Ode to Chuck: a long goodbye to my mentor and friend

I’ll never forget what my first real boss said to me when I told her I was leaving her marketing communications firm to go work for Chuck Donofrio: “Are you sure you want to go there? They just had major layoffs.” Chuck’s firm, which was then called Richardson, Myers and Donofrio (now Carton Donofrio Partners), had gone through a significant restructuring earlier that year in order to integrate the various departments of the agency – media, creative, production, public relations and even accounting. While she planted a minor seed of doubt in my mind, I had a really strong feeling about the opportunity and about Chuck. My answer to her was a solid, “Yes.”

After the staff meeting where my boss announced my imminent departure, her secretary pulled me aside and quietly said, “I love Chuck. I just went to a baby shower for a friend who works there. He could have talked to anyone in the room. But he chose to spend time with me. A secretary. And we had the most interesting conversation.”

Two weeks later, I started my job at Chuck’s firm and we’ve been having interesting conversations ever since.

I realized early in my time with the company that Chuck was no ordinary CEO. He drove the same car I did (a Honda Civic), carried hiking shoes in his work bag (you never know when you might stumble upon a trail head) and didn’t give a shit about job titles or hierarchy (his words). He approached his role as much a college professor as a chief executive. His vision for our industry was remarkable. Again, he was among the first to embrace integration. It’s industry standard these days, but in 1995 most executives were just talking about it. Some still are. As a PR person, I sat next to a media buyer and was often asked by the creative director to review advertising copy before he presented it to the client. Media buyers wouldn’t even talk to me in my old firm and the creative people made them look congenial.

Shortly after I joined the team, Chuck held a meeting to announce the hire of an interactive guru. He started the meeting by saying, “The Internet will have more of an impact on our industry than anything else in my lifetime. We’re jumping on the wave and we’re riding it hard.” Remember, it was 1995 and RM&D was the only large agency in Baltimore with a website. In fact, my previous employer joked that he wanted to launch a website that said, “Call us if you want me to fly out and tell you why we’re great.” At that moment, I felt like I would follow Chuck into a fire if he told me it was the smart thing to do.

A year or so later, my immediate supervisor decided to leave. I was 26. Chuck called me into his office and said, “Do you think you need a boss?” I’d come to learn Chuck was all about giving opportunities to people who felt ready to take them on. I didn’t want to sound entitled or arrogant so I told him I wanted to take on more responsibility if he was open to it. He immediately said, “Yeah, I don’t think you need a boss either.” After a year of essentially acting as PR director, Chuck made me the firm’s youngest-ever vice president.

The heart-to-heart conversations are too many to recount. Suffice it to say I learned many important life lessons from Chuck over the next few years. He taught me that blurring the line between personal and professional made both more interesting. He taught me that life is about collecting experiences, not things. He taught me that if you’re going to do something, go all the way with it.

In 2000, when I decided to leave RM&D and take a job in New York City, I dreaded telling Chuck. The PR group was thriving in the midst of the dot-com boom. What’s more, he was on his annual two-week vacation in Sanibel Island, Florida. I couldn’t wait, though, until he returned to give notice. I sat on my living room floor and cried my eyes out as I told him my decision over the phone. Chuck took a deep breath and said, “I am looking out at the most serene setting, but I am not feeling peaceful.” Gulp. He continued, “But I did the same thing at your age and my boss tried to stop me. I am not going to do that to you.” Now, for all his wisdom, Chuck is known for speaking his mind and giving in to his immediate reaction. I was floored. Then he said with the greatest confidence, “And you’ll be back in three years anyway.”

Six weeks later, I moved to New York and started my new job. But Chuck and I always stayed in close contact. As the economy began to weaken, some of my new colleagues started to exhibit less than professional behavior in the name of self preservation. I’d had just about enough when I decided to email Chuck and ask for his advice. He told me that he was on vacation in Sanibel Island, but would call me when he could. After we had a laugh about the timing of my SOS call, he listened to what I had to say. I kind of expected him to respond, “Screw that, you need to move on to a company with a better culture.” Instead he told me to stick it out. That I had more to learn. That there was more good than bad. Turned out he was right.

The Sanibel Island talks continued for the next couple of years until 2003 when he said, “I’m coming to New York and I’d like to take you to dinner.” I don’t actually know if he made the trip just for me or if he was already there for another purpose.

