What we do for love

Recently, I visited a high school friend who seemed quite happy after a woman had moved in with him for the first time (I think) in his 70s.I admired how much nicer the house and yard looked and how they did so many things together.

That’s quite admirable because it was hard sharing my house with someone even in my 40s. I had purchased a small home in Arlington, VA., neighborhood but it felt quite empty.

 When Pickett moved in, things changed quickly.  She brought her dog, her son and his dog. (I was not fond of dogs.) Soon my friendly neighbors hated me because her dog got loose and tangled with theirs.

She complained that the house was too small and that she could never tell which one was ours in our tract home neighborhood. So, OK, we looked for a new one. I wanted California modern. She wanted Victorian. Our realtor was quite frustrated.

Then he found one that was old-fashioned Victorian in the front and glassy, sun-filled California modern in an addition. Sold!!!

But now we had such a big house it, too, felt empty. We needed another child. (But not more dogs!) Later on, we adopted Sara. But I thought we should be married first.

 I proposed with flowers and a ring on bended knee at our house. She accepted and was happy  until it sunk in that we would have to plan and pay for a wedding.  So we had one at Dumbarton United Methodist Church in Washington, DC. This was no cookie-cutter wedding established by the church hierarchy.

Pickett upset the pastor by refusing to say “Til death do us part.” She said, “I already broke that promise once.” I arranged for a gospel choir from Anacostia to sing. She brought her large preschool class to the wedding to release balloons to the ceiling.

After the wedding, I expected life to go on exactly as before. But for the first time, Pickett packed my clothes for the honeymoon. I had never expected that and was not sure I liked it. And friends seemed to treat us differently. For a while, Pickett felt trapped by getting married a second time—until she opened a bed  & breakfast.

After those vows at the altar,  I knew that things had changed!

I guess for the better! Our 40th anniversary is May 11.

 

First a windfall, then the axe

One of the most bizarre situation I ever encountered in journalism came when I was a business writer at U.S. News & World Report from 1979 to 1987.

 

After founder David Lawrence died (and I wrote his obituary for AP), he left 100% of the company to the employees. As circulation grew, workers saw the stock value, determined by an appraiser, grow steadily.

 

 Many older employees decided it was time to cash out and retire. But there were new outside offers for the magazine, and when the bidding was over, its value skyrocketed seven-fold or 15-fold, depending on how it was measured.

 

The magazine staff was shocked but euphoric. The appraisers had never factored in the enormous value of the Washington, D.C., property the magazine owned, right between Georgetown and Dupont Circle. Editor Marvin Stone and his board, who could profit enormously, determined that it was the managers’ fiduciary responsibility to sell the company. For one thing, they couldn’t afford too many people retiring and demanding  cash. The eventual winner was Mortimer Zuckerman, a New York real estate magnate (like Donald Trump), who had designed and built our new office building and later purchased the Atlantic Monthly and New York Daily News.

 

Employees were greedily counting their forthcoming money, and many of them were about to become millionaires, depending on how long they had worked there. As a five-year veteran I didn’t become a millionaire, but I was able to put some money into retirement savings.

 

But wait! Those retirees who cashed out before the bidding war were steamed. Why should these newcomers get the money? The retirees filed suit, and the court battle went on for years, but we eventually got our money.

 

But wait again! In exchange for that big payout, most of us lost our jobs. Zuckerman didn’t like having people around who had gotten rich with his money. The place became so chaotic, we didn’t like working there anyway. People left mysteriously every few days, (Sounds like today’s federal government!)

 

 I was told to leave by the editor, David Gergen, who was a speech writer for presidents ranging from Nixon to Clinton and a famous PBS commentator. Giving me details of my firing was Kathy Bushkin, who was once presidential candidate Garry Hart’s press secretary and also a frequent talking head on TV. Months later, as Gergen was commenting on TV, I quickly switched channels, and there was Bushkin also discussing politics on CNN. I turned the TV  off.

 

But wait one more time!  Well after I landed on my feet at Satellite Orbit magazine, U.S. News’ circulation plummeted along with readership of other print media. (Was it because I left?) In 2010, U S. News got rid of its print magazine and today is best known (and controversial) for rating colleges and universities.

