The Northward Contrail

Mr. Rooney

Over the weekend there was a passing. It's significant to me not only because his career spanned most of the history of commercial television, and not only because his passing means yet another veteran of the Eyeball Network's salad days has left us, but it hits home because Andy Rooney was, above all else, a writer. He knew the value of words and the power of language. Sometimes it misfired on him, and spectacularly. But more often than not, I appreciated what he did. I have several of his books, and some of them contain the transcripts from his long-form specials from the 1960s and 1970s. It's writing of the sort you never encounter on television these days, and a sad reminder that although we have hundreds of channels, so little of it is worth the viewing. (I'd dearly love to find some of those specials he did with Harry Reasoner, but they're hard to find; nevertheless, bits and pieces are out there, and since he also served as a producer on some special projects for CBS News, you'll sometimes stumble across a piece on YouTube that definitely shows his influence.)

I also make my living with words, and maintain this blog as a home for the random thoughts that fit nowhere else in my day: the ruminations, complaints, grievances, puzzlements, irritations and occasional appreciations. In its own way, it's my "few minutes" with you each day; it's my own "back of the book" piece, same as Andy Rooney had at the end of 60 Minutes.

But instead of puzzling over something or voicing some random complaint, today's post is squarely in the "appreciation" category. I shall miss him.

Another passing

He taught us then not only how to open our mouths but how to insert bright pebbles beneath our tongues so that eventually we might fire forth a sentence not only worth listening to but thinking about.
                                                                                                                -- Ray Bradbury

Awoke yesterday morning to learn Norman Corwin passed away Tuesday at the age of 101.  I can't say much that hasn't already been said, except that he was one of my heroes.  He was a legendary radio dramatist, director, author, screenwriter...you name it.  His style inspired so many of my own embarrassing yet heartfelt attempts at lyrical prose, and while my annual posting from "On a Note of Triumph" is meant as a sincere prayer, it's also meant as a tribute to Corwin's landmark broadcast. 

Then again, there were so many landmark broadcasts he created -- not only "On a Note of Triumph," but "We Hold These Truths" and "Fourteen August," and so many more.  If you've never listened to any of them, please seek them out.  They're powerful; they're elegant; they're moving.

I had selfishly hoped Corwin would live forever.  I felt a world with him in it, as one of the last living links to what broadcasting was before it turned into something awful and unlistenable, was somehow a little bit better.  I wanted to shake his hand.

I shall miss him. 

For Dan Wheldon

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

                                        -- A.E. Housman

Visionary

I never really knew how I felt about Steve Jobs.  There were times when I wondered how much was style for its own sake, how much was steak and how much was just a lot of uber-cool sizzle for fun and profit.  But it was one of his products that first taught me how to use a computer, when way back in elementary school I first used an Apple II.  And for more than a decade, an Apple laptop of one stripe or another has been my faithful companion, including the computer on which I'm writing this.  My iPod has provided so many hours of entertainment on so many trips, and these days an iPhone tags along everywhere I go.  No two ways about it, the man touched my life, and I'm grateful for his work.

The news last night was not surprising; conventional wisdom was that it was only a matter of when.  And even though I realize I'm only about the 17,670,002nd person to link to it today, now's as good a time as any to re-read this.  A passage that's especially meaningful to me, one I'd love to have as my own legacy:

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

:: And this obit from overnight does about as good and as sensitive a job as can be done of assessing the life and legacy of this brilliant, complex man.

The unthinkable

Over the weekend -- and I'm not sure what set it off, but it happened -- my Cold War fascination was reawakened.  I spent a lot of time in the giant rabbit hole that is the Internet, reading up on weapons systems and Soviet politics and atomic tests and people like this guy.  And, too, reading up on incidents that brought the unthinkable frighteningly close to becoming reality (this is a too-brief list, but it's a start at least). 

