Bill used to occasionally chide me about the length of the stories I wrote, but something tells me he wouldn't be complaining today, because this one's about him. I don't think just a few words are going to cut it.
Bill would absolutely love this, and us meeting here could not be more appropriate. Some may recall, that for a long time Bill urged and practically begged the North Scott School Board to name this auditorium after longtime superintendent Mel Heiler, the man who spearheaded the drive and construction of this facility.
The school has a policy that it doesn’t name things after people, but just for today, on Bill’s behalf, I want to welcome you to Mel Heiler Auditorium.
Bill Tubbs. Really, those two short words, in all their simplicity, speak volumes. Bill Tubbs, two short words, that for many of us, conjure up images of a man who believed in making a difference, leaving an impact, and making our little corner of the world the best it could be. Today, we are here to remember Bill.
It was September of 1983. Beth and I had been married for a little more than a month and were living in Davenport, where she was teaching, and I was commuting back and forth from a job in Cedar Rapids. I got a phone call from a man in Eldridge. He was looking for an editor, and asked me to come for an interview the next day.
It was a Friday afternoon, and other than my wedding day and the birth of my daughter, probably one of the most consequential days of my entire life. It was the day that I met Bill Tubbs, and the day my life, and career path, changed forever.
Truly one of a kind
Let’s face it, and I think we can all agree, Bill was unlike anybody any of us had ever met. Bill was truly one-of-a-kind, and the truth is, every one of us here today probably has a favorite "Bill" story. Why? Well, because Bill was simply Bill. And Bill, being Bill, was why deep down, even when he frustrated us or drove us crazy, you just had to love the man, and for more than 50 years, he was "Our Bill."
The NSP was Bill’s baby, and even though he actually didn’t give it birth, he adopted it when it was just three years old, and nurtured it into one of the most respected weekly newspapers in the entire country.
Think about this: Bill was a 22-year-old college graduate when he became editor, after being hired by his mentors, Bob and Frances Melvold in Maquoketa, and Bob Parrott in DeWitt.
He was the paper’s first full-time employee, and inherited a staff of three grandmotherly ladies who had guided the paper in its infancy.
When Bill came to Eldridge, he did it all. He sold the ads, hustled subscriptions, wrote the news, took the pictures, developed the film, and did just about everything except run the printing press. Bill was The North Scott Press.
It wasn’t long before The NSP became a training ground for young journalists, and as was usually the case, they would stick around for a year or two, and then move on to bigger papers. That all changed in 1983, when Bill hired me on the spot, even though I was wearing blue jeans, which in his book, was almost a deal breaker.
In most things, Bill and I were as different as night and day. He was a Cyclone. I was a Hawkeye. He loved covering politics. I did not. He was prematurely bald, and I was prematurely gray. He was a night owl, who liked to work into the wee hours of the morning on deadline day. I was an early bird, preferring to start my day before the sun came up. I wrote long, novel-like stories, and Bill’s were concise, matter-of-fact, and to the point
And finally, Bill was in Rotary, and I was not. In fact, when it comes to our relationship, I think Bill would say he probably has two regrets. 1. He never convinced me to join Rotary. 2. He never got me to sing barbershop with the Chordbusters.
Yes, we butted heads. There were times I know that I drove him crazy, and there were certainly times he frustrated me to no end, even to the point where I once stormed out of his office, stating, “Bill, I’ve had it. I’m done.” That lasted two days.
In the end, we were kind of like an old married couple. I think we both knew that we, and the paper, were better together than apart, and that point was driven home in the fall of 2021.
We were taking a drive to Wildwood, his second home, located on the bluffs of the Maquoketa River. I told him, confidentially, that I wanted to retire within the next year, and his response was simple and to the point.
“I’m going to sell the paper,” he said. “I can’t imagine doing this without you. Give me a little time.” Bill put the paper on the market four months later, and closed the deal in September of 2022. I retired a few months after that.
I know there were times we pushed the envelope on some stories and editorials, and we both made our share of mistakes. The problem with newspapers is that our mistakes were printed in black and white, out there for the whole word to see, with no way of erasing them.
We had to eat our share of humble pie over the years, but none more than that day in 1987 when I had the bright idea to print an April Fool’s spoof on the front page. I thought it was pretty funny. And so did Bill. The public, not so much.
We had obviously misjudged the situation, and caused a whole world of hurt in the community. It was the one and only time we printed a front-page apology the next week.
My name was on the story, but Bill stood side-by-side with me in facing the heat. That was Bill. No matter what mistake I might have made, or opinion I might have offered over the years, Bill always, always had my back, and the back of every other employee, even if he didn’t whole-heartedly agree with us.
And really, all of us here could probably say the same thing. Whether you’re a member of Rotary or a resident of the North Scott community, or a part of his family, Bill always, always, had our backs. He was our biggest cheerleader, one who always strived to make us better, and to be the best that we could possibly be.