 

 

 

 

Lessons learned in life

 At my recent birthday party, someone asked me to write about what I had learned in my first 83 years. What? I’m not 100. I’m not qualified. But here goes:

—If your back hurts for no good reason, look to your head, not your back. It’s amazing how much the mind, often stressed, controls the body.

—Career is important, but so is family. Keep them in balance.

—My biggest regrets are not over things I have done. They are over things I haven’t done.

—When mistakes are made, don’t always blame yourself. Some things were just meant to happen.

—You learn the most from failures, not successes. I have recalled some setbacks and decided they led to something better.

—“No man is an island” as I learned recently from an old book of that title by Thomas Merton. I have tried to be an island most of my life, but I find that the most satisfaction comes from interacting with people. (I used to play music only for myself but now I try to share it with others. Does this column count?)

We are so fortunate to even be on this planet. We have to give something back. True satisfaction comes from contributing something to it. That can include good dead or even a friendly smile.

— Ask me again when I am 100.

Why small towns are better

Why live in a small town like South Boston or Clarksville? I asked some people who have moved here from big cities.

1.                  People are friendlier. While Holly Stadtler made some friends in bigger cities, she knows more of her neighbors in Clarksville. “I feel like it’s easier to borrow a car, borrow a shower if the plumbing is out, bum a ride, ask for someone to pick up a grocery item or let the dog out when we’re gone all day,”

2.                   Traffic is light. When I go back to Washington, I am shell-shocked. The only traffic jam here is when the train goes through South Boston.

3.                  Things are less expensive. I know many people who can work from home via broadband Internet, saving on rent or mortgages and taxes they had to pay in a big city. We used to take our car here for repairs  because they were more expensive in an urban area.

4.                  Online ordering. We may not have a Costco or a Whole Foods, but you can get just about anything you want on Amazon or other online retailers. It will be delivered to your door.

5.                  Safety. “The biggest advantage to me is the sense of safety and security,” says a Clarksville resident. Yes, you might meet a bear, but probably not a dangerous man.

6.                  Scenery. If you do have to commute, a drive through Southside is a lot prettier than the Washington Beltway. Says Sharon Satterfield of Oak Level, “There is nothing better than taking a drive down country roads to enjoy the beauty of fall or spring.”

7.                  Health: “The slow pace is better on our stress level,” says Alejandra Martinez of Cluster Springs.“We have those amazing farmers’ markets where we can stock up on fresh produce where you actually know and are friends with the people who grew it.”

8.                  Volunteer and cultural activities. You can be a big fish in a small pond if you are an actor, musician, artist or organizer. It’s much easier to get something started than in a big city.

9.                  Central location. They aren’t very close, but you are only a few hours’ drive  from the ocean, the mountains, Raleigh-Durham, an international airport, Duke’s fine medical center and six Atlantic Coast Conference college sports teams.

Familiarity. If you go to a restaurant, The Prizery or the Clarksville Community Theater, you are almost sure to find someone you know. That wouldn’t happen to locals visiting the Kennedy Center or DPAC in Durham. In fact, people are so familiar that recent arrivals have trouble getting used to friends and service people just showing up and knocking on the door. “We’re here!“

Ya Gotta Know When to Fo ‘Em

  

I have a confession: I play online poker for a half-hour every night.

What? The mild guy who goes to monthly prayer breakfasts?

Yes, and I have accumulated $840 million  so far.

Oh, I forgot to mention: It is not real money.

So with a new casino opening within 30 miles, I thought I would teach them a thing or two!

I wonder if I could use  my online winnings as a bankroll. I guess not. I wonder if this newspaper would stake me. I guess not. Might this be a tax-deductible business expense? Don’t think so.

I showed up last week at Caesar’s Virginia with a line of about 12 guys waiting for the 10 a.m. opening. They all seemed to know each other. They all looked alike, about 60 years old.

This place had only been open for a month. They can’t be tourists. It turns out, a lot of them were local retired police. Do they come here every day?

They even took me under their wing. “Don’t leave your bag behind the chair like that. It will get It will get stolen.” “Remove the rack when you place the chips in front of you.” “Those chips are 5’s, the dealer can give you change.”

Hey, you are talking to a guy who spent two years in Las Vegas and occasionally plays low-stakes poker in Reno!

The biggest drawback, and the reason I probably won’t play again: I couldn’t see the cards. They had to tell me what the five “face-up” cards were in no-limit Texas Hold-em. I am too old for this.

