DATE: Sunday, July 20, 1997                 TAG: 9707180507

SECTION: CAROLINA COAST          PAGE: 2    EDITION: FINAL 

SOURCE: Lane DeGregory

                                            LENGTH:   60 lines

FROM THE EDITOR

Usually I use this space to preview some of the great things in the Coast.

But this week, I wanted to write about the greatest thing that's happened to me as a newspaper woman: Ronald L. Speer.

He scared me when he first arrived in Nags Head three years ago to take over The Virginian-Pilot's North Carolina bureau. With his bottle brush moustache and a big belly flanked by wide suspenders, he looked like Wilford Brimley from the oatmeal commercials. But he seemed as gruff as the Grinch.

``I'm gonna cut a window in the wall of my office so I can watch you all and make sure you're working,'' the curmudgeony old cowboy told us. ``And I can hear when you're typing - and when you're not - so I want to hear typing, typing, typing.''

Ron rants a lot when he's excited - or trying to get others enthused. But we quickly learned that inside his crusty (sometimes crumb-covered) exterior is one of the most wonderful, caring, insightful individuals the world has known.

Within two weeks after he arrived, Ron's initial icy exterior had melted entirely - and he brought homemade ice cream into our office (I think it was strawberry, blended with berries he'd picked himself.) He invited us all over for a barbecue and backyard pool party the next weekend. And by the end of summer, our staff not only knew each other better, liked each other (and our jobs) better - but also were beginning to see vast improvements in our work.

For a newspaper man, Ron's not all that with it. Sure, he knows sports and politics and, of course, current events well enough to write the Trivial Pursuit questions for those categories. But he still has no idea who Forrest Gump is (that's one of the reasons I chose to start my Coast cover with a quote from that movie this week). He thinks a megabyte is a big sandwich. And he can't even sing the whole chorus of the one song he says he likes: ``Save the Life of my Child,'' an obscure cut off the B-side of a Simon and Garfunkel album.

But Ron knows words (he can make a lackadaisical lead sing by switching two clauses). He knows reporting (he's coached and edited two reporters who won Pulitzer Prizes). And, best of all, he knows people.

``Put yourself in the shoes of those you're writing about,'' Ron says. ``Any time you write a story, insert your name, or your sister's name, in place of your subject. If you still think it's fair, print the story.'' A compassionate - yet tenacious - watchdog, Ron keeps his eye on everyone. And even those who may not like what he writes (or prints) about them keep coming back to drink coffee with the Nebraska cowboy, hear his stories of sheep, civil rights riots and grand slams, and seek his advice on everything from senatorial election campaigns to lost loves.

Son of a rancher, Ron grew up in a sod house in the sand hills, rode a horse four miles to school through chest-high snow, and didn't have electricity, a telephone or indoor plumbing until he was 16 years old. But he has a rare ability to blend in with - and impress - almost everyone. I think that's because he doesn't try to impress anyone.

``Don't be afraid to be dumb,'' he tells reporters when they're going out on interviews. ``You just might be.''

Ron is retiring this month. He wants to make clay pots, sail ``The Wind Gypsy'' across the sound and learn to play the harmonica. We want him to be free and happy.

But I don't want to let him go.

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