Anybody who has read this column for a while knows my usual goal is to
add a giggle to people's lives on a weekly basis, but there are things
that happen that just don't seem like laughing matters.
A few days ago a dear friend of mine — a man who I had never met, nor
even seen in person — died. He was 92 years old and in ill health, so
his death couldn't be considered a shock, but there are people who
simply aren't suppose to die, or even change.
My friend, Walter, was one of those people.
Shortly after I reached double-digits, Walter began coming into our living room at dinner time to just chat with us.My
family, the one I was born to, was never big on evening meals gathered
around the dinner table. I was part of that first television
generation. Most nights my Mom, Dad and I sat in the living room with
TV trays for tables, that often carried TV Dinners for meals.
Each evening my Dad would turn our bulky RCA television to Channel 5,
KPIX in San Francisco, and a sometimes static-marred, black and white
image of Walter Cronkite would appear.
My Dad, like the vast majority of Americans, trusted Walter.
The broadcaster, who functionally invented the position of anchor man,
was a contemporary with my folks. He was born in Missouri. He worked in
newspapers and radio, before joining the United Press International and
becoming a war correspondent during World War II. He went ashore in
France on D-Day. He went in with the troops and reported clearly and
accurately what he heard and saw.
When I was still a kid I sat spellbound as Cronkite used a new medium
to spin out tales of history in his "You Are There" series.
On Sunday nights, I would lie in front of that same RCA and listen as
Walter would narrate the series "20th Century," and tell stories that
were recent memories for my folks and thrilling or disturbing history
for me.
I suppose the fact that my parents thought news was important had
an impact on my future career choice. I came to understand there was
something special, almost sacred, about accurately covering the news.
Walter was more than a news-reader.
He was a working journalist. He got excited about going out where
things were happening. He was fascinated by the U.S. space program, and
since I was equally enthralled with space I was fascinated by the
stories he told.
In my brief stint as a television reporter I consciously tried to deliver my stories the way Walter would have.
I even tried to emulate his voice, which didn't work all that well, but
at least I was aspiring to be like the best in the industry.
When I heard, on television, that Cronkite had died, I felt very much as if I had lost an old family friend.
It is tempting to end my inadequate words with Walter's famous, "And
that's the way it is," closing line for his news broadcasts, but it is
the tag-line to "You Are there" that fits more closely for me.
"It was a day like all days, filled with those events that alter and illuminate our times, and you were there."