The presidential aspirations of Ronald Reagan were gasping and nearly done when he arrived in Charlotte in 1976. Defeated in early season primaries by appointed President Gerald Ford, Reagan desperately needed to show the money masters and the press that he could win somewhere.
Reagan devoted himself, body and soul, to winning the North Carolina Republican primary. For eight consecutive days, he campaigned across the state giving interviews to every fence post and church bulletin journalist he could find.
His determination and a case of the flu brought him in contact with me when I was just starting my career in journalism.
The flu belonged to my boss, the news director of WAME-AM in Charlotte, a country music station with a four-person news department where I was the cub reporter. Cloyd Bookout, what a name, the news director, was the one with the flu. He was too sick to leave his bed and I was given the plum assignment of hanging out with the national press corps during lunch and then interviewing Reagan in his hotel suite. Since I was only three months removed from spinning records at a black Gospel radio station in the hinterland of eastern North Carolina, this was big-time.
Reagan was to speak at a luncheon at a hotel named the Downtowner East on McDowell Street near the edge of uptown Charlotte. The audience, the Republican Women’s Club, was made up o almost entirely of blue-haired ladies in go to church dresses. To these ladies Reagan wasn’t the main draw. That distinction belonged to Jimmy Stewart, the Oscar winning actor who no doubt was a former and current heartthrob to the broad bottomed ladies who gathered in the hotel.
Stewart was a longtime friend of Reagan’s. He did a too-short introduction and Regan delivered a stump speech that was forgotten before dessert. Then a curious thing happened with the national press corps. As the candidate rambled at the lectern, a decision was made that Reagan would respond to a question from a reporter about the news of the day, I forget what it was. The reporters and Reagan’s campaign staffed worked out the question and even how it would be asked. Reagan would take it as he was leaving the ballroom with a designated reporter stepping in front of him to ask the question.
Before the days of high definition flip cameras and phones, broadcast journalists relied on something called film which required the light of a super nova and precise focus to create an embarrassingly grainy image. To ensure that Reagan would literally be in the best light, a duct taped X, guaranteed to rip the wallpaper, marked the spot on the wall where the candidate was to stop.
The reporter who got to ask the important question of the day was Frank Reynolds, then a national political reporter for the ABC television network. The impromptu staging of a reporter casually walking up to the candidate was overshadowed by a dozen whirring cameras and the microphones that were thrust in Reagan’s face. He dutifully answered the question and moved toward a waiting elevator.
Thanks to a bored Secret Service agent who blocked my way I followed in another elevator. When I got to Reagan’s suite the magic words apparently were, “I’m here to do an interview.” Since I was carrying a SONY 110A audio cassette recorder and because I was wearing a shirt and tie with a non-matching windbreaker there could be no doubt that I was a poorly paid news reporter. I was led right in.
Senator Paul Laxalt of Nevada was on the phone in the interview room; he quickly hung up, shook hands and left the room. In short order the candidate walked in, shook hands, sat on a sofa and said he would be happy to answer any questions. What followed was a list of questions that weren’t nearly as memorable as his stump speech. I do remember asking him if he was worried about being assassinated, (he was not) and if he liked the food on the campaign trail, (he did.)
Convinced that his answers made him presidential timbre I took my leave of the candidate to file my stories for the vast audience of Dolly Parton fans who were forced by the FCC to listen to three whole minutes of news each and every hour.
My measure of the someday president was that he was a genial fellow and a good communicator who looked you right in the eye when he spoke. He always seemed to be about half a sentence away from telling you the punch line of a joke.
Reagan carried North Carolina in the primary but lost the nomination to Gerald Ford, who laid the ground work for Reagan’s resurrection by losing the general election to Jimmy Carter who, four years later, lost to Ronald Reagan. I doubt Mr. Reagan ever spent as much time in North Carolina as he did during that week in 1976.
Ronald Reagan Faces My Tough Questions
The Prime Minnister and the Tour Bus
Edward Heath faces my tough question.
Because fame often outlives relevance, interviews and press conferences with the former-famous are like eighth grade dances, an odd mix of familiarity and awkwardness.
Ex-anythings, most political wives and a lot of authors fall into the category of people we may have heard of but don’t have a connection with beyond the repetition of their claim to fame. Interesting but not really newsworthy.
Edward Heath
Such was almost the case for me with former British Prime Minister Edward Heath. For him, I had a tough, embarrassing question. Well, sort of.
In 1988, when Heath came to Charlotte, he was long past the zenith of a public career arc that spanned 50 years. Like a lot of the formerly famous Heath didn’t come to Charlotte to admire the gardens or tall buildings. The city isn’t known for either. He came to the Queen City for a payday, specifically to speak to a civic group that was fond of formerly famous people from the international stage…zzzzz
During the early 70’s Heath was Prime Minister during a tumultuous four years of labor unrest, economic struggles and bloody IRA headlines . After losing the PM, job he slinked to the backbench of Parliament where he served for another 27 years.
