Letters to our Late Editor: A Final Farewell From "The Times"

Following the passing of the late and great Robin Letts, it has taken the staff a little time to compose ourselves and consider sharing some thoughts and memories of the man he was at work.

Robin’s dedication to his community newspaper required a considerable amount of his time, and it would be remiss of us to discount memories of him in the “Times” office and the influence he had on his colleagues and work friends.

For those of us who wished to write down some memories and thoughts of Robin, we have included below “Letters to our late editor” from the staff of the “Times”, both past and present.

Robin’s dedication to his community newspaper required a considerable amount of his time, and it would be remiss of us to discount memories of him in the “Times” office and the influence he had on his colleagues and work friends.

For those of us who wished to write down some memories and thoughts of Robin, we have included below “Letters to our late editor” from the staff of the “Times”, both past and present.

Candece Jay
Dear Editor. – There has been a lot said about you since you left us.
You would have been embarrassed by some of it. And horrified by the fuss.
I hate to break it to you Robin, you have earned all of the praise, and all of the thanks, too.

A man of genuine curiosity, impeccable manners and unshakeable enthusiasm. You had the extraordinary ability to make people feel seen. And I think you were the most present person I have ever known.

Thank-you, for passing on your knowledge and for teaching by example.

And thank-you, for the Robinisms.

For the humming, the snatches of song, the stories, the limericks, the biscuit raiding and your sharp wit.

Thank-you for hoarding red pens. For knowing almost everything and everyone.

For the out-of-hours phone calls when you couldn’t hold off with your praise.

Thank-you for greeting me with, “There she is, the dear girl!” And thank-you for making me feel like I was, in fact, a dear girl.

Thank-you for writing your stories in pen, then typing them on your typewriter because you reckoned we couldn’t read your scrawl. For then handing the typed sheet over and being completely nonplussed when we had to type it out again on the computer.

Thank-you for being thoroughly yourself. For being so completely Robin that the rest of us felt comfortable being completely ourselves, too.

And thank-you, most of all, for your extraordinary faith in me.

You taught me that a job can become a life, if you love it enough.

And you did.

You loved the paper.

You loved the people.

You loved the stories and the photographs and the deadlines and the front page.

You loved all of it.

The “Buloke Times” was your life.

And you lived it so thoroughly that you’ve earned a rest.

So we’ll try to take it from here.

The paper will continue to come out.

We will meet our deadlines. We will fill the pages. We will argue about headlines.

We will worry about captions. And all the while, we’ll ask ourselves, “What would Robin do?”

So thank-you for everything, Rob, you will always be our editor.

We will miss you.

–Candece.

Quill McQuilty
Dear Robin,

I understand why it took you some time to warm to the “quirky Queenslander”, since I was stepping into the role of your long-term and trusted friend Lil Kirk. Lil knew what she was doing; however, and earning your trust was a rewarding step towards earning your friendship.

Before long, your hesitation was replaced with a crooked smile as you “handballed” me work you couldn’t bring yourself to face: “Quill, I’m doing a ‘Darky Dunstan’, would you mind taking a look at this for me?”

And who could say “No” to that smile?

Robin, you put polish to my writing and taught me to test the weight of every word.

Though your standard was perfection, you knew to err was human, and you were humble enough to laugh at mistakes when they happened. Your humour showed through your advice: when a mispalced “L” makes “an ‘ell of a difference”, and to never leave the “R” out of “Shirt”.

I will never be able to fill your shoes, but I can follow in your footsteps and carry on your traditions, with community at the heart of the publication you served.
I will miss you, my friend,

–Quill.

Patsy Dunstan
He was a gentleman, with a great sense of humour.

He doted on Shirley.

He often told stories and yarns several times, but we still laughed and said, “That’s a good one, Rob.”

He used to come out to the front office and ask me to find someone’s phone number or some information on them, or an event, on the computer. Ninety-nine per cent of the time we found something, and he was always pleased with how I did it.

I’d say, “It was Google!” But he’d say, “No, you had to know what to ask it!”

He never changed from the first day I worked at the “Times” office over 32 years ago to the day I came back to work nine years ago. He treated everyone with respect and on the same level.

If someone called in to see him, he’d say, “I’m busy, not a good day.”

I’d reply, “Okay, I’ll tell them,” and then he’d say, “Oh, I’d better come out. They’ve taken the time to call in.”

Most times he talked to them for half an hour or more. Not bad for someone who was busy - it just proves he made time in his day for anyone.

He loved morning tea, sponge cake and anything sweet.

He’d say, “I’ll take a piece over for Shirley,” but we all knew Shirley wasn’t allowed to eat it, so you know who got it!

I had many a fun time in the front office during my first time with Rob and his good friend Alan “Darkie” Dunstan. The laughs we had, the people and stories they told, and the lot I learned from both of them, I’ll be forever grateful for their friendship and for working with them.

