Kay Powers

1920 - 2004

Kay Powers bubbled and bounced through life, laughing and singing and cheering the lives of everyone she left in her zippity-do-dah wake.

Powers, a longtime reporter and beloved columnist for the Austin American-Statesman and a passionate musician, was still writing music in her head and making plans to put out another recording of original songs when she died Saturday at home after fighting cancer for more than a year. She was 84 and the proud owner of a little red sports car.

She spent a lifetime in the journalism field, breaking in by taking a job as secretary to the editor of the American-Statesman in 1960, when women had limited newsroom opportunities.

But her talents won her various editing and writing jobs in the traditional women's section and then on the news side, where she covered breaking news, crime and disasters. It was Powers and her pioneering generation who paved the way for today's modern world of female news anchors, publishers, editors and high-profile news reporters.

"In every generation of a newspaper's life, there are a handful of writers who touch readers. Kay Powers was one of those writers," American-Statesman Editor Rich Oppel said. "Her death is a loss to the newspaper and the community."

Those who knew Powers will never forget the radiant personality that made garden-variety optimists seem downright moody and the million-dollar smile that could melt a curmudgeon's curmudgeon. Powers was one of those "creative types" who consistently exploded with so many ideas her mind must have looked like the showy Fourth of July night sky.

Tens of thousands of people got to know Powers through her monthly column in the Life & Arts section. The columns began when Powers retired in 1985 and wrote a humorous piece about signing up for Social Security. An editor suggested that she chronicle her first year of retirement. But she wasn't one to go quietly into the sunset.

With her husband, Ted, a retired news photographer with 48 years at The Associated Press, Powers joined the local chapter of Friendship Force International, a goodwill group that sponsors travel and exchange programs. She regaled her readers with episodes from their trips to Germany, Yugoslavia, Russia, Italy, Brazil and other exotic locales.

And she wrote just as lovingly about the relaxing times at their home on Lake Travis, which was filled with stray animals.

She treated readers of her column like family, beginning many a tale with the intimate invitation, "Listen, Honey," as if she were whispering a secret into their ear. She liked to quote little wisdoms of her own "Mama" that had guided her life: Every cloud has a silver lining, never say never, and don't cry over spilled milk.

Ever humble, she often referred to herself in print as "the Fat Lady in the Mirror" and wrote often of her attempts to lose weight.

Powers' colleagues were in awe of her ability to win the confidences of every small-town law enforcement officer or dispatcher she met. She had them wrapped around her finger by being "alternately charming, coy, silly, motherly, grandmotherly, sweet, profane and most importantly, resourceful," former American-Statesman environmental writer Max Woodfin said.

He remembers being pulled off his beat early one morning to help report a murder-suicide-kidnapping-holdup for the afternoon edition. He had to call a Hill Country sheriff.

"The gentleman," he said, "was not pleased in the least to get a call from me. He did not know who I was and, in the tensions of the moment, was a shade on the side of rude. "I hung up the phone with a less-than-flattering comment about the high sheriff's mental capacity. Kay overheard me and asked if she could help. Within 10 minutes, the sheriff was calling me! When I answered, he said, 'Sir, why didn't you tell me you worked with Kay Powers? I would have driven to Austin to tell you what I know!'"

Powers was often sent on stories that needed a sensitive touch. In 1982, a drunken driver slammed into a New Braunfels family walking along a highway near the town's annual Wurstfest. Killed were a husband and wife, who was five months pregnant, and their 2-year-old daughter and 11-month-old son.

Grieving relatives didn't want to talk to the press, but Powers wouldn't give up. She interviewed dozens of others until she learned that the impoverished family was struggling to come up with burial costs.

"She was a go-getter and knocked on doors and tried to deal with a Spanish-speaking community with a family tragedy and it was very difficult, but she didn't give up," said Jay Godwin, now assistant chief of photography, who took photos for the story as his first assignment for the newspaper. "I was just following her lead. She set a high standard of commitment and compassion that I've carried with me and tried to emulate in my career."

In between stints at the newspaper, Powers was director of public relations for eight years at then-Seton Hospital. She handled media requests from around the world in June 1967, when President Lyndon Johnson's daughter Luci bore his first grandchild, Patrick Lyndon Nugent.

And on behalf of the Headliners Club, an Austin social club for those who make the headlines and those who write them, Powers persuaded Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett and other entertainment luminaries to star in the club's annual gala to honor the working press.

Powers was born April 11, 1920, in Bloomington, Ill. She attended Illinois State University, then moved to Texas in 1953 and enrolled at the University of Texas.

She fell in love with music as a child listening to her father play the fiddle. He could play by ear, and she inherited the ability.

Eight years of piano lessons instilled a lifelong love of music in Powers, who played piano, organ and accordion. She often shared her talent at nursing homes in honor of her favorite saint, Francis of Assisi, and his prayer: "Where there is sadness, let me bring joy."

Powers might have written as much music as news.

"I don't have a playing radio in my head — it's more like a whole symphony orchestra, and, oh, the commotion when the doubles basses are sawing away and the French horns think it's their turn," she wrote in a 1993 column. "There's no such thing as just saying 'no' to writing music if it's coming on."

In 1960, Kay and Ted, both divorced and single parents, met in an Austin piano bar where Kay played to make ends meet. Ted said, "Bet you can't play 'Hi Lili.'" She shot back: "Sure can." They were married eight months later.

For years, she played the organ at Mass for Emmaus Catholic Church in Lakeway, even though she wasn't Catholic. Finally, Monsignor Richard McCabe told her she spent so much time in church she should convert, so she did. And in honor of St. Mary Elizabeth Seton, she wrote the music for an entire Mass.

She is survived by her husband, four children, a sister, 11 grandchildren, three great-grandchildren and nine nieces and nephews.

A memorial Mass is scheduled for 11 a.m. Friday at Emmaus Catholic Church.