A final deadline for an old friend

I worked with Rosemary Shinohara for 25 years, learning over time how valuable her good judgment and journalistic chops were for our newsroom

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My friend and longtime colleague Rosemary Shinohara died last night in Anchorage of Covid-19. 

We started working together at our hometown paper --  the Anchorage Daily News -- sometime in the early 70s. We stood shoulder to shoulder for 25 years through what we called The Great Alaska Newspaper War.

She was one of my principle lieutenants through much of that long struggle, working as a reporter, city editor and assistant managing editor. She was a thorough professional those steady hand could always be relied upon, which I did regularly. She was there for our second Pulitzer in 1989, and again when we announced the end of the newspaper battle when the Anchorage Times folded. She was there long after I left in 1995, mostly at the paper, always in journalism.

Adjectives won't do in describing Rose. I could say she was steady, trusted, reliable (prime qualities in a newspaper war) but that makes her sound like a faithful Labrador. She wasn't.

People who met Rose for the first time were often surprised by her appearance. That was the fault of husband Vincent Shinohara, who camouflaged her bright red hair and Irish temperament with his last name. She wasn't shy or retiring.

I remember she was asked for her journalistic biography for some reason and began by mentioning an AP job in Omaha, "where I learned to take pork belly futures over the phone." We didn't need much of that in Anchorage, but every job that did need doing was one Rosemary could be relied upon to perform.

I learned a lot about managing people from Rose. I regularly exhorted her to be more assertive, to speak up more in news meetings, to speak up strongly for her point of view. It took me a while to figure out that I was just trying to get her to act like me, when what we needed was somebody to act like Rosemary. I've carried that lesson with me since.

I didn't hear about her illness until it was almost over. I'm told the decision not to intubate and move to hospice care was hers, that she was comfortable and with Vincent and her daughter Michi when she died last night.

Farewell, Rose. No more Fur Rendezvous special sections, no more late-night school board deadlines. No more arguments at the Page One meeting, or late nights at the bar. To be honest, I miss all those things, and now I will miss you, too.

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Rosemary Shinohara stands at the center of this newsroom scrum, where I am relaying the phone call from the AP telling us we’d won the 1989 Pulitzer Prize Gold Medal for Public Service.