And I spent some time thinking about the various audiovisual content produced during that time.  There's always this old standby, along with this somber contemporary...then there's this and this, and while I have yet to watch either (but I know I'll probably have to, in the name of some research I may undertake in the future), I understand full well each is still a kick in the guts a quarter-century later. 

One thing I'd forgotten about, but happened to find bits of online, is this documentary.  The scenario may have its flaws, but it's interesting to see the actual system depicted as it theoretically would have operated, using the actual hardware, in the first segment.  Then from there, though it has a lot of talking heads, it remains interesting in its own way -- and, since it's from a time when my own consciousness of the Cold War was just starting up, it sends chills of familiarity down my spine.  I remember the controversies over the MX Missile, for instance...and, of course, in 1979 there was no way of knowing that the Cold War was a few years away from getting extremely frosty (or that this guy would scare us all to death).  Or, for that matter, of knowing that a decade later, things would radically change.

I know there's still danger out there, and that in its own way the times in which we now live are more uncertain.  In some ways, it's a safer world; in other ways, it's not, and though we don't think about it that much there are still scenarios that could play out and bring global destruction.  Nevertheless, as someone whose childhood fears became a fascination with the Cold War, it's interesting to spend time with these kinds of things. 

Even if, sometimes, the memories they bring back make it a little harder to get to sleep at night.

Neither shaken nor stirred

We had an earthquake yesterday on this side of the continent.  I didn't feel it.  I was sitting at home working on a document at the time, and didn't feel a thing.  Though some folks at work said they felt something, and of course some friends in Virginia and thereabouts reported some interesting phenomena. 

If you've never been in an earthquake, there's few experiences that can match the first time one happens and you perceive it.  Little tiny ones happen quite often and we never know about them, let alone perceive them.  But the first time you feel the house go "whump," it's memorable, and it's why I'm hesitant to poke fun at those who sort of panicked a little yesterday.  They didn't know what it was like, and I understand.  I know people who remember living through this, and of course the place where I spend as much time as I can is no stranger to seismic activity, too -- two of the last three times I've visited, earthquakes have been part of the experience.  (Here's the most recent one I encountered.  It shook the bed and I sort of woke up, realized what it was...and when it was over and nothing had fallen on me, I shrugged and went back to sleep.)

But, life goes on.  And no matter where you live, Nature's always in charge.  No matter how idyllic or how seemingly peaceful the surroundings, there's always a way Nature can make your life interesting.  As a lot of folks were reminded yesterday.

The end of an era

I'm writing this as the countdown is on for the final Space Shuttle mission.  The weather's iffy, so it may not launch today, but it's still a good time to reflect on an era.

I was born after the final Apollo lunar mission; in fact, I was born during the Skylab program, so by the time I became aware of spaceflight, we were in the lull between Apollo-Soyuz and STS-1.  As a historian I may love reading about the time of Mercury, Gemini and Apollo, but in my life all my personal memories of American spaceflight involve the Shuttle.  It goes as far back as that Sunday morning when Columbia launched for the first time (which I slept through, despite trying my best to get up early and stay awake); remembering the day STS-4 landed and President Reagan declared the Shuttle "operational"; watching the first Shuttle spacewalk live from Challenger in orbit, then seeing the brand-new orbiter land live on television the next Saturday...and then the missions just sort of happened, becoming stories buried even deeper in the paper.  Until Challenger was lost that morning in January 1986, and it all changed.  Two and a half years later the Shuttle returned to service, and all seemed right again, until another morning in 2003 and we lost the flagship, beloved old Columbia.  Then in 2005 Shuttle flew once again (and along the way, I made my own personal memory of the Shuttle program), but the end of the program was coming, and here we are.

I can't say it's with sadness I see the Shuttle program wind down.  Every time it's flown, I've had the same feeling: We got away with it one more time.  I know the expendable era had its risks, too, but there were so many things about Shuttle that were so different and that introduced different sorts of risks -- risks that bit us on ascent and on entry, along with untold bullets we dodged in just about all phases of flight.  And although I know there's been much debate over what's to come, and what shape it will be and where it will go and who will be in charge of it, and as much as I believe it's a shame that the varied proposals for replacement projects have gone nowhere the last 25 years or so, I'm nonetheless relieved that the Shuttle program is ending.  To me, it's time.