Heath was a charming fellow who began his press conference by saying that he didn’t have a statement but would be “delighted to respond to your queries.”
What followed was a dreary list of unmemorable “What do you think about” questions from reporters who obviously got this assignment with the expectation that there wasn’t much expected, which is another way of saying they hit the newsroom jackpot.
I waited until all of these so-called serious questions were asked before asking about Salisbury, England, his home.
Salisbury is the home of a great Cathedral and is the jumping off point for millions of tourists who annually visit and try to figure out Stonehenge, which is about 10 miles from the Cathedral.
When I visited Salisbury in 1987 a tour guide told me that we would have to make a five-minute walk from the bus parking lot to the Cathedral because Heath objected to having buses in the area around the Cathedral called the Cathedral Close. The tour guide was miffed that the former PM had somehow pulled rank locally to get the buses banned.
Back in Charlotte, it was payback time for my formerly sore feet and an unknown, annoyed tour leader. Actually, I knew that neither my question nor his answer would get into anyone’s story, including mine. But there he was, so why not?
“Mr Heath,” I asked, “will you ever relent in your objection to allowing buses in the Cathedral Close in Salisbury?”
Surprisingly, he took the question very seriously and wanted to know where I’d heard that. I told him a tour guide was my source.
Then he said, “Well, I wish had enough sway to keep the wretched busses out for eternity, what will all of their fumes, I think it is quite proper that they not be allowed in the close.”
Then he smiled, either at the oddity of the question, or the assumption that he had enough pull in Salisbury to get the buses banned. The press conference ended on that note.
Heath died in 2005. Apparently when he departed this world he had enough sway in his hometown to be buried in the peaceful confines of Salisbury Cathedral itself where, outside, the buses are still banned.
Barbi Benton’s Dress
To boomers of a certain age one of the aggravating injustices of the 70’s was the failure of Playboy magazine to make Barbi Benton a Playmate of the month. Sure, she was featured in several pictorial essays, right along side those thought provoking articles, but she never attained the star status of the monthly award which of course would have put her in line for Playmate of the Year honors. Life can be so unfair.
Benton is as all-American as it gets. Her voluptuous form and cheerleader next-door looks make her attractive to men. For women, she lived a fantasy life with a doll like name and a princess kissing a toad romance with reptilian Hugh Heffner. She appealed to both sexes because she could sing and tell bad jokes. Talents that she honed on the great corn ball TV show, “Hee Haw.”
While I may have gazed upon Barbi in magazines purchased by my roommates, I never expected to meet her.
But Barbi’s path and mine crossed in Charlotte in 1981. What brought her to town was the inaugural World 600 Children’s Charity Ball. Bruton Smith, the now ancient owner of the Charlotte Motor Speedway was hosting the ball in conjunction with the Memorial Day NASCAR race.
Benton joined a roster of celebs at the ball that I assume were there for the festivities and a payday. I was assigned to go to the ball and create a happy/fun TV news story. The station I worked for even rented a tux for me.
With camera crew in tow I surveyed the old Charlotte Convention Center for a story. There was Nick Buoniconti the ex-football player turned sportscaster dancing with the kind of rhythm usually found at a white folks wedding. Over there was Linda Evans in her lost days between “The Big Valley” and her “Dynasty” stardom, looking lonely but, after seeing Buoniconti, apparently not interested in dancing.
And then there was this woman wearing the most absolutely riveting dress I had ever seen.
It was a sleeveless cross between a saloon girl outfit and a gown that would be worn in the court of Louis XVI before he lost his head.
The dress that launched a thousand stares
Latte colored diaphanous ruffles in the skirt led upward to a taunt bodice which opened up to the most memorable feature of the dress, two flame like pieces of dark copper satin and sequins that rose out of the bodice forming apparition-like hands that held up an ample bosom.
I was startled from a stupor-like fixation on this dress when my photographer asked me if I had seen Barbi Benton.
“Barbi Benton is here?” I asked in astonishment, “Where.”
The photographer pointed to the dress, it was then that I realized that I hadn’t even look at her face.
I sought to rectify my oversight by getting an interview with the Venus in a cocktail dress, Barbi Benton, fantasy come to life. But it was not to be. A clique of what had to be out of work Chippendales surrounded Barbi and scowled at anyone who approached her for a dance, small talk or an interview.
No doubt the Chippendales were honorary Fire Marshalls whose job was to keep the nosey, titillated nobodies from Charlotte, NC from getting too close to Barbi’s flame-like dress.
