Donald Russell

How do you find the words to fit the finest wordsmith who blessed your life? Well, you stare at the screen and shed tears over your smile or your chuckle, knowing that you simply can’t.

I do know that that man was special in most of the ways that make life worth living: words and their core meaning, kindness, concern for others, rights, morals, the Constitution, love, forthright, honesty, perspective, cars and boats, salmon fishing, a small glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Those were featured big time in the man.

The labels that were not a fit were just as telling, perhaps. Greed, ambition, fancy, pretentious, vanity were missing- not chosen to interfere, to be worthy enough to have any place in his life. He did not honk his own horn. He did chuckle, though.

He was a deep thinker, and his printed word caused others to broaden their thinking. He made your brain itch, and he scratched it. Gosh, I loved that man- and always will.

I was blessed to sit opposite him in that cluttered space at The Mess, punching keys and fussing, and laughing, but the smoke drove me out to the fresh mountain air and the people who made Belle Tauer happy. I had named that scribe after the bell tower sitting at the center of the Sierra County seat, observing daily life. Don said that “if it didn’t happen in Sierra County, it didn’t happen,” and that drove the print on the pages of the paper, with the front page being his.

Of course, the whole paper was his, never adequately staffed for those mundane matters such as advertising sales to drive income to pay the costs of generating a weekly newspaper, California’s oldest continuously in print. He wore all the hats as he left the door unlocked for stories to walk in and a body to occasionally sleep on the floor, until one’s dog bit me on the leg when Don was in Michigan. It may not have been the dog bite, but the grease from the man’s pizza on the keyboard that put a stop to that trend.

Donald’s business model had room for paying those who drove the paper route or had need, while his time included taking care of their financial affairs. He was not interested in things like class distinction, so his collection of people who caught his ear was full spectrum, and he listened to them and tended them. He paid attention to them- and respected them. Certainly, many of the news gems were collected in the bars of the county.

Don’s mother told me that she could always tell when the words were his. His style caught attention outside Sierra County as the paper went to 35 states and two foreign countries. Articles he wrote were read on the David Letterman show, not just used as fish-wrap. He told me to listen open-minded and consider their opinion, but not to let anyone mess with my slant.

While Don had open season on the jobs people did, he never preyed on the people themselves or attacked them personally. I remember Tommy Vilas asking me how Don remained close friends with those whose work he skewered in print. I used to laugh when on Wednesday afternoons, Lee Adams and Tim Beals would appear in the back room to read the paper displayed on the boards to see what trouble the sheriff’s office or the county government was in that week. Don was indeed the watchdog of and for the people.

Politics captured Don when he was in his teens and never let go. These past few years were hard to take, so I hope the peace he sought was found. I think his cat helped. His Irene certainly blessed his life. Their bright, respectful, and heartfelt bonding was very special. Their travels by car and train earned and appreciated, with her by his side as he went. They will continue to share words as she, too, has lived with and by them, artists both. My tears flow.