DATE: Friday, July 11, 1997                 TAG: 9707100239

SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON   PAGE: 08   EDITION: FINAL 

COLUMN: OVER EASY 

SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg 

                                            LENGTH:   64 lines

KUDZU, KURALT EVOKE PLEASANT MEMORIES

It must have been about eight years ago that I received a call from my oldest son, Bill, who was attending his company's annual convention on the West Coast.

``Hey, Mom,'' he asked, ``did you ever write a column about kudzu?''

``Yes,'' I told him, ``but why do you ask?''

``Well,'' he answered, ``I was talking to somebody today who read it.''

``And remembered it?'' I asked as I recalled the piece of fluff about the possibility that the tenacious vine might move into our back yard and swallow a rusty swing set, three battling kids and an overweight beagle who ate bumblebees for dessert.

``Yeah,'' said Bill. ``He thought he remembered something about a dog who caught bees. Don't you want to know who it was?'' he continued.

``So long as it's not the company CEO,'' I said, remembering that I hadn't been terribly complimentary to my sons in the story. I had suggested that kudzu would be an improvement over what normally inhabited our back 40.

``No, not the CEO,'' Bill told me. ``It was Charles Kuralt. He saw the story when he was visiting his parents in Southern Shores.''

I wasn't sure whether I was amazed, appalled or just plain proud. Kuralt had long been at the top of my idol list. I loved and admired the way he could take the smallest of stories about the most ordinary of people and with a few simple words turn it into a thing of grace and poetry.

He had a way of reminding us that each person has something to offer, each idea is worth considering, each place has its own kind of beauty. I had listened to him on the radio, watched him on television and read everything he had written.

That he would ever read, let alone recall, something I had written was mind-boggling. That he would discuss it with one of my sons was even more so.

They met when Kuralt was the featured speaker at the convention Bill was attending. Leaving the hotel where the meeting was held, Bill ran into the newsman puffing on one of his ever present Pall Malls near a door.

The two talked for 20 minutes or so about Virginia and North Carolina, about people and places they both knew. Bill mentioned that I wrote a column for The Beacon, which was occasionally picked up by the other community news sections. Kuralt asked about the kudzu piece, which he had seen while visiting his parents on the Outer Banks.

Before they parted, Bill asked Kuralt if he could take his picture.

Kuralt agreed and my son got a single shot of the large man in the slightly rumpled suit, his glasses perched far down on his nose, his lips slightly parted as if he had just blown a small, lazy smoke ring.

Several weeks later I got a package from Bill. In it was the picture, matted and framed. Before it got to me it had made a trip to New York where the ever-gracious Kuralt had taken time to pen a few words. ``For Jo-Ann Clegg, with warm wishes from her admirer, Charles Kuralt,'' it said.

Initially I was a bit embarrassed by the word admirer, coming as it did from the person I considered the best in the business. But then I accepted the inscription for what it was: the kind words of a very kind man.

I have the picture over my desk now and look at it often. It reminds me of the son who took the time and trouble to give his mother something meaningful. And it reminds me of the man who understood far better than most that there should always be a place in print and on the air for good, simple stories about good, ordinary people.

Rest in peace, Charles Kuralt. Our world is a better place because you took the time to travel the byways and report back to us on the wonders that you found there.

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