Hey, Holy Father, Over Here
This post originally appeared as a newspaper column in the Catholic News Herald
One of the best parts of the job of being a news reporter is that you get to interact with and
TV Dave "Meets" Pope Benedict XVI with wife Debbie (in white sweater) 2006.
take your measure of famous people. During my days as a reporter I encountered my fair share. Ronald Reagan was sincere and unassuming; this was before he was elected President. Jimmy Carter was humble, yet very intense; this was after he was President. Arnold Schwarzenegger was friendly and self-confident. Billy Graham was thoughtful and calculating, Jesse Jackson was impatient.
So when I realized that I might have a chance to meet the Pope I thought I’d “been there done that,” when it comes to excitement over meeting someone famous.
I was wrong.
Encountering Benedict XVI, and I won’t overstate this, I got to shake his hand, is an experience that is on a different plane.
For my wife Debbie and me the occasion was a papal General Audience in 2006. As a Catholic the words Pope, Holy Father and Pontiff have been a part of my vocabulary since I was about three. To that lifelong familiarity add the majesty of St. Peter’s Square, the encompassing arms of the colonnade topped by statues of the saints of our faith, all of it in the shadow of the mighty Basilica of St. Peter. Top shelf words like awe inspiring and thrilling come up a little short in describing what it is like to be at the wellspring of a world-wide faith.
Receiving a personal Papal Blessing
40,000 Catholics, Christians and Jews gathered in this cobblestone courtyard. Some of usarrived, in the rain, when the gates opened, two and half hours before the audience began. Seating at a general audience is first come, first served, and even though I loathe the idea of waiting for a French fry at a fast-food joint, I had no qualms about devoting a full day of vacation to the possibility of being in the right place at the right time with the Pope.
When we first arrived at our assigned section an usher directed us to seats on the third row. Close, but not close enough. Then a small group on the front row moved. We didn’t ask why, we upgraded without hesitation.
A General Audience takes about 90 minutes. There was plenty of cheering and some singing from choirs that were on pilgrimage. Then Pope Benedict XVI delivered his message of devotion to the Eucharist is six languages. At the end of this series of mini-homilies the handshaking starts, first with the disabled who are brought to the Holy Father. Then he moves among the crowd. After walking and greeting people he climbed into the popemobile, the greeting continued, but now moving at a slightly faster pace.
It looked like he was going to come our way, but you never know about these things until they happen. And then he was right in front of us, stretching out his left hand. That’s when Debbie and I got to shake his hand and as you can see, receive his blessing. As I shook his small, soft hand I looked into the eyes of a kindly, caring man. I wanted to say something but the person behind me, who was shouting in Italian, grabbed the Holy Father’s attention and then Benedict was gone. A fleeting moment, a lifetime memory.
I jokingly said to Debbie, “I guess you can’t say that we never do anything interesting.” We were both on a spiritual high that, weeks later, is as fresh as a morning prayer. The famous and the notorious that I’d interviewed as a reporter were all interesting people, but the Pope, the successor of Peter, now there’s a guy who really whose soft hands leave a lasting impression.
Jimmy Carter and Fried Chicken
Trying to figure out a wireless microphone in 1987
In 1987, Habitat for Humanity kicked off a week of house building in Charlotte with a Sunday night fried chicken supper for the volunteers. It was here that I resolved the culinary dilemma of whether to eat bone-in chicken with a knife and fork or with my hands.
Habitat Week was a big deal because it had been announced months before that former President Jimmy Carter, his wife Rosalyn and daughter Amy would spend the week erecting one of the 19 houses that were to be built in the Optimist Park neighborhood of Charlotte. Optimist Park was a generous description for a worn down jumble of shotgun style mill houses that sat to close to the Southern Railway mainline near uptown.
In the weeks leading up to the construction, I had wrangled a deal with Habitat to do lengthy stories in both the 6 and 11 pm newscasts about the construction. In return for the coverage, I was put on President Carter’s crew.
The chicken supper was served at St. John’s Baptist Church in the Elizabeth neighborhood. Volunteers from all over the country were taking part in the project and in a town where I was recognized nearly everywhere I went, here I was among strangers.
The food was served buffet style and we moved quickly through four separate lines. In less than a minute I was in the gymnasium/dining room looking for a place to sit down. Rectangular tables were lined up in rows that spanned the length of the gym. I chose a table near the middle of a row.
A few minutes later the room was abuzz with the news that Jimmy Carter had arrived, and plate of food in hand, he was looking for a place to sit. I was about to dig in when a man in a jacket and tie, obviously a not-so Seceret Service agent asked me why I was sitting there. Never a fan of authority figures, I said, “I’m here to eat my food.”
“I saw you look the room over before you sat down. You just guessed where Mr. Carter was going to sit,” he said with a smile. Recognized and busted at the same time, I could only manage a sheepish grin.
