All the news...

 Back in the day, Johnny Carson presented a recurring bit on The Tonight Show. After Carson provided information on a topic, his sidekick Ed McMahon would comment along the lines of "It's amazing how that report contains absolutely EVERY bit of information on the topic ... EVERYTHING that is known about that topic was included in what you just read."
 The late night star, of course, then corrected his pal and presented another list of items that the Tonight Show staff had generated -- a list intended, naturally, to put the audience in stitches.
 In this information age, we're able to find just about everything -- if we phrase our search criteria carefully. But we have to sort through a lot of chaff to get to the wheat -- and even the best information isn't always made clear.
 But the "Grey Lady," as newspaper lovers sometimes refer to the New York Times comes through seven days a week with clear, concise and in-depth coverage of "all the news that's fit to print."
 With most stories, readers know they can read just the first few paragraphs and move on, confident that they've been given the "nuts" of the story. Those with more interest are offered more and more and more until even those few with huge appetites are satiated as talented writers squeeze just about EVERYTHING that is known about the topic.
 I grew up reading the San Diego Union/Tribune, which is a pretty classy -- though clearly (at least at the time) biased paper. I remember the front page photos that appeared following the 1960 Kennedy-Nixon presidential debates. The caption below the Nixon frame read, "Vice-President Nixon makes a point during last nights debate;" while the Kennedy cutline was, "Senator Kennedy shuffles through his notes."
 When I ended up in Los Angeles County about 20 years later, I began a love affair with the Los Angeles Times. It's a world-class publication -- unarguably the newspaper of record for the west coast (as the NY Times is for the east). I'm proud as can be of the unlikely fact that my first paid job as a journalist was working as a stringer for the Times' Orange County edition.
 Another 20-some years later, I arrived in Merced, California and subscribed to the local newspaper -- best described, perhaps, as "light" (so light that Nolan Ryan couldn't throw it from the curb to my porch). I eventually wrote for that paper as well -- received better billing as a columnist, but didn't hold my head quite as high when telling strangers about my employer.
 One fateful morning, as I searched the high grass for my little sliver of a newspaper, I heard the THWUMP of a major daily hit the pavement next door. My neighbor appeared in his bathrobe and scooped up what seemed to be too much newsprint for any central California publication.
 "Is that the New York Times?" I shouted.
 My neighbor confirmed my guess and, when he noticed that I was salivating and weak in the knees, offered to share each day's paper with me once he was done with it.
 Well, nobody can actually read the entire New York Times in a single day (a slight exageration, but only a little), but my new best friend began depositing his only slightly disturbed treasure on my drive every day.
 Then he moved across town and my halcyon days were ended ... until now.
 I've decided to cancel my cable television and am replacing it with a daily subscription to the New York Times!

The New York Times is an American daily newspaper founded, and continuously published in New York City, since 1851. The New York Times has won 106 Pulitzer Prizes, the most of any news organization. Its website is the most popular American online newspaper website, receiving more than 30 million unique visitors per month.

