He built the organization into a respected part of the Nebraska Capitol Press Corps before our parent company decided there just wasn’t enough money in Nebraska to continue support of the NRNs and abruptly shut it down.
We had hired Brent from our affiliate in St. Joseph, KFEQ, a historic station serving northwest Missouri, northeast Kansas, southwest Nebraska, and southeast Iowa. But we had known Brent since he was a student at Central Missouri State (now the University of Central Missouri) in Warrensburg where he did the news on affiliate KOKO.
Brent wrapped up a 45-year career in broadcast journalism last week, having returned to his St. Joseph roots at KFEQ after the abrupt shutdown in Nebraska.
Brent was on top of a number of major stories in St. Jo and in Jefferson City and in Lincoln. CBS relied on him to cover the 1993 flood and its impact on northwest Missouri’s biggest city. I trusted him implicitly to maintain the quality of the Missourinet operations when I was out of town.
That included the night 25 years ago when we lost Governor Carnahan. Nancy and I were in Albuquerque, having just come down from our annual archaeological work in southwest Colorado, and watching the 10 .p.m. news on KOB-TV when the anchor reported that the airplane carrying Missour Governor and senatorial candidate Mel Carnahan was missing. We immediately switched to CNN and got the updated information that the plane had crashed.
I knew that Brent would be in the newsroom along with the other members of our staff and other staffers who would be drawn there by the events, and I knew he would have things well in hand.
And he did. I told him to send someone to the Capitol and find Lieutenant Govenror Roger Wilson, who would become the new governor at almost any time. One of the people who had rushed to the newsroom that night was my former assistant news director at KLIK, a Jefferson City Station that no longer exists—Clyde Lear, now the owner of Learfield Communications.
Brent gave Clyde a recorder and sent him to the Capitol to stick to Wilson. When Wilson was sworn in and, understandably under the circumstances, said he didn’t have anything to say, Clyde—ever the journalist—asked him one and got an answer.
Brent told me that as the a time grew closer to our first newscast of the day, at 5:55 a.m., he paused and collected himself after the intensive hours that had passed, and reminded himself that in a few minutes, thousands of Missourians would learn from him that Mel Carnahan was dead.
Throughout that long day, as Nancy and I drove almost 1,000 miles back to Jefferson City, the Missourinet, led by Brent, told Missourians about what things were developing in the wake of the tragedy.
Less than a year later, I was in Nashville for the opening of the national convention of radio and television news directors, due to start on September 12. Just as we were to start our pre-convention board meeting, the first airplane crashed into the first of the World Trade Center towers in Washington. Again, it was Brent in charge of the Missourinet newsroom, running our coverage of state events that were affected by those two crashes.
Fortunately, I had driven to Nashville so I was not trapped as were several other news directors because all airline flights had been grounded indefinitely. When I got back to the newsroom, our operation hadn’t missed a beat.
I missed him when he went to Nebraska—-more because he was a dear friend more than anything else. We talked about all kinds of stuff in our years together; politics, government, religion, families, cars—-Brent bled blue and white during the Kansas City Royals seasons and he bled red and yellow during the NFL season. Our sports director, Bill Pollack, once confided to me, tongue in cheek, that he was always glad to see me back in the newsroom so he could get his sports business done because Brent always wanted to talk about the Royals or the Chiefs or the Tigers.
Being a journalist requires enduring energy for a long number of years. It’s exciting to be on the front row of history, whether it’s in city hall or a state capitol. Sometimes it is frustrating. Sometimes it is boring. But it is always human and the role of a reporter is vitally necessary to our state and country. Brent spent his fifteen years as Missourinet Managing Editor covering the House while I camped out in the Senate trying to make the complicated process of making laws simple enough to explain to Missourians who need to know what their government does to, with, and for them.
Sometimes, it wasn’t fun at all—the Carnahan crash, the floods, the twin towers attacks. And executions. Brent and I covered 34 of them; he covered twelve before going to Nebraska where he became not only a reporter but also a source for other reporters when Nebraska had its first execution by lethal injection in 2018. We felt that the state should not exact its most serious penalty against someone without witnesses from the two statewide media organizations as witnesses.
Brent’s wife and daughter planned the retirement party at the church the family attends in St. Joseph. One of the gifts he was given was a Chiefs jacket. And there was a special guest:
Brent is looking forward to time to read and to write poetry and to spoil his two granddaughters. The big retirement gift from his family and friends is a trip to England next year. I gave him a small gift, something a baseball fan might appreciate—an official 1994 World Series baseball. The Royals weren’t in it but a baseball fan such as Brent Martin would appreciate it because nobody was in the World Series that year because of a players strike.
He’ll have plenty of time for Royals games after missing so many because he had to be up early the next morning to tell the people of St. Joseph, and for a few years the people Missouri and Nebraska what was going on around them.
I wrote a little poem in the card we gave him that began something like:
Guilt-free naps
With a cat on the lap
And the Chiefs on the TV….
And it went downhill from there.
I reminded him and Tammi of something Christopher Bond told me after he had retired from the U.S. Senate—that his wife said she married him for better or worse, but not for lunch.
We hope the Martins have better luck at figuring out the lunch thing that we have had. We’re okay with Monday through Wednesday and the weekends. But after eleven years, we still havne’t figured out Thursday and Friday.
I hope my friend Brent is more successful than I have been about lunch.
