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WOLD IN CINCINNATI
By Alice Hornbaker
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Alice Hornbaker
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-9021-0
Chapter One
The Fire
Jennifer Patricia Stein (professionally known as J.P. Stein) couldn't believe the office she stepped into on the 20th floor of the Star-Times newspaper building. She'd zoomed up so rapidly she thought she'd lose her breakfast.
Publisher Tyson Cook's ultra modern office featured floor to ceiling windows, displaying an all-grown-up Cincinnati in 1976 with high rising buildings and a river view. It was far different from more than twenty years ago when J.P. left conservative Cincinnati.
Several black pillows highlighted the publisher's stainless steel and white leather furniture. On the floor were large white fur rugs. One solid wall featured a bright Henri Matisse reproduction of "The Plum Blossoms." One red rose was in a large crystal vase on the publisher's huge glass and steel desk. The place was a shrine to the future, with flair.
"So this is journalism today?" the former reporter J.P. thought, her feet sinking into the area rugs as she entered for her job interview. A far cry from her first job reporting from inside one large, messy, smoked filled big room where reporters drank heavily, smoked incessantly and reported to an all male editorial staff. As for that publisher's ancient suite, it was conservative, full of antiques, stuffy.
J. P.'s heart pounded today in anticipation of working for a youth-oriented metropolitan newspaper that embraced high technology.
Problem though: she was from that dinosaur age.
Managing editor Andy Stokes burst into publisher Tyson Cook's 20th floor office waving his hand toward the television set.
"Turn on the TV, Ty," he commanded his boss. "For God's sake, Lana Koppler is missing!"
He ignored Jennifer Patricia Stein, or J.P., sitting there, wide-eyed. He had just interrupted her unfinished job interview with Cook to join the Star-Times staff as its chief feature writer.
"You, too, J.P." he ordered Jennifer. "Pay attention. I want you over there, too."
There? Where? Bewildered, Jennifer looked up to see on the TV screen pristine grounds as green as artificial turf. Fire trucks and emergency vehicles were strewn everywhere. A TV reporter described the scene.
Andy directed his explanation to Cook. "Our reporters called in that Lana Koppler lives up in that fifth floor penthouse there, see?" His finger scanned the screen. "See? Up there, where that smoke is? It's mostly just that now. But what is news is Lana's disappearance. She got out, we assume, but no one has seen her since."
For J.P.'s benefit he added, "That's Pleasant Hill Farm retirement community, where some of our retired rich and famous Cincinnatians live. Its most famous occupant, Lana Koppler, is 90, and she hasn't been located. I want you at that campus to find her and get a quote. You're comfortable interviewing elders. Our young reporters are not. That's what you do best. It's that simple."
Turning back to Cook he said, "I'm betting my next week's pay that J.P. here, your new hire, might get an interview with Lana our young reporters won't, providing Lana's not dead. It would be an exclusive for us to have her quote."
"Our new hire?" That's all J.P. heard that through the madness of this scene. But was this notorious bad-tempered managing editor Andy Stokes insane? J.P. hadn't finished her job interview. Cook hadn't hired her.
But Cook apparently agreed with Andy.
"Brilliant idea Andy. J.P., yes, you're hired. We'd decided that before you arrived today. Your credentials are impressive. So go with Andy. He's on to a great idea."
"Get up. Let's go," Stokes commanded Jennifer, obviously used to being immediately obeyed by reporters.
Stokes grabbed her left arm. "Come with me."
They descended down from the 20th floor to the fourth so fast Jennifer felt queasy. Heights made her uncomfortable, too. Stokes pressed and held down the elevator button to allow no stops before reaching the fourth floor, and a waiting Sylvia Biggs, Leisure Plus editor and soon to be Jennifer's new boss.
J.P. wondered if this is how they treat all potential new hires.
The elevator doors opened. Sylvia Biggs took Jennifer's right arm as though she were a package to be delivered, announcing, "I've got her now, Andy," waving him off with such authority that the managing editor retreated to his office. Interesting, J.P. thought, a mere editor dismisses the managing editor. How come? What power does she pack?
J.P. stared into a pair of intense blue eyes of a woman dressed in an impeccably tailored white linen suit who could pass for a movie star, a young movie star. In this year of 1976 and at age 49, Jennifer felt ancient. Everyone else around her seemed so young. Suddenly the "youth oriented" pitch in today's professional society stung her.
"I know this is a hell-of-a-way way to start off a new job, J.P.," Sylvia apologized, trying to calm her new hire, "but management met yesterday and decided to hire you today to specialize in stories on aging, which you've already done so well as a freelance magazine writer.
"Lana Koppler is The Farm's famous nonagenarian and she's missing in that fire. But knowing her she's probably just sitting out this emergency sipping on a martini in The Farm's campus bar. She doesn't give press interviews. What Andy hopes is maybe with your magic touch with elders perhaps you'll succeed."
Both went into Sylvia's glass enclosed office that anchored the Leisure Plus's smoke-filled newsroom. Some things never change, J.P. thought.