After exchanging a few niceties, Chuck looked across the table and said, “It’s time for you to start your own company. I’d give you money, but I don’t think you need it. Go write a manifesto. Don’t let the dust settle.” He explained that he felt I’d accomplished all I could in my job and that he’d like to see me launch a company by the time I turned 35. He felt the mid-thirties were the prime of one’s career and my entrepreneurial window of opportunity. I left my job a couple of weeks later and Rose Communications was born.

Chuck and I immediately established a partnership and we’ve been Carton Donofrio Partners’ public relations capability for the last eight years. Chuck was right, again. Three years after I left, we were back together.

One of the first accounts we collaborated on was the National Association of Realtors. The year after I launched the company, our client held a marketing summit in Santa Fe. When my plane landed, I called Chuck to let him know I was there. He said, “Come to the hotel and meet me in the lobby. I need to show you something.” I figured he wanted to share his presentation with me or maybe new creative he planned to reveal. Chuck led me out to his rental car and said he wanted to take me to see some cave dwellings he had visited the day before. An avid bird watcher, he took his binoculars and we walked along searching for feathered friends. I was reminded on that mini-hike how great it was to work with Chuck.

A few years ago, I noticed Chuck’s demeanor was changing. He didn’t seem as engaged in the business and occasionally brought up things we had already discussed. His healthy skepticism seemed to be turning into pessimism. I chalked it up to his absent-minded professor tendency and thought perhaps he was losing interest in the company his father founded more than 40 years before. I considered that there was a bigger problem at play, but ignorance was bliss. Then I got the call.

The company’s chief operating officer told me Chuck had been diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s disease. They wanted my help communicating the news to employees, clients and the industry. How could someone who cherished all things intellectual lose their ability to retain thoughts and experiences? In their early 50s? What an incredible injustice this was. I waited until we hung up the phone. And I cried. For his loss. And for mine.

I’ve had a few opportunities to talk one-on-one with Chuck since learning of his diagnosis. One time I was so overwhelmed by my emotions that I lost my train of thought. He said, “Oh no, maybe it’s contagious.” He told me he was past the anger and had moved on to acceptance. He was still enjoying the things he loved most about his life: his amazing wife and three daughters, the outdoors and birds. He didn’t talk much about the present, but the past was as sharp as ever for him. In fact, he told me stories about his family I had never heard.

Last month, I had the good fortune of attending a reception where Chuck was honored by the Advertising Agency Federation of Baltimore with a Silver Medal Award for his many contributions to the industry. On the train ride to Baltimore, I was contemplating how aware he would be. I was told his wife and daughter would accept the award on his behalf. Not having seen him for several months, I was prepared for the worst. When I walked in, I heard one of his colleagues lean over to him and say, “Rosemary Ostmann just walked in.” Gulp. He needed to be told who I am. Exactly what I feared. But then his face lit up and he said, “Ro, thanks for coming,” which was followed by a big hug. Exhale.

When I was juggling my schedule in order to attend, one of my colleagues in Baltimore warned me that he wouldn’t remember the event. My going to the ceremony wasn’t about him. It was about me. And I was beyond grateful to get one more night with the Chuck who knows me.

The rest of the evening was filled with familiar faces and funny recollections. When it was time for the award, I was surprised and a little nervous as Chuck stepped up to the microphone. The crowd finally stopped clapping and sat down, and he opened with, “Well, Alzheimer’s sucks.” Classic Chuck.

Chuck’s wife has characterized this period of their lives as “The long goodbye.” While Chuck is very much still on this earth and enjoying his family and his hobbies, I guess it is time to say goodbye to my mentor:

Chuck, you are my own personal Steve Jobs. Much of what I learned from you makes me who I am today – as a business owner and as a person. You never just regurgitated what others in the industry were saying or doing. You had true vision. You took risks others weren’t taking. And I live a better, more interesting life because of it. You’re not perfect. You know that. But as the attendance at last month’s ceremony demonstrated, you’ve touched a lot of people’s lives. I am among many who owe at least part of their success to you. I know you’ve transcended the anger you originally experienced when you were first diagnosed. I’ll try to get beyond my own out of respect for you and your legacy. I will, however, always wonder what else was in that beautiful mind.