Hartford Courant from Hartford, Connecticut • Page 122

she had been a very public figure, a clear plus in a job in which begging for money is central. JL.S. Eliot never knew about Operation Fuel when he labeled April the crudest month, but it is indeed cruel for those in need. By the time April arrives, all of the government-assistance programs end. By mid-month, the moratorium on cutting off customers who haven't paid their gas or electric bills is suspended.

Renters and homeowners who stretched their resources to cover the most unrelenting winter since records were kept find themselves without the means to pay for heat and for light Though Adrianne Baughns-Wallace doesn't meet these people personally, she knows their stories because she reads the case studies. She knows of the man with pancreatic cancer and three children, who doesn't have much time, and who is trying to put his affairs in order. She knows of the single mothers out there whose child support doesn't come in but whose monthly bills do. She knows of the uncertainty and misery in households, amid all that downsizing. She knows of the elderly who are subject to a new and brutally cold law that says if they have assets, aside from their house, in excess of $5,000 even if they've put that much aside for burial they are ineligible for public assistance.

And so she and her board and the people who run the fuel banks try to find grants of $100 or $200 that in former times, might not have seemed much to them, but now would be huge. Fuel bank directors who deal directly with such clients are grateful for Adrianne's support Jillian Hannah, of the Torrington Area Council of Churches, says Adrianne was her mentor when she was thrust into a confusing position after her predecessor left the books in disarray. "She told me not to worry, that I could do this." Hannah's view is that in this work, she and Adrianne gained something they hadn't anticipated. "I have a suspicion that Adrianne left television because there was no response. When she was on television, I could talk to her all I liked, but she couldn't hear me.

Now, she has a response from all the agencies she works with. You should see obviously, everybody loves her. That has to be a more satisfying feeling than reading the news." JL ou haven't yet read the very personal stuff the stuff about her first marriage when she "hitched her wagon to her husband's star," or about the son she had from it Jules, who is earning two master's degrees at the University of Denver, or about her second husband, Lenzy Wallace, who is manager of diversity and change for ITT Hartford. You haven't read about it because Adrianne Baughns-Wallace is, despite her outgoing public persona, what they call in the Myers-Briggs personality test an ISTJ (Introvert Sensing, Thinking, Judging) and because she maintains that her personal life isn't anyone's business. It's her safe space, the place "you have control over.

The world isn't safe for you it is unpredictable. Home is the one place you should try to control and protect" Moreover, she is reticent to talk about her contributions at Operation Fuel. If true she's found her mission and purpose in life, but she is uncomfortable being singled out as a high achiever. "I meet people every day who do important work who are not acknowledged the way others are." That's true, but it doesn't hurt to review the accomplishments of a woman who once, according to popular opinion, had it all, and who at age 51 knows that having it all is not enough when so many others have very little. Lary Bloom Continued from page 4 whose face was adored by the camera and whose presence and delivery assured high ratings.

"I was miserable coming into work. I was passive. I kept asking myself, why am I unhappy? I wasn't doing what I need to do, but I wasn't able to articulate that I was other people's definition of success. But I felt a personal expectation to do more than I was doing. The role in TV assumes a lot of power, when in fact it didn't exist" She wanted to do more public-service broadcasting to explore deeper questions but it didn't seem possible.

Perhaps it was time to leave, but on the other hand, she thought of her image as a visible African American, and said to herself, "You have a responsibility." She had achieved something few had achieved and it represented a great step up from even her girlhood dreams: "a nice house, a mink coat, and a damn good job." But in the end, she told her disappointed grandmother about the illusions of television, and Adrianne announced her resignation to the station. And so on June 4, 1982, at about 11:25 p.m., she began to read what she thought would be her final news item when she was interrupted by co-anchor Don Lark, who said he had to substitute late-breaking developments a video about Adrianne's years at Channel 3 and, before the credits rolled, an on-set party featuring reporters and crew members. Channel 3 had never done that for anyone, but it never had an Adrianne Baughns. X-here were jobs, somewhat rewarding and otherwise, in the succeeding years, from beginning her own production company to hosting a public-service show in New York to working for Connecticut Mutual getting people to work together, a job from which she was eventually "downsized." All through these times she wondered what the grand plan might be for her and if her career path was leading to the fulfillment she sought The answer was where she least expected it A good seven years after leaving WFSB, she found herself in an interview for a job she knew little about In fact how many people know much about that tiny box on, say, the bill marked Operation Fuel that asks each customer to chip in an extra buck for charity cases? It had been under Ella Grasso's tenure that Operation Fuel was founded, though it is a private, nonprofit institution. The energy crises resulted in large fuel bill increases.

And although the state provided subsidies (and still does) to those below the poverty line as well as the elderly and disabled, there was no help for those just above a barely living wage. So Operation Fuel, born as a program of the Christian Conference of Connecticut was formed to "Warm Thy Neighbor." And a few years later, utilities began to offer customers a chance to help although about 95 percent generally chose not to. Adrianne felt ill-qualified for the position. She had only a former newsperson's impression of what such a charity might do. She was a veteran of delivering the tear-jerking tale of the family without heat or without food, the kind of story so easily discovered and so easily sold to a public hungry for outrage.

There are many such people in need, which is why Operation Fuel exists. But there is much more to the story, Adrianne learned. Most of it had to do with the dynamics of a remarkable organization. Adrianne had heard who hadn't? the ugly radio commercials in which the oil and natural gas industries blast each other, but she also found out what happens be- Hartford Courant file photo In her "glory" days, preparing the evening news at WFSB-TV, Ch. 3, with advice from Dick Miles, then the news director.

hind Operation Fuel's pink doors, where representatives of those companies and others work in harmony. She learned also of the sophisticated network of organizations throughout Connecticut that work together in a state not legendary for people working together. Although policy-making and fund-raising was done at the top of Operation Fuel, dozens of fuel banks around the state churches, town social service departments and other agencies became the interview and disbursal sites for thousands of people in need, many of whom never imagined they would find themselves in a position where they had to ask for money. It all intrigued Adrianne who, in her enthusiasm to know more, made an instant impression. Mary Hart, director of investor and public relations for Connecticut Natural Gas Corp.

and a board member since the first days of Operation Fuel, was on the search committee. "We were losing our director, and the board was in a quandary. We had to move quickly. We went through a rigorous process, and we had acceptable candidates (as finalists)." But none seemed to have the passion for the job that the committee felt was necessary. And then along came Adrianne.

"And the magic happened." It was magic, Mary Hart says, "because we felt she had the same heart that board members had, and believed in why the organization was important in the community. I'll call it belief, conviction." The board was impressed by her articulate nature and by her warmth. And it didn't hurt, obviously, that.