Eleanore Perkins, 1931-2011

Ode to Eleanore

There’s a special place in heaven for Eleanore Perkins. And it’s an Editor’s Choice.

I worked for Eleanore—and husband Ed Perkins—at Consumer Reports Travel Letter in San Francisco for more than 10 years. The Travel Letter specialized in finding good deals in travel. Editor’s Choice was the accolade for the best-of-the-best—the place we’d want to stay if price was no object.

As Associate Editor, as a boss, and as a friend, Eleanore earned passage to the best there is upstairs. I haven’t checked the Hotel and Travel Index, the travel agent’s bible, but it should be something in the nature of Superior Deluxe—highest of 10 rankings. I don’t know about you, but I’d be happy if there’s a spot for me in Moderate Tourist.

Actually, Eleanore had a simpler term for anything that’s superior: Awes. That’s shorthand for awesome.

Eleanore was awes. She was awesomely bright—she had at least 50 IQ points on the next smartest person in a room. And she was an awes writer—with great love and command of language. After the rest of us put our thoughts to words, she or Ed would take our bromides and clichés and turn them into intelligible prose. That was no small feat when you consider that the Travel Letter’s articles had to fit a fact-laden format that included tables and locators, code letters for every discount known to humankind, keys to explain the code letters, and footnotes to explain the keys. Eleanore could make the alphabet sing. Article too long? Not a problem. Eleanore could edit the Gettysburg Address.

Eleanore also was the most awesomely generous and caring person. From a worker’s standpoint, consider this:

– Have you ever heard of an employer who offered employees two dental plans? I’m not talking about a choice of plans. Two simultaneous plans—primary to pay the lion’s share of costs, secondary to pick up where the primary left off. Her explanation: One didn’t do the job for her—so it’s not good enough for us.

– Ever hear of Costco memberships for staff? Not only did Eleanore and Ed pay for our membership, they sponsored a card for a friend of mine. Why? I’m guessing it was because he once prepared chicken soup when Eleanore was sick. Eleanore never left any kindness unrewarded.

Eleanore also was the most unpretentious person. When I interviewed for the Travel Letter, I came dressed in jacket, tie and shiny new shoes. I landed the job, but got the impression I should put the fancy threads in mothballs. I couldn’t help but notice: Eleanore and Ed were wearing Birkenstocks. Eleanore had a plain mail-order dress. Ed kept a corduroy jacket on the back of his office door—solely for television appearances.

Indeed, Eleanore had a distain for formality. If we needed to brainstorm story ideas, she or Ed would gather us around a large table. But first I would be sent down the street to pick up a boozy sour cherry kirsch cheesecake from Zanze’s Cheesecake shop…or up a block for a lemon poppyseed ring cake from Ambrosia Bakery. Sometimes we slummed—we’d have Häagen-Dazs ice cream from Walgreens.

After every publication cycle, we closed an issue by gathering again at the table. Eleanore would call Waiters on Wheels to deliver lunch from some choice restaurant.

Nothing, however, compared to Christmas time. She’d send us scurrying around town to gather the best the City could offer—to Creighton’s for cheeses, to Tower Market for sour dough bread, to Swan’s Oyster Depot for oysters and prawns. Our neighbors in the insurance office next door salivated as the food paraded past them.

Eleanore even put her stamp on coffee making. When I squabbled with a co-worker, Josef, about whether to make regular or decaffeinated coffee, Eleanore stepped in. “Get another coffee maker! Make both!” Only three of us drank coffee, but every morning thereafter we brewed a pot of regular and a pot of decaf.

Don’t get the wrong impression: We worked our tails off—and no one worked harder than Eleanore or Ed. But we were also allowed to “culch.” That’s the term Eleanore invented for avoiding work—goofing off. And sometimes, when it struck her fancy, Eleanore would send everybody home early. “Go home!” she would declare. If we disobeyed, she’d raise her normally-soft voice: “Doesn’t anyone listen to me—go home!”

One such occasion was October 17, 1989 when the San Francisco Giants and Oakland A’s were scheduled to play the third game of the World Series at 5:30 p.m. It was 4:30, and Eleanore saw that I was still at my desk. “Go Home!” she ordered. I’m a big Giants fan, so I followed her orders. It was a good thing I did: At 5:01 p.m., the Loma Prieta earthquake struck—and the bookcase in my office came toppling down. If I had been at my desk, I would have been crushed.

Fast forward to late 90s. After years hearing Eleanore say “I’m getting too old for this,” she and Ed started to build their dream home in Ashland, Oregon. The clock was ticking. Before they retired, however, I noticed a spike in my paycheck. I think they suspected that, upon leaving, the parent publication might not be as magnanimous.

After Eleanore and Ed retired, the Travel Letter had a hard time living up to their standards. When we gathered around the table, it wasn’t to eat food. It was to discuss why we were missing deadlines. It never happened before. Ed’s successor as editor-in-chief could not figure out why. Frankly, Ed was a tough act to follow. But that was just part ot it. I told her Ed had a “secret weapon.”

“What was that?” she asked. I said, it’s not “what.” It’s “who.”

Her name is Eleanore.