"Here, take this package." Sylvia thrust a large envelope toward Jennifer. "It's got everything you need to drive over there to Pleasant Farm and see what you can find out about Koppler. Your press pass is there. Our reporters at the fire has been alerted you're new and coming over. You probably won't be able to talk to Lana, assuming she's hiding out somewhere, but in case you do get lucky and get a few quotes from that grand dame it would make a great sidebar to our news stories."
Sylvia took a breath. "This is a breaking story, so hustle."
J.P. was subject to headaches under stress since the divorce. One crept up on her now. She rejected it and thought, "Please God, not now. This big chance. I need this damn job."
She grabbed the bag Sylvia held out and said; "I've been away from Cincinnati for 20 years and only relocated here a couple of weeks ago. I've never heard of The Farm, much less how to get there."
Sylvia waved her off with "Don't worry. The Farm is new. So I put instructions how to get there into your package. Your hometown hasn't changed that much. Just more grown up. Also check in at The Farm's little FM radio station called WOLD. Its format is nostalgia music only so it won't broadcast this hot news. But there's a bright station manager there who might find a way to help you contact our reclusive Lana. So, go."
Chapter Two
The Aftermath
None of the luxurious apartments or cottages at The Farm could compare to Lana Koppler's place. Her huge penthouse was on one building's top floor. The other four floors each held had two apartments. Lana insisted on having, loft-style, the entire fifth floor bringing with her as much as she could from her famous mansion.
Lana's space included a personal art gallery, antiques, a fitness area for her daily treadmill "walks" that still happened at age 90, and a study that stunned others who first saw it. All the study's walls and especially the entire ceiling were covered with black and white glossy publicity photos autographed to Lana. Frank Sinatra smiled down from the ceiling, as did Tony Bennett. There was an autographed photo of Sophie Tucker, George Burns. Grace Allen, Rosemary Clooney, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. Lana's kitchen was far larger than in other apartments as her housekeeper, Friday, demanded a large working space for Lana's frequent entertaining.
On day two of her new job J. P. made a sharp left turn off the elevator to the former women's department, renamed Leisure Plus. Its newsroom layout featured many small cubicles, resembling a build-a-better-mousetrap design. A glass partition at the end was Jennifer's destination—to talk with her editor boss. A sign on the door said "Sylvia Briggs, Leisure Plus editor."
Finally, J.P. thought, some answers after yesterday's madcap day where she observed a minor fire and actually met The Farm's prime resident, multi-millionaire philanthropist Lana Koppler, who J.P. discovered seemed a lot younger in person than 90, or at least in mental acuity.
J.P. found and first observed Lana inside radio station WOLD's largest studio busily trying to brush off those determined to aid her during her emergency visit inside WOLD's studios.
With practiced authority Lana dismissed reporters, a solicitous young giant Farm security guard determined to guide to her back up to her penthouse, and various firemen who tried to be of help to the famous woman.
J.P. noted Lana's rather frail-looking body moved well in her flowing chiffon summer dress that screamed expensive. Unlike many elderly women J.P. profiled, Lana wore makeup and her hair was styled.
Now Lana ordered everyone to back off as she prepared to return to her penthouse without all the unwanted assistance. She had taken refuge in WOLD's studios after firemen evacuated her entire building. In deference to the famous woman the fire chief came in to announce an all clear and say the elevator was again working. "Damage Mrs. Koppler, "was quite minimal."
Keenly aware of the deference shown to Lana, J. P. introduced herself first to station manager Carolyn Armstrong, who then took Jennifer to Lana. For reasons only known to Lana, J.P. was graciously acknowledged and granted a brief interview while all others around were shooed off.
By news instinct J.P. had first sought out Carolyn to help locate the missing Lana. A lifetime of gut feelings guided J.P. to the right news source. To her surprise, Lana was safely there and being patronized by its staff. Carolyn introduced Jennifer to Lana. To everyone's surprise, J.P was invited to sit down with her.
As it turned out, Carolyn's mention of Jennifer's name clicked with astute and voracious reader Lana Koppler.
"I read that wonderful piece you did sometime ago for some magazine on that Jewish grandmother who survived the Holocaust as a child," she told J.P. "It touched me."
J.P was close to speechless, a first for the aggressive reporter. That Holocaust story was a memorable one for her as well and it won an award. But now the reclusive Lana remembered it, so she "granted" J.P. a small interview because of it.
Lana said, "I love children and I felt deeply for that grandmother who as a child of 12 became a Nazi sex slave. As I remember she'd been singled out of lineup of Jewish women prisoners, then her Aryan-looking blonde hair and blue eyes gave her status. The other children and women were ordered to the ovens but she was saved. You told her story so well I cried."
J. P. remembered. That story was almost too painful to write about. Yet here sat the famous Lana Koppler who remembered J.P's old story and got her this hard-to-get interview.
WOLD's largest radio studio was filled with volunteers and staff. J.P. noted before she sat down that Lana scolded the young security guard who aggressively attempted to escort Lana back to her penthouse. J.P. overheard the guard say, "We want to make sure that new security system you installed wasn't damaged by the fire. I'd like to check it out and help you back up."
