It might sound trite and silly these days, but Walter Cronkite was a rock for Americans in his day.
It would not be overstating things much to say that Americans leaned on him in some ways. He was trusted like no one before him and certainly no one since. He was like the nation's favorite old uncle, the bearer of our news and history who somehow came to embody wisdom, patience, dignity and strength.
He was an anchor and an anchorman — reliable, steady, calm, optimistic — and if he ever wasn't, he kept it pretty much to himself.
Except on very rare occasions.
In 2002, Cronkite came to Salt Lake City to serve as narrator for the annual Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas concert. Like other guest performers, he was given an audience with the First Presidency of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints — President Gordon B. Hinckley and his counselors, President Thomas S. Monson and President James E. Faust. In that room, there was the collected wisdom of the ages — 335 years in all that day.
"It was like sitting in a forest of giant oaks who had weathered many storms," says Craig Jessop, director of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir at the time and witness to that meeting.
President Hinckley and Cronkite did most of the talking.
"How old are you?" Cronkite asked at one point.
"Older than you," President Hinckley said with a wink.
They continued to chat, and then Cronkite turned serious. Here it was, the moment when America's anchor — the rock of the country, the man who reported and saw us through the John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King assassinations and Vietnam and Civil Rights Movement and the tumultuous '70s — finally let down his guard and revealed his creeping fear and skepticism.
"I've always been a man of optimism," he began. "I have always thought that ultimately things would get better and better, but I must say I am beginning to have my doubts."
President Hinckley slammed his left hand on the giant walnut table in front of them and declared, "I have not! I have not lost my faith in goodness. I believe in the ultimate triumph of good over evil and that ultimately all will be well."
As Jessop recalls, "Mr. Cronkite kind of melted in assurance. It was like the weight of the world was taken off his shoulders. He looked at President Hinckley from under those bushy eyebrows as if he believed him, as if he were comforted. It was very moving."
It was indicative of the universal love and respect for Cronkite that the choir invited him to participate in its Christmas concert. Choir president Mac Christensen proposed the idea, and Jessop, who had worked with Cronkite in 1989 on another project while directing the Air Force Band in Europe, made the phone call.
"I spoke to his special assistant, Marlene," recalls Jessop. "She took the idea to him, and within hours she called back. She said he was very interested.
"Then she said, 'You know he loves to conduct. He conducted the Marine Corps Band and the New York Philharmonic and Boston Pops. If you threw that in, you got him."
"Then by all means!" said Jessop. "We'll plan on it."
Cronkite narrated a true story about German and American soldiers calling a brief truce during World War I to celebrate Christmas Eve together. His steady baritone was like another instrument that evening.
Then he took the baton and conducted the night's climactic musical performance. Looking back now, Jessop says, "One of the top experiences in my professional life was standing in the wings watching Walter Cronkite conduct the Hallelujah chorus. He was beaming like a child."
The nation is mourning the passing of Cronkite, who died last week at 92. It is a measure of his aura that he was still widely loved and respected some 28 years after he retired as America's anchorman. When Cronkite passed, Jessop recalled another moment he shared with the man in 2002.
The day after Cronkite met with the First Presidency, he attended a luncheon held in his honor at the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. During the luncheon, Cronkite was presented a gift from the church — a book of his family genealogy that was nearly a foot thick.
"Tears came to his eyes," says Jessop. "He was very touched."
At one point during the luncheon, Cronkite turned to Jessop, who was seated immediately to his left, and revealed a little more of himself.
"Mr. Jessop," he said, "I'm not a religious man in the traditional sense of the word. I don't attend church on Sunday, although I grew up a Methodist in Missouri. But I have felt closer to my God this weekend than I have ever felt. There is something quite remarkable here."
Doug Robinson's column runs on Tuesdays. Please send e-mail to drob@desnews.com