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Alan Small was my first editor at the Free Press when I started here back in 2013.
I liked him as soon as I met him. Unfailingly kind. A true sponge for knowledge, and curiosity to match.
When he moved from helming the Arts & Life section to reporting for it, he sat right across from me in the newsroom. I usually got here first, and he’d greet me the exact same way: “Mornin’, Jen.” I’d always joke that we were like Ralph Wolf and Sam Sheepdog, minus the cartoon violence. Mornin’ Ralph, Mornin’ Sam. “Mornin’ Al.”
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Alan died on May 3. It was sudden and shocking and sad. I don’t remember our last interaction. I went on vacation. Then he went on vacation, but he never came back. When I came to work on Monday, his insulated coffee mug was just sitting on his desk, waiting for him. And, in the magical thinking of grief, I was waiting for him, too. “Mornin’ Jen.”
Al was a true champion of the arts in Winnipeg. No one worked harder than he did, even when his kidneys were failing him. He got a second chance at life afforded to him by an incredible newsroom kidney donation which you can read about here.
Al Small with colleague Jill Wilson who donated a kidney to Al in 2019 so that he could receive one faster. (Mike Deal / Free Press files)
Last year, he pledged to make 2023 the Summer of Support, spending $400 of his own money on local arts events which he attended in addition to all the many events he already had to cover. Al loved travel and experiences; he had a more active social life than I could ever hope to have.
He was also a hell of a writer. It was such a treat whenever he could stretch out over long features, such as this beautiful piece about Snowflake, Man.
Al Small posing for a staff photo as the Arts and Life Editor in 2013. (Ruth Bonneville / Free Press files)
A challenge for you, should you wish to accept it. Don’t wait to tell the people in your life how you feel about them. Let’s stop saving this stuff for eulogies, yeah? I wish I could tell Al how much I learned from him, how much I appreciated his support, how much I liked talking to him.
I also would have told him how much I appreciated some advice he gave me when I was new.
I had botched a season announcement for an arts organization I will not name here, and the irate publicist working there at the time called to tear a strip off me and I ended up crying in the bathroom. I felt mortified, by both the tears and the mistakes.
But lucky for me, I had Al for an editor. He didn’t get upset. He just had this to say about it:
I can’t stop you from fretting about it. I should have caught that earlybird bit, too — when the puck goes in the red light shines on the whole team.
You’re doing such a great job that I need to remember that you’ve still only been here for a few months. You should remember the first part of that sentence if you start beating yourself up about it.
We’ll correct the mistake as best we can. We’ll learn our lessons — quickly. And then move forward.
I’m going to miss Al a lot. His sense of humour. His smarts. His stories (including the famous Rolo story, recounted here). Oh my goodness, his hall-of-fame laugh.
From left: Jen Zoratti, Al Small, Ben Waldman, Eva Wasney and Ben Sigurdson taste test Halloween candy in October 2022. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press files)
And even though I know he would have written the heck out of that obit, Al left a world that still has his beloved Bob Dylan in it, and I think that’s kind of nice.
You can read more about Alan Small’s big life in this Saturday’s Free Press.
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