Charlie Appleton, the classic, old-fashioned newspaperman's life reaches "30" mark ("the end" in newspaper lingo). But, in a not-so-bizarre twist: Love lives on, though my rewrite magic fails

 "Timothy, I am looking forward to it, getting back there on the back porch of our cabin, smoking my pipe. Going home Sunday. If not before."

Charlie Appleton told me that, again, just a couple of days ago, Ash Wednesday, when my wife, Suzanne, and I visited him at the NHC rehab center in the southern end of Gallatin. My wife also had been a lifelong journalist, and she just wanted to let Charlie know she loved him, too.

Charlie never made it to that porch or that beloved pipe -- "You only can smoke it outside," semi-chided his wonderful wife, Eben.

Charlie's eyes just sparkled and shifted to me and to my wife. Then he shrugged. And laughed. "Wives," I'm sure he was thinking.

But we all knew the pipe would only be lighted outside. And that was fine with Charlie.
He'd been dreaming of sitting on that porch, in the bright spring sun, for the weeks he'd been hospitalized and then more weeks in rehab.

"They got me so I can get to the bathroom on my own and get to the refrigerator," Charlie bragged.
He was like Charlie always was, full of life.

Three days later he was dead. I'd been trying to call him most days, especially on ones when I couldn't make it to see him, ever since he'd been hospitalized.

Friday, the day or perhaps two after my last visit, he didn't answer his phone. I left a message saying I'd talk to him later.

We never did.

He responded to my call by sending a FaceBook message. Most of it is too personal to repeat here, without crying. He simply said he'd been tied up with doctors etc. and church people and added "Thank you pal. I love you for all your concern .... It's just been incredible. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
No such thanks are needed when it's someone you love, a fellow you know had been given a death sentence of 3-6 months tops by his doctors. I spent time talking with and visiting with Charlie because I loved him.

Later in the afternoon Friday, as he and Eben planned their escape from "captivity," the potential of great pie, coffee, a pipe outside and a beer, he sent me a more worrisome message: "Have heart trouble. Waiting EKG."

That was it. I sent him a little note of reassurance after my calls again went to voice mail.

Saturday, I tried again. Then I got a message from Eben that he was dying. The last rites had been delivered. The clergy and church and family was gathering.

I told her I loved her. And Charlie. And the family. And I thought of Charlie's Siamese cat, Taboo, who had been pining for her best friend for weeks, had been sleeping in Charlie's spot at home. Had been anxiously awaiting the return of her "father" and best friend.

Now that cat will need to try to console Eben. I'm sure she won't mind if the cat continues its recently developed habit of sleeping on Charlie's pillow. She used to sleep on Charlie. And he loved her.

I had tried to give Charlie "some flowers while he lived" in a little FaceBook post a few weeks ago. I'd gone to see him at his house and then again after Eben called to say he was in the hospital and my visit might cheer him up.

In an earlier visit and on the phone, he delivered the docs' verdict: "It's OK. I'm ready for it. I've lived a good life."

Yeah he did.

Some of it I tried to capture in that post that I wanted him to read a few weeks ago, recounting our time together in the Banner newsroom and in life, and my love for the guy. Remember he is past tense now. All hope is in the hands of the Lord that was so important to him that last time I saw him he was rubbing the charcoal cross, installed by his priest, from his forehead. A large Anglican cross hanged from a chain around his neck.

Here's that post from just a few weeks ago, when I thought we both would gather on his back porch pretty soon. I'd smell the tobacco and we'd talk about the kid who married his mother over in Dickson County and other bizarre but fabulous stories Charlie discovered:

.........."In another bizarre twist," ... well, only Banner folks will get that ... but I decided there was no better way to spend a chunk of my Friday than hauling it on up to Gallatin and visiting my good friend, Charlie Appleton, who is recuperating in the hospital.

 
This great reporter .. who I purposely kept in the cubicle next to me when I became state editor at the Nashville Banner in the late 1980s -- is enduring some health woes, but he looked great today. Course, Charlie brings nothing but joy to my heart.

In the Banner days Charlie became my chief state writer, and he trolled his law enforcement and radio news pals throughout the state to find the best stories for me to pitch at the 6 a.m. news meeting.

 
I would delight the group -- managing editor Tony Kessler, opinion editor Dan Coleman, business honcho Bob Battle, wire editor Max Moss, deputy editor Mike McGehee and the rest -- when I detailed the stories Charlie had working.

 
We talked about some of those stories today. So many mornings were spent listening to Charlie work the phones, magically unwrapping the layers of a tragedy or calamity before forwarding his raw and compelling copy to me: "Timothy: Here it is: Work your magic." I loved the editing process when it came to a Charlie Appleton story.

 
I love the guy and his wife, Eben, who has taken such great care of this treasure.

Charlie is a great man, another of us silly bastards who only wanted to be a newspaperman (or newspaperwoman), only to see that profession die (or be obliterated in corporate haze) and nobody really care.

 
Still, we rage on.

I thank Charlie for being my friend for all of these decades, and I look forward to seeing him at his home soon.

"I can't wait until it warms up and I can sit on my porch," he told me. I'll relish sitting next to him, talking about life's bizarre twists........"

In many conversations since I published that, he told me he liked that little tribute and talked about his pipe, Eben and reminded me that I was his hero -- that my work as state editor in encouraging this greatest of reporters and editing his work, making sure the bizarre twist was evident enough to the editors' meeting attendants -- made him look good. He knew I worked hard to make sure his stories were the first-edition leads.

But it was Charlie who was the hero. I kept him sitting next to me in the newsroom because I loved old-fashioned journalism.

I loved letting my reporters work and then doing my best to make the stories shine. I had a great staff in Leon Alligood, Gina Fann, Alisa LaPolt, Toni Dew, Patrick Willard, Donna Davis, Beth Fortune and my assistant Andy Telli and others. And we had about 80 correspondents around the state calling in their daily tips.

The Nashville Banner State Desk was a wonderful place to be, and I, as longtime state editor, loved every one of them.

Charlie was special, remains special. I liked having him next to me, because I could listen to his end of bizarre tales told and, if necessary, take that new information, the latest bizarre twist, to Managing Editor Tony Kessler.

Perhaps, well, more often than not, a good Charlie story would kick the Metro Council tale of inaction and flatulence down the page.

There was an uncommon grace in Charlie. The Banner had created a position to hire me from The Leaf-Chronicle in Clarksville at the beginning of 1988.  The purpose, though no one said it, was to eventually take my decade-plus newsroom editing and managing chops to the State Desk.

Basically, I was hired to replace State Editor Charlie Appleton. He and I sat together in the meeting in which Eddie Jones and Tony Kessler and Shaun Carrigan (then city editor, since deceased), discussed this change. That assshole Irby may have been there, too.

Charlie wasn't upset: "You can have the headaches, Timothy. I'll have more fun." We hugged.

My first move as state editor back in 1988 was to change Charlie's title to Chief State Writer and let everyone know that he was the guy who was our chief lieutenant in oft-bloody deadline battle for stories and story placement. Everyone wanted the lead story or they didn't belong in a newsroom.

I had to take the slightly larger state editor's desk, but I moved Charlie down, one cubicle, so he'd be next to me. Leon was on the other side of Charlie.

Freed of management responsibilities and sometimes ridiculous meetings that come with a job, Charlie let his telephone fingers roam the state, cheerily spending his time making that old paper have even more personality than ever.

The State Desk was a team that provided me and that other ink-stained wretch next to me much joy. Stories would come in before 8:20 A-1 deadline, by a minute or two. He and I daily pushed the deadline to get the best and bizarre out to the folks who got the state edition. Sometimes I'd take a quick look over his shoulder, but I didn't disturb him as he worked.  Then, Charlie would push his desk chair away from the antique computer and tell me to "work your magic."

Yes, I did work to make the stories sing, but strove always to keep in mind that it was Charlie's story. It was his magic I was using a bit of fairy dust to, at his urging and cheerleading, make it better. He was my biggest fan, so it was mutual for sure. 

Oh, I know between us we produced some fantastic tales of murder, mayhem, burned bodies, perhaps even cannibalism.  But Charlie also told the good stories, about people who had rescued others, acts of God (he was devout), but was better known for the 400-pound Giles County twins or whatever, who killed folks for the hell of it and burned the bodies. I think they may have roasted marshmallows or hot dogs on the fires. 

 If that was the case, Charlie would have found out where they bought the marshmallows and talked to the grocer about the fat twins.  Then he'd call the parents to ask if they ever knew their monster-sized redneck twins were sociopaths who enjoyed dismembering and burning strangers.

As Suzanne reminded Charlie the other day at the rehab center: "You and Tim were something. You had great adventures. Two great newspapermen, having fun and doing their jobs. He sure loves you, and the most fun he ever had in a newsroom was working with you." 

Charlie was in the rehab center a week ago, when the Banner refugees celebrated the 25th anniversary of the slaughter of a truly great newspaper, butchered by owners and corporate greed combined. We FaceTimed him during that celebration. Afterward, I called and told him how much he obviously was loved.

Who couldn't love such a guy, the sort who, like me, knew that being a newspaperman (or newspaperwoman) was the best and only career where guys like us fit in and could advance as leaders and mentors. And tell dandy stories along the way. And, damn, it was fun before corporate power-hungry jerks stole the joy from newspapers across the nation. 

Charlie and I talked about that change and that perhaps he was really lucky, because the Banner folded before demographics and brokers sucked the life from the world of a true newspaperman.  

Charlie's final story will be told Friday, at his funeral and burial.  I'll be there  -- as he asked me a few months ago, when he first talked about his fatal liver failure diagnosis -- as a pallbearer. So will our pal and cohort, Leon Alligood, the other newsroom pallbearer of choice.

"It's an honor, of course." I told Charlie that. I have to admit to muted tears when he asked me to assume that role.

I've been losing friends to time and neglect lately, and my heart is breaking as I listen to the clock tick  in my empty office, where I think about all the great people who have departed my life. Fortunately, for me and my fragile mind, the last words I said to Charlie on Ash Wednesday were simple: "I love you Charlie."

Also joked him that he'd rubbed the ash cross  -- installed by the Anglican priest who visited moments before I arrived -- off his beautiful and beaming face where serenity overcame the certainty of his future. He shot his thumb up into the air. "I love you."

I wish this was one of those Charlie Appleton stories, and he could push his chair back and tell me "Timothy ... Work your magic."

Because I'd changed the ending.  We'd be sitting on the porch of his log cabin. He'd be smoking his pipe and stroking the back of Taboo, the Siamese cat.

And we'd laugh.