Section 1:
Q: What are some of [your] favorite stories?
What are two or three that you’re proudest
of?
A: I write a column seven days a week. I
think I’m the only columnist in America that
goes seven days a week since Herb Caen.
Caen cut down to six, but I do seven.
November 29th, which is just the other day,
Red Smith, a great sports columnist, [wrote],
“Writing a column is easy. I just sit down at
the typewriter, open a vein and bleed it out
drop by drop.” Some of the stories I’ve been
proud of or columns I’ve been proud of are
almost ridiculous things. Like Bob Hope. I
don’t recommend this as good journalism.
But it reminds me the other day, somebody
from St. Ambrose University, a small
college in Davenport– they have a small
communications department – was going to
be smart and pin me down and ask me,“Tell
me your ethical purpose in journalism.” And
I said, “That’s easy. Get the story.” That’s it.
Get the story.
I remember one time when Bob Hope came
to the Quad Cities. He came in his great big
fancy leer jet with its ski nose painted on the
front, I knew it wasn’t a charter it was the
real thing. He gets out, waves, says a couple
of jokes. And the media was just clamoring
around him, trying to get him to say
something. No, he was just going to walk
away. He was going to be in Davenport for
an appearance. I thought, “Oh shucks. I’m
not going to get anywhere with him.” But I
saw this big limousine parked near the
airplane. So I just climbed in the limousine.
I figured it had to be for Hope. And there
was this very mature woman sitting in the
back seat. I figured it had to be his wife. I
always remember for some useless reason
that her name was Dolorous. And I got in. I
said, “Hi, Dolorous!” She said, “Who are
you?” I said, “I’m Bill.” I wasn’t lying.
Pretty soon Bob Hope gets in and he said to
her, “Who’s this?” She said, “Bill.” And he
said, “Who’s Bill?” I said, “Bob, you
remember me!” I was just lying like a rug. It
was awful. I said, “You remember that day
when we were playing golf at Pebble Beach
with Dino and it was raining and we were all
wet.” “Oh yeah, yeah, Bill!” He didn’t know
me from Smaltz. But he made it look good.
And he said, “What are you doing here?” I
said, “I’m living here now. I’m just living in
Davenport.” “Oh Davenport,” he said.
“Let’s take a ride. I want to see these
gambling boats that are all around
Davenport. And I want to see if Pete Rose is
dealing the Blackjack.”
So we rode all in his limousine all around
the Quad Cities. And boy, I didn’t take one
note. But I knew I was going to write. That
was that. When we got out [they said], “Oh
goodbye Bill. It was good to see you again.”
It was awful. So the next day I wrote a page
one piece. And there was a great big picture
of Hope on the front page. Luckily, our
photographer – no one was getting near him
– got a good shot. Then the head was
something like “Wundram’s anonymous or
secret interview with Bob Hope.” I just
wrote everything. I [remembered]
everything he said. I didn’t hear one word
from him. I knew it was a fun piece. I didn’t
hear a word from him. I knew he wouldn’t
care. But honest to gosh, the following
Christmas I got a Christmas card from them.
It was just signed, “Bill, you big phony.”
And every year until he died, I got a
Christmas card from him. It’s kind of a
sweet little thing. That’s bad journalism. But
as I said, I got the story.
Q: Do you recommend people do that?
A: No. Unless you have a lot of guts. I told
my superiors how I got it and they got a kick
out of it. I told the editor and he said, “You
son of a gun.” Because Hope wasn’t giving
interviews to anyone.
Q: Was there a moment, a millisecond, a
nanosecond when you said, “What the hell
am I doing getting in the car in the limo with
Dolorous? I could get arrested. Is this
wrong?” What came over you to do that?
A: I didn’t have a millisecond of thought. I
figured that limo is for Hope, I’m going to
see what it is. If he says, “Get the hell out of
here!” Or the chauffer says “Get out of
here!” I would have said, “Well, that’s it.”
And by golly I might have had an inside
column out of that – getting kicked out of
Bob Hope’s limo. There are more dead ends
than grand staircases, believe me.
Q: There a word for this, this is a lot of
hootspa.
A: Yes. It takes guts.
Q: A lot of nerves. A lot of balls.
A: A lot of balls. You have to have a lot of
balls. I just recall it taking guts. It made a
pretty good piece. I never use the word
story. I always refer to it as a piece. Who
was the Olympic skater a few years ago
[who] got hit with a tire iron? She was back
on the road with some commercial ice show
after that and making great money. Of all
the obnoxious people I’ve ever met, it was
Nancy Kerrigan. I can remember scooting
backstage at the ice show and I wanted to
get something out of her. What I got out of
here was terrific. She said, “I don’t grant
interviews.” And I said, “Let’s just talk a
few minutes. I’ll just walk out to the bus
with you.” She had her backpack on. And
some little girl came up to her. She had a big
hardcover book of Olympic skaters. And she
said, “Miss Kerrigan, will you autograph
this picture.” Kerrigan looked down at her
and said, “I didn’t authorize this picture to
be in this book.” And she tore it out of the
book – this little girl’s book – and crumpled
it up and threw it down on the ground.