But on the first hand, I was dealt a king and a 10 and they told me there were an ace, a queen and a jack on the flop. I have a straight! Wow.

I think I bet $30, though I’m not sure what the chips meant. On the last round a young guy, out of place in this group, raised me $100. Against my straight? You are a fool! But I folded.

“Good fold,” he said as he announced he had a full house! He was right.

I sat through a bunch of weak hands but then I was dealt an ace. There were two aces in the flop. Three aces! I checked and did not bet as I learned to do in online poker. Everybody would know I had three aces and fold. I bet a lot on the next hand though and my buddy next to me hung in there. On the last card he got a flush and won!

The worst thing of the whole day came when he told the others, “I could have raised, but felt sorry for him.”

“Leaving so soon?” He said after I lost $134 in 20 minutes. Yes, and probably forever.

Pickett was horrified, as if I had lost the house and farm. “It was for my column,” I said. “Why didn’t you just interview these people?” She said. But I had to try it. And if I had won, this wouldn’t have been such a good column now, would it?

I have not been a fan of gambling for years, and I’m not so happy to see a casino nearby. Figure how much of those former policemen’s pensions is ending up in other people’s pockets.

But I expect to eat at the restaurants. More on that later.

“Go East Young Man”

 

The meeting at the Fairmont Hotel bar in San Francisco marked a turning point in my life in 1963.

“How would you like to come and write  for me at the Delaware State News?” said Jack Smyth, the publisher, who was attending a newspaper convention.  Smyth decided to interview me there after I answered an ad in Editor & Publisher magazine.

I got the job, but I guess I committed a gaffe. “Mike only had one drink and left,” he complained to people later.

When I told my mother about the job, she was horrified. “Delaware?!!!” She lamented. After graduating from UC Berkeley, I had worked for three months in a summer replacement job on the staid Berkeley Daily Gazette. She expected me to stay in the area.

But I piled my belongings into my 1956 Ford and crossed the country to Dover, Del., a small town but also a state capital. I had to borrow money from Smyth when I got there. Smyth was a native Pennsylvanian who definitely had the luck of the Irish. A farmer came into his newspaper in Renovo, PA., telling Smyth of a dream he had: There was natural gas on his property. Smyth invested in the exploration, and sure enough gas came up! As soon as Smyth moved to Dover to open a daily newspaper, the population spiked when the government installed an Air Force base.

Smyth was loads of fun but drank a tad too much.  He would write editorials against his wife in the newspaper and hosted a drinking lunch for the news staff on Fridays. A fake April Fool’s photo on the front page April 1 showed a C-133 cargo plane crashing into the state capital.  Base employees were not laughing!

Smyth was pilloried by a rival newspaper for writing in November, 1963, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and his name is Jack Kennedy, and he should be shot literally before Christmas.” (He said later he meant figuratively.)

The newspaper was a great training ground for a young journalist. Besides writing headlines and designing news pages, I got out to cover speeches by John F Kennedy (eight days before he died), Barry Goldwater and Lyndon Johnson. I covered the school board and often the city council. I wrote a column called “Go East Young Man.”

But then I got called up for six months of active duty in the Army Reserve. Smyth hadn’t thought to check my draft status but helped me get into the local unit. While I was gone, his doctor insisted that he sober up to stay alive.

He did, but the fun was gone. When I returned, there were no more wild lunches or crazy editorials. Budgets and professionalism mattered. He began a Sunday statewide newspaper and chain of newspapers that stretched to Arizona, where he later moved.

I love living in a small town now, but I didn’t as a 22-year-old. While Petula Clark was singing “Downtown” on the radio, I was heading to Pittsburgh.within six months.

Why Can’t I Share in the Riches?

One of these days there will be a $1 billion baseball player. Just last month, Juan Soto agreed to a contract with the New York Mets for $765 million over 15 years.

 

Now if a guy who hits a ball with a stick can get close to $1 billion, why can’t a small-town journalist get $1 million?  Why can’t we make the kind of deals athletes get? We are just as important.

 

Even college athletes, which used to play for free, are getting into the act. Look at all of them who transfer from one school to another to get NIL deals—name, image and likeness. In other words, big payments from alumni donors.

