Tuesday, March 23, 2021

Joe Sink

 Joe Sink mended my heart twice.

That wasn't his job.

The first time came in 1987. Joe was the publisher of The Dispatch, and I was a young sportswriter on his staff.

But I had to tell him that my dad had just passed away, and that I would be going to Wisconsin for a few days for the funeral. I'd managed to be strong in my grief that morning – until I sat down with Joe. Then the dam broke and I was carried away in a teary flood of emotion. I don't know why the release came with Joe, but then, maybe I do.

Joe came over to me, put his arm around me and comforted me. This had to be an awkward moment for him, but he never showed it. He spoke softly, firmly, helped me to regain my emotional equilibrium, and I was better. For that moment, at least, he wasn't my publisher. He was my pastor.

Joe Sink and his wife, Libby.

The second time came in 1991, and it was almost a carbon copy of 1987. Mom had just died. I walked into Joe's office to let him know I had to go to Wisconsin again, this time to bury my mother. My lips quivered, my eyes watered, I could hardly stand. Again, Joe came to me, wrapped his arms around me and soothed my aching heart.

I mention this because I think this is a side of Joe that was rarely seen outside of his family. I suspect most of his employees and friends probably saw him as the gregarious man with the wide-brimmed smile and the sometimes booming voice who could be larger than life almost at will. Which seemed to be often.

Joe died during the night after a rapid decline in his health. He just turned 84.

And so, with his passing, an era ends in Lexington.

It would be easy to get carried away here, flowing with accolades all over the place, and I may have already crossed that line.

But from where I stood, most people seemed to sense Joe's own love of life through his quick wit, his intelligence, his business acumen, his generosity. I don't know if he could ever say "no." But if he did, I bet it hurt him to say it, and then only when he needed to.

To this day, I don't know of a single Dispatch employee who ever had an unkind word to say about Joe. Almost unanimously, you hear former employees – whether it be newsroom, business office, press room, or circulation – declare that Joe was the best boss anybody could hope to work for. Word for word. All of us. Period.

He loved Lexington. He was a moving force in the creation of the Barbecue Festival, an event that actually put Lexington on the national map as one of the largest single-day food festivals in the country. Joe once told me that he originally expected the Festival to last just a dozen years or so, and he was shocked – and pleased – that it continued way beyond his expectations. Covid notwithstanding, the next one will be the 37th.

But he would also throw his support to local civic organizations and local school systems.

After his retirement, he spent hours each morning in The Black Chicken coffee shop, holding court and regaling us with stories from the past. His knowledge of Lexington was almost encyclopedic. He'd welcome total strangers to his table to share a cup of coffee with the rest of us, thus growing our circle of friends.

A few years ago, Joe was diagnosed with early onset dementia. Kim and I paid him a visit just before Covid halted all of that, and we were pleased that he remembered us still. He asked about The Dispatch.

And then an era came to an end.

My lips quivered. My eyes watered. My knees wavered. And I thought of Joe.

 

 


2 comments:

  1. Thanx Bruce for the wonderfully written tribute to Joe.

    ReplyDelete