You may have noticed, dear readers, that every column I write ends with something called a tagline. It’s that little sentence or two, printed in italics, that informs readers where to send comments, fan mail, and gifts of an ostentatious nature, all directed to me through my editor, Mr. Ryan Miller. Last month was my final tagline directed to him because Ryan has announced that he is leaving the New Times/the Sun as our executive editor and fearless leader. This, in fact, is his final issue.
I wish I had known last month so that I could have taken the appropriate parting potshots at him. How dare he leave us? Who does he think he is? Where is his journalistic integrity? I mean, I ask you! Does he honestly believe that he has a life of his own, apart from writing and editing and sweating for these two sterling publications? Apparently he does. Sadly, for those of us who adore and dote on him, he is right.
Ryan is moving his family northward to raise his three children among extended family. There, they will be surrounded by loving grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. This is a wonderful thing. I know because I grew up in similar circumstances until I was 9 years old, when we moved away to a place unknown and unfamiliar. The Miller munchkins are blessed with parents who know that there is nothing better than a childhood spent flourishing in such a nourishing environment!
It is a journalistic tradition that, when someone who holds a position in the upper hierarchy finally relinquishes his authority, he is toasted by his various colleagues. Therefore, in keeping with age-old conventions of the press, our illustrious editor should be thoroughly toasted and roasted, and I am pleased do the honors. If you thought for one minute, Ryan, that you were going to escape my commentary about our nearly seven-year relationship, you were quite mistaken!
I first met Ryan in November 2008. I was editing copy, proofreading, and doing page layout for another local newspaper. Ryan first hired me as a proofreader for the New Times and the Sun, then later suggested I become a regular writer. He said, “You have a great way with words and nice turn of a phrase.” What he really meant was, that although I am quite literate, my puns are terrible! I have often both regaled and tormented him with my wit and whimsy.
I had long been told by many people, including (and especially) my mother, that I should become a writer. This, however, was just a dream for me. Who would read what I wrote, except for teachers and professors who were paid to read my drivel, uh, I mean, my remarkable essays and term papers?
Ryan was the first real honest-to-God editor of a real honest-to-God publication who believed enough in me to offer me the opportunity to be published. He opened the door to a new world and career for me, and, without him, there would be no “Ariel View,” my idea for my column’s byline, which he loved.
It was Ryan who introduced me to all of you and gave me the venue to share my thoughts and experiences and introduce my own family—my husband (The Brit) and our grandson (The Briteen), whom we adopted. Ryan first knew our youngster when he was just a wee Mini-Brit of 4 years old, small enough for me to lift up into a shopping cart. Now age 13, he carries the groceries in for me.
I have known Ryan since just before his remarkable fatherhood. His firstborn was then merely a bump in his lovely wife’s tummy. The mini-Millers are gorgeous children whose looks favor those of their beautiful mother (thank God). He has frequently brought them to work, and on one occasion, I had an interesting encounter with his oldest.
I had spied a tiny, precious face sleeping in a baby carrier by his desk and leaned over for a better peek. Suddenly, my view was obscured by a little hand, fingers fully extended above the sleeping baby’s face. I looked at its owner who glared at me and spoke imperiously. “She’s my baby sister! You stop looking at her!”
Ryan attempted to reassure her, explaining that I was the nice lady who had given her little sister the soft blanket covered with little owls.
Ryan’s fatherly endeavor to mollify the little warrior princess served only to slightly soften her opinion of me. “All right,” Her Imperious Majesty declared. “You can look at her, but she’s sleeping and you’d better not wake her!” I gave my solemn promise to be very quiet.
Speaking of royalty, I am the Queen of Procrastinators. It’s really more a case of stories coming to me when they are ready. Sometimes it takes a while for a column to percolate. (This column, for example, has been percolating for seven years!) My ideas come in bursts and fits, followed by a stream-of-consciousness hour or two of keyboard frenzy as I piece them all together on my computer. There really is a method to my madness, although it has, I’ll admit, nearly driven poor Ryan to meth and madness on more than a few occasions! I jest, of course!
I’ve said this before, and it bears repeating: Ryan Miller is a true Renaissance gentleman and gentle man. He is intelligent and understanding with a heart of gold, a face like a moon pie (a delightful sweet), and gentle brown eyes, the likes of which I have seen only once before, and that was on the face of my grandmother’s favorite milk cow. God, I loved that cow.
I love you, too, Ryan, and I’m going to miss you terribly, Mr. Moon Pie. I wish you and your beautiful, gentle wife and children well in your new endeavors. God bless you, sir, and thank you for giving me this column space, for making me a better writer, and for graciously extending my deadlines, including this one.
Ariel Waterman bids her former editor adieu and welcomes her new editor and goddess of deadlines, Camillia Lanham. Send welcome wishes, comments, fan mail, gifts of an ostentatious nature, and moon pies to clanham@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Apr 30 – May 7, 2015.