As Forrest might say, 'Momma always said dying was a part of life. I sure wish it wasn't.'

Finally meeting somebody you've long admired can be a blessing or a curse.

Many years ago I had some correspondence with an internationally known journalist I had long respected. And I was stunned.

She seemed to have forgotten the purpose and standards of quality journalism. She was obsessed with pressing her assumption on a political issue, even when it became irrelevant.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. She also lost her standing with her employer, and ended her career in some disgrace. Now every time I hear her name I remember the disappointment, and I have to coax myself to remember the good work she'd done before she became so jaded.

As Shakespeare said, the evil that men (and women) do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

Some time later I landed an interview with actor David Selby. I'd been a huge fan when I was a kid addicted to "Dark Shadows." His Quentin Collins was my favorite character; his blue eyes were hypnotizing, even from inside the TV screen.

He went on to star in "Falcon Crest" and a number of film roles. I grew up and became a magazine editor, which is how I finally met him. He was starring as Abraham Lincoln in a play commissioned for the reopening of Ford's Theatre. I was editing a history magazine and jumped at the invitation for an interview.

I headed to the theater to see the show and meet the star, but remembering the previous experience, I felt a little reluctant. Would the real David be a disappointment?

Not at all, as it turned out. He was friendly and gracious and completely engaged in the interview. We talked about Lincoln, about growing up in West Virginia, about his turn as a werewolf on "Dark Shadows." And we laughed a lot.

We stayed in touch afterward, and, being a longtime admirer of Lincoln, he even wrote an article for me. He's still one of my favorites.

Three years ago, sadly, another of my favorites from that time departed this mortal coil.

Our acquaintance came from out of the blue, it seemed. I had a message from his publisher one day informing me that Winston Groom, the original author of a novel called "Forrest Gump," had written a history of the Battle of Vicksburg. Would I like to interview him?

Are you kidding? I thought.

Reading excerpts from the book in preparation, I learned a lot about Gen. Sherman that I hadn't known. He seemed to be in a lot of important places at a lot of important times even before the Civil War. Sherman, I thought, was like the Forrest Gump of the 19th century. And then I remembered whose work I was reading and had a little giggle.

And when I told him about that, Winston had a giggle, too.

During the course of our conversation, he made the mistake of revealing that he and some other well-known Southern writers occasionally wrote articles for a certain magazine. I immediately asked if he'd consider writing a few for mine.

And he obliged. He loved writing about Civil War history, he said, so as the 150th anniversary of the war approached, he wrote a thoughtful piece for me about the issues that led to the conflict. He was a Southerner, but he had no doubts about what caused the war.

Four years later, at the anniversary of the war's end, he wrote eloquently about the consequences of it.

In fact, Winston wrote eloquently about everything. He was a consummate writer, and those are rare. By his own admission, he could be a bit of a curmudgeon. But he had a great sense of humor and was invariably kind to me.

One year for my father's birthday, I asked Winston if he'd autograph a copy of his World War II history "1942" for Dad. I sent him a check to pay for the book.

When the book arrived, the check was returned with it. "I write books," Winston said. "I don't sell them."

"1942" was the last birthday gift I gave my father. I sent Winston a note after Dad's funeral, thanking him again for having provided that special gift. He responded with a sweet and comforting message that got right to the point.

"I know how much it hurts," he said.

We probably all agree that 2020 was a bloody awful year. On Sept. 17, I was managing The Herald-Mail copy desk when I got a message that Winston had died unexpectedly. My heart sank, but there was a paper to get out. I put off crying until the paper was done.

I suppose it is fitting for someone who loved writing about Civil War history to leave us on the anniversary of the Battle of Antietam. But I still have a hard time with knowing I can no longer just call him up. I finally let myself watch "Forrest Gump" again a few months ago, but my eyes started leaking and I had to walk away.

Winston, I think about you so very often. Thank you for being a friend and a mentor, and for being someone I could respect to the very end.

I think I'm always going to miss you.

Tamela Baker is a Herald-Mail feature writer.

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This article originally appeared on The Herald-Mail: You never know who might have a profound impact on your life