Lana snapped back, "Sonny, that's my job, not yours. I may be 90 but I can climb those five flights of stairs to get home alone if I must. I have done it a number of times. Only today I don't want to. I have help."
She brushed him away with her hand. Or dismissed him, J.P. thought, like royals do subjects. This crowd obviously catered to Lana.
Yet graciously, J.P. thought, the famous philanthropist answered a few of J.P.'s questions. But very few. Then she arose to take the arm of her doting housekeeper-companion named Friday, a chunky woman junior to Lana by at least thirty years. As elegant and stylish as Lana was, Friday was plain. But the way she attended to her boss and patron convinced J.P. there was a real devotion. Note J.P. wrote to herself: "Lana Koppler deeply cares about other people. She is no rich snob."
Lana abruptly cut off the interview, stood up, anxious to depart. The fire chief excused himself to return to tell his crew Lana Koppler was fine. Lana and Friday left arm in arm, with J.P thinking, what an odd couple they seemed to be. Lana is the mama bear and beside is her docile cub. In any emergency, despite differences in their age, it's obvious who leads and who follows.
The fire's cause, Jennifer found out later, was faulty wiring. The sprinkler head in the kitchen quickly doused the flames, but triggered the alarm on cue.
Lana's building elevator serviced all floors in her building. Pleasant Hill offered a wide variety of housing on its 100-acre campus, from plush apartments to large three and four bedroom cottages, all tailored to each occupant tastes. Most cottages were built cul-de-sacs spaced out across the campus. Those who preferred apartment living also had choices of custom interior designs.
Actually The Farm looked like any suburban wealthy neighborhood with an over abundance of trees and shrubbery.
Lana's fifth floor was reminiscent of a city loft. WOLD station manager Carolyn Armstrong told J.P that Lana had worked with The Farm's CEO Bob Redding to design the apartment to fit her own personal taste, adjusting blueprints to accommodate her every need, right down to a secret wall safe.
All apartments and cottages had sprinkler heads in every room. Fires were practically non-existent in the five years since The Farm was built. The fire chief told J.P. no one who lived on The Farm's grounds would ever die of burns. More likely they'd drown from the over abundance of sprinklers. That's why damage to Lana's place was so small.
J.P. got her news quotes from Lana and turned it into a sidebar to accompany the news story.
The fire chief and J.P. hit it off that first day. He'd first asked for her credentials and found she didn't carry any except her press pass because she was just hired. Another reporter on site verified her employment so the fire chief agreed to talk to her.
So J. P. learned a lot about The Farm quickly. The chief demanded J.P. "Write this down. The Farm is new but no money was spared to make it the biggest, the best and the safest campus in the city. Big money went into all construction. The Farm's CEO Redding demanded the best and that's what he got. Money was no object."
Then almost with reverence, J.P. noted, the chief added, "The Farm is fully occupied now with the city's wealthiest and famous elders. This fire is probably the most excitement they'll have here for decades."
Chapter Three
Jennifer Patricia Stein
God gives parents invisible clay to allow them to mold it into the personality for a newborn. Jennifer's parents made their only child a responsible, thoughtful and caring person, but also tried hard never to over indulge her. It worked. Always a quiet little girl, Jennifer on many occasions demonstrated courage and bravery from when the family's cat had to be put down to accompanying her parents when they took baskets of food to impoverished families. Her parents would ask Jennifer, after such benevolent visits, what she saw and how she felt. Jenny would give an accurate account first then often tearfully ask, "Why are so many so poor?" Jenny's parents explained the country suffered from a Great Depression so many were out of work.
One blistery Ohio winter morning little Jennifer received an unexpected shock. It scarred her psyche for life.
Holding on to the wobbly stair rail, Jennifer descended to the basement in the dark, as the only small naked light bulb with a long string attached was at the bottom of stairs. First up, the eight-year-old's job each winter morning in 1935 was to stir the furnace's sleeping coals back to life. It was the Great Depression and her household was lucky to even have coal.
Flipping on the switch, the child looked up to see a most horrible scene before her. She gasped. Her beloved uncle, who had moved in with them after he lost his own business, was dangling from a rope around his neck, lifeless. The act of desperation stunned the chiid but she did not scream. She could only stare. Then, realizing she must tell her parents who slept on the second floor, she tried to find the voice to tell them exactly what she'd discovered.
The words that spilled out were: "Uncle Jack hanging up."
That sent her parents rushing to the basement and into shock. Then realizing their little girl first saw what no child should see, they quickly rushed Jennifer upstairs to comfort her and try to explain the what and why of what she just saw. That trauma left Jennifer with an abhorrence of the word "suicide" and imprinted within her a strong desire to help others long before they sought that final solution.
As an adult Jennifer Patricia Stein made a career out of reporting on what she saw and others felt. That storyteller talent made J.P. an award winning journalist and later a successful author.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from WOLD IN CINCINNATI by Alice Hornbaker Copyright © 2011 by Alice Hornbaker. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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