Scott Cutlip
When I first met Scott Cutlip, I really didn’t know who he was and how famous he was. He was so down-to-earth and approachable. I was a student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison walking down the hall on the 5th floor of Vilas Hall, when he happened to call me into his office. He was a professor and had that rumpled, elder statesman look. I was a journalism major who wrote for the Daily Cardinal, a kid in t-shirt and jeans.
He sat me down and asked me if I’d ever considered a career in public relations. I answered that I didn’t even know what public relations was. And, he handed me a brochure called “Why Girls Should Get into PR,” saying we need good writers like you in the field. Mind you, this was during the days of Ms. Magazine and Gloria Steinem. No matter, I took the brochure and read it.
Once I started work at a PR agency in Chicago, an article about the pink ghetto of public relations appeared in Business Week, and prompted me to earn my MBA in marketing and finance. Men used to make up the majority in the profession; now it’s women.
Scott M. Cutlip (1915-2000) was a pioneer in public relations education. He introduced the study of public relations to the University of Wisconsin-Madison School of Journalism and Mass Communication, of which I am a graduate. I am embarrassed to say that I didn’t realize his significance until years later when I found myself teaching public relations at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. We used his textbook, the bible. Thank you Scott for all you’ve done for the profession and for me.
Dad
My dad was a bridge builder. He was a character too. Anyone who met him always remembered him. He had that kind of personality. What I’m most grateful to my dad for is his sense of adventure. He was a risk-taker. And, he lived life to its fullest, whether diving or flying. If not for my dad, I might have stayed in the Midwest my entire life. Because of him, I had the courage to step out of my comfort zone, and go on adventures around the world. Thanks Dad!
Mom
My mom was a teacher. To teach is to touch a life, and my mom touched lots of lives, myself included. She dreamed of being a dress designer, made many of her own clothes, and even created her own Florida casual wear resort line called “Doodlebugs by Dode.” Her parents encouraged her to get a teaching degree to fall back on. She took their advice, and never looked back.
A home economics graduate, she taught hundreds of teenagers how to cook and sew. In her spare time, after her children were raised, she taught adults, primarily women, the lost arts that she knew so well: embroidery, knitting, and needlepoint.
She gave me so many gifts, too many to count. At the top of the list: 1) tell the truth, 2) be kind, and 3) write thank you notes. She spoke her mind, and people listened. What more could you ask for in a mentor, my mom.
The Bridge Builder
“The Bridge Builder” poem has a very special meaning to me having come from a construction family. I’m dedicating it to all my mentors who have lent me a helping hand along the way and to all of my proteges to whom I have given a hand. It is one of my favorite poems, and it was read at my father’s and grandfather’s memorial services. Contrary to family lore, its author Will Allen Dromgoole was a female journalist and poet from Nashville, Tennessee. She wasn’t a male from Scotland.
An old man, going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim;
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned, when safe on the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.
“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim, near,
“You are wasting strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again will pass this way;
You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide-
Why build you this bridge at the evening tide?”
The builder lifted his old gray head:
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followeth after me today,
A youth, whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm, that has been naught to me,
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”
