Susan Stamberg — one of NPR’s founding mothers — died this week. She was 87.
I joined NPR in 1982, well after Susan arrived. She’d taken her place behind the All Things Considered mic in 1972 — the first woman to anchor a national evening news program. ATC was like a scrappy startup in those days. But it was also something different in kind. News and storytelling delivered with a very human voice. Women’s voices.
I spent nearly 30 years at NPR. In my very first job, I was an overnight production assistant on Morning Edition. That meant I got up at midnight, arrived at work at one o’clock in the morning — on a bicycle when it was warm enough — and worked through the night with a small team of producers to get the show on the air before the sun came up. Back then, we edited stories on reel-to-reel tape with grease pencils and razor blades. (I still have the scars to prove it!)
When I occasionally got the chance to work in the daytime, I remember seeing Susan putting on her lipstick (a showtime ritual) in the one ladies room we all shared, just before ATC went on the air “Every Night at Five.” That’s the name of the book she wrote about the early years. Looking back at old photos, I notice that her lipstick shade changed with the times. But it was always a classy color — somewhere between soft coral and cranberry red. In any case, when I first encountered her looking into that ladies room mirror, I was too new and too shy to say much more than hello. She was already a legend.
I eventually had the good fortune of working with Susan. For some reason, she always called me Mags. The only person who ever did. I liked that. It made me feel special. And close. One year, Susan and I decided we wanted to do a feature for Valentine’s Day. A piece about couples who’d been married for more than 50 years. What did it take to really love someone for that long?
When you were in the field with Susan, there was no question she was in charge. She knew exactly how she wanted to choreograph the experience and connect with the people she met. Where she sat and where they sat was important. She needed to lock eyes with her subjects and develop a quick rapport. Almost like a force field. That intimacy allowed her to really draw people out.
When Susan asked the husband of one of those long marrieds what he thought was the most important thing he could do for their children, he answered, “love their mother.” That one stuck with me. “Love their mother.”
And oh how we all loved our founding mother. I was one of countless colleagues who learned the craft of radio — working with Susan or even just listening to her. What kind of questions elicit the most interesting answers? How do you shape a story, write for the ear, and seamlessly mix sound and music and voice?
Decades later, when I was running NPR’s news division, it was a very different organization than the one I first walked into in the middle of the night. But there was a constant. The presence of women like Susan and NPR’s other founding mothers — Linda Wertheimer, Nina Totenberg and the late Cokie Roberts. These four women may not have been the boss. But they were boss. And stunning role models for a whole generation of women, like me, who followed in their footsteps.
After I left NPR, I went to Susan’s 80th birthday party and was struck by how she still commanded a room. She seemed to grow even more elegant with age and I loved watching her move effortlessly among friends and family. She had a kind of joie de vivre that made 80 look enviable. Still a role model. A strong, expressive, exuberant woman surrounded by people she loved and who loved her back.
I would have liked the chance to see Susan one last time to ask for her advice given the complexity of the moment we’re living in. In my imagination, she might have cupped my hands in hers and said, “You’ve got this, Mags. You’ve got this.”
Susan Stamberg was one of one. I will adore and admire her until the end of time.
