February 10, 1981: It was a dark and stormy night.

George Stuteville and I were seated at the Press Table, half bored out of our skulls.

He was the newspaper reporter; I was with the local radio station. We’d each been tasked with covering the regular school board meeting in Tell City, Indiana. There was nothing exciting on the agenda, just paying bills, accepting resignations, negotiating teacher contracts.

As the meeting wound to a close, I whispered: “Hey George, are you going to that Watershed meeting tonight? I’m not sure whether to go.”

Turns out George hadn’t decided yet either. The meeting was actually an election for two new Middlefork Watershed Board members. This was significant because the new members could carry the vote to either kill or continue the federal (so-called) flood-control project. But the weather that dark evening was sketchy, with rain-turning-to-snow predicted, and the meeting was held at a country church.

George Stuteville suggested we bite the bullet and go.

… and he offered me a ride. That made me feel better, as the only other time I’d been to St. Isadore Church, it was in broad daylight. In pre-GPS times, the best directions came from a service-station attendant, who gave me a complicated series of “go right up here and then left when you get to the old school – wait – that burned down a few years ago. But there’s a big tree, you can’t miss it” and on and on. I memorized the route, only to realize later I just needed to stay on the paved route and avoid dirt roads.

George and I packed into his green VW beetle and headed out into the night. I’d been on the job at WTCJ radio about seven months and ran into him at numerous meetings. He was a friendly fellow – always grinning – quick to provide backstories regarding news events in the small town. He warned me “Mayor Walt” would want me to sit up next to him during City Council meetings, but to be sure to stay on the opposite side of the table from the office-sized trash can. It seems the mayor would smoke cigars during meetings (remember, this was 1981), using the trash can as his ash tray. Sure enough, one evening the ashes lit the can on fire and we all had to run out of the meeting room. George grinned at me and mouthed, “Told you!”

After 40 minutes or so of driving, I wondered if we were lost. I got my answer when George asked, “Are we almost there?”

What?! George! Don’t you know where we’re going?!

“I thought you did!” he chuckled.

Happily, a state police car was pulling out of a crossroad up ahead. George flagged him down and was relieved to hear we were just a right turn away from our destination.

And I still remember that officer’s name: John Deer.

George pulled into the parking lot at St. Isadore Church and we hurried through snow flurries into the meeting room. It was impressive to see a group of farmers hurry over to shake George’s hand and swap stories with the reporter. I stood by quietly and took it all in.

Next, George realized he’d left his film in the car and dashed off to retrieve it. The farmers quickly scattered.

All but one.

The fellow who stayed behind was to become my husband. My first words to Gary:

What the hell’s a watershed?

In Gary’s inimitable style, he smiled and offered that we should sit down, as it was a long story.

About a half hour later, Gary was still talking. George approached and asked if I was ready to leave.

Well, I wasn’t. The vote counting was underway, but nowhere near finished. George didn’t need the totals that night, as his paper published Monday-Wednesday-Friday, so his story wasn’t due for a few days.

Not so for me. My stories (remember the school board meeting?) were due at 6 o’clock the following morning. I needed the results of the voting.

Providence smiled on me once again that evening, as our News Staff (there were two of us) business cards had arrived from the printer earlier in the day. I handed one to Gary after he assured me he was staying till the last vote was counted. He promised to call me at the station with the results.

George and I hopped back into the green bug and we returned to Tell City. He regaled me with stories about the farmer I’d just met. You see, Gary had already fought his own watershed battle – and won. He was at St. Isadore Church that evening to support friends whose land was threatened in a similar project. (Decades later, I learned that St. Isadore is the Patron Saint of Farmers.)

Mr. Stuteville puffed out his chest with pride when he realized, a few months later, that Gary and I were “an item.” He immediately took full credit:

And to think … I was the one who introduced you!

Not quite, George … you’re the one who didn’t introduce us that evening. But … point taken.

George headed to Indianapolis that November, hired to write for the Star.

Six weeks later, Gary and I were engaged. We married the following August.

This was long before email and social media, so we didn’t exactly stay in close touch with George. But once electronic mail came to be, he popped into my Inbox every couple of years, to keep me updated on his career and family, always making a point of reminding me what a great job he did as matchmaker.

He subscribed to this blog and posted comments on several of the stories, always kind and encouraging.

So it was heartbreaking when, the other morning, Gary and I wondered if George had retired yet and searched online. Indeed he had. And he passed away just one year later, the spring of ’22.

Dammit, George. You weren’t done. I know you weren’t. Your skills as a writer … as a storyteller … weren’t used up yet.

From his obituary:

“I tell ya,” George once wryly noted. “It’s better to be lucky than smart. But I’ve been both.” Yes, he was both. And his family and many friends are blessed to have had him walk among us. We will always remember and love you, George Eric Stuteville.

Goodbye, George. Thanks for your generosity and kindness when I hit town just out of college. Especially that tip regarding Mayor Walt. He was something else!

Thanks most of all for introducing me to Gary.

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