The lady I called Mrs. Irene

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A picture surfaced on Facebook, celebrating the 90th birthday — early, and the first of many because Bryan Hall just is an event-appearing machine — on Friday. The usual suspects were there: heads of hair, for those who had it, were turning to white, thinning on top, with some physical limitations, a reflection as old age mercilessly invades their bodies, and energy — itself, and the lack of it — becomes an unwelcome alarm of when it’s time to go home. But their zest for life and their Eternal beacon, looking for a new way they can play a fast one or some of their oldest friends becomes, as always, a top priority.

As prairie sky wide smiles there were and as deep belly laughs only comparable to the Grand Canyon, someone was missing. Hall and his radio friends, decades of warm relationships from Edmonton radio stations — 630 CHED and, before that, 930 CJCA — is an examplentory study of total strangers, only at first, having the common denominator of the workplace … and then through time, becoming a tight knit family that could, honestly, share anything. And, did.The little white display on the right hand of my screen says we’re at 199 words of this tender journalistic journey and I have yet to name the subject of this mini thesis.

I can clearly hear the newspaper editors—men and women—I learned so much from growling: “Tait, you buried the lead.” Guilty. As charged. But I did it on purpose. Because I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the person I am about to introduce would plead in her graceful way not to write about her. And if I did “Just a few words” she would say in the meantime, convincing me with everything she had not to make her the marquee attraction. I sit on the ground, though. They reluctantly would agree, but reluctantly, asking if they could be near the end of the event.

And so we collectively arrive at that precise moment. Maybe, it was her immaculate hair: as pure and untouched and as pacific peacefully as it laid heaped on a farmer’s winter field. Perhaps, it was her wardrobe: stylish, but never too over the top of skittering around being gaudy. Perhaps, it was her laugh: gentle, heartwarming, never tedious, always encouraging. Unquestionably, though. It was her voice: known to thousands of people from listeners, to advertising executives, to other people in the broadcast business, to Canadian prime ministers who were on a first name basis because she engineered thoughtful, caring relationships with everyone she was in contact with. Even a second telephone conversation, under 10 seconds.

There will be only Irene Madoche.

In all the years she shared her gift, being the receptionist for 930 CJCA, she saw thousands of people, very talented people, walk through the radio station’s front doors. Combined with her fellow employees — announcers, writers, new reporters, advertising executives, program directors, engineers and so many other radio crackerjacks — she truly prosonified radio.

The voice behind the talent.

Because someone … someone with an extraordinary personality, sturdily sitting on a foundation of love, caring and common sense to keep the characters behind her switchboard and headset in line, and frankly, out of jail. Irene did it all. When she had to be that mother figure who had to be a buffer between her and the man of the house: in the days — well — before cell phones, Irene called the watering holes where she knew several of the staff were, you know, partaking in, you know, mature beverages 10 minutes before a meeting, telling barkeeps to send them back to the radio station. She was the comforter: when a potential huge, and I mean huge, advertising deal fell apart, or when someone’s heart was broken. Irene was an encourager and, perhaps she was at her very best, when someone was feeling tremendous anxiety, sitting in the radio station’s lobby, nervously waiting. For a sales meeting. For their first interview on the radio. Or, for a job interview at the station. Irene popped her headset off and asked how you were, or if you needed anything or just offered that smile: of love, of caring, of encouragement. Man, you can do anything.

She owned an ncredible memory for names. The first second time I called the radio station, Irene called me by name. First and last. We had never met. I later found out she did that with everyone. And, people treated her the same, even former prime minister Brian Mulroney. An Edmonton Journal story from 1995 Mulroney called Irene by first name when he came into the radio station's doors of 108 Street in Edmonton. Remarkable.

And voicemail? Not Irene. Herhandwriting, that of an artist, was on countless little pink slips.I wrote a segment for K-97 and when it aired, I phoned Irene, who, very kindly, put me on hold. The radio station’s phone system let callers listened to whatever was on the radio. Perfect!

Now, this is where writing this piece gets hard. Darn hard: the reason Irene wasn’t at last week’s birthday party is because on August 6 of this year, at the age of 88, Irene descended to heaven to continue her angelic ways.