But, there's one more flight to go.  And this time, it's one more chance to salute a vehicle that, for all its faults, has served ably and nobly these last 30 years.  It's truly a wonder that humans not only built a vehicle this complicated, but that we managed to make it work pretty well -- and that we were able to fly it so often, over so many years.  The Shuttle is an engineering marvel, no doubt about it, and it will be remembered.  I'll be watching NASA TV this morning -- and hope you will, too, if you get a chance, and that you'll watch this marvel of the age do its work one last time. 

The news

I saw the news while doing my early-morning computer chores.  It's hard for me to put my feelings into words.  I really want to cheer, and at a couple points I have, but I know that as freighted with symbolism as this is, the job isn't over just yet.  (I'm also sort of half-expecting a shoe to drop.  I sure hope not, but if the last decade has taught us nothing else, it's to be cautious.)

Be that as it may, it's a day that we've long waited for, and I salute everyone who helped make it happen.  I hope that it truly will be something that, when we look back to write the history of this age, will have been a turning point toward peace. 

Smokey gets his wish

A couple days ago there was a fire in Daytona Beach, and the last remaining section of an automotive landmark became history.  It was all that was left of Smokey Yunick's garage, and it went up in a rather spectacular blaze.

Smokey's garage was one of those places you had to seek out, especially as Daytona Beach grew up.  A few years ago, we were in town on one of our semi-regular visits and we drove up Beach Street to find it.  Smokey had been gone a couple years by that point, and we knew the garage's days were numbered anyway.  But we found it.  It was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence and stacks of old tires dotted the perimeter at intervals.  The buildings were quiet and empty.  Partly out of respect, but mainly to avoid trespassing, we didn't dare approach the fence; instead, we sat in the shopping center parking lot next door and shot a few photos. 

There's doubtless some folks who wished Smokey's garage could have remained as a museum and showcase.  But Smokey wasn't among them, and for several reasons.  He knew the land was valuable and could provide for his family after he was gone.  He didn't want to get into the museum business (according to some accounts, he'd noted the struggles Don Garlits had gone through keeping his museum afloat).  And by the 1990s, the place was getting run down, and keeping the accumulated stuff inside intact was becoming a lot of work.  In his very entertaining (and highly recommended, available here) memoir, Smokey wrote, "My goal is get rid of the stuff, get up on the roof with 20 gallons of gas, spread it around and light it.  The garage is 55 years old and it's getting in really poor shape.  We had two hurricanes in '99 and the roof looks like a chicken with most of its feathers off."

Once upon a time, I'd have been in the "preserve it" category.  But over the years, I've seen what happens to a lot of preserved structures: they lose their context with each passing generation, and become touristed-up, or get seized upon by those who want to use them as symbols for this or that, or they become pawns in larger battles, or someone buys them as expensive "look what I got!" trinkets.  Or they're not maintained properly, and either start looking utterly ridiculous because of improper restoration/conservation, or they're neglected and eventually fall apart. 

Don't get me wrong, for I am firmly in favor of preserving significant artifacts and structures.  But so little of what I see is done the right way, and so much of what has to be done to make them pay for themselves gets tawdry.  And the more of it you do, the less you preserve of what you're preserving, and the more context you lose over time.  Every once in a while I wonder if the stuff that gets demolished doesn't get the better deal, because at least they don't have to maintain their dignity and context in a world that's hell-bent on destroying that dignity and context in favor of the tawdry and the quick buck.

That's part of why, when they started tearing down Smokey's a few years ago, I couldn't get too terribly sad about it.  Because, that way, it stayed what it was until the very end.  And, more than that, it wasn't my call.  It's what Smokey wanted.  He made no secret that he wanted the property sold and the garage torn down.  No shrines.  His family wanted his wish carried out, and was prepared to fight for it.  And now it's over, and the family is relieved, justifiably so. 