Q: Nancy Kerrigan was America’s
Sweetheart.
A: For a while.
Q: Did you write about it?
A: Sure I did. I didn’t use the little girl’s
name because I never got it. The little girl’s
name didn’t make any difference. --
Section 2:
Q: Tell us about Pinky and the whole Pinky
story.
A: I knew you were going to ask that so I
brought the original Pinky letter. I got the
whole works here, the original piece I wrote.
The Pinky story can go on and on and on.
[I’ll read] just a little blurb, because I write
little pieces. This is just a little thing.
“Life In The City – Easter Sunday:
Not everything was closed on the Sunday
downtown Davenport. She was tough and
blonde with a pink headband pinching her
dark-at-the-roots curls. She had been poured
into her jeans. And she spiked along West
Second street in silver heels. She wiggled
west, then bee-lined across the street to a
green compact. She spoke briefly to the
driver, scampered in front of the car, and
climbed in the passenger side. I pulled away
from the stoplight and watched the driver,
who looked to be in his 60s. He was wearing
an implement cap and chewing on a cigar.
Just like our Quad Cities slogan says, “A
Spring Alive in ‘85.”
Anyways, that was it. [It was] just a nice,
life in the city thing. Oh, a couple days later
I got a telephone call. [The person] said,
“This is Pinky.” It didn’t dawn on me what
Pinky was all about. I said, “Pinky who?” I
said somewhere along in there: “With a pink
headband.” She said this is Pinky. And I
said, “Pinky?” She said, “You know, you
wrote about me the other day.” I said, “Oh,
you’re the hooker!” She said, “Yeah.” She’s
such a sweet person. I had a vicarious thrill
of visiting with a hooker. We had a great
visit. I said, “You’re a hooker, but you
sound so nice and intelligent. I expected
someone as hard as nails.” And she said,
“Oh no.”
I said, “What do you do when you
go home at night?” [I asked] because she
had said, “I only work the streets during the
day because I like to watch TV.” I said,
“What do you watch?” She liked Friends.
Then I said, “Do you shop? Where do you
shop? Where does a hooker shop?” “Oh,”
she said. “I like to go to Yonkers. Yonkers
has good sales.” We were just having the
greatest visit, and she said, “Gosh, this is
nice talking to somebody who isn’t a John.”
A John is a customer. She said, “I’m going
to come down.” I said, “No, no, no. Don’t
come down to the office! It’s been good to
visit with you.” From our conversation was
a neat gal, just a neat person.
Then I get this letter: “Although you weren’t
aware of it, your mention of Susie in your
column made her very happy. It brightened
her drab life for a few days. She was very
proud of that column and had several copies
made. I made them for her to give to a select
group of people never to any of her ‘clients’.
She even went so far” – and now this got to
me – “as to purchase half a dozen more pink
headbands as a sort of trademark. Yes, I
know it sounds rather silly, but Susie was a
very simple person who had never achieved
any sort of recognition in her short life. And
we all need some kind of recognition, don’t
we. You gave it to her.” Isn’t that nice?
Q: Backtrack for a minute, Bill. How did
she die, and how did you find out that she
died?
A: Alright. I’ll read some more clips here:
“The last time I saw Susie in late spring” –
this happened at Easter – “ I asked her if she
still carried a copy of your column. She
shyly pulled it out of her jeans and we both
began to laugh because she still kept a copy
with her.” Since then I found out she had
several copies in her billfold. “Over the
months I would occasionally her news about
Susie from the street people. The last news
being that she had been busted again and
was in a halfway house. What happened to
Susie was admittedly tragic and avoidable,
but in another sense it was preordained.
Every dollar she made went into that hole in
her arm. I hope that she has found
tranquility that somehow escaped her in this
life.” It is signed, a friend. [It is] a very
literate letter.
I never told this whole story. This gets kind
of wild. I don’t go out and speak. Everyone
wants a speaker, but I don’t go out. If I
could charge a $1,000 dollars I’d go out. But
Starchy First Presbyterian Church was
inaugurating a month of speakers from the
community. And I came and I was the first
speaker. This sounds nuts, but there was a
story in the paper about Wundram to speak.
Of course there was no mention of Pinky –
that was just another little addendum to life.
I was speaking there, and I bet I had a crowd
of 200 Starchy Presbyterians. And all of a
sudden, you won’t believe me, without
question, there came in four or five hookers.
And they had pink roses. I wasn’t going to
talk about Pinky [but] one of them spoke up
and said, “You wrote a long time about
Pinky.” Oh, she was crying. “We wanted
you to have these pink roses in her
memory.” I didn’t know what to say in front
of all these Presbyterians. I said, “Are you
street people?” They looked hard. [They had
on] a lot of leather. They said, “Yes, that
was so nice that you wrote about Pinky. We
love you Bill.”
To make a long story short, a couple of
years later, a young woman came to my
office and said, “You kind of know about
Pinky.” Because after that [speech] I had
written the sad saga of Pinky. I did a whole
column. But [I] never mentioned the last
name – kind of dangerous. This young
woman said, “I think Pinky was my mother.