Over the past few days, my mind has been flooded with Bill stories, and I think it's only appropriate to share a few.
Some of our drives to Des Moines were legendary, whether it was for a state tournament game or a press convention. On one of our first, I noticed the license plate on a car that had passed us, and I nonchalantly asked where that specific county was located.
Bill told me, and he then proceeded to name every single one of Iowa’s 99 counties, starting in the far northwest corner of the state, from west to east and north to south, all while driving. Seriously, who can do that? Who would want to do that? Bill.
There was a late night trip back from a state basketball game, and it was about the time the Chordbusters were preparing for an upcoming show. Bill had brought a practice tape along so he could learn his part, and for two and half hours, while I was trying to write parts of my story from the passenger seat, I was treated to a solo concert, from Bill.
A few weeks later Bill came into my office and wanted to give me tickets to the concert, and I said, “Thanks, Bill, but I don’t need them. I’ve already heard it.”
One time I was driving back from the state wrestling tournament, and Bill was not with me. Yet, his name still came up in a conversation I had with a highway patrolman.
I was driving The NSP van, and all of a sudden I see the red flashing lights in the rearview mirror. I pulled over and rolled down the window. The officer walked up and asked the typical question: “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Even though I may have been going a little over the speed limit, I said, “No, I honestly don’t.”
He said, “I noticed that your registration tags were in the wrong place on your license plate.” I said “Really?” He said, “Yes, they’re supposed to be in the bottom left hand corner, and yours go all the way across the bottom, and up the side.”
Then he laughed, and I laughed. He said, “Who does that?” I said, “Bill, my boss.” He said, “Well, I don’t know Bill, but tell him not to do it anymore.”
In the newspaper industry, there are three words that journalists dream about uttering. Bill’s opportunity came in 2001, when the Cat Plant burned down.
It was a Tuesday, deadline day. I’d been at the office since 5, putting the finishing touches on that week’s issue. Bill had been there late the night before, writing a school board story. He finally came in about an hour before the paper went to press.
I heard the back door slam, and Bill rushed in. He was barely able to contain his excitement. “Stop the presses! Stop the presses!" he yelled. "The Cat plant's on fire.”
First, I laughed, then I just looked at him, and told him to come and look at my computer, where I showed him the front page, with a huge four-column picture of flames and smoke billowing from the Cat Plant. He looked at the computer, looked at me, and said, “Oh, you got it," and walked away.
The other story depicts Bill’s deep love for the Lancers.
A heart for the Lancers
For 40 years it was my privilege to cover North Scott sports, and Bill was in attendance at almost every single home football and basketball game, and many away games. Even though I took the pictures and my own notes, Bill, being a true journalist, took notes of his own.
I would typically write my story over the weekend, and move on to the next. Bill would come in Monday morning, sit down in my office, and pull out his notebook. For 20 minutes he gave me a play-by-play of a game I’d already seen, and, that I’d already written about.
While it at times annoyed me, I marveled at the excitement in his voice as he relived all the big plays, and then before leaving, he’d always say, “Uh, you can have my notes if you need them.” That was Bill.
Boy, I think I could tell stories all day, but let's get serious again.
Back before the internet, social media, and Facebook, and prior to the political divide we have in our country today, there was a time when journalists and newspapers were held in high esteem.
Often, they were seen as the pillars of the community, and their voice was respected and listened to. In our little corner of the world, it was Bill’s voice, through his weekly Impressions columns, that was heard from Dixon to Princeton, and McCausland to Walcott. Everybody knew Bill Tubbs.
He seemingly had a revolving door on his office, and everybody who was anybody wanted a seat at his desk. For local, state and even national politicians, Bill’s office was a must see stop along the campaign trail. That’s how much value people placed on the power of the press, and just as importantly, Bill’s voice.
Bill was the consummate community journalist. He believed in the power of the printed word, and was an advocate for transparency and Freedom of Information. Rarely was he questioned for accuracy.
Wherever he went, he always carried a notebook, and those pages were filled top to bottom with his unique handwriting. No one could take notes as fast as Bill, nor be as accurate. Rarely did people accuse him of being misquoted.
I also marveled at Bill’s incredible memory, especially how he could recall not only individual players, but specific plays from games that were played decades ago, and games that I had written about, but long forgotten. He was a walking encyclopedia when it came to all things North Scott, and there was a time when he knew the phone number of every single Eldridge business by heart, and the numbers of most residents.
When it came to reporting the news, Bill was a stickler for detail and accuracy, and when it came to his Impressions column, he was never afraid to wade into controversial subjects on local, state or national issues, even when he knew his views would be unpopular.
He was firm in his beliefs, and confident in his convictions. A lot of people agreed with him. Many didn’t. But, no matter what side of the line you were on, one thing was certain: You always had to respect Bill, because he had earned that respect, and more importantly, he respected you.
