Is this a hug or am I being squashed like a bug? North County Times - North San Diego and Southwest Riverside County

And, unlike Agnes, Michael and Gabriel never threatened to beat me over the head with a stick.

"Do not make me climb over that desk, Reeder!" she once cautioned after catching me trying to assimilate her typos into the office vernacular.

I'm not sure how our relationship took shape so fast: Worldwise 50something black woman from the projects in Boston big sister scolds skinny, white 30-year-old wiseass from the West Coast.

But it couldn't have been more than a week after our introduction that an ill-constructed paper airplane sailed off course and into her "quiet" work zone. Without looking up from her computer, she boomed: "If one of those things hits me, Reeder, so help me God, so help me God, I will squash you like a bug!"

My giggling co-workers ---- knowing how easy it would be for this mental and physical heavyweight, this survivor of hard-core racism, homelessness and "neuroses," among other hardships, to make good on her threat ---- encouraged me to "fly her another one, man."

Which would have been crazy, because you did not want to tangle with Agnes ---- especially when she was writing. She always seemed to be working on 10 projects at once. Having buried herself in features, news stories, columns and phone calls, she demanded silence as she perpetually struggled to catch up.

But once she finally finished her work, or at least reached a comfortable stopping point, the tables turned. Already 12 hours and 3,000 written words into her work day, she would settle in at our station at the Temecula office and commence to philosophizing and, of course, storytelling.

She died with so many stories left untold ---- not that she didn't try to tell them all.

The woman loved to talk. Man, could she talk. Every workplace has a motormouth, but rarely do they come so packed with insight. Agnes' real-life conversations were just as wrought with clever observations as her conversations on the page.

She must have used circular breathing to get through those two-hour rushes of words.

Tim ---- Agnes' closest confidant and her primary backstop for ideas ---- was the only one of us who could work through an Agnes visit. He would somehow fix one eye on his computer and the other on her, nailing all the proper "uh-huhs" and "not reallys" and even managing to wedge in an occasional, well-timed question.

Agnes, who was so thrilled to have finally found her calling as a writer, tried ideas on for him like a schoolgirl selecting an outfit for the dance, and he always heard her out.

Tim and Agnes were both blessed (or cursed) with blunt honesty:

"Does this part work?"

"Ummm, no."

But Agnes was stubborn, and there was no guarantee sheíd heed a suggestion. When confronted with her "that/which" problem, she responded, "I've been making that mistake for 50 years. 'Snoway I'm gonna change now, Sweetie."

Or Tim would suggest a different avenue, and she'd explain how she'd already mentally followed it to a dead end. She was a nonstop thinker who was usually a step ahead of everyone else.

And Tim was the only one in the newsroom who could even come close to matching wits with her.

Of course, Agnes took it hard when the paper lost Tim to a rival ---- and even harder when the world lost him to lung cancer. She emerged midway through a rare vacation to devote a column to him:

"At first glance, we had little in common. White male and black female. Country mouse and city mouse. I worked days, he worked nights. Homeowner, apartment-dweller. Married with children, single with neuroses. Smoker and non-smoker.

"But we shared a love of words. We appreciated each other's humor. He was a kind, decent, soft-spoken man who made me better at what I did."

The rest of us, even with our unique relationships with Agnes, were really just backup Tims. She was too powerful of a presence for most people. Especially people trying to work.

It was hilarious watching a newbie already crunched for time try to deal with an Agnes visit. An old salt might introduce the fresh recruit to Agnes, then slip away, leaving her to illuminate and shock the already wide-eyed rookie.

She had a devious way of sniffing out those with the most sheltered backgrounds and telling them the most outrageous stories. All the better if the person freaking out was a new employee.

But in some cases, the work just had to get done, so an "Agnes alert" was put into place for such emergencies. The alerter would call whoever Agnes had singled out and demand whatever work had been started before the word storm.

The inevitable "Um, I'm almost finished" would usually lead to an apology and quick exit from Agnes. Or, in my case, a parting threat: "Wait till next time, Reeder ..."

When our tight-knit Temecula crew dissolved, I didnít see Agnes as much, as we often worked 30 miles apart.

And when we did cross paths, we were usually both so busy that our communication was limited to a quick hello or her shaking her fist at me in passing. But when she learned, a year and a half ago, that I was a father-to-be, she tracked me down. And the threats softened. At most, she would gently chide me for reproducing: "Not another Reeder. Let's hope he takes after his mama."

And once we had the baby, all that gave way to hugs. Huge, real hugs. The kind human resources frowns upon ---- not because they are inappropriate; they are not safe!

The most recent one caught me unaware. She snuck up on the side of my chair, and before I knew what was happening, she stooped down and wrapped her big arms around my head and shoulders, pulling me sideways into her.

She could have easily followed through on one of her threats. In that straitjacket embrace, I was a frail and worried bug with no access to air. But she let me go. Then she reminded me I was the luckiest, most blessed person in the entire world ---- with that "little miracle" at home.

As an exhausted, sleepless (and light-headed) new father, it was just what I needed to hear. Agnes had a way of telling you exactly that, and she never sacrificed the truth doing it.

North County Times copy editor Scott Reeder worked at The Californian with Agnes Diggs in 2001.