Smokey, I don't know if you were serious when you wrote what you did ten years ago, but it's funny how it came to pass, exactly the way you wanted.  Here's to you, you magnificent ol' cuss.

Tougher jobs than mine

I haven't been a full-time working reporter in a long time.  While I enjoyed it back when I did it, it didn't take terribly long for me to decide it was a life that wasn't for me, and that I was far happier to work in the technical and editing aspects of it.  I'm an introvert with a technician's mindset, which means I'm really content when I can sit alone in a quiet room and polish others' writing, or put together a layout, or do some video or sound editing.  That's where I'm happiest.  (Okay, where I'm really happiest is in the archival end of things, but there's not terribly much call for that in journalism.)

That said, my appreciation of those who go out and report, and sometimes risk their lives to tell the story, has never diminished.  I can complain all I want about the state of modern journalism, and frequently I do, but even the most photogenic, blow-dried, consultant-driven, cliche-dropping television reporter has one up on me: he or she is actually on the scene, filing the report.  Sometimes the work requires you to be in places you don't feel the safest, like a bad neighborhood or a war zone or, as we all know by now, a country in turmoil.  And my normal urge to complain about television news, and the people who practice it, has to take a back seat (except in cases of outright lapses of judgment, like Geraldo drawing the map in the sand). 

I have to give these folks credit.  At least they are in the thick of it, risking their necks, while I'm back in the States sitting in my office or standing at the front of a classroom.  That could have been me, I tell myself, and that's why I have such admiration for people who will willingly report from the front lines, risking life and safety in the name of telling the world what's going on.  One or two are professional heroes of mine.  Put me in the same room as Christiane Amanpour (with whom I once had the privilege of exchanging long-distance greetings), who was dodging bullets in Bosnia while I was chasing down tiny little stories for a crappy little weekly nobody read anyway, and I'll weep quietly as I hand in my press pass.  Compared to her and what she's done, I'm a pretender.

Of late I've encountered some discussion about the role of the correspondent in the line of duty, especially in regards to one of the "pretty faces" of television news getting roughed up in Cairo a few days back.  It's one of those things I feel very strongly about, and I've been accused of taking it way too seriously.  But I do feel strongly about it, and I'm not about to apologize for that.  Because, a bit of gallows humor aside, to me the thought of a journalist, no matter which organization he or she reports for, and no matter his or her background, being subjected to violence while trying to carry out his or her duties is a pretty serious matter. It's awful hard to laugh when you hear about reporters being detained or assaulted, or threatened with having their throats cut, or some of the other things that have happened.  And though I don't talk about it that much, there are some deeply personal reasons why I take it so seriously, and why in a way it's like something happening to my family.

I tell my students that physical danger can be a part of the job.  There's a long, sad list of journalists who have paid the ultimate price in the name of covering the story (and the link only gives you the first of 21 pages of names).  I know some of those names, and some of those stories, very well -- one in particular, because I wrote my doctoral dissertation about him. That's not to mention that more than a few former students of mine are now out in the field.  One of them came within a hair's breadth of becoming an embed in Iraq when things were still pretty hot over there.  It's no longer abstract to me; now, when I worry about the protection of journalists, I'm literally looking out for my kids.  So to say the safety of journalists is a topic that's dear to me is understating it a bit. This isn't about me fretting over the welfare of millionaire pretty boy anchors.  It's about me genuinely being worried for the safety of the kids I've trained who are out there, sometimes reporting from harm's way.

And to say I'm thankful I have the opportunity to practice the trade from this end of it is also understating it, for I know that had a few things been different, it might be me getting the crap beaten out of me, or in a cell in Cairo pleading for my release -- if not my life.  And as much as my students can get to me sometimes, I hope and pray that when they're out there reporting someday, none of them ever end up in that kind of situation, or have to give their lives in the name of a free press. 

That list of names is already too long.