Two days before Bill’s final surgery in Madison, I was driving by The Press and saw Bill’s van was parked in its usual spot at the back door. Something inside me just said I needed to go in.
It was 7 p.m., and there I found Bill, sitting at his desk, proudly wearing his Iowa State hat and pullover, in honor of the Cyclones’ win over Iowa the previous day.
He was putting the finishing touches on what would be his final Rotary newsletter, and it was only fitting that we had the chance to share that space for one final time, a space where we shared countless conversations over the years. He was tired, and praying that the surgery would allow him to get his health back, and he hoped to be back in the office at the end of the week.
That never happened. Bill never came back.
Our final conversation
On the Tuesday before he passed away, Alisa texted me that there was bascially nothing more that doctors could do. We were going to lose Bill. That afternoon, Beth and I made the drive to Madison, and I’m so glad that we did. We walked into Bill’s room, and Bill knew who I was. He looked into my eyes, and said, “Have you talked to the doctor?” I said that Alisa had filled me in, and he nodded, a small tear in the corner of his eye.
Over the course of the next hour, we had a chance to do some reminiscing. I held Bill’s hand, and in a voice cracking with emotion, and our eyes locked, I told him what he’d meant to me and my family, and that for the past 40 years, other than Beth, no one has had more of an impact on my daily life, than him. We both had tears in our eyes. We said our final goodbyes.
Even though Bill was my boss, and signed my paychecks, one of the things I appreciated most about him was that 99 percent of the time he treated me as an equal. He always sought out and respected my opinion on just about every major decision with the paper, and most importantly, for the most part, he let me do things my way. For better or worse, he let me, be me, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful.
When you’re in the business and profession that Bill and I chose, it’s a 24/7 proposition. Back in the day, the news never stopped, deadlines just kept coming, and families often times took a back seat. The NSP office was Bill’s second home, and some might even argue it was his primary residence.
But I’m here to tell you, no one loved his family more than Bill. Linda was a saint. Aimee, Anne and Alisa were truly his pride and joy, and then when the grandkids came along, the staff was always treated to updates on Clara, Nolan, Ella, Ava, Nora and Jacob. Boy, Bill was so proud of them, and he loved them to his very core.
And as for Matt and Joe, Bill always talked about how Anne and Alisa hit home runs when they got married. As sons-in-law, they don’t come any better, and Bill constantly sung their praises.
I think Alisa told me last week that you two were in charge of cleaning out Bill's office. A word of advice: "Bring a pickup."
Family, the Press, and Rotary. That was Bill’s life, although if we’re truthful, the order of importance could sometimes be open to debate at times.
You know, there’s always been a lingering question that I would have loved to ask Bill's doctors. I’ve always wondered if he had printer’s ink in his blood, or if Bill bled Lancer scarlet and silver, or maybe Rotary blue and gold. In the end, and true to who Bill was, it was probably a rainbow of colors.
A tremendous heart
For as weak and worn out as his heart was at the end, it’s that very heart that made Bill who he was. He had a tremendous heart for his family, and a generous and giving heart for his community. There is no doubt that he wanted to leave this place better than what he found it, and he certainly did.
Yes, Bill and Linda were incredibly generous with their resources, and we, the community, are the ones reaping the benefit of their philanthropy. The clock at Wiese Park and The Scott County Library. The Scott County Bookmobile, the North Scott YMCA, and many others projects in our community. The list is seemingly endless
However, Bill’s greatest gift to all of us, was providing us a newspaper, and let me tell you why.
It’s because of "his" newspaper, that we call ourselves "Lancer Nation." It’s because of him, and "his" newspaper, that we consider ourselves "One North Scott."
Back in 1977, The NSP won the School Bell Award, presented by the Iowa Association of School Boards, and in announcing the award, one of the judges commented: “North Scott was the only place in Iowa where a community was formed by a newspaper.”
Just think about that for a minute. North Scott was formed by a newspaper, that Bill gave us.
It was "his" newspaper, and the people he hired, that united Princeton, McCausland, Long Grove, Donahue, Dixon, Park View, Maysville and Eldridge, eight towns in a 250-square-mile radius.
It was "his" newspaper, that allowed him and people like me, to share stories, celebrate triumphs, and mourn tragedies, much like families do.
The pages of "his" newspaper, were filed with emotion and passion, and for decades, it was the heartbeat, and lifeline, that connected us all.
That, my friends, is quite a legacy.
We, and I more than most, owe Bill a deep debt of gratitude, and there is no doubt in my mind, that when Bill got to heaven last week, he was greeted by the words: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
There is also no doubt in my mind that Bill responded with two important questions: 1. "How about them Lancers?" And two, "Where’s the nearest Rotary Club, and when does it meet?”
Bill was Bill, and whether you're a Rotarian, an NSP subscriber, former employee or member of his family, each and every one of us should be eternally grateful, that he was “Our Bill.”