And I said, “What was her name?” She had
her name and we got on the microfilm,
found the obit and found her name. It was
Susan - I can’t remember the last name. She
said, “I think she’s buried at Rock Island
Arsenal cemetery because she once for a
brief time was in the service.” So we looked
it up and found her mother’s grave. I went
out and bought a dozen pink roses. And
went over there with this young woman who
was her daughter, illegitimate, without
question. We put pink roses on her grave –
probably the only flowers the poor gal ever
had on her grave. I’m a sort of sentimental
sap and we cried and cried and cried. You
shouldn’t get involved in stories, but you
can’t help it sometimes. You just can’t help
it. --
Section 3:
ou people are probably too young to ring a
bell on the great, classic comedian, Red
Skeleton. [He was] really a classic, classic
comedian. [He was in] TV, movies and all
that. One day, he was to be in Davenport for
some odd speaking engagement, not for the
public. Some corporation brought him in –
probably for $20,000. I was walking down
the street and I had a parking ticket. And it
was a big one because I took up two parking
spaces and I hadn’t feed the meter. So I was
just sitting there cursing, and this old guy
chewing on a cigar [with his] shirt pulled out
said, “Don’t be mad, Sonny!” Nobody called
me Sonny. “The sun is shinning.”
I looked at him and said, “You’re Red
Skeleton!” He said, “Hell yes, who’d you
think I was?” I said, “Here, sign my traffic
ticket.” I said, “I got to talk to you.”
He said, “No, I’m too tired to talk. I’ll
see you in the morning. Give me your card.
I’ll see you at 9:00. You got an address on
there?” I thought that was the old celebrity
kiss-off, I’ll never see him again. The next
morning in front of our office, downstairs
our receptionists said, “Wundram, there’s
something crazy, there’s a limousine out
front and some old guy sticking his head out
the window. The limo driver's honking his
horn, saying, ‘Where is Bill? Where is Bill?’”
Q: This is just the opposite of the Bob Hope
story.
A: This is shortly after the Bob Hope
incident. Anyway, I said, “Let’s talk.” He
said, “No, I don’t want to talk. I want to
shop. I forgot to pack my pajamas, and I’m
not going to speak for a couple days. Do you
mind if we go shopping? Do you have a K-
Mart in Davenport?” And so, we went
around, and I spent the whole day going
from one place to another. He was just
buying everything. He kept buying me these
candy orange slices. He kept saying, “Eat
these and you’ll never get a cold.”
I remember we were in a hardware store, and
he would be walking around and people
would recognize him. And this young
woman came up, and she was carrying a
baby. And he said, “How old is that baby?”
She said, “Nine months.” And he said, “Oh
good. I haven’t been in Davenport for two
years.” He’s quick. Another woman walking
in the store, he threw a mop at her. And she
grabbed it and was shocked. He said, “Here,
put this on my bill. I know your house is a
mess.” To me, it was a memorable day. I
spent all day with Red Skeleton.
And I learned from him. You learn when
you’re doing stores. I just remember
everyplace we went, he’d rush ahead and
open the door for people. He’d say, “I don’t
care if it’s a bum or bank president. If you
open that door, it will make them feel
important.” I try to do that. We just had a
great day. By mid-afternoon it was “Bill”
and “Red.” We went back to the hotel – the
guy had a roll of money – and you’d expect
he’d have a suite. But no, two twin bedroom
[with] great big trunks in them. I said,
“What are you doing with that stuff?” “Oh,”
he said. “You’ll never know what you’ll
need when you work a show.” There was
stuff in there like rubber chickens and
rubber horns, which he’d never use.
I said, “I don’t like to ask for autographs.
I think that’s corney.” But I got out my
notepad and asked, “Will you draw me a
clown.” Because he was a great artist. He was
not just a good artist, but a great artist.
Around the country there are still three
Skeleton galleries. He said, “I’m want to
draw you a good clown. I want to do it on
a canvas. I don’t have any canvas here. But
I’ve got a TWA napkin.” It was a big napkin.
It said TWA in the corner.
So he pinned it on books and catalogs. And I
think we sat there for two hours while he
took good colored pencils. And he drew a
real, swell self-portrait of himself. And then
he said to me, “What’s your wife’s name?” I
said, “Helen.” He said, “What’s your
telephone number?” So I gave it to him. And
he said, “Helen, this is Red.” He always had
that inimitable way of saying it, “This is
Red. What are you doing?” She said, “Oh,
I’m sitting, just reading.” “Well, why aren’t
you ironing Bill’s shirts?” They had a
conversation. Anyway, this great portrait he
made. He signed it. He would never
remember any woman’s name. Every
woman he met would be Dear Heart. So he
signed it to Helen and Bill, Dear Hearts.
Well, I knew that I had something here. So I
had it carefully framed and had it photo
copied. And I took it to Sarasota where he
had one of his galleries. I said, “Is this worth
anything?” “Oooo,” they said. “Do you want
to sell it?” I said, “I don’t know? What’s it
worth?” They huddled. They said,
“$16,000.” I said, “Helen, we have just sold
[the picture.”] I said, “I’ll pack it up and
ship it to you.” And Helen said, “We are not
selling.” Wouldn’t you have sold it? It still
hangs in our kitchen. It’s very nice.
