I have been putting this off for quite some time. This “final step,” if you will, penning my last column for South Bay.
I told myself I would take my time with this one, write it well in advance of deadline, try to encapsulate everything in one epic, closing chapter. And yet, here I sit – 11:30 p.m. on the eve of my second to last day of work, staring at a mostly blank template as countless thoughts swirl in my brain.
gen•e•sis: the origin or mode of formation of something; evolution, inception
It all began back in elementary school; earlier, even. The clipping in the local South Bay Newspaper heralding the entrance of the Class of 2000...into kindergarten. I was a part of that storied graduating class, and as we progressed through the next dozen or so years of schooling, the various accolades of my fellow Lindy alums would be documented within the pages of our neighborhood paper. My own graduation announcement was featured there, as I moved on from the halls of Lindy High and began my studies in journalism on the opposite shore at the C.W. Post campus of Long Island University.
The stories that unfold in the space of a writer’s study, the objects chosen to watch over a desk, the books selected to sit on the shelves, all weave a web of echoes and reflections of meanings and affections, that lend a visitor the illusion that something of the owner of this space lives on between these walls, even if the owner is no more. {Alberto Manguel}
Birthdays are beginnings. This is a sentiment I have always held particularly close to my heart, if for no other reason than it allows for the momentary illusion of a fresh start, at least for one day. What evolves beyond that point in time is anyone’s guess of course; but the symbolic turning of the page is one that resonates quite deeply for me.
“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.” ~ Maya Angelou
We all have a path, a journey we take through life. Some are relatively direct, with few bumps and curves along the way; others prove far more winding and full of detours. In the end, though, I believe we all reach the destination we are meant to. Eventually.
I recently had the opportunity to speak to a small group of high school students with an interest in writing during a one-week digital journalism camp held at Hofstra University. Not quite sure what to expect, I brought samples of our newspaper and magazine, along with a brief bio of myself, my career trajectory thus far, and a handful of anecdotes to share with the group. As it turned out, all that information filled up precisely ten minutes of what was to be a nearly hourlong presentation.
“I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world.” ~ Henry Luce
As I sit here at 4 p.m. on Friday afternoon composing my thoughts for this column, one can’t help but reflect upon the latest in a long line of tragic shootings to touch the nation, this time at the headquarters of the Capital Gazette, an Annapolis newspaper founded in 1727. Among the five fatalities were veteran editors, writers and reporters, as well as a sales assistant to the staff. To think that a random act of violence on an otherwise average day could at once shatter so many lives is quite jarring.
As I write these words, the Class of 2018 prepares to march onto the old Kienle Field at Lindenhurst Middle School to the familiar strains of Pomp & Circumstance. In just a few short hours, they will embark on the next chapter of their lives, as proud alumni of Lindy High, the last dozen or so years of schooling an already-fading memory.
“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” ~ Douglas Adams
As I sat in the audience at the recent Press Club of Long Island awards ceremony last week, intently listening to the words of one of our Hall of Fame honorees, the legendary writer and reporter Harvey Aronson, I was struck by the notion that one could choose a particular career to pursue and, so many years later {at the tender age of 89}, remain just as devoutly passionate about it. As he eloquently put it, “I wanted to be a writer… and so I became one.”
I recently listened in on a rather interesting Press Club of Long Island panel discussion, highlighting the process which went into investigating a cold case that had gone unsolved for over 50 years on the east end of Long Island. The teamwork between reporters and the police department eventually resulted in the case being “cracked,” so to speak, and the unsolved murder put to rest.
Triskaidekaphobia: fear of the number 13
I’ve known many people with an aversion to this perceived “unlucky” number, whether serving as a date of particular significance or - the more common superstition - when it should happen to fall on a Friday, of all days. Personally, I’ve taken special care to note any particularly negative occurrences on these infrequent juxtapositions of day and date, with thankfully few to report. Just another day, as they say.