—Wikipedia

One is silver and the other, gold

My oldest friend died this month. He was 103.
  As a non-violent iconoclast, I tend to steer clear of rituals and ceremonies. But I know they have great meaning for many and certainly help a lot of good people deal with momentous events like the loss of a friend or family member.
  Frank Pelatowski was a resident at The Hampshire in Merced, California. I moved in so I could take advantage of the parent company’s travel program and eventually embarked on a year-long circumnavigation of the U.S. and Canada during which I stayed in about 80 different facilities – usually for five days each.
  I actually met Frank before I moved in. I needed some furniture and was introduced to him. He was downsizing for a move into smaller quarters as his resources diminished. I still have his couch, and sleep on it from time to time.
 Within a minute or two, we discovered a common interest: writing. This led to a rather intense and intimate relationship that largely featured Frank dictating stories while I pounded my keyboard, often pleading with my friend to slow down or stop entirely so I could catch up.
 We also took a few road trips together. We drove into the Sierra on two or three occasions to visit Frank’s old stomping grounds in Mariposa. We traveled to Fresno so my friend could appear on a Public Radio talk show. And we made a number of cross-town jaunts to the senior center in South Merced to attend meetings of a writing group, many members of which attended lunch on a few occasions back at The Hampshire to honor Frank – and, once, to celebrate the beginning of my long trip.
 I was away when Frank turned 100. When I returned, he chided me for abandoning him and we went back to work. For a while, we tried to market weekly stories, touting my friend as “the world’s oldest newspaper columnist.” Together, we generated dozens of pieces and – in that context – I imagine I got to know Frank about as well as anyone.
 He was what I call “good to go.” Every day, he got out of bed with the clear intention of doing something worthwhile. He’d often call me or greet me by announcing that we had to get to work or by asking me to suggest a project. Frank was rarely interested in planning an event for tomorrow; his philosophy was to get started.
 My fondest memory is of Frank, seated on the couch in the lobby near his third-floor apartment, balancing a legal pad on his lap – writing. Like others of our ilk, Frank had to write; it reminded him that he was alive.
 When his eyesight began to fail, Frank could no longer read or write for himself. As his world moved into the shadows, he became more dependent on my services. He was sad, frustrated and angry. The loss of sight was a cruel disability for this man who wrote to remind himself that he was still alive.
 Having taken my trip, it was time for me to leave The Hampshire. Though I only moved a few blocks away, my friendship with Frank became increasingly distant. No longer eating nearly every meal together and spending time writing on an almost daily basis, we were both forced to find other ways to fill the day.
 Frank’s health continued to deteriorate and, over time, that was increasingly manifested by problems with memory and difficulty with clear thinking. He seemed to resent my having moved away, feeling that I had abandoned him. Eventually, that sense evolved into distrust and, finally, it soured our friendship.
 Finally, a crisis emerged and it became obvious that our stop-and-go relationship was causing my friend more angst than comfort. We discontinued writing together and I only saw Frank a few more times before he was moved into a more intense care-giving facility.
 I’m not sure what to make of all this. It is certain that I gained much from knowing Frank Pelatowski and I’m also certain that the net impact on him of our friendship was very positive. I regret not having said goodbye to him; but our last encounter was positive and friendly and I’m happy to have that as my final recollection.
 Sitting (and, alternatively, standing) in the church pew, I reflected on the few years that I knew Frank and on the rest of his life – which he had detailed to me so wonderfully that I truly feel as if I had known him all of his life.
 The context of the afternoon – the promise that Frank was now enjoying eternal life – wasn’t as comforting to me as it seemed to be to others in the sanctuary. But, both my direct memories of time spent with Frank and memories he shared dating back nearly 100 years will be with me for all the rest of my years. And recognizing that a part of one person can endure in the memory of another does seem to offer a sense of eternity.

Back in the saddle?

I miss writing...

And am, I believe, about to return to the traces and begin making regular entries here in BurkeDroppings.

Part of me (the "professional purist") says I shouldn't just give my writing away -- that I deserve to be paid for what I write; but another part admits that I really never have written mainly for the money and that the benefits derived outlast and overshadow the filthy lucre.

I've a fairly impressive (for a part-time pro) stringbook with scores of published pieces ranging from news briefs that appeared in the Orange County edition of the Los Angeles Times to a series of columns titled "From this Valley" that were often featured on page one of the perspectives section of the Merced Sun-Star.

But, in a way, I'm most proud of the very prolific year I spent blogging while traveling all around North America. That publication was "Wandering Dave" and it's still available -- though I can't perform any edits or updates as I've lost the password and can't seem to get a new one -- http://wanderingdave.blogspot.com

Anyway, and to finally get to the point (maybe a better pseudonym would be Rambling Dave), I'm ready (I think) to make a run at beating my old record and stringing more than 220 entries together over the next period. This new body of work is titled "BurkeDroppings."

I won't have the stimulus provided by an 18,000-mile trek through the U.S. and Canada; but I rarely suffer from writers' block and suspect that I'll find no shortage of topics which may be of no real importance and even little interest to many people but which are part of my life.

So, as I'm now wont to declare: You are welcome into my back yard anytime to see what's on my mind; but if you decide to visit, wear a hat, you are likely to get hit by some BurkeDroppings!