Susan Stamberg, who died on October 16th at the age of 87, was rightly known as National Public Radio’s “Founding Mother.”  She was for many years the heart and soul of NPR, as the Host of the network’s flagship program, “All Things Considered,” from 19732-1986. She was also a warm, funny, and generous soul with lots of fans who had no idea how to spell her name, as the following story illustrates.

Some background: I joined NPR sometime in 1974, hosting a weekly program about education. Back then, NPR didn’t have much in the way of programming, basically just ATC, “Voices in the Wind,” and a daily catch-all series called “Options.”  I was new to Washington, hired by a think tank to do something about education. My boss told me I could spend up to $10,000 promoting dialogue about education, and so I knocked on the door at NPR, which was largely unknown.  Ten grand was real money in those days, and NPR let me bring a couple of experts into the studio to explain school finance.  Frankly, the ensuing two-part program was duller than dishwater, but NPR–desperate to fill the airtime–said they loved it and asked me to host more programs. 

Before long, I had a weekly gig and an office, which—lucky me–was across the hall from Susan.  Her office looked out on M Street, big windows and lots of light, and my windowless room was across the hall.  Needing light and air, I kept my door open, while Susan, being Susan, kept hers open so she could shmooze. Before long I sort of got to know her, her great laugh and her warmth, just by inadvertent but unavoidable eavesdropping…

You need to know that radio listeners are a special breed, as I quickly learned.  For one thing, they write letters.  After 8 years at NPR, I worked in television, and I know that I received at least 20 or 30 times more mail in those 8 years than in my 31-year TV career.   I believe that’s because radio listeners cannot see whoever’s speaking and so must use their imagination to fill in the blanks.  In any case, they write letters….

Often, they don’t get the name right, and so every week I would get letters addressed to “John Murrow,” “John Merrill,” “John Morton,” and so on.

I was working late one night, and, when I left, I noticed lots of little pieces of paper scotch-taped to Susan’s door.  Curious, I took a close look at what turned out to be mail addressed to her: “Susan Steinberg,” “Susan Stoneberg,” “Susan Stoneman,” “Susan Stanberg,” and so on.

The next morning, on a whim, I knocked on her door and proposed a contest: “Let’s see who gets more incorrect versions of our name over the next six months or so,” I suggested.

“And the winner gets lunch…and chooses the restaurant,” she responded.

Game on.

(At some point Ira Flatow, NPR’s Science Correspondent, became aware of our contest and asked to be included. We didn’t even consider letting him in because we knew he’d win in a walk.)

Don’t hold me to the exact numbers, but I won.  Susan had around 20 incorrect versions of Susan Stamberg, but I had more than 30.  I won because a few listeners got my last name right but thought my first name was Jim, or Bob, or Joe….some common name.

My favorite, however, was a letter addressed to “John Moron.”  It probably shouldn’t have counted because it was clearly not an accident.  I know that because the letter began, “Dear John Moron, You are an asshole,” and went downhill from there. 

Did Susan take me out to lunch? I don’t remember, unfortunately.

Since you’ve read this far, would you like to know how “Morning Edition” got its name?  That was another contest, this one involving the 40 or 50 people who worked at NPR. “Drive time” was when lots of people listened to the radio, and NPR realized that it needed a program for the morning commuters, to complement ATC. One morning in 1979 President Frank Mankiewicz called all of us together.  “We’re going to start a morning edition of All Things Considered,” he said, “And whoever comes up with the best name for this morning edition will get a prize.”  He went on, talking about how a morning edition of ATC would attract a big audience, etc etc, and challenging us to come up with a clever, catchy name for this new morning edition of All Things Considered.

I have no idea how many people suggested other names, but somewhere along the way someone realized that the best name for a morning edition of All Things Considered was “Morning Edition.”  To the best of my knowledge, no one won Frank’s contest.

Final anecdote: One morning Susan popped her head into my office, smiled, and said, “I think we’re gonna make it.”  Why, I wanted to know.  “Well,” she said, “I was at my son’s Little League baseball game yesterday, cheering my head off, and someone near me asked, ‘Are you Susan Stamberg?’ That means real people are listening.”

They were, for sure, because Susan Stamberg was worth paying attention to.  She was one of a kind, a national treasure and a good person.  In her honor, please keep on supporting NPR and public broadcasting generally.