For possibly the first time ever, I'm at a loss for words. This may be what writers call writers' block; I'm not certain since that devil's never inflicted itself on me. Oh sure, there have been weeks when I've been in Serious Procrastination Mode. But it wasn't because I didn't know what to write; it was laziness, distraction, or a pressing need to do something other than the pressing need before me.
But this time's different. I really don't know what to say. That's because I'm standing on the edge of a metaphorical forest. I can clearly see what's behind me but I'll be damned if I can glean any clue about what's to come. Naturally, whatever that may be is the only way forward.
Pique without Bob? Frankly, I don't know if that's even possible. Oh sure, next week's paper will bear the familiar Pique name and logo. There'll be an attractive cover, probably a clever Free, a volume and number notation, date, web address. But what'll be on the inside? What will appear on the masthead? Will Kathy still be the founding publisher? Clearly Bob won't be publisher, and I doubt he will want to be listed under some emeritus title.
And what of Bob? He'll be free to channel his inner bon vivant and cycle around France, sipping fine wine and training his tongue to speak the language — speak admittedly being used somewhat tongue-in-cheek given Bob's infrequent verbalizations — while he ponders what may come next. I only know what came before.
One day in August 1995 I was surprised to see Bob amble into the place I was working and beeline up to where I was standing. I was having one of the worst days ever. I'd just been informed that Blackcomb — pre-merger — wasn't going to rehire me for the winter. Seems I had an attitude problem, brought on, no doubt, by watching the young woman working for me pass out from the heat in our "office" and the company's reluctance to do anything about it. My brand of self-help apparently wasn't the kind of entrepreneurial spirit they were wanting to unleash in their employees. But that's another story.
Bob, in characteristic Bob-style, mumbled something about wondering whether I'd be interested in writing a column for Pique. I was dumbfounded. I'd written some humourous letters to the editor, a couple of features, a rant or three disguised as letters to the editor but nothing in my background suggested any sane editor would offer me a column.
I don't know if Bob had second thoughts about it, after I agreed to give it a try, but it took him a full three months to finally run the first Maxed Out. I figured I could fake my way through it for three, maybe four weeks before I ran out of things to say.
Fortunately, it was the third week's column that convinced me there was some fun to be had. That was the week both a municipal councillor and a developer burned up the Pique phone lines threatening to sue us for the inconvenient truths I'd written. Bob's only question was, "Are you sure you're right?" I was. Kathy's only comment was, "Ha! Way to go!" She often spoke in exclamations.
There are other papers where I would never have written a fourth column. Not Pique. There are editors who would never have stood behind me time and again when, for example, the mayor and CAO demanded I be muzzled, fired, run out of town or, preferably, all three. Not Bob.
Perhaps that spirit was part of the reason Pique was started in the first place. Bob and Kathy were editor and publisher, respectively, of the Question. Maybe they were too entrepreneurial to work for someone else. Maybe they wanted to publish a paper they could be proud of, one that valued good writing, strong opinion, fearless reporting. One thing I know for sure: They didn't do it to get rich. If they saw it as an investment of anything, it was an investment of love: Love of Whistler, love of the power of the written word, love of providing a voice they thought the town needed to hear.
That Pique survived its infancy is a testament to their love... and Kathy's bookkeeping jobs. That it grew to be the publication it is today is a monument to their determination and rather naively quaint, in retrospect, model of capitalism.
You see, when Pique finally began to make some money — and believe me, it took a while — they didn't see it as a strictly personal triumph or windfall. They understood it was the collective result of hard-working, talented people. They shared the rewards of success generously. Long before "living wage" became the issue it's becoming today, they lived it, paying their staff a living wage even given the rarefied cost of living in Whistler.
It's a generosity of spirit Bob's continued to live. It extends beyond the payroll of Pique to the local charities he supports, the Kathy Barnett Memorial Fund, the myriad events Pique sponsors and the energy he devotes to the organizations on whose board he sits. It is the reason I don't know whether it's possible to have Pique without Bob.
I'm not suggesting Pique will disappear, just that whatever it becomes is unlikely to be what it was when he handed over the reins. They don't teach Bob's style of management in business school. That's because it isn't a management style; it's a personal, humanistic, caring style that comes from the heart, the head and every fibre of his being. It's a style that doesn't concern itself with maximizing shareholder value, reporting to a board of directors or measuring one's work product by the crude metric of return on investment.
Pique is not, as some say, a brand. It's more akin to a living, breathing organism. It responds to and is shaped by the forces that act upon it. It is the creative work of creative people, more art than science. If it was easy or formulaic, everybody would do it. If all it took were talented people and computers, every paper would be as good.
I'll miss those not infrequent weeks when Bob's Opening Remarks and my closing words hammered on the same outrage. He was the voice of reason; I was the voice. We never planned it, never discussed it in advance, but reading the result, I knew this was a guy with whom I shared a similar orbit in life's solar system.
I'll be forever indebted for the opportunities, support and friendship you gave me, Bob. And I'll miss you terribly.
