The first time I met Peg McEntee was at the front desk of The Salt Lake Tribune in 2005. I had seen her grumbling by once at the old Tribune office on Main Street before the move to The Gateway, but this second time she actually nodded at me from under her well-worn baseball cap when then newsroom assistant (and now my wife), Elenor, hollered, “Hey, Peg, this is the one I’ve been telling you about.”

She stopped and so did the grumbles. She looked at me and nodded with a half-smile and a grunt and kept on walking.

I loved her immediately.

How could I not? She had been nourishing Elenor with books and mentorship for months, and the stories of this maybe 5-foot-tall but immeasurable presence had preceded her.

I wonder if Peg would describe herself as a journalist first and foremost, because I think I’d describe her as a love. A partner, a mom and a friend. And a damn good writer and editor.

She never graduated from college, but you’d be hard pressed to find one sharper than Peg. A quick mind. A lover of ideas. And someone who could see beyond what was just visible.

In an effort to elevate a fellow gritty, hardworking news gal, Peg introduced Elenor to her best friend, Barbara Rattle, the machine behind The Enterprise business newspaper for decades, who was looking to add someone to the small newsroom at the time.

When Peg learned Barb had hired Elenor away, she huffed over to El’s desk, picked up her phone and punched in some numbers with a grimace.

“You SOW,” she screamed after a couple of seconds. Elenor caught an audible laugh from the receiver, then heard a muffled “Sorry, cow!”

Barb and Peg were best friends, and the two of them — along with Bill, Peg’s most gentle and affirming husband — would have cocktails at 5 p.m. sharp every Saturday at one of their two homes. Peg had always read The New Yorker cover to cover by then and had “swamped out” (cleaned) the house.

Elenor and I got to join them every couple of months and hear the tales of Peg’s younger years or her shifts in assignment at work. Sometimes we’d sing to Phoebe Snow.

She would always smile and wave, saying, “Drive fast!” as she sent us on our way. We’d leave smarter and wiser, if we could keep up and absorb.

She had such a reverence for news. She loved a good story, and read more than most people I know. She’d wax poetic about the photos Leah Hogsten and others would take when they were on assignment together, and credit her photojournalist peers for their visual truth-telling. She’d fight back when any of the paper’s business decisions seemed to take precedence over informing our community. And she adapted as the newsroom shrank during the recession, becoming an editor and columnist until her time at the paper was done.

I wasted no time in getting more of her words on paper after the round of layoffs that finally got her, and I hired her for years to write for and edit the annual magazine I make at my work. It was more poetry than editorial prose she would produce, and witnessing her brilliance up close was a gift.

The pandemic changed our adherence to the quarterly Saturday schedule, which became a morning dog walk instead of an evening cocktail, though Barb’s presence never wavered — even when Peg couldn’t recognize her best friend.

Peg died on April 27, at age 70, of complications from Alzheimer’s disease, just as her mom had. Her superpower became her betrayal, and the world lost the physicality of one of its smallest giants.

Her memory, though, and her laugh, her brash charm, wisdom and love are forever ours.

Elenor and I send pieces of our heart to Bill and their daughter, Kate. To Barbara, Peg’s furry friends and to all those whose lives have been made better by proximity to such greatness.

May you rest in peace and power, dear Pegolas. Especially knowing Elenor gave this column its first pass at an edit.

Marina Gomberg is a professional communicator, a practicing optimist and a lover of love. She lives in Salt Lake City with her wife, Elenor Gomberg, and their son, Harvey, and their dogs, Mr. Noodle and Gorgonzola. You can reach Marina at mgomberg@sltrib.com.

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