When I walked into the Vanguard newsroom on Monday morning, I stood in the doorway between his old office and my desk.
Over the years we had a lot of conversations in this very spot. Many were news-related. Others were about news of the day, but not necessarily the news that got published.
My former editor Fred A. Hatfield had that way about him. He was very easy to talk to. Maybe that’s why when my youngest son Justin was just three years old he’d come into the newsroom and say, “Hi Friend,” instead of ‘Hi Fred.” I used to always smile at the mispronunciation. In hindsight it was fitting.
Monday, Oct. 5, was the 49th anniversary of the Yarmouth Vanguard. It was also the day we received the news that Fred had died the night before. In our newsroom, Carla, Eric and I grieved the loss of a boss and a friend who always felt like family. Our Vanguard staff, present and past, shared in this loss. And we grieved the loss of a brilliant old-school journalist who wore a Tilley hat instead of a fedora, and whose storytelling and newsgathering contributions to his community won’t ever be forgotten.
But we also celebrated him for all of these things too, and for also being one of the funniest people many of us have ever known. Most of our memories of him don't move us to tears, but to laughter and smiles instead.
But even with the public aspect of the job, it may come as a surprise to many – considering how he poured his thoughts into his words in our newspaper – to know that Fred was a very private man. It was a part of him we always respected. And although he may not have been the best plumber or the best carpenter, he was smart. Very smart. The things he knew about Yarmouth and its history were beyond interesting.
Fred was many things to many people. A husband. A father. A father figure. A grampy. A journalist. A photographer. A co-worker. A drummer. A Runic Stone. A friend. A jokester. A confidant. To so many of us in the journalism field he was also a mentor.
Over the decades Fred’s stories and photographs were published in the Yarmouth Vanguard, other Yarmouth newspapers that came before it, and in other newspapers and magazines throughout North America.
He started in the newspaper business when he was a teenager. Since someone gave him a chance in the business, he was always willing to do the same for others.
You weren’t just lucky to work with Fred. You were indeed fortunate. He didn’t just make you want to be a good journalist: he made you want to be the best journalist you could be. You didn’t just want to take good photos: you wanted to take great ones, just as he did.
As we shared the news of his death with other reporters who have gone through our newsroom – and with others who worked with Fred as colleagues in the business – everyone spoke about how important Fred had been to the field of journalism and how important he had been to them. It didn’t matter if a few years had passed since they last worked with him, or a few decades. Their gratitude and admiration never faded.
When you worked with Fred (because again, you didn’t work for him, you worked with him as part of a newsroom team) you wanted to not just meet his newsroom expectations, but exceed them. You would enter his office with a story idea, and leave his office excited to tackle it.
He once taped a nail to the corner of copy I had handed him to edit. He told me the story was amongst my greatest work. The nail, he said, was to hang the award on that I would surely receive. I never received an award for that story. And yet that nail that has been taped to my wall for the past six years means more to me than any of the awards alongside it. When it came to my work, I valued Fred’s opinion above all others.
It’s been over a year since he retired from the Vanguard. I still find myself often wondering, “What would Fred do?” when I am pursuing stories or contemplating issues.
And it’s not just those of us who worked with Fred for a long time – in my case 24 years – for whom his mentorship means a lot. For some he made an impact in just a few months. Yarmouth native Trevor Murphy, for instance, worked with us as a summer student. He shared this story with me as he and I traded emails about Fred’s death.
“It was lunchtime and I was all alone in the newsroom when the police scanner broke the news: the old Odeon theatre on Main Street collapsed. I fumbled around the office, my shaking 18-year-old summer student reporter hands scrambling to find a camera and batteries. I was less than a month away from my first year of journalism school in Halifax, and maybe I should have been thinking of this as my chance for a big break in the field, but I wasn't. The only thing running through my head was, ‘Don't let Fred down.’
“I raced down to the scene and began snapping pictures like an old pro – my index finger a flurry on the shutter button, my glasses smudged from pressing the camera to my face. Police officers, firefighters, and onlookers filled the street, but I just kept shooting. It wasn't long before I locked eyes with Fred who was standing on the opposite side of the dusty collapse, camera in hand and a smile on his face, staring at me as if to say: ‘Good job, kid.’”
When it came to photography, Fred had an eye like no other. When it came to writing, on one page of the Vanguard he could be thought provoking, on another page he could have you laughing out loud. He could move you to cheers as easily as he could move you to tears.
His presence will forever be felt in our newsroom. We still refer to “Fred’s office,” “Fred’s computer,” even “Fred’s chair.”
It comes with the territory of having been the longest-serving editor of the Vanguard – a record no one will ever break.
As I stood in the doorway between Fred’s office and my desk on Monday morning, I would have given anything to have just one more of our conversations. To hear him ask one more time, “What do you know?”
Mourning the loss of Fred wasn’t exactly how I had envisioned marking our newspaper’s 49th anniversary. After all, I had hoped to get many quotes from him for our story when we reached our 50th.
As tears streamed down my face, I stared at the front page of the Oct. 5, 1966 front page of the Vanguard that hangs on the wall in his old office.
‘We Are Here,’ the headline proclaims.
Well, minus one.
Our Vanguard family offers our deepest condolences to Fred’s wife Belle – the “Sensible One” as he always affectionately and appropriately referred to her in his Editor’s Diary columns – to his daughters Samantha and Laura, to his grandchildren and to all of his other family, friends and news business colleagues.