Carmen Bath
I will miss so many things about Rob, but there are so many things that make me think of him... and that makes me smile.

He will live on in my memory forever.

Simone Christie
When Janet Lee retired in 2004, it was put to the “Buloke Times” that the Birchip Neighbourhood House could take over the role and become the Birchip Office.

Dawn Ferrier and I went down to Donald to be “interviewed” by Robin, and the only thing he said to us was, “We don’t print bad news.”

There was no talk of how many hours we had to work or how many stories we had to write, and that never changed in the 22 subsequent years.

Robin rang our office every day to check on us, see what was happening around town and see what stories he could expect. He always rang again if we submitted a photo or story that appealed to him, just to tell us how wonderful we were. If he was short of a front-page story, his call was more urgent and always started with, “Yes, it’s me again.”

I always left the Christmas party after Robin’s annual speech feeling like we were the best journalists in the world, even though we knew Robin’s praise was more a
reflection of the kind and generous person he was than of our own journalistic brilliance.

Robin’s support was constant, his kindness abundant and his encouragement endless. We count ourselves very lucky to have been part of the “Buloke Times” story under Robin’s leadership.

Blake Lee
Our journalism lecturers often share horror stories of editors swearing at cadets and yelling at the newsroom about deadlines, but Robin was nothing like that.

When I visited the Donald office, Robin was always happy and smiling. His humming through the corridors was guaranteed to brighten up your day and make you forget about working to a deadline.

To be called into the “boss’s” office for a chat is typically bad news in many workplaces. But at the “Buloke Times”, being called into Robin’s office was always a privilege.

Robin was generous with his advice and never had a bad thing to say about your writing. His commitment to reporting on the communities within the Buloke area was extraordinary.

At a time when so many rural newsrooms are disappearing, Robin understood how important it was to keep local people informed about what was happening in their own towns.

Robin didn’t like chasing the big headlines and clickbait stories, instead leaving that to the dailies in Melbourne so he could focus on what was important to him: our towns and their people.

Robin made a huge contribution to journalism, and it has been a privilege to begin my career at the “Buloke Times”. If I have a future editor even half as nice as Robin, I’ll be incredibly lucky.

Jenny Pollard
It all began with a phone call back in 2003.

“Hello. It’s Robin Letts from the ‘Buloke Times’. I’m just wondering if you might be able to help us out with coverage of this year’s Charlton Australia Day ceremony?”

I was already a regular contributor for Charlton’s CWA Branch, but Robin was prepared to give me a go as an untested journalist, with no formal training. From there developed an association which lasted 23 years and which I loved being a part of.

Before digital was a “thing”, Robin and I used to rendezvous at Wooroonook Lakes to transfer film cartridges - usually from Australia Day or ANZAC Day ceremonies - to ensure a quick turnaround so the images would be available for the next edition.

Despite one ANZAC Day yielding no photos because the film didn’t wind on, Robin regularly rang after publication to say thank you for the content and comment on aspects of the coverage.

I found developing a writing style a bit harder, and I’m sure Robin very graciously accepted material which was either too long or too light on. I always felt I could ask him for advice.

In one mortifying article where I wrote “Bloke Shire” throughout instead of Buloke Shire, Robin’s comment in a follow-up phone call was, “Well, it is a pretty blokey place!”

Our connection was mostly via phone calls, which frequently covered many topics and usually recounted a story from Robin’s past. We always had a laugh about something, and Robin had a wonderful knack of telling a story. He was the embodiment of a true raconteur!

As one era ends and a new one begins, I’m sure the “Buloke Times” will continue the Letts legacy with community at its heart and integrity intact.

Alyssa Walker
You had a knack of mattering to people, Rob. In ways you perhaps didn’t fully realise.

I could say I’ll most remember your humming, your stories, your occasionally very “broad-minded” jokes and the way you’d gleefully scamper away afterwards, a job well done.

But what shone brightest for me was the way you see people.

You were a man of stories, both the one penning and the one telling. Every time you would weave the same tale or deliver the same well-timed wordplay, the sheer delight in the way you held it was so pure, full of earnest cheek and joy, and it never got old.

Your handwriting may have been near-illegible, but your care certainly wasn’t.

Because what you did, with every single person and every single story you collected, was let them matter. You found the heart, the brightness, the littlest bit of a spark and a dash of grinning humour, and knew just how to hold it and make it shine so everyone could see.

I am so very glad I got to help secretly weave your book. I could see it in your eyes, the brightness of the dream, the way you held it as something still worth reaching for, even after all that time.

Your story was.

Because the way you wove words was just so alive.

You had a knack of mattering to people, Rob, because you made people feel like they mattered.

–Alyssa.