Q: The amazing thing about this story is
that Red picked you up.
A: That’s right.
Q: He had no idea that you were a
journalist.
A: No idea. He just said to me, “Don’t be
mad, Sonny. The sun is shining.” That’s
when I said, “Oh, that’s kind of nice. What’s
your name? I’m going to use that.” And then
I saw [that it was] Red Skeleton. --
Section 4:
Q: Take us to Sioux City.
A: This is kind of a lesson in journalism, of
being gutsy and mean, if necessary. How
many years ago [was it], Steve?
Q: 1991
A: Big flight 232. The fella had lost
probably 300 passengers aboard. [He was]
flying out of Denver and by Nebraska he
had lost all hydraulic control of the airplane.
He was going to Chicago and he knew he
could never make it. He knew he could
never make it anyplace. So he thought,
“Maybe I can bring it in. Maybe I can
pancake it in.” There was constant dialogue
between all airports. And he figured his best
bet was to come in at Sioux City – not to
land, but to [glide] in and see what would
happen. Well, this wonderful pilot – and
I’ve seen the film of it over and over again –
the plane [was] just coming in perfectly and
then [it rolls] over and over. It fireballs.
Well, around the office – this was in mid-
afternoon – the editor says we better get out
there. And the young punks said,
“Wundram, you’ve got the guts, you go out.
You’ll know what to do.” I didn’t know. I
covered the Pope. But I’ve never done a
really great disaster like this. I got right on
the line and got a flight out early in the
morning, at probably 6:00. Right away I
knew I wasn’t going to land in Sioux City. I
was going to land in Omaha. When I made
my flight reservation I [made reservations
for a] rental car.
I got there the next morning, and the
airplane was still smoldering. 150 still on
board. Dead. Burned. Crisp. And the NBC,
CBS big vans were starting to come in. The
only way you’re going to get anywhere on a
big disaster like that and get any kind of a
story – even if it’s a two-car fatality – [is to]
talk to the people right away. That little guy
that escaped from the accident and is
waiting there for the ambulance, talk to him
right away while [he is] still in state of
shock. because if you wait until the next
day, you’re going to have a tough time.
But at this airplane crash I was there and they
were in a total state of shock. There were
people wandering in the airport that had
escaped this crash. Gosh, what great copy
you could get. I just couldn’t write it fast
enough. Well, then I checked into the office,
and like I say, my brain is [focused to] get
the story. I checked in the office a couple
times mid-morning and asked, “Do you
know anything,? Is there anything I should
know?” And they said yes. There were two
Davenport people aboard. One of them is
severely burned and in some hospital. The
other one, Her seatmate from Davenport is
dead.
So I quickly found out where the burned
[woman] was. It’s a terrible way to get
news. Found out what hospital she was in.
The hospital was in terrible chaos.
Everything was in triage and all that. I said,
“I need to talk to an older woman, Esther
somebody.” And they said, “You need to
talk to her?” I said, “Oh yes. I’m a very
close friend. I’m the only one she has.”
Awful. They brought me coffee and said,
“We’re so sorry. She’s not in very good
condition. Do you want to come up to her?”
And I went up to her room right away. I
said, “Esther, what happened? Tell me.” She
was a librarian in Davenport, a children’s
librarian. And I remember the first thing she
said to me was “Bill, how in the hell did you
get in here?” But, you get the story. No one
challenged me. Not a bit of a challenge. I
never did hear anything. I made it quick.
Get in and get out. That’s the secret in those
things. Get in and get out --
Section 5:
I’ve done a lot of crazy things. Helen said to
me, “I suppose you’re going to tell them
about the doughnut shop.” We were in
Florida. We were on the gulf side and my
wife Helen had the radio on and she said,
“Isn’t this crazy? Over in Fort Lauderdale
there’s a topless donut shop.” And I said in
the service of investigative journalism, I
should check this out. So I had no idea were
it was. So I drove to Fort Lauderdale and I
called Sunset News and I said, “I’m a
visiting fireman.” They gave me the address.
And I still remember [the address] because I
still get people asking me where is that
topless donut shop: 2002 S. Federal. And I
came up to this place and it was an old Dairy
Queen. I said to Helen, “You stay in the
car.” And she said, “No, I think I’ll go in
with you.” There was a lot of lengthy
interviewing. It was topless. And they had
little skimpy bottoms on. It was near the
airport, so they got a lot of pilots in there.
Everything was a dollar. Donuts were a
dollar. Coffee was a dollar. I don’t know
why I brought that up.
Q: How were the donuts?
A: I don’t remember. I did ask the girls,
“Don’t you wear nametags?” They were
very ample, and they said, “How are we
going to pin a nametag on?” But it made a
fun column. I’ve used that a couple times. I
reprinted that sucker just for the sake of
investigative reporting. --
Section 6:
Q: I want to hear more women in
journalism and how things have changed.
