Barbara Greenspun was a regal presence in the Sun newsroom

By John Katsilometes

Thursday, June 3, 2010 | 7:59 a.m.

Even if you didn’t know who she was, exactly, you knew she was someone. There was an air about Barbara Greenspun that made it clear she was a person of high caliber.

You could feel it. She was prim and dignified, even regal. If there could be true royalty in Las Vegas, she was that, elegant and smart and stylish. She seemed from another time and place, when people of her stature would not be seen in public at less than their very best.

I was made aware of this quality when I first started at the Sun in 1998, in what some of us call the “old building” on Valley View Boulevard (though it was not the oldest building in Sun history, by a long shot). One morning I happened upon Barbara Greenspun at the staff coffee machine, of all places.

I introduced myself, telling her I was new to the company, glad to be part of the team, that sort of thing.

She nodded, and noted that she understood I’d come over from the R-J. This is true, I said.

“We won’t hold it against you,” she said, with a hint of a grin.

I remember laughing at that, too loudly to be genuine. It was a forced guffaw from a new employee to a joke made by the founding family’s matriarch. And then I thought that every time Barbara Greenspun would see me in the office, she’d remember two things about me: That I’d worked for the competition, and that I could be counted on to laugh too loudly at her witticisms. I thought, half-joking, that the company handbook should include a protocol entry of how to act when you meet Barbara Greenspun.

A couple of years later, I was promoted to the editor of the Accent section, a huge honor, and headed up the Sun’s A&E and lifestyle coverage. In that role I worked with two of my favorite people for several years: Former Sun food editor Muriel Stevens, and the late Ruthe Deskin, who wrote a weekly column called Back and Forth for Accent almost until the day she died.

They shared Barbara Greenspun’s grace. What impressed me most is that they both spoke, unfailingly and frequently, of their love and respect for Barbara.

Muriel and Barbara were dear friends, and if Muriel’s office door was closed, it meant that Barbara had stopped in for one of their lengthy chats. Ruthe, of course, dated to the very infancy of the Sun, having worked as an assistant to both Barbara and Hank Greenspun for more than 50 years.

Ruthe was one of the strongest people I have known, and tremendously loyal to the Greenspuns. I once wrote a story titled, “Dinner With History,” where I asked some newsmakers around Las Vegas which historic figure they would wish to have dinner with. I asked Ruthe, in passing, if she would like to be in the story.

Her response: “I’ve already had many dinners with the two people I’d pick.” It was obvious who they were.

Probably the moment I most fondly remember of Barbara in the newsroom was one afternoon when we were working on a story written by then-Sun pop culture writer Kirk Baird. The piece centered on the Las Vegas neighborhood where all the streets were named for “Star Wars” characters. The photo accompanying the story was of Kirk, wearing a full Darth Vader costume and operating a weed whacker while standing under a sign reading “Obi-Wan Kenobi.” It was terrific fun. Maybe too much so.

Kirk returned to the office, dropping the Vader costume on his desk. The whole ensemble – the black helmet and matching cape, the plastic light saber – all in plain view. The unmistakable Vader helmet, in particular, was prominently displayed.

And, of course, this was a day Barbara decided to pay a visit to Accent. She strolled though our department, behind Kirk’s desk, and glanced down to see the head of Vader next to his computer.

I can’t say if I knew exactly how to explain to our publisher, whose name graced everything in Las Vegas from a nearby middle school to a UNLV school of journalism to my own paycheck, that the features department looked like a costume shop.

She continued on, walking purposefully toward my desk.

I started to say … something. But she spoke first.

“I won’t ask,” was all she said And she grinned.

This time, the laugh was appropriate.