Bill Henderson

I will remember Michael always as a guy who saw something in me nobody else did. What was that? I was bone poor but I didn’t know how to ask for money and I was too proud to apply for a grant (and depend on some fool committee to approve or disapprove of my plans) and I was far too lazy to do any of the paperwork involved in any of the above in any case. Michael sensed that, I think. Or maybe it was just my laziness he sensed. In any case, he had a way of coming up to me at a party and saying, “Bill, how can I help you?” At that I’d manage to blurt out, “Well, I can always use some money.” And sure enough he would send a little something (the first time) and a lot of something (the last time, only months before his death). Michael never knew it, but that last time bailed me out. I had spent the evening at his apartment, an evening for the Rea Award and I talked with Dan Halpern, mostly about how miserable the lit. pub. biz. was (returns were devastating that year, averaging almost 80 percent for some titles industry wide). I didn’t know it then, but Dan was in as bad shape as I was. Michael didn’t hear us crying the blues to each other, but as I walked to the door – that last time – he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Bill, how can I help?”

We will all remember him for his vision, for his love of the short story, and for the terrific parties that he and Elizabeth gave for the Rea Award winners, but for me those words linger. “How can I help?”

And he did. And that’s why Pushcart lived to celebrate its twenty-fifth year. Without Michael, nada.

I, and hundreds of authors, praise you, Michael.

Frank Conroy

When Michael Rea, who was at that time a stranger to me, called to ask if I would serve on the panel for the Rea Award for excellence in the short story, I asked what the award was all about. (This was many years ago, when the program had just started.) He described himself as a friend of the arts who had established a small foundation to support the arts with the help of advice from practicing artists, all of which sounded fine to me. “But why the short story?” I asked, genuinely curious. There was a pause. “During the war they more or less kept me sane” (I paraphrase). “In a combat zone you didn’t have time to read anything long.” That was World War II he was talking about. I’m sure others have remembered his words, but I must mention them. There was something in his voice, something completely straightforward in his manner, and I instantly believed him. Why wouldn’t you, you ask. Well, life and a good deal of experience with philanthropy had taught me to take the professed goals and motivations of various organizations and individuals with a large grain of salt. Vanity, politics, narcissism, and a relish in the exercise of power had been the rule rather than the exception, sadly enough, as the late Gerald Freund – who would know better? – pointed out in many occasions.

My first meeting with Mike Rea confirmed what I’d sensed in his voice. He looked at me with his intense blue eyes as we shook hands and I had the spooky feeling that he was looking past my appearance and into what I will call for want of a better word my character. He had a calmness, did Mike, a gravitas – and intuitively I trusted him.This turned out to be the right direction.

In New York, and later when he came for a short visit to Iowa City, we had wonderful talks. What can I say? There was no bullshit to the man, no hidden agendas, no role playing. He was exactly what he appeared to be – a generous and very smart man who knew that doing good required thought and effort, and was in fact much harder to accomplish than might appear at first glance. (In this regard he resembled James Michener.) He seemed not particularly interested in talking about himself, and yet did, in a collapsed fashion, when he sensed he should, simply to get it out of the way. He had done very well in business; the arts had tangibly enriched his life; and now that he was in the last stretch he wanted to be of service. I believe he was unaware of what I take to be the rare purity of his position – to him it was simply common sense.

To know Mike was to take a tonic against cynicism. I’ve known very few people about whom that can be said. A true American gentleman.