A: Now listen, I have been there. I have
been there since the lava dried. I have been
there 60 years. That’s terrible. No one
should work any place for 60 years. It’s not
bloom where you’re planted, and I’m just a
rutabaga stuck in the ground. But when I
came in 1944, the newsroom was entirely
male. It almost seems like yesterday to me.
Believe it or not, it was like a western
movie. There were spittoons. That’s weird.
They were these brass things you spit into
all around the desks. I don’t remember any
tobacco chewers. There were cigars. They
were always chewing on the end of a cigar
and spitting it.
I always remember all the guys wore hats.
The regional editor would make some of the
other editors on the rim – you don’t hear
the term rim anymore, it’s where the copy
editors were – [disgusted.] There were
these big, wire wastebasket, and he would
always blow his nose in the wastebasket.
He was very delicate about it. But there
were no women.
I remember if you were making a long
distance call – that old building where I
started, very handsome building, still
standing – we had to go into a phone booth
in the corner. It was nuts. But women were
not, women would be unheard of in the
newsroom. They were relegated to society
items in another, separate glass-enclosed
[room] with a door. [They did] absolutely
society, weddings. And they would get the
births. And they’d have corny headlines
every day. Visits from Doc Stork.
These were the days of hot type. Everybody
had typewriters and there was nothing wrong
with a typewriter. And what would you type
on? We used long pieces of paper just to fit
in the typewriter. [It was] called copy paper.
And if you had a really long story, you just
glue it on the back or you would right “Take
1.” Then on the bottom [you would type]
“More.” And then “Take 2” and then
“More.” And then if that was the end – I
always used “30.” 30 was an end mark. It’s
a mystic. It’s a beautiful thing. --
Section 7:
I see you guys writing. [A little thing] that
may be of help to you: I never use a
notebook. You know the little one with the
spiral? I have found that a notebook can be
intimidating. I’m an envelop guy. Or if I’m
going to do something that’s going to take
me a little time, I’ll use a yellow legal pad. I
can get a lot of copy. I can get three takes on
one sheet. It’s much less intimidating.
Q: I suppose Bill, you’re not a tape recorder
guy either are you?
A: No, I don’t trust them. I’ve used them,
but I’ll take notes and use the recorder. I
think I’ve used it once or twice in my life. I
learned from a great AP reporter, Saul Pat.
He was a super reporter. No it was Hugh
Mulligan. Oh my gosh, he could drink. I can
remember in some tavern one night, we
were at some seminar and we were probably
drinking too much. We were just making
good trade talk. He was a master at the
interview. And I said, “Just tell me, what do
you do when they don’t talk?” You throw a
tough question to President Clinton, and
he’s not going to answer it. So you wait and
wait. You don’t try to keep the conversation
going.
He said, “I have sat and waited for I
know two, maybe three minutes for this
person to answer. Eight times out of 10 they
are going to start feeling sorry for you. And
they are going to give you something.” I can
say, develop a trust. Now with Bob Hope I
didn’t develop a trust. But if I’m after
something that I know is going to take me
quite a spell, [I’ll] develop extreme trust
with [my] contacts.
This one story that won a lot of awards just a
year ago was the Paula Sue Heiser case. [It
was an] interesting thing. Paula Sue Heiser
was found dead, obviously murdered in a
trenchant camp [at] age 38. So what?
Another cop story. But then, I read the obits
avidly. It doesn’t take long. A couple days
after her murder, her picture ran. [She was a]
beautiful gal. I thought, “What the heck?”
She didn’t look like a trenchant, a hobo, or
anything like that. So I thought, “Well, I’ll
get a column out of this. I’ll go to her
visitation and her funeral.” I was thinking
the story would be only six people showed
up, one of those things.
Well, I went to her visitation and I could
hardly get in. It was like the mayor had died
in this small town [of] Beulah, Iowa. And so
I started talking with the people there. I
asked, “What is all this?” The flowers filled
the room. The people were telling me what a
wonderful person she once was. I thought,
“Boy, here is something that’s kind of good
that I’m going to spend some real time on.” I
searched out her mother, and her mother
said that Paula Sue was a great person. She
was the homecoming queen. She played the
part of Peppermint Patty in Charlie Brown.
She sang every time there was a funeral or a
wedding.
Then she showed me a picture from her wallet
and boy, was she a beautiful woman. I said,
“How’d she go to hell and end up murdered in
a trenchant camp?” “I don’t want to talk about
it.” Well, I went to visit the mother and we
got to talking and talking. Finally, we became
really good friends. I said, “I want to tell
the real story of Paula Sue Heiser.
I’ve never run into such a crazy situation.
She had two children. At the time of her
death they were 15 and 17. But she had
abandoned them maybe eight years earlier.
Then I talked to her ex-husband. I went out
and had supper with him. He’d remarried a
swell lady. [They said,] “We’ll talk to you,
but you can’t put this in the paper.” I took
every note down and said, “We’ll just see.
