I first met Judy Baar Topinka in the late summer of 1979.
I was a rookie reporter who didn’t know anybody. Judy was a former reporter at my paper, The Life Newspapers in Berywn, and seemed to know everybody.
She was beginning her career in government, deciding to take a run for the state legislature and against the power structure of a male-dominated Republican Party that ran Berwyn and Cicero.
She definitely wasn’t one of the fellas, and that summer and fall was busy lining up support among her many contacts for the March 1980 Republican Primary.
Back then a candidate needed to finish first or second in the primary to be on the November ballot, where three representatives would be elected per district from four candidates.
She won easily.
I saw her a lot those days as she would stop in the office and talk to her old friends from newspapering days.
She was loud, brash and spoke her mind. To my young mind, she was selling out by trading journalism for politics.
But I was wrong. She would never be accepted by the political class. She would forever be one of the people, who knew she could do the job better than the people she was writing about.
About the time she moved to the state Senate, I joined Pioneer Press, and hardly ever saw her.
Then she ran for state treasurer and I sat on Pioneer’s endorsement committees. The other editors badgered me about her. “What’s she like?”
“You’ll see,” was all I could say, still unsure on how to describe this seemingly crazy woman, who was pretty unbelievable as far as politicians go.
She was blunt. She spoke her mind and talked fast and loud. She said what a lot of us reporters actually thought, like when she described her opponents for governor as morons. Who could argue with that?
She gave me a fruitcake once for Christmas. It figures, right? But it was the best damn fruitcake I’ve ever had before or since.
Over the years I’d run into Judy every so often, here and in Springfield. I’d call and ask for an interview. She’d get right back to me and knew exactly what I was asking about it and tell it as she saw it. Between questions, she’d offer advice on where to shop for bargains in the western suburbs.
I’d be having dinner at a restaurant and Judy would come in leading an entourage, waving and saying “Hi” to friends already there, and suddenly the place was livelier, happier and a lot more fun.
Once when leaving our office after a campaign interview, she stopped at the water cooler to get a drink, and saw a pen on the floor. “Oh, look, a pen,” she said, picked it up and put it in her purse. I wanted to say, “But that’s the company pen,” as I stood there empty handed. Instead I said, “Good luck, Judy.” She didn’t need it.
She just worked hard.
I last saw her a couple of years ago in Westchester. I was coming out of a Bohemian restaurant and she was coming out of a pet store. She looked thinner and not in good health. We talked for a while the way old reporters who had seen all the old campaigns and political battles do.
Out of all the politicians I’ve met and covered, and that includes the current president, she was the real deal. She loved people, always was herself and worked tirelessly to make life better for the people of her community and her state.
We need a lot more like her, but, alas, she was one of kind.