Nice work on the obit, Chip. But why didn't the paper throw a bouquet to Mary Kate Tripp while she was living? Was it because after unceremoniously killing the book page, accolades might have appeared to be an apology?
The above is part of an angry letter I'll never send. It's venting. Anger somehow suppresses tears ready to spill on my keyboard and short out the computer.
Everyone I've met who knew Mary Kate--Katie to her many associates--praised her work ethic, her writing and editing ability, organizational skills, and more. Some of us who shared a pot of coffee with her, and soaked in her stories, not only admired the career journalist, but also grew to love her.
Mary Kate Tripp, the extraordinary career woman, was love personified. Perhaps that's the dimension missing from the newspaper's obituary. It's words are fine enough. But years ago I copied a farmer's wisdom into my Writing Worth Citing notebook: "Fine words butter no turnips."
The last time I called on Mary Kate, I took flowers--not in recognition of her brilliant mind or accomplishments. A giant heart beat inside her tiny frame. That was the essence of Mary Kate, and I hope she knew how wonderfully she had shared it.
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