My memory of Salie de Swardt will always be thankful

Monks wet a dry stone after they published; with alcohol. This was the first lesson I learnt while dancing with my future editor at a “wet stone” in the ’80s while we were both very aangeklam. We giggled, grinded and gyrated together as if there was no class difference in print – not only him and me; all of us. A wet stone at the paper was a night of letting your hair down – so no class. Management gets caught in compromising positions in lifts; women can tell you after a debauched night exactly who has dentures (rolls eyes)…

Monks wet a dry stone after they published; with alcohol. This was the first lesson I learnt while dancing with my future editor at a “wet stone” in the ’80s while we were both very aangeklam. We giggled, grinded and gyrated together as if there was no class difference in print – not only him and me; all of us.

A wet stone at the paper was a night of letting your hair down – so no class. Management gets caught in compromising positions in lifts; women can tell you after a debauched night exactly who has dentures (rolls eyes) and a hair piece (ugh) – “but isn’t he a lovely man”.

Not that journos then ever shared those compromising telltales. You just didn’t tell the tale. They were all “lovely men”; editor or not.

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But back to me dancing with the handsome devil that gave me my first job at an Afrikaans daily. More than that: Salie de Swardt gave me my first byline in print. Me working on the regional pages; then, once every two weeks, get an assignment on the Big Paper.

That Sunday it was hunting down right-wing politician Koos van der Merwe after he potted a father at his son’s rugby match. I phoned. And phoned. No answer. So 5 o’clock I got in my Mini, drove to the cop shop in Alberton and found out where Koos lived.

Needless to say, the cops escorted me to his house – and when he opened the door, I got my quote: “Mr Van der Merwe, did you hit this father?” “Of course, and I’ll do it again…” Salie and I sweated that story out when I got to the office just before deadline. But we both knew the intro had to be “I will do it again”.

Salie started typing… “By Carine Hartman” – and I went through the roof… My memory of him will always be thankful. Thankful for giving a journo the best memory ever. Thankful for releasing me as your chief sub to join the national newspaper, even though you hated losing me.

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Thank you for being a perfect gentleman like the man I was married to for 32 years. Thank you for being one of the greatest editors I worked with. I will miss you.