It’s December, major gift-giving time. And as it happens, Jack and I gave ourselves the best gift of all (outside of our children) in December of 1986. We bought the Greenwich Review from Edythe Marr—the magazine that had been in her family since 1947 when it was launched as the Greenwich Social Review. Over the years the word “Social” had gotten smaller and smaller, and our new Review got bigger and bigger after we bought the other town magazine, the Nutmegger of Connecticut, and renamed the whole ball of wax GREENWICH.
At the closing I asked Jack who was going to be editor. He said: “You are.” “But I’m a writer, not an editor,” I protested. “Donna, we can’t afford an editor,” he confessed. “You’re it.”
So after thirty years selling space at Time Inc., Jack took early retirement, our friend Bill King made us a yard sign reading “All the News That Will Fit,” and we were off and running.
We moved into Mrs. Marr’s one-room office over the shoe stores on Greenwich Avenue—manual typewriters, dial phones and holey “archive” copies, where ads had been cut out, thrown on the closet floor. One day later we moved down the hall for more space and (good grief!) a couple of computers. But the building’s fire alarm kept going off, and I’d find myself out on The Ave clutching our four-color separations to my bosom.
We moved to Lewis Street.
Jack’s idea was to build up the magazine and flip it. He packed the board with his retired buddies from Time Inc. (Greenwich was full of them), all envious that Moffly had his own magazine. They were also prone to making suggestions like getting rid of weddings and adding lots of executive news. But exec news was newspaper stuff, I told them, and brides and grooms were definitely staying (if sometimes not with each other).
It was a crash course in how to be a successful editor-in-chef—keeping a balanced book, for instance, so there was something in each issue for every reader. He may not care about landscaping or antiques but is really into finance and music; she may be just the opposite. We had to learn how to put the book together, spending hours at the printer in Stamford and taking courses at SUNY. I remember calling Betty Hinckley—friend, neighbor, Junior League president and big-time Realtor—with a question: “If you could put your ad anyplace in the magazine, where would it be— with the other real estate ads, more spread out, upfront-right like all the agencies want? Her answer: “Don’t care if it’s right, left, front or back. Just put it next to the best story in that issue.” Smart lady.
Then, bringing his high-tech young talent with him, son Jonathan came marching home from getting his MBA in Sydney and Tokyo, Jack had him launch Westport, Jonathan’s lovely Russian wife Elena became our business manager, we grew and grew, and here we are. Who would’ve thunk?
Me, for one. I often think about what a wild ride it’s been over the course of putting out your town magazine, and we Mofflys have been at the helm for almost half of its seventy-five year history. That adds up to a lot of memories. Here are a few standouts.
On the scary side: We had to call the police to keep an eye on the office because a man, once known for threatening his neighbors with a shotgun, was irate that his daughter didn’t make it into the Weddings section. Why? Because her announcement came to us almost a year after deadline. By then she could’ve had twins.
In the weird department: Claiming to be a palm reader, a fellow showed up at the office dressed, for some reason, as a Native American and wanted to take out an ad. Jack told him that we didn’t do fortune tellers. (But nice try for getting into Greenwich houses, what?)
And another: One of our young artists had a sideline raising Great Danes, and by way of show-’n-tell brought one into the office wearing a Kotex.
Good clean fun: Glen from Sophia’s Great Dames (not Great Danes) regularly stopped by with their beagle Stanley—both in costume. Once Glen was Peter Pan and Stanley, Tinker Bell; another time he was Robin Hood and Stanley, Maid Mirian. Hilarious, but Jack wondered what all this nonsense was doing to our reputation.
High adventure: Among other places, in the pursuit of stories I’ve found myself up in a blimp, in a race car at Lyme Rock and in the Blue Room at the White House having coffee with President and Mrs. George H.W. Bush.
Delicate situations: Jack spent a lifetime trying to make me a diplomat. I needed kid gloves. After all, we were a town magazine, not a giant newspaper. So if Mrs. Bufforpington wanted her favorite charity written up, I couldn’t just toss her letter in the circular file. I had to politely respond.
Same with handling the woman who called in a huff because we’d put someone on the cover who’d been married three times; and the known tire-slasher who came in with a great idea for a story—the airmail service between New York and Bermuda; and the retired gentlemen who were bored and decided they could write—for us. They seemed to know if they couldn’t paint or sing or make furniture, but write? Piece of cake. Why not? Besides, their wives wanted them to do something. So they’d call me (or put the arm on Jack, being an easier touch, at one of those men’s luncheons; and he’d relay the message).
“What do you want to write about?” I’d ask them. “Square dancing,” one replied. “Well,” I’d advise, “send me a first paragraph.” And guess what? I never heard from most of them again. Maybe an actual assignment was too burdensome?
Just plain funny: Friend, mentor and advisor Bernie Yudain, the beloved journalist who launched the Harpoon Club for the sole purpose of preserving the sense of humor of the town of Greenwich, had a sharp spear. When SoundWaters honored Jack and me at Richards one evening, Bernie got his turn at the mic: “I wondered why they’d chosen this venue to roast Jack Moffly,” he quipped. “Then I realized he’d feel right at home among all these empty suits!” And another zinger: “Jack Moffly has this magazine that’s filled with brides and dancing debutantes. He probably thinks Chickahominy is an Italian breakfast cereal!”
High praise indeed: At our first Best of the Gold Coast party, when we ran out of 1,000 wrist bands because 1,500 fun-lovers showed up at the Hyatt, renowned Realtor David Oglivy, who knew everybody in town, turned to Barbara King and said, “I’ve never seen more people I didn’t know having such a great time!”
I’ve had a wonderful time, too, because of the people who live here. I started writing for the old Greenwich Review in 1966, twenty years before we bought it, and knew we’d never run out of stories. Greenwich is a mecca for successful people in every field, an inspiration for the volunteers who see a need and pitch in, a special birthplace for the townies who are the heart and soul of our community. I’ve loved meeting them all.
Naturally, like everywhere else, things have changed in Greenwich over the years. The mom-and-pop shops have all but vanished on The Avenue; our restaurants have multiplied like bunnies, as have our banks; Riverside and Old Greenwich have soared in popularity, and on it goes. But one thing hasn’t changed: We want to give our readers what they want—a top-notch town magazine for a top-notch audience.
Yup, that was some Christmas present Jack and I gave each other thirty-five years ago. It sure made a difference in our lives, and it’s been our goal at Moffly Media ever since to make a difference in yours.