I’m not going to promise you anything.” I
asked, “How does a person become this
low?” Well, he figured they had a colicky
baby and he was in the Marines. And this
baby would cry al night long. So she’d take
a nip of Vodka, just to get her to sleep.
This story kept building and building. I
found out this woman had lived in trenchant
camps for probably about eight years now.
How would she live? She would live in
sewer pipes. She had an old man who took
care of her, who I was always suspect of, but
he was too old to do her any harm. But he
knew where she lived and when it was really
cold she would go to his home. This is
bizarre. She would go to sleep in his arms
because she was so cold. Where would she
eat? Where would she get food? There was a
couple gas station where she could buy
sandwiches. And this old man always paid.
Paula could do whatever she wanted.
Well, it finally shook out. Finally, this old
gentleman was an excellent photographer.
Paula Sue would begin her day with two six-
packs. She’d always kept one out in case of
emergency. Her regular amount of drinking
was a half gallon of Vodka. But she was
arrested so many times for public
intoxication that all the welfare workers
loved her. She was a sweet gal who would
sing. But she would get so full of booze. On
of the police records she went into one
tavern, and one guy was sitting there, and he
just had a t-shirt on and she bit him so bad
on the shoulder. I don’t know how many
stitches [he had to have.] She was a berserk
woman. Anyway, she was murdered in a
trenchant camp for an argument over an
argument with another trenchantee over a
can of Franco American spaghetti. Death
was partly strangulation and they pushed her
face into the mud. She died of asphyxiation.
I sat all through the trial. I wasn’t going to
write this until after I sat through the murder
trial – because they had the people who did
it. You can’t beat a trial. If you’re going to
do a story right you can’t miss a trial
because amazing stuff will come out in the
trial. The fella who was tried on second-
degree murder, he got a long time. And his
girlfriend who was with him, was convicted
of manslaughter and she’ll be out in eight
years. The woman did it. I’m convinced. She
stood on the back of [Paula’s] face in the
mud long enough to kill her. Anyway, this
old man, strange man, was an excellent
photographer. He took pictures of her
galore. Pictures of her sitting on the railroad
track drinking Vodka. I had all these. He
gave me all these. Every now and then she’d
get sobered up and would go find her
daughters. The daughters were 15 and 17.
And the daughters would get her all cleaned
up, do her nails, take her to the beauty shop.
She looked plenty good again, I had those
pictures.
Anyway, it finally got to push and shove and
I told the former husband that I was going to
do it, that I had the story. I got it all, sue me,
there’s no malice here. Truth is not always a
protection. I went to the mother, she asked,
“You’ve got to let me read it.” I said, “I’m
never going to let you read it. I’m going
ahead with it.” It made a terrific story – all
those great pictures [including] high school
pictures. She was the homecoming queen.
And one big shot that was the centerpiece –
it took up most of the front page – of her on
the railroad tracks drinking vodka. After you
run something like that you get a little
touchy. [You ask,] “Who’s coming after
me?” I didn’t hear a word. I got a lot of mail
– both ways. It made a lot of good letters to
the editor: “Why would Wundram write this
story of a woman in disgust.” And then the
other way. Here was a person who [wrote]
“She was a human being.” The best thing
was a long, long email I got from the 17
year old daughter that said, “Thank you,
thank you, thank you for writing that story.
Now I know what my mother was really
like.” --
Section 8:
Q: You said that when you first started in
journalism women were basically unheard
of, can you tell me about the role of minority
reporters when you first started and how that
has changed?
A: I knew you were going to ask that. I
have something here – something really
neat. I think I have it here. Maybe it’s in this
pocket. You can tell I’m a pocket-type. I
must have put it in the folder, because this is
important. I don’t have it – after all that.
Lee newspapers, where I work, is a big
company. [It is the] eighth largest
newspaper company in America, believe it
or not. I just got an email. I’ll get it. I’ll send
Steve a whole bunch of them. Lee, in an
effort to encourage minorities – if you have
normal talent, you don’t have to be at a J-
school, or if you’re a middle-aged person
with a spark of ability –will send you
someplace with a decent journalism [school]
free, all expenses paid for 17 weeks with an
assurance that you will enter or make a try
with Lee or some other newspaper
organization. I think that’s pretty darn noble
and expensive. [There is] no age limit. You
can be a grandma.
Q: Why did they decide to do that?
A: Because we aren’t getting any
minorities.
Q: Did someone call you on that?
A: No, this was a decision of Lee
enterprises.
Q: When did they start this?
A: This just came yesterday. So it’s brand
new. In a smaller-sized paper like ours,
when we get a minority person they’ll stay
with us a while. Newspapers are very
interested in hiring minorities. They’ll stay
with us a while and then off they go to the
Chicago Tribune.
Q: What do you think you could do at a
small newspaper to keep minorities?
A: At the moment we don’t have any. We
had a Mexican [woman.] And we made an
effort. We were going to get more news
from the Mexican community. We had a
page every Sunday, as in Miami, in Spanish.
We tried this for a year. It was a difficult
thing to do. It didn’t do anything; it went no
place. We had a very talented African-
American woman who was our medical
writer. My gracious, she was sharp. She
probably stayed with us a year. Now she’s at
St. Petersburg. She sat right outside my
office and we became friends. She’s
probably double the salary I am here.
