Tribute paid. But plenty due.

Hello there, I'm Charlie Haldeman. I'm the son of Charles Robert. I even have the same name. I don't have to tell you we're all named after each other. My oldest son is Charles Robert too... or actually three. Harriet may be the baby, but she's named after her aunt AND her dad. He was the baby too... so there you go.

As we were sitting down, my cousin Nick noted how you could hear the entire family in the back through the walls here... laughing and talking, while you all were being seated as the prelude played. It was a solemn and somber occassion out here, but back there... it was joyous and uplifting despite the ocassion. That's what Riley Haldeman would've wanted.

Whenever Riley approved of something, you often heard him say 'