The Peter Jennings I Remember
When I was young, I begged to meet the news reporter — and meet him, I did.
As a kid I enjoyed watching Peter Jennings (1938–2005) report the news. Many of these memories I owe to my dad, who always appreciated the newsman’s honesty. For years, my dad told me, “Watch Jennings because he tells it like it is.” No bull, no fluff. “Canadians are different,” Dad would say. “The news in Canada isn’t tainted as much as it is here.”
I would hear similar lines from my dad’s colleagues at the U.S. Embassy. The staff loved and respected Peter Jennings for his views and his reporting of the facts.
One day, I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about, so being the brash brat I was, I begged to meet Peter Jennings. And meet him, I did.
At first I was intimated because I was in a room with a guy I watched all the time on TV. Jennings was bigger than life to me: he covered wars, politicians, the President of the United States, and so many leaders of other countries. But then, I sat down with him and all that “fame stuff” went away. Peter Jennings was just a regular guy, like my dad and the other men I had met in my life.
Mr. Jennings shook my hand. He wasn’t dressed in a suit or anything classy. In fact, he was in fatigues. He’d just returned from reporting in Vietnam and happened to stop by the U.S. Embassy. And now, here I was with the man. He was kind and courteous to this young kid in front of him. I’m guessing he’d probably heard from the Marine guards what a pain-in-the-ass I could be, but he still gave me, just a kid, respect.
Mr. Jennings spoke with me for over an hour, never once looking at his watch as if to say I need to go. Rather, he listened to me and answered my slew of questions. He allowed me to drive him nuts with queries about everything.
I remember when I heard Peter Jennings was diagnosed with lung cancer. I went to New York to visit him. He was fragile by then, and I figured he would never remember me. But I wanted to see him.
Upon visiting his home, I was told Mr. Jennings probably wouldn’t be able to chat long since he was quite weak. I understood. Still, I was as nervous as I was decades ago — a 51-year-old man who felt like a 12-year-old boy.
I walked into his room and saw a man — whom I recalled as strong and intimidating — with now virtually no athletic build. It shocked me to see him in this condition, and even at 51 I was devastated.
But I could still see in his eyes the sharpness I remember from the first time I met him — as though he could look through you and read your entire being. I shook his hand and began to tell him of our first meeting at the embassy. He looked up and said, “I remember you. You were the kid the marines warned me about and whose father asked me to visit with you.” (The funny thing is I don’t recall my dad’s involvement at all. I had asked the Ambassador to set up the meeting since my dad was busy.)
To say I was in shock is an understatement. Even if someone had prepped him before I went there (no one had), I was still impressed.
Ten years ago this week we lost Peter Jennings, and by my account — the one as a kid and the one as an adult — there will never be another journalist quite like him.
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