Q: What keeps a journalist at a paper?
A: Money. Money makes the world go
round. --
Section 9:
Q: You told us some great anecdotes.
A: There just anecdotes. Life is kind of a
story. And newspapering is a wonderful life
where you’re never going to get rich –
unless you’re a publisher. But the newsroom
is a theatre. We don’t have the character-like
reporters like we used to have who drank an
awfully lot. You see that in the front page,
but these guys drank. They had a bottle
under the desk and nobody cared. They did a
good job.
Q: A lot of these stories you’ve told us –
Pinky, Bob Hope, Red Skeleton – you’ve
become involved with the subject.
A: Yeah, I shouldn’t have. No, I really
didn’t – I didn’t get involved with Hope at
all. I didn’t really get involved with Pinky I
just wrote it straight and all of a sudden it
started building up around me. I got every
involved with this Heiser murder case – very
involved with that.
Q: Do you think there’s some emotional
involvement at least?
A: Pinky was just straight copy all the way
through. The Heiser case where the gal was
murdered there was no emotional
involvement but yes, I became very, very
close. That was the only way I was going to
get that story was to gained their trust.
Q: In building off of that, how would you
suggest a journal maintain a level of
objectivity?
A: You just have to have blinders: “I’m
going to be objective. I’m going to not let
this involve me.” [You must] follow the
straight line. But then, I confess, with this
Heiser thing I got so deep with all the
relatives, the kids and everything. I’ll get
Christmas cards from the kids, I know I will.
Q: Do you think it’s still possible to remain
objective in dealing with stories?
A: I told that Paula Sue story straight. I
didn’t put myself into that at all. The only
time I put myself into that was an interesting
sidebar story. As soon as I felt I was going
to get into this story, I went back after the
funeral with the cops to the place where she
was murdered and I wrote a first person
story on what that place was really like, the
mosquitoes and how strange it was to talk
there because you walked in this trenchant
camp over crinkly broken glass that was
many colors that reminded me of Chagal’s
windows in Bern, Switzerland.
I don’t like to use “I” but sometimes it’s
unavoidable. Herb Caen, who is my idol –
you got to be careful using “I” –could do it.
I don’t like to do it. Some people use “we” if
you’re going to use “we,” you might as well
use “I” what’s the difference? I once had an
editor when I started this column – it’s more
than 25 years, it’s 27 years, I just figured
that out the other day – who was just deathly
against the word “I.” It was sometimes hard
to write around I. But it’s possible.
Beginning columnists will constantly put
themselves into it when they don’t have to
put themselves into it. Just tell the story
straight. Let the story tell itself.
Like last Sunday I had one of these stories
that told itself. I said, “Wow, this is one of
these wonderful things I can write in 15
minutes.” It just told itself. And we used it
Sunday which is fine because they used it on
[page] one which meant I had to write
another column. But it was [about] a guy
who called me and said, “This is Santa
Clause.” I said, “Yeah, I’m the Easter
Bunny.” He said, “You were always writing
for five years now about the mystery man
who decorates a Christmas tree on Interstate
80.” [It’s] sort of between Davenport and
Iowa City. He said, “I’m going out this
afternoon, and for the first time I’m going to
dress like Santa. But you can’t write my
name.”
I went out and I never did use his name. He
was an old retired person. And he’s 20 feet
high and he has a ladder. He’s in a Santa
suit, horns are honking and he’s giving them
the high five and he said, “I’m the secret
Santa.” He wouldn’t even tell me his name
on the phone. It was like Deep Throat. I
said, “Who are you? You could be a faker.
Give me your telephone number and let me
call you back and if you’re the same person
I’ll believe you.”
I thought it was a good stunt. So I called him
right back. So I said, “O.K., I’ll meet you
with a photographer at your house.” “No,”
he said. “I don’t want you to know where I
live. I’ll meet you at the warming shed at
Vanderveer park in Davenport where they
ice skate.” It did remind me of Deep Throat.
And that’s where we met. I know his name
now, but I’ll never tell. Our editor was
[unsure.] I said, “But we have the pictures.”
We had great shots of him. He said, “But I
got to know his name.” I said, “It isn’t going
to do you any good. You aren’t going to
know the Easter Bunny’s name.” So I know
his name. I said, “Maybe I’ll tell you I when
he dies.” That’s the secret of it, isn’t it? That
was my Deep Throat – Deep Santa. --
Section 10:
Q: Could you explain the thistledown
thing?
A: News is everywhere. It’s drifting
everywhere. They all say that everyone has a
story in them. I don’t believe that. I’ve hit
too many dead ends. I remember doing a
column on a guy who I did a whole column
on just because he didn’t want me to write
about him. You know a thistledown? You
blow [it.] That to me is news – it’s
everywhere. You grasp it for an edition or
two and then you let it go. Then there’s
another thistledown which is another news
story you grab onto. Maybe it’s too poetic.
In a basic term – and you’ve probably read
this in your texts, news is living history:
history happening.