 

I wonder if I could also enter the transfer portal and hold out for big bucks? I would ask Soto’s agent, Scott Boros, to represent me, but $1 million is chump change for him. I will ask a local bed & breakfast owner to do it, but she sounds dubious.

 

I could ask this newspaper to trade me to the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal to get the $1 million. Which is exactly $1 million more than I am getting now. Well, journalism, like textiles and tobacco, isn’t exactly a growth industry.

 

I could make the money back for them in endorsements. I could promote some of those drugs for seniors they sell during nightly TV newscasts. I probably take half of them already!

 

Those big papers will want my statistics. Well, they are pretty good: Number of times sued: Zero. Published corrections: None. Number of complaints from readers: One. But that reader didn’t know what he was talking about!

 

I know a 15-year contract is pretty long for an almost 83-year-old, but my mother made it to 98!

 

So, what say, boss?

 

Editor’s Note: In your dreams, hotshot. Hurry up with the next column!

Do You Hear the People Sing? I Do

Wonderful memories popped up when I recently glanced through some choral music called “Les Miserables Medley.”

In 2014, suddenly out of nowhere, I was given the role of a lifetime as the priest in Les Mis. Director Chris Jones asked me to send him a trial recording of my solo as he built a cast for The Prizery Summer Theater production.

I worked on it hard with my piano/voice teacher and landed the part. My only other experience in the theater had been in the previous year’s “Oliver,” in which I was an old drunk who was kissed every night by two young women. I was sold on theater!

Chris told me recently, “Les Mis was the best show I ever staged. Many people told me it was too large a show for our stage. I didn’t think so!”

The read-through of this summer stock production was a concert of its own. Larry Jennings recalls it as being  “like an opening night.”  The locals were all bowled over by the wonderful cast of recruits from a Southeastern U.S. audition event. What a month-long experience, hearing Jacob Waid singing “Bring Him Home” maybe 10 or 15 times.

I remember Ken Vaiden, who twice played Scrooge in “A Christmas Carol,” performing and helping with props and costumes backstage. Inspector Javert was played wonderfully by Fergie Philippe-August, who later went on to play James Madison and Hercules Mulligan in “Hamilton” on Broadway. And Allison Streeter, who was local, was a scream as as Madame Thernardier.

I was nervous coming on stage to bless Waid’s Jean Valjean, a thief who had been caught stealing from the church. I told the police, played by Evan Snead and Jacorey Jones , to let him go. In fact I gave him some more valuables.

Chris told me this was the turning point in the play, the moment when Valjean becomes an honest man.

I had a great deal of trouble with this: Would I really give the burglar more treasures after he stole a bunch of mine? This was a reach.

There was only one big lapse in my performances, when I dropped a verse out of my song once. Amazingly, the music director, April Hill, got the recorded music track to catch up with me.

The high point for me was when we all got on stage and sang “Do You Hear the People Sing?”  as Waid and Ryan Burch were carried around the stage.

After Les Mis, I became typecast as a priest. Do I look like one? I was the bishop in “Anything Goes” and promoted to God (or the starkeeper) in “Carousel.” I was supposed to be the priest in “Mamma Mia” until I suddenly needed a stent for a blocked artery.

Though most of the casts were quite young—college students and local high schoolers—Chris wanted some “age on stage” to give the shows depth, with people such as  Gladdy Hampton, Ken, Larry, Charlie Simmons and myself.

There are also wonderful experiences like this going on now at Halifax County Little Theatre, the Roxboro Little Theater, the Clarksville Community Players and 246 The Main in Brookneal.

But I decided after “Into the Woods” that I was done with acting. I kept forgetting lines and had to be coached by kids young enough to be my grandchildren. As the baker’s father, when do I pop onto the stage? After Jack sells the cow? I kept forgetting. And schedules were too grueling for an old man.

But maybe if they needed a priest again…

-0-

 

Among other locals in the show: Austin Bowen, Jordan Cliffod, Rosie Anderson, Breyona Coleman, Gia Erichson,, Dorian McCorey, Shea McCuller, DeAngelo Renard, Jennifer Pagano, Tylor Nobles, Shaina Toledo, Daniel Casker, Gracie Berneche, Jason Fitts, Elizabeth Brogden, Isabella Lamonica, Bella Munley, Sarah Brogden, Sydney Cash, Amber Harris, Katie Holland,