Remembering Joe Alsop

More than any other journalist I ever knew, Joe Alsop, who died on August 28, deserved a Boswell. But there was none; the Boswellian version of Alsop will have to be a patchwork effort by his friends.

I counted myself one in the years of his retirement. The Warren Zimmermanns, old friends of mine, were close family relations of Joe’s; and Joe was often to be found at their Sunday lunches in Great Falls, Virginia. It was there, not long after coming to Washington to edit the Star’s editorial page, that I met him one autumn afternoon in 1975. Teeny Zimmermann had seated me just across from the great man, who was attired in the trademark bow tie and elegant waistcoat, and was a bit florid with wine. It was quite a moment for a junior member of his trade, one who had read him with envy, awe, and occasional vexation since high school. He noted my new duties at the Star: “Dear boy,” he said, “to succeed in Washington journalism, you must lay about you!”

EY

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Edwin M. Yoder Jr.

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More than any other journalist I ever knew, Joe Alsop, who died on August 28, deserved a Boswell. But there was none; the Boswellian version of Alsop will have to be a patchwork effort by his friends.

I counted myself one in the years of his retirement. The Warren Zimmermanns, old friends of mine, were close family relations of Joe’s; and Joe was often to be found at their Sunday lunches in Great Falls, Virginia. It was there, not long after coming to Washington to edit the Star’s editorial page, that I met him one autumn afternoon in 1975. Teeny Zimmermann had seated me just across from the great man, who was attired in the trademark bow tie and elegant waistcoat, and was a bit florid with wine. It was quite a moment for a junior member of his trade, one who had read him with envy, awe, and occasional vexation since high school. He noted my new duties at the Star: “Dear boy,” he said, “to succeed in Washington journalism, you must lay about you!”