Journalism Archives

January 28, 2014

Pete Seeger 1919 – 2014

I did a post on Pete Seeger titled Pete Seeger & Songs of My Life in 2010. In it, I wrote of the photos I had taken at the White Springs Florida Folk Festival, “He just turned 91, so I’d better have them ready for an obit. I hope it’s later, not sooner, though.” I invite you to revisit those photos.

I woke up this morning at 5:10 to get a drink. As is my habit, I hit the keyboard to wake up the computer see if we were at war with anybody new. The lead headline that come up was that the clock had run out on Pete at age 94.

You can say it is unexpected when someone who is 94 dies of natural causes, but it’s still a shock when a national icon passes.

This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender

It’s funny how two photos that don’t even show Pete are my favorites from that evening in the spring of 1977.

No posse, no entourage

After the performance, Pete stuck around backstage to sign autographs, pose for photos and to talk with his admirers, one and all. Then, when nobody had anything else to say, Pete hoisted up his banjo and guitar and a box and walked out into the night. I thought about that exit when I read what Arlo Guthrie wrote this morning.

He passed away. That doesn’t mean he’s gone

Arlo, the son of Woodie Guthrie, and a long-time friend and fellow performer, posted this this morning.

I let him know I was having trouble writing his obituary (as I’d been asked) but it seemed just so silly and I couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound trite or plain stupid. “They’ll say something appropriate in the news,” we agreed. We laughed, we talked, and I took my leave about 9:30 last night.

“Arlo” he said, sounding just like the man I’ve known all of my life, “I guess I’ll see ya later.” I’ve always loved the rising and falling inflections in his voice. “Pete,” I said. “I guess we will.”

I turned off the light and closed my eyes and fell asleep until very early this morning, about 3 AM when the texts and phone calls started coming in from friends telling me Pete had passed away.

“Well, of course he passed away!” I’m telling everyone this morning. “But that doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

September 20, 2013

A Smell You Don’t Forget

It was time for my biannual body inventory at the dermatologist this morning. I had a hunk of skin cancer hacked off my face a few years ago, so I’m supposed to go back for inspection once or twice a year.

(When I showed up at the office with a huge bandage on my face back then, I answered the inevitable question by saying, “I was just sitting there minding my own business when this gang wearing masks and gloves surrounded me demanding money for drugs. Even though I paid off, they cut me anyway.” Well, it WAS true, kind of.)

After a bunch of uh-huhs and some picture taking of various and sundry body parts, he froze some places, scraped some places and sliced away at some others.

When he hit a couple of spots with a cauterizing iron, I commented, “That’s a smell I’ve never forgotten. The first fatal fire I worked was a guy who fell asleep with a cigarette smouldering in a feather bed.”

I could tell by the expression on his assistant’s face that’s not a comment she hears every day.

Just by the luck of the draw, I was scanning a queen crowning tonight when I found that fire on the same roll of film. I’m not going to provide a link to the story or any details except to say that the guy in the white jacket on the right is coroner Don Kremer. The remains of the featherbed are scattered all over the yard.

I hadn’t turned 20 yet

That wasn’t the last smoking-in-bed fatal I encountered, but it’s the one I flash back to.

I just looked at the file date on the film. I hadn’t turned 20 years old yet. That’s a long time to hold onto a memory.

May 31, 2013June 6, 2013

Cubs’ Pitchers Had Problem

The day after I graduated Central High School in 1965, I showed up bright and early to start my Missourian summer internship. To my dismay, my first assignment was to fill in for the sports editor, who was going on vacation.

I confessed to Chuck Murdoch that I knew virtually nothing about sports and was in deep trouble. He took a couple of sucks on his ever-present pipe and a look of relief passed over his face as he realized his job was safe: this was ONE high school kid who wouldn’t show him up. He gave me the crash course in sports journalism (something that I always thought was somewhat of a contradiction in terms).

He explained that the first thing I had to do when I showed up three hours before the rest of the staff was to go to a dropbox on the Broadway door to retrieve an armload of youth league score books the coaches had dropped overnight. I was to take those score books and interpret scratches and scrawls that showed every batter and every play and write a play-by-play of the high spots of the games. I prayed for a tight paper so I could get by with just a game summary.

I got the job done, but I felt like a monk translating ancient scrolls from one language into another. So far as I know, nobody ever complained about my accounts.

Last night I found this comment written by a coach who either had a great sense of humor or a flair for understatement: “Cub’s pitchers couldn’t find the strike zone and walked 22 batters.”

First AP story

I thought it amusing enough I phoned it in to the Associated Press, which put in on the wire. I’m pretty sure that was the first time anything of mine moved on a news wire. It was a real thrill when I heard the clatter of the teletype and discovered that it was my brief that was going out to the world (well, maybe the nation or the region or the state. I don’t remember the codes well enough to know how far it was broadcast. It didn’t win the Pulitzer, I know that.).

I didn’t do too badly covering government and cops, but the society and agriculture beats were a bit of a stretch. I loved it.

April 30, 2013

Putting on the Dog (and Cat)

I was working on a post when I encountered a technical glitch. Instead of giving up, I explored everything I could think of, then I went over it one more time with feline. Still broken.

Kind of reminded me of the old story about the man who thought Fifi the poodle was off her feed.

The Doc said he didn’t think there was anything seriously wrong with the poodle, but the man INSISTED that he conduct every possible test. Rather than subjecting the animal to pokes, prods and other indignities, the doc went into the back room and came back with a cat on a leash. He led the cat around the ailing pet for a couple of circles without saying anything.

He then went into the back room and came back with a DOG on a leash. The dog gave one sniff, then turned and walked away.

What was THAT all about?

“What was THAT all about? the concerned pet owner asked.

“Take Fifi home. The cat scan and the lab report came back negative.”

The wall of desperation

This is what journalists do when faced with a deadline and nothing to fill the space. I’ve been there before. Remember the Pomeroy Frog Jumping contestant and Nellie Vess?