I carry it with me everywhere.
It was only a few years ago that Ron retired. His plan was to spend his retirement at his cabin loving this place, loving his family. He talked about it often. And after fighting the good fight for so many years, after it almost killed him, he got to spend far too little time at that cabin.
Last year I called him to thank him for putting up with me, for standing beside me, for shaping me as a person and a reporter, for tempering the cocky young journalist who first walked into his office so many years ago. He took it all in stride. We laughed and told a few stories. It was the Ron I had always known.
But mostly, I thanked him for making me a better person.
Savage journey 