When I walked into the Vanguard newsroom on Monday morning, I stood in the doorway between his old office and my desk.
Over the years we had a lot of conversations in this very spot. Many were news-related. Others were about news of the day, but not necessarily the news that got published.
My former editor Fred A. Hatfield had that way about him. He was very easy to talk to. Maybe that’s why when my youngest son Justin was just three years old he’d come into the newsroom and say, “Hi Friend,” instead of ‘Hi Fred.” I used to always smile at the mispronunciation. In hindsight it was fitting.
Monday, Oct. 5, was the 49th anniversary of the Yarmouth Vanguard. It was also the day we received the news that Fred had died the night before. In our newsroom, Carla, Eric and I grieved the loss of a boss and a friend who always felt like family. Our Vanguard staff, present and past, shared in this loss. And we grieved the loss of a brilliant old-school journalist who wore a Tilley hat instead of a fedora, and whose storytelling and newsgathering contributions to his community won’t ever be forgotten.
But we also celebrated him for all of these things too, and for also being one of the funniest people many of us have ever known. Most of our memories of him don't move us to tears, but to laughter and smiles instead.
But even with the public aspect of the job, it may come as a surprise to many – considering how he poured his thoughts into his words in our newspaper – to know that Fred was a very private man. It was a part of him we always respected. And although he may not have been the best plumber or the best carpenter, he was smart. Very smart. The things he knew about Yarmouth and its history were beyond interesting.
Fred was many things to many people. A husband. A father. A father figure. A grampy. A journalist. A photographer. A co-worker. A drummer. A Runic Stone. A friend. A jokester. A confidant. To so many of us in the journalism field he was also a mentor.
Over the decades Fred’s stories and photographs were published in the Yarmouth Vanguard, other Yarmouth newspapers that came before it, and in other newspapers and magazines throughout North America.
He started in the newspaper business when he was a teenager. Since someone gave him a chance in the business, he was always willing to do the same for others.
You weren’t just lucky to work with Fred. You were indeed fortunate. He didn’t just make you want to be a good journalist: he made you want to be the best journalist you could be. You didn’t just want to take good photos: you wanted to take great ones, just as he did.
As we shared the news of his death with other reporters who have gone through our newsroom – and with others who worked with Fred as colleagues in the business – everyone spoke about how important Fred had been to the field of journalism and how important he had been to them. It didn’t matter if a few years had passed since they last worked with him, or a few decades. Their gratitude and admiration never faded.
When you worked with Fred (because again, you didn’t work for him, you worked with him as part of a newsroom team) you wanted to not just meet his newsroom expectations, but exceed them. You would enter his office with a story idea, and leave his office excited to tackle it.
He once taped a nail to the corner of copy I had handed him to edit. He told me the story was amongst my greatest work. The nail, he said, was to hang the award on that I would surely receive. I never received an award for that story. And yet that nail that has been taped to my wall for the past six years means more to me than any of the awards alongside it. When it came to my work, I valued Fred’s opinion above all others.
It’s been over a year since he retired from the Vanguard. I still find myself often wondering, “What would Fred do?” when I am pursuing stories or contemplating issues.
And it’s not just those of us who worked with Fred for a long time – in my case 24 years – for whom his mentorship means a lot. For some he made an impact in just a few months. Yarmouth native Trevor Murphy, for instance, worked with us as a summer student. He shared this story with me as he and I traded emails about Fred’s death.
“It was lunchtime and I was all alone in the newsroom when the police scanner broke the news: the old Odeon theatre on Main Street collapsed. I fumbled around the office, my shaking 18-year-old summer student reporter hands scrambling to find a camera and batteries. I was less than a month away from my first year of journalism school in Halifax, and maybe I should have been thinking of this as my chance for a big break in the field, but I wasn't. The only thing running through my head was, ‘Don't let Fred down.’
“I raced down to the scene and began snapping pictures like an old pro – my index finger a flurry on the shutter button, my glasses smudged from pressing the camera to my face. Police officers, firefighters, and onlookers filled the street, but I just kept shooting. It wasn't long before I locked eyes with Fred who was standing on the opposite side of the dusty collapse, camera in hand and a smile on his face, staring at me as if to say: ‘Good job, kid.’”
When it came to photography, Fred had an eye like no other. When it came to writing, on one page of the Vanguard he could be thought provoking, on another page he could have you laughing out loud. He could move you to cheers as easily as he could move you to tears.
His presence will forever be felt in our newsroom. We still refer to “Fred’s office,” “Fred’s computer,” even “Fred’s chair.”
It comes with the territory of having been the longest-serving editor of the Vanguard – a record no one will ever break.
As I stood in the doorway between Fred’s office and my desk on Monday morning, I would have given anything to have just one more of our conversations. To hear him ask one more time, “What do you know?”
Mourning the loss of Fred wasn’t exactly how I had envisioned marking our newspaper’s 49th anniversary. After all, I had hoped to get many quotes from him for our story when we reached our 50th.
As tears streamed down my face, I stared at the front page of the Oct. 5, 1966 front page of the Vanguard that hangs on the wall in his old office.
‘We Are Here,’ the headline proclaims.
Well, minus one.
Our Vanguard family offers our deepest condolences to Fred’s wife Belle – the “Sensible One” as he always affectionately and appropriately referred to her in his Editor’s Diary columns – to his daughters Samantha and Laura, to his grandchildren and to all of his other family, friends and news business colleagues.
