ON LOSING A MENTOR (Peter Milius)

One day in 1992, after about a decade as a lobbyist, I decided to be a writer. Hit with an inspiration about politics I wrote an essay. It sounded like an op-ed. “How do you get an opinion piece in the Washington Post?” I asked a journalist friend. “You don’t.” I faxed it anyway. The next day I got “the call” and the piece ran on Sunday. After an elated hour of staring at the paper (my husband went out at 5AM to get it) profound self-doubt set-in. “A fluke,” I thought. So I wrote another one. This time an editor called to ask if I could make some changes. We hashed out the rough spots and the piece ran.

This is fun. Maybe I could be a writer, I thought. But what kind? What do I do next? How do I even figure out what I want to write about? I needed help, and my colleagues on Capitol Hill didn’t offer much. So I decided to call the editor at the Washington Post who had helped me with the second piece. The guy who talked like an editorial -- perfect sentences spoken with a deep resonance, spectacular vocabulary. He ought to be a good resource, I thought.

I picked up the phone a bunch of times and lost my resolve. Why would he want to help me, a middle-aged lobbyist who wanted to change her career to do something he’d spent a lifetime working at? This was Washington, after all. What would be in it for him? “Peter? Hi, this is Robin Gerber. Um, you may not remember me…Oh, well could we have lunch?”

I met him at his office. About fifteen years my senior, Peter Milius was tall and trim with graying hair, smart eyes and a broad sly smile. He had the gracious manners that men in the generation before mine seemed to use unconsciously. He made sure to introduce me to some of the other editorial staff, especially David Broder, before we went across the street to the Madison Hotel for lunch. He obviously ate there a lot, the staff knew him.

I felt nervous, but I plunged ahead with lots of dumb questions. Did it bother him to write those editorials on the left side of the page where he never got credit? Not at all. How did they decide what to write? A team effort. And would he look at another piece I just happened to have in my briefcase? Of course. Peter answered everything with patience, a trace of humor and the serious insight of someone who loved what he did.

I only got one more piece on the Post’s op-ed page, but for the next nine years Peter and I had lunch periodically. Sometimes we just had long telephone conversations. I figured out my writing life, finding other mentors along the way. In the last couple of years Peter and I mostly talked about issues for fun, and our families. Unlike me, he’d managed to stay married, well and happily, a really long time. He adored his kids, idolized his grandkids. He got absorbed in Cajun music and playing the accordion. He bought a farm and ended up in a hysterically convoluted battle over preserving some land. I always enjoyed listening to Peter talk.

In January Peter Milius died suddenly. At his memorial important people in Washington talked about how smart he was, how much he knew about the federal budget -- basically more than anybody in or out of government. Friends and family talked about his good nature, his love and wisdom.

I thought about a man who had nothing to gain from helping a stranger, but who opened himself up anyway. I thought about how we don’t get anywhere without the help of other people. How it is possible to ask and receive. How few boundaries there are to simple generosity of spirit. I thought about becoming a writer and losing a friend.

February, 2002

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