Mixed signals

Ah, for the days of energy and discipline, when I could sit down and pop off an essay, a tall tale or just a journal entry in a few short minutes. Not only could I do it, but I insisted on doing it, because words are my favorite toys and thoughts are my favorite games. An examined life is the only life, and sharing the results of the examinations is a kind of bursting forth in song.

Better together

Sixty years ago today, on May 28, 1949, William Herbert Oakley married Edna Marie Dudding. He was a handsome, jovial fellow, one of the lucky ones to come back unscarred from World War II, now in the early days of his career at The Buffalo News. She was a determined country girl, following her oldest sister out of the mountains of Virginia to greater opportunity in the big city by the lake.

And now the news

They say to be careful what you wish for, because you might get it. In “A study in contradictions,” I wrote that I thought newspapers were dying of blandness, parroting falsehoods from spin machines and no longer doing the hard digging and taking a strong stand for truth. A couple of comments on the piece require followup.

A study in contradictions

Rest in peace, Rocky Mountain News. Fare well on your Web-only way, Seattle Post-Intelligencer. All hail, absent friends, though we hardly knew ye.

The tough times and declining readership of the newspaper industry grow ever worse. Many folks cling to the hope that Joe Average will always want something to hold in his hands to read in the bathroom, but I think the handwriting (and the hypertext) is on the wall. The day is coming when your wall or your phone or a microphone or earpiece will feed you the news even as you put the plumbing to use.

I need a shrug

Snap out of it, a wise friend advises over the phone. He read “On not writing well” and encourages me by agreeing that “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!” is the correct response.

The trick is not in knowing the answer, but in acting on it.

Too much television

You know you’ve watched too much television when you find yourself shouting, 45 seconds into the show, “Shoot her now!” because you can already tell that the quiet neighbor casually volunteering useless information at a crime scene is going to turn out to be a psychopath.

On not writing well

I have become an expert on not writing, at least at not writing for publication.

Breathing easier

We got some much-needed help in yesterday’s mail. A check came from the Treasury, and some phone research confirms that my disability claim has been approved.

I am not so happy to be officially labeled so ill, but I am relieved we will be able to “unmax” our credit cards and get off our “don’t buy anything you can’t eat” budget. We also can stop worrying that we will have to quickly sell our house. If there are no further disappointments, we can hope to be nearly debt-free except for the mortgage by year’s end. That’s a welcome reversal from wondering whether we were wise to cling to our home while awaiting the disability ruling.

So, we are breathing a little easier today, starting to budget for debt repayment and home repair instead of wondering how we’re going to pay the utility bills.

Maybe I should try to teach Salsa to give the mailman a break, since his visit yesterday was anything but unwelcome.

Daddy’s girl

Mr. Taylor,

You left us too soon, 11 years ago today. We think of you often, always with love and admiration.

I promised myself to report to you every year on this solemn anniversary to let you know that your little girl is still safe and secure, happy and loved. The last few years I haven’t been writing down my reports as I should, and last year I was recovering from surgery, so you know my thoughts were more fleeting than is appropriate for so important a subject. I hope you don’t take my making my report public this year as even more inappropriate.

Old man

We buried my father two years ago today. As I’ve written before, he was really gone long before then, and I have little fondness for the memories of those last years as my mother struggled to care for him and the rest of us struggled to make each word or visit, which could have been our last together, a kind and loving one.