Carter breezed into the room carrying his own tray and sat down directly across from me. We shook hands and I was mesmerized by his famous toothy smile. The table was now full of volunteers engaged in the “where are you from?” variety of small talk.
It was about this time that I realized that I had a problem. How should I eat the steaming fried chicken? with a knife and fork, or with my hands? Normally I eat fried chicken as haute cuisine, the Colonel’s way with emphasis on the finger part of finger-lickin’ good. But what’s the proper etiquette when you are in a room with hundreds of other people, and oh by the way, the former leader of the free world, best selling author and future Nobel laureate? I wasn’t alone in my concern; several people around me were pushing green beans and mashed potatoes around their plates waiting for someone else to drop the green flag on this delicate question.
Carter finished a brief gabfest with someone and with the same firm resolve that he deregulated the airlines, he picked up a lovely, crispy brown fried chicken breast with his hands and tucked into that bird with all the proper gusto of a south Georgia peanut farmer just in from the fields.
And so, as I grabbed the fried thigh on my plate, I realized that I was entering new gastronomic territory. I now know, that if I am ever invited to the White House to sup with the Pres, that I can consume chicken like Carter and eat the lovely bird with my hands.
Dale Earnhardt’s Furniture
Dale keeps moving during a trackside interview
In early 1982 NASCAR had a sticky PR problem. An FBI undercover investigation of marijuana smuggling led to the arrest of more than 40 people associated with stock car racing, including two drivers who had just competed in the Daytona 500.
The smugglers were using race car haulers to transport something other than the rugged, expensive cars that zoom around tracks in continuous left hand turns. Arrests were made in Georgia, South Carolina and North Carolina.
In the days before former news reporters like me took to corporate conference rooms to spread the Tylenol message of using the news media when you had bad news, organizations in trouble simply avoided reporters. NASCAR wasn’t returning phone calls when this story broke but NASCAR isn’t a monolith. It’s made up of sponsors and teams that often have a strained relationship with the sanctioning body. Among one of these somebody was going to talk.
Given that Charlotte was essentially the center of the stock car racing universe, there were a lot of possibilities for reaction interviews. That meant starting at the top, with the drivers. WSOC Sports anchor Harold Johnson had excellent contacts in the industry and he quickly made contact with Dale Earnhardt. At this point Dale was a one-time champion whose best days were ahead of him. Even though Dale had won the first of his seven driving championships in 1980, he was basically a mill worker turned race car driver who answered his own phone.
Johnson had to prepare for the six o’clock news and could not travel to Dale’s home on Lake Norman for the interview. I was given the address and told to get up there with a crew pronto.
The communication landscape was very different in 1982. No one had access to the internet and the idea of carrying a telephone with you everywhere seemed, well, stupid. Even so, the aperture of opportunity to talk with someone like Dale on a touchy subject was going to close fast. We wasted no time barreling up I-77 to the lake.
Sure enough, by the time I got there, Dale was somewhat reluctant to talk. He seemed annoyed and was spouting a line about how the arrests had nothing to do with the sport. It was a head in the sand response, but if that’s what Dale wanted to say I didn’t care, I just wanted him to say it into the camera.
Maybe he was too nice; perhaps he didn’t like to take orders from a corporate flunky to whom he may have spoken, whatever, he agreed to my pleas to do the interview.
We shot it in front of his house. It was completely unmemorable. Apparently Dale understood the media well enough to know that a boring, rambling set of clichés wasn’t going to get him or anyone else in much trouble.
Afterwards I asked Dale if I could use his phone, an odd sounding request in this day, but perfectly acceptable back then. Under the guise of giving the newsroom an update on this story I did what I always did in a well known person’s home. I got ready to write down what I suspected was an unlisted number. But Dale wasn’t dumb about this; there was no number in the center of his rotary dial.
As I left Dales house, I was struck by the near lack of furnishings in his large living room. Although the room was neat, the walls were bare. Maybe he had no sense of design, but I suspect he was possessed with the single minded focus of a champion. His two pieces of “furniture” were a rowing machine and his 1980 trophy for the Winston Cup championship, which was on the floor directly in front of the apparatus, allowing him to keep his eye on the prize as he kept himself in shape.
About
TV Dave is David Hains, a communications professional who lives in Charlotte, NC. Well, actually, he works in Charlotte and has for more than 30 years. David’s Communication work includes broadcast journalism, video production, crisis communications consulting and public relations.
David is director of Communication for the Diocese of Charlotte, North Carolina and is an occasional contributor to “North Carolina Now” a daily news cast on the UNC-TV network, the public television network for the state of North Carolina.
Your Fame, My Impression features stories of the impressions that the famous and infamous make when they come in contact with everyday people like David.
