On the Passing of Mike Wallace > Ridgefield Press 04/12/12

I cried on Sunday morning.

Mike Wallace had died overnight and I sat watching his obit prepared by Morley Safer some time ago. Morley asked Mike if he planned on retiring so he could sit back and contemplate. Mike's response: contemplate what? What is there to contemplate about? It was vintage Mike.

But I did contemplate Mike's passing and what it meant to me.

Did I know Mike? Sure. Had I had worked with him? Yes. Sad as his passing was, it also represented the passing of a very important part in my life.

For the last decade or so it has been like watching a rose lose its petals one by one and there are very, very few petals left.

Already gone were Harry (Reasoner), Don (Hewitt), Ed (Bradley), Richard Threlkeld , Walter (Cronkite), Richard C. Hotlett, Les (Midgley), Fred Friendly, Dick (Salant), Zeke (Segal), Ralph (Paskman), Bud (Benjamin), Charles Collingwood, Andy (Rooney), Charlie (Kuralt), Eric Sevaraid and others.

Some were personal friends, others were hallway colleagues but all were seasoned journalists during a wondrous time who had taught me much about professional integrity and truths.

As I watched Mike's obit, I recalled Morley, the young corespondent with the Canadian passport, who had returned from Vietnam with a story titled "The Burning of the Village of Cam Ne". Today almost 50 years later, I can still see the opening frames: the closeup of a U.S. soldier's hand, holding a lit Zippo lighter, touching the edge of a thatched hut, setting it ablaze to deny refuge to the Vietcong and their sympathizers.

I contemplated whether Morley saw himself too far behind Mike. And whether Mike was the last rose petal, representing that special time when I had the privilege to work amongst this greatest generation of colorful, talented, dedicated group of journalists.

When Reality Was News

The Ridgefield Press, July 23, 2009

Carol and I shed a few tears this weekend. As we shed our tears, we considered how lucky, inspired and privileged we were to have known and worked with Walter Cronkite.

During those years, news had a special ring to it. It had a deep, classical timbre. It had a plain Midwestern enunciation.

When you worked on the Evening News with Walter Cronkite, you wore it like a badge. It was a matter of pride and envy.

Getting the news out to the public was everything. Getting it right was paramount. And to learn how to do that, there was an extensive apprenticeship. We learned about original sources and confirmations from other sources. We learned about standards and practices. We learned how to spell correctly. We learned syntax and how to tell a story. Money was no object in getting to the truth. We took our responsibilities seriously, very seriously.

And if you were selected to work on the Evening News, it meant you had been anointed with a special grace, accepted into a very small club. You were able to spend every day planning, gathering, ordering, and finally producing a hard news program (never to be referred to as a show) of record.

Around four in the afternoon Walter would emerge from his glass office (just off the newsroom studio) in his shirt sleeves to write, re-write, debate the lead stories, to make the final decisions on how the program would unfold that day. He worked under pressure, ignoring the frantic movements around him: cameras, graphics, lighting, stage hands, makeup; the business of television. The only sound that counted was the clacking of that typewriter that he banged on until the very last minute.  And with seconds to spare he would stand up, don his jacket, sit back down in his anchor chair and intone: "Good evening".

Working on the Cronkite News meant you could go across the street to "The Slate" bar and re-live your particular war story with your colleagues. Working on the Cronkite Evening News meant that every Christmas you would be invited to Walter's home for a party, to eat the usual beef stroganoff and have a chance to discuss world events in his living room. It meant you might witness Walter telling a funny story, doing a sort-of strip tease to the amusement of his wife and all of us. On that night he was one of us. He was a gracious and generous host and we left with our heads in the clouds.

Well, as you all know, Walter Cronkite died over the weekend. His passing was broadcast on all the television stations, frequently reported by people who weren't even born when he was in his prime. We have become accustomed to over-the-top memorials. Recently we've had a quite few of them. But in this case, ladies and gentlemen, it was all true.

Walter Cronkite was a remarkable man and we had a chance to known him. And that's the way it was -- for us.