Brian Bayles
I was very saddened to hear of Robin’s passing while being in a very remote section of the Kimberleys and completely unable to be at home for the funeral.

I called to see Rob before we left for our holiday, but was unable to communicate with him, so I was not surprised when David notified me.

I will miss him. About 60 years of friendship and not a major disagreement.

Vale R.L.

Robin had a favourite pullover which he liked to wear most of the time. To get it off him for washing, Shirley knitted another one exactly the same. So it was one on and one off, which made Shirley’s job easier and Robin was happy to wear the same one.

Robin and Shirley were heading overseas. Rob came in and shook hands with us all and headed off. Shirley came in shaking her head.

“What’s wrong?” we asked.

Shirley said the last port of call before following Robin out was the toilet. There she found on the floor the tickets, passports and their money.

Robin made a great move hooking up with Shirley.

Robin never moved into the electronic age. He would take things down over the phone, type it up on his trusty typewriter, then take it to the computer room for someone to type or key the whole thing in again.

No mobile phones for him either.

Thanks,
–Brian.

Maree Sands
Robin, I don’t think you ever understood the impact you had on those around you.
You were simply being yourself. Your kindness and generosity of spirit is something I will always carry in my heart.

I was only one of the office people, not in the press room or writing stories, yet you still made time to sit and talk, always seeming to value my opinions and thoughts.
Your love for your Shirl and your family was evident when you spoke of them, and your kindly manner and gentlemanly ways remain with me.

You treated everyone with courtesy, no matter who they were or where they came from.

I remember the quieter Friday afternoons, with the two editions of the week printed and finished, and you sitting in your office trying to write the editorials for the next week.

I remember the birthday celebrations, with your speeches and the singing, and the times you sat and chatted, talking of your travels overseas and long-ago friends and events.

You allowed me to become part of your wider work family, and that continued long after I retired.

Thank you.
–Maree.

Rose Harris
Dear Robin,
They’ve asked me to write a 200-word letter. I can already see that trademark smile and hear you chuckling. I don’t think I have ever written something contained to 200 words. That’s your fault, encouraging my creative freedom like that.

The simple truth is there aren’t enough words in the world to do you justice.

It seems the last typewriter ribbon has been ordered and the last string measurement taken. Your wit, creative skill, intelligence and incredible wisdom - we have lost a giant, and we will never see another one the same as you, Robin.

I know you would be wishing all the fuss away, shuffling into the background.

The greatest lesson you taught me? You taught me everything I know about the power of story and community. It has been more than a decade since I worked for you, but every day I find myself drawing back on your wisdom and advice when it comes to looking at community challenges and triumphs.

I can still hear the sound of your typewriter clicking away behind stacks of reference papers, council agendas and handwritten notes. It’s no coincidence the rhythm of the Heidelberg is akin to a heartbeat.

I don’t regret a minute spent in your company. Every long council meeting at the press table, every evening stood at the folding benches and every fluster of publication morning.

I remember the day you came to my house to humbly ask if I’d consider working for your establishment. A few months later, a historic flooding event hit the district. It was a Sunday. I walked down to the “Buloke Times” office and found you in the computer room, dressed in your signature hand-knitted jumper, collared shirt and matching slacks, literally juggling cameras and trying to find charged batteries.

You had sprung to action because that’s how it was. It didn’t matter if it was Sunday; something was developing and it was up to you to pen it down into history.

You gave me the camera and told me there was a 97-year-old holding a six-week-old baby at the evacuation centre - a front-page photo of the oldest and youngest evacuees. And the rest was history.

You would retell the story of meeting Shirley like the day it happened, with a glint in your eye each time.

You would always strive for a “happy face on the front page”.

“There is enough bad news in the world, Rose. We are here to put the happy faces on the front page.”

You lived and breathed sport because you knew how deeply it ran into the rural community fabric. You knew it mattered that people saw their name in the paper.

You drove us mad with that typewriter, but it was intentional, taking deep concentration and considered thought. You could talk about the correct use of apostrophes for many hours.

But it was the string that got me the most.

The well-used string wound around a palm-sized piece of wood. You would wait and see how many stories, words and photos there were to share with the community. Then you’d measure, running the string through your fingers, pressing your thumbs at each end of each column.

You would walk from room to room, the string obediently following, gradually growing and snaking along the floor. When you had the magic number, you would declare, in a multiple of four, how many pages we would run in the next day’s paper.

I was mesmerised by this.

You wouldn’t guess it, by your humble and unassuming nature, that your impact is immeasurable in every sense of the word.

It really does all come back to having a core set of unwavering values, listening to those who know their patch the best and then working out the best way to make that story worthy of some string.

I wish good things didn’t have to come to an end.

You, Robin, were absolutely one of the best of them all.

Forever in your debt,
–Rose.