Q: Michael Gartner said news is what you
never read in a newspaper because once it
hits the newspaper, everybody knows about
it anyway.
A: Somebody said this: “If you only put in
the newspaper, what people wanted you to
put in, you wouldn’t have any newspapers.”
Somebody like Benjamin Franklin said that.
Q: You were reminiscing about the older
days of journalism with typewriters. Do you
think with technology anything has been lost
in journalism, the feeling?
A: No. I think it’s better. I write better. Do
you write better?
Q: Yeah. Because the computer is great.
A: Yeah, you can switch things around. The
typewriter is slow. The only thing I ever
wanted in life was a typewriter with a self-
reversing ribbon. There was nothing wrong
with typewriters. [They have produced]
some of the greatest things ever written.
Q: Is it hard for women to break into the
news business? To be looked at seriously
next to these guys with their hats, spitting in
spittoon?
A: The newsrooms were cleaned up after
World War II. The old hard-bitten front page
types became more proper.
Q: But there were a lot hard-bitten front
page women types in the ‘40s and ‘50s,
[who were] real characters themselves.
A: Yes. Dorothy Kilgallen.
Q: Dorothy Kilgallen herself was the victim
of a murderer.
A: That’s right.
Q: So there were a lot of hard-bitten women
who actually gravitated to the crime beat.
A: Correct. I was the Iowa City editor for
many years. I disliked the job. I just didn’t
like it. And we had a very bright, young
woman reporter who was very gutsy. I told
our managing editor I was going to put her
on cops. I [thought] she could do it. I was
certain she could do it. And he said, “Oh my
god, you can’t do that – she a woman and
she’ll see all that blood.” And she started on
a Friday night. I remember so distinctly, she
phoned in and we had a call of a shooting in
a parking lot. It was a shooting in a car –
bang, bang, bang in the head. [There was]
lots of blood. And this young woman
handled it perfectly. The ME was still
working nights. He said, “Well, you better
send some guys out. She won’t know what
to do.” She did a good job. She went to the
Register – Amy something. Women are
tough. You don’t have to be tough. It’s just
being a good reporter.
Q: Did you lose a lot of reporters to the
Register?
A: Yes. Too many. Dave Ipsen is one of our
graduates. Clark Hoffman is one of our
graduates. Not graduates, [the Register] just
plucks off the good ones. And yet we have
good ones and McGlen, one of your students
who went to the Register and came back to
us. They were kind of selective out there.
And here, a smaller paper like us, we have a
lots of reporters. We have 22 now. So you
get a good shot at everything.
Q: Do you know what a jouneyman reporter
makes? A person who has seven years
experience, we’ll say.
A: $60,000.
Q: Four weeks vacation?
A: Well, you build up. First you get two
weeks and after two years you get four
weeks. We try and watch overtime. But
that’s impossible. You’re only going to
work 40 hours a week, and sure as heck
you’re supposed to only work 40 hours a
week. But you don’t want to. If you’re on a
good piece you’re just going to stay in. I
don’t know how close you’re being
watched. We pay overtime. --
Section 11:
Q: What do you think a newspaper’s role
should be in its community?
A: Its eyes and ears. Unfortunately, too
many papers are not the eyes and ears. The
newspaper should be the soul of the
community. I believe newspapers have
souls. Do I ever believe that a newspapers
has a soul. It’s like a ship has a soul.
Newspapers should speak for the
community – all sides of the community.
We’re into a nasty situation in town near us
called Pleasant Valley where they banned a
book last night.
Q: What book?
A: I’m trying to think of it. What’s the
name of it? It’s a teen book, with a
homosexual as one of the kids. The cover is
like a piece of somebody’s blue jean.
Q: Solon tried to ban that book.
A: Well, we did it. It cannot be read in the
classroom. It can be taken out of the library.
If that doesn’t remind me of Hitler and the
book burnings. But newspapers should
speak for all sides.
Q: What do you think your column does for
your community?
A: My theory is from the old Readers’
Digest theory: “Make them glad, make them
mad, make them sad.” I am just a big piece
of pie. Like tomorrow, I’ve written: 15 good
things to worry about. --
Section 12:
Q: Because you only attended college for
one semester, you basically learned
journalism on the job.
A: I think one of the best ways to learn to
write is by reading. There’s a great book out
called Postville. No, I just was thrown to the
wolves. To be a good reporter you have to
have an innate curiosity. And I say you have
to know how to write. You either got to it or
you don’t got it. You’re either going to be a
so-so reporter or you’re going to be
somebody good.
Q: A lot of people would say [on-the-job
training] is the best way to learn journalism.
A: I don’t say it’s the best way. I say go to
college, get your degree, get your Masters.
Q: How important or useful do you think
journalism schools are?
A: I think they’re fine. I think they’re so
important. You’ll learn newswriting 101.
You’ll learn the five W’s and the H. You
should. Narrative leads are so vogue these
days it makes me sick. I want to read a good,
straight lead. Yes, go to journalism school. I
wish I had gone on and been smart like
Steve and become a teacher. I don’t think it
would have worked.
