Vartabedian: My Last Letter to a Dear Penpal

You may not know Lenny Panaggio unless you lived around Newport, R.I., and read the Daily News.

Lenny was a regular columnist since 1983, when he retired as the state’s tourism director. He died the way any devoted journalist would have wished—with his words clicking on all cylinders. His last column appeared a week before he succumbed. At 92, he defied old age and was a poster child for his generation. We wrote each other monthly as penpals for 15 years. Since it was my turn to answer, here’s my final letter to a great newspaper friend:

Dear Lenny,

So you went ahead and died on me. To tell you the truth, it caught me a little off guard. Nancy was perusing the Boston Globe one morning and noticed a small obit buried somewhere below. I was incredulous, not that I expected you or anyone else to live forever.

Hey, 92 years is one heck of a joyride, especially when you had fun doing it. I should have suspected something in your last letter. You did complain about some aches and pains but didn’t seem overly concerned by it. Maybe it was worse than you hated to admit.

I remember the time we first met inside one of those historic Newport castles. I was attending an Associated Press awards banquet with my daughter Sonya and we were both being recognized that evening.

You thought it was so neat that a father-daughter duo came away with awards that night, elated that we were keeping journalism in the family. You didn’t do so bad yourself with the hundreds, even thousands, of Grist Mill columns that emerged from your typewriter over the past three decades.

You always said we were cut from the same cloth, except that I graduated to the electronic era and you stayed with typewriters to the bitter end. Even your letters were typed, crude as they were.

I remember you once telling me that computers can figure out all kinds of problems, except the things in this world that just don’t add up. Remember me telling you that I almost quit newspapers when the electric typewriter came into vogue, but finally retired my old Underwood.

You told me it wasn’t the machine, but the mind, that created good stories for consumption.

We had a good relationship going, you and I. No doubt, I looked upon you as the grand master of your craft, someone who inspired me in this profession, gave me courage to persevere during difficult times while celebrating the joys of success.

I recall once having writer’s block and asked your advice. A column was due the following week. Your letter followed two days later.

“Keep it simple,” you suggested. “Go to your senior center. Find the oldest volunteer. Sit down and chat with that person. Perhaps the story will get others involved and you will have turned your Almanac column into a community outreach resource.”

I did just that, finding a 90-something volunteer who made everyone’s day.

You were my mentor in other ways. You commiserated with me about the absence of Armenian Genocide recognition and guided me on the best trips of my life. When I traveled the Mediterranean, you pointed the way to some exotic places. Same with the Caribbean and Sturbridge Village, where you cut your teeth into tourism.

Nothing did more for Newport than your columns on history and culture, folklore and current events. The idea to honor home-grown actor Van Johnson with a postage stamp was certainly justified.

We exchanged columns with our letters. While I was the humorist, you were the practitioner. I would write about the passion for junk food, you would advocate for peace and tranquility during the busy tourist season.

I can still taste that dinner you treated us to at Restaurant Bouchard. Equally memorable was that rendezvous at the Hammersmith Farm where the Kennedys wed. You made each visit to Newport a memorable one for us.

Only we never had the opportunity to reciprocate. I could have treated you to some fine eateries in these parts, including a castle and birthplace of famous poet John Greenleaf Whittier.

You joy was my pleasure. My sorrows were your laments. You went through my open heart surgery and various family deaths. I felt the pain of your therapy. We shared books together, stories, exotic cooking dishes, travel. I celebrated your induction into the Rhode Island Journalism Hall of Fame. You applauded my selection as a master reporter by the New England Society of Newspaper Editors. We were acorns on the same branch.

So long, good and faithful friend. ‘Til we meet again in a place called Heaven.

Your penpal,

Tom

• Bio
• Latest Posts

Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.

Latest posts by Tom Vartabedian (see all)

• Vartabedian: My Final Column - November 13, 2016
• A Hat to Match Any Occasion - October 19, 2016
• More Smiles Keep the Frowns Away - October 12, 2016