Test Post for Internal Migration

 Test Post for internal Migration 

The life and death of a real newspaperman

 Nothing better than that first pre-dawn cigarette break of the day, then watching as the embers exploded down in the 11th Avenue North Gulch 50 feet or more below. Ink-stained fireworks.

Sorry, this was in a time when it was considered OK to smoke -- especially if you were a newspaperperson -- and to toss the flaming butt to the ground.  Unfortunately, environmental concerns sometimes aren't first in mind at 5 or so in the morning, when the workday is just getting underway. Especially a generation ago.

Such events took place daily more than 25 years ago when I spent my workdays, that began at dark and generally continued well into the afternoon, with Mike McGehee. Mike died January 4. And it was something of a gut punch. 

Time really isn't on our side, after all. I hadn't really kept in touch much with him since the Nashville Banner closed a quarter-century ago. I'd been to some of the McGehee Christmas gatherings and had a couple of long talks about his post-newspaper discovery of Civil War history while he worked with his wife in the real estate business.

Waiting for potential customers in an empty house-for-sale became a good time for him to read about the bloody war.  

It's just that I figured he'd always be around, a guy who would care when I died more than the other way around.

I figured today I'd share my thoughts that I posted on the Neptune Society website shortly after members of the Nashville Banner family -- of which I'm a survivor, so far -- were alerted after his death.

Bad sinuses kept me away from a veterans cemetery service for my old friend on Monday, but I made sure to be at Tuesday evening's celebration of life at the Crow's Nest in Green Hills. For his was a life to be celebrated.

And Judy and the girls, the whole family, are people to be cherished. 

Mike was a real newspaperman, one of those who knew and experienced what truly was the best profession ever (if you had the stamina and the coffee.) Oh, and don't forget the beer at day's end.

He had a variety of editor's and other roles at the old Nashville Banner, which truly was a great local newspaper (when such things were seen as important and the world wasn't reported in Tweets and Toks.)

I am proud that I spent 10 years as a colleague of Mike's. He was perhaps the kindest fellow in the newsroom. He surely was a rock. And he loved that profession.  When the Banner closed, he laid low for awhile, as he wasn't one to seek out employment at The Tennessean, the other newspaper that was upstairs.

About two years into that forced retirement, he called me at The Tennessean --where I had found an uneasy and eventually temporary landing spot -- and said "Tim, I'm ready to come in from the cold if there's anything there."

If it had been up to me, he'd have been there that same day, but there were no openings for older fellows at The Tennessean.  I found out myself later how true that was.

Here is an expanded version of a little note I wrote on the obituary site after he died. Figured I'd share it and my love for Mike and for this great, dying breed that I'm a part of:

Mike was my "booster" and friend at the old Nashville Banner. Of course, he was my boss, too. 

But due to changes brought on over the years, he and I became newsroom brothers, relying on each other, Tony Kessler and Eddie Jones for help weathering all the changes. He also was my smoking partner. Most mornings we'd get in around 4:30 or 5 at the latest.

We would prepare whatever we needed to present or discuss in the morning news meeting at 6, and then Mike and I ... and often Eddie if he was there yet and any other old-fashioned newspapermen who still smoked, would take a break and smoke, overlooking the Gulch. 

When we had Irby-inspired setbacks and other such shit to deal with, we relied on each other. Mike was a steady, sure hand, a proud and brave comrade and, on occasion, when the old Saab was broken down, my ride to and from work. Usually, beer was with us on those afternoon rides. I loved Mike like a brother and Judy was his perfect companion.

I guess his strongest trait was his support of those who he knew were trying their best. He knew mistakes happened, as he'd made them himself in his career.

I'll add here a note of one of our "adventures." One day, Irby (and if you know who that is, well, good for you, and if not, well, better for you) wanted a huge notebook full of documents about, I believe it was Lamar Alexander, photocopied. And he ordered me and Tony and Mike to do it. Hundreds of pages of stuff that never amounted to a story. We did as told. And we bit our tongues as hard as possible.  Well, Mike and I may have discussed how we really felt during our smoke breaks from the busy work.

Workdays that began at 5 a.m. extended until past 6 or even 7 p.m. on  that silly and fruitless day. And Mike and I shared the same opinion about the value of the work and the fellow who ordered it because he could.

Mike was of the breed that still held hard to a pica pole and a scale wheel, long after they went out of fashion.

I know that when there was a big newsroom shakeup, not the infamous massacre, but much later, Michael (as I called him), Tony and I spent hours commiserating while also encouraging each other.

Also, I appreciated his "generosity" when he opened up an unlimited tab for Irby to pay when newsroom management made its two trips to the Don Cesar in St. Pete for Poynter nonsense. 

Michael, Pat Embry and I (then a without-limits drinker) and a few others tried to make sure Irby got more than his money's worth at the poolside bar.  I don't think any of us ever made it into the pool on that long Saturday afternoon. Probably would have drowned.

Heck, we all managed to make it to an evening meal with Poynter folks and, if I remember correctly, we spoke soberly about our boss and the newspaper business with that gang of think-tank "journalists."

 I spent most of my life in newsrooms, and there really are only a few who I label as newspapermen (or newspaperwomen). 

These are people who never lost their love of what was the greatest profession ever. Michael was a brother on that list. Love you, old friend.