Johnny Deadline’s awful secret

Something in the air this morning reminded me of a story.

When I was in college, I had a creative writing class that required everyone to attempt to commit poetry. So that’s what I did. And I didn’t think much more about it.

A year or so later, I was working for the small daily newspaper in that same town. And while I hope I wasn’t one of those absurd rookie journalists who pretend to be all jaded and hard-bitten after half an hour in the business, I’m sure my self-image wasn’t based entirely on reality.

Anyway, I found myself in the office of Coconino County Superior Court Judge Richard Mangum. I cannot remember what I was interviewing him about.

In the middle of our conversation, he sorted through a stack on his desk and extracted a copy of the college’s latest annual literary publication, “The Pine.”

The judge then opened it and proceeded to read aloud one of the poems I had written for that class. It was called “A Singer in the Woodsmoke.”

I don’t think he was being mean. He was just having fun.

But any notion I might have had that he viewed me as a hard-boiled reporter went out the window. Which, in retrospect, was OK. Because I wasn’t.

One final note. The guy who had taught that creative writing class was an odd bird named Judson McGehee. He was theatrical and guileless to an extent that could be irritating. He had a high, raspy voice that only dogs could hear when he got excited.

There were those who enjoyed doing mean-spirited impressions of his seemingly giddy love of poetry.

But once, while I was visiting a rowdy detox center while reporting a story late on a weekend night, I encountered Professor McGehee. He and his wife were there as volunteers, helping the police and attendants.

Sometimes people show their substance in ways you don’t always see at first glance.