So long, Bob

Bob Haenel was my boss at The Fort Bend Herald for over 15 years. Today was his last day as the executive managing editor, and we presented him with a surprise front page in his honor. This is the story I wrote about him -- I hope you see Bob for the great boss and friend we all know him to be. -- Denise

He leans back in his creaky brown chair, pops open the top on a Diet Coke and looks around his cluttered office.

Bob Haenel, managing editor for the Fort Bend Herald, knows there's at least a hundred unanswered emails in his box, a dozen voice messages blinking on the phone and an overflowing in-box on the corner of his desk.

Instead, he finds himself watching the activity in the newsroom right outside his door. Reporters are sitting at their desks, tapping out stories on their computers, interviewing softball coaches or hunched over a computer keyboard, looking for that just-right lead for a weekend feature story.

In his 35 years as a writer, reporter and editor, Haenel, 50, has seen and heard it all. He started out in 1979 as a sports editor for the Herald-Coaster, subsequently moved to the news side and was named news director in 1981.

A year later, he moved to The Katy Times but came back to The Mirror, a Fort Bend County newspaper, in 1983 as their editor and publisher. Four years later, he was named the managing editor of The Herald-Coaster, now The Fort Bend Herald, and is currently the paper's executive managing editor.

Unlike the bigwigs at major publications, Haenel prefers to actively know the community and the people who live and work there. He's on a first-name basis with the president of the chamber of commerce as well as the white-gloved ladies in the garden clubs.

In seconds, he can trace the lineage of the "Old 300" families back to the Stephen F. Austin days, and he knows to count the vowels in the Czech names for the Around the Bends before publishing the paper.

"Birthday call," yells out the receptionist at the front desk. Haenel picks up the phone receiver and writes down the information, knowing for some people, seeing their child's name in the "Happy Birthday" column will be the highlight of their day.

He also knows getting everyone's name correct in an obituary is right up there with not misspelling the local superintendent's name on the front page. An obituary, Haenel tells his staffers, might be the only time a person is mentioned in the local paper, and the writers better get it right.

One of his young reporters tentatively knocks on his door, and Haenel waves him in, despite the incessantly blinking light on his telephone. An elderly woman claims drug trafficking on her street is rampant, but the police can't seem to catch the dealers.

This woman wants the newspaper to write about the crimes, but the reporter isn't sure if the story is worth following up.

Haenel leans forward, put his elbows on his knees, and looks straight at this fresh-out-of-college writer.

"If we're not there for people, who will be?" he says, the challenge evident in his voice. "Our job is to look out for the little guy and to give him a voice. Don't forget that's the reason you're here. Call her back and stay over there all day if you have to, but make sure we report what's going on in our own back yard."

Journalism schools teach young writers the rules about style, formatting and inverted pyramids, but they can't teach what Haenel instinctively possesses -- an unerringly correct moral compass and a passion to uncover misdeeds and point out inequities in society.

As the reporter leaves his office, Haenel notices a sea of blue hats standing at his door. He'd forgotten it was time for the weekly Cub Scout tour through the office.

Haenel loves accompanying these youngsters as they visit the press room, their eyes wide at the giant machines that churn out newspapers around the clock. Haenel's fingers are often stained with black ink, and the cuffs on his well-worn beige sweater are permanently gray, the result of brushing against fresh newsprint for the past three decades.

Walking into the newsroom, Haenel stops and offers encouragement to a struggling reporter, reminds another writer to find out if there's adequate drinking water for people living in the colonias and sits to chat with the sports editor about whether or not this year's Little Leaguers can swing their way to Williamsport.

Back in his office, Haenel pops open his fourth Diet Coke of the day and settles down in front of his computer. He's spent many Friday nights in that cramped office on Fourth Street, battling ornery computers, reluctant witnesses to wrong-doings and, once, writing by candle-light on battery-operated laptops when an electrical storm blew out the power.

Although the pace in a newsroom is frenetic, Haenel is the calm in the storm. His reporters take their cue from the boss, and because he encourages, consoles and occasionally scolds, his staff gives 100 percent. His belief in their ability allows them to grow as reporters and writers.

Haenel, however, is unaware how much influence he has over so many people. Instead, he looks around his office again, the back credenza stacked high with old photographs and decades-old phone books, and leans back in the chair.

One of these days, he thinks, I'll get around to clearing off that desk, write a novel and open that hot dog stand. Until then, there are stories to edit, monthly publications to review and emails to answer.

"Birthday call," comes Annie's voice again.

Haenel takes another sip of his Diet Coke and picks up the call. Clutter can keep, he figures. People, well, that's a different matter.

"Hi there," he says, cradling the receiver comfortably under his cheek. "Now how can I help you?"