Her Dad is Keith Moore?!?
My dad made a career working in public relations for colleges and universities. So when it came time to take Public Relations at college, I was excited. I thought I knew all there was to know about the subject.
I am not sure how I acquired that belief. As a youngster, I frequently visited my dad at his office and determined that he talked on the phone a lot. I had no idea to whom he spoke or what they discussed, or why anyone paid him to do it.
So if anyone had asked me to define public relations, I would have said that it had something to do with relationships with the public. But I knew literally nothing about the field.
When I took it, Public Relations was a night class. I remember this forty years later because I instantly determined that I could squeeze in a quick Hood burger before going to class every week.
By this point in my college/drinking career, I was drinking every day – so a burger and a beer seemed like a reasonable way to prep for night class.
Every Thursday, I would go to The Hood and order my Hood burger and a draft beer. The beer would be gone in two minutes. I did not wait for a waitress to bring me another one; The Hood was not that kind of bar.
I simply stepped up to the bar and refilled my glass – so that by the time the burger arrived, I’d had three or four beers and could barely eat. I would shove down the burger, though, along with another beer or three, because that was “dinner.” Then I would stumble across the universe – always late – and climb the steps to my classroom where I would fall loudly into my seat, reeking of alcohol and barely able to sit up.
My professor, Harry Paidas, supervised my dear friend, Debbie, during her on-campus job. Debbie was responsible and never drank. So after weeks of my tardy, disastrous night class appearances, Harry asked Debbie about me.
“She should be great at PR!” Debbie said, always enthusiastically supportive. “Her dad does PR for colleges.”
Harry thought for a moment. “Moore…” he said, and then startled. “Her dad is Keith Moore?!?”
“Yep,” Debbie said.
Harry nearly fell over. “THE Keith Moore. That’s her dad?”
“Uh-huh,” Debbie said. Then she looked at Harry, who seemed suddenly pale and queasy. “Sorry,” she said.
I’m not sure if she was apologizing for me, my dad or herself.
In class, Harry never let on that he knew about my dad, and he never made me feel like an idiot. He watched me week after week, barely able to function, and probably shook his head with silent disappointment. Some days I didn’t show up for class at all; I simply couldn’t get out of the bar on time. It got worse as the weeks passed.
In spite of my drinking, I think I turned in my work mostly on time. I got mostly passing grades on tests.
And at the end of the semester, I actually knew what the term “public relations” meant. For those who are interested, it’s now often called Corporate Communications. That’s a bit easier to understand.
Somehow I passed Public Relations in spite of myself. It was the only night class I ever took.
My dad continued to excel in his field, becoming even more legendary in higher education. And I went on to drink even more fervently, widening the gap until it was a chasm.