By DAVID BAUDER
Associated Press Writer

My managing editor at the Westport (Conn.) News in the summer of 1979 had but one goal - talking to Paul Newman - but when the time came, she was woefully unprepared.

Westport's most famous resident had called the office to suggest a story idea. She answered and was convinced it was a crank.

"Sure, you're Paul Newman," she said, angrily crashing the phone back into its cradle.

But after making a few checks, we determined it really WAS Newman. A handyman who renovated an old barn on Newman's property into a projection room had become seriously ill. Newman wanted to throw a party to show off his work.

The local paper was welcome to send a reporter and a photographer, with one condition: We were to do our work without the guest of honor learning who we were, so the story could be a surprise when the paper was delivered next week.

After some deliberation, I was given the assignment. About to be a junior in college, I had worked hard that summer for meager wages. This was a reward.

So I drove my beat-up Dodge Dart onto the long driveway approaching Newman's home. A woman walked down to meet me. The hired help? Not quite. It was Joanne Woodward.

Newman and I stood outside of the projection room for a few minutes talking about his handyman. Newman swore a lot. I was a college student; I thought that was cool.

During the party, I mingled and did my work surreptitiously, asking the man's friends stories about him to fill out the story with personal details.

When the first person told me to go into the bathroom and check out the toilet paper, I found it a little odd. When the second person said it, I was intrigued. By the time it was mentioned a third time, I knew my next destination.

The roll of tissue by the toilet paper was emblazoned with a famous actor's face. Every sheet of it.

"Greetings from Robert Redford!" it said.

I ripped off a few sheets and stuffed them into my pocket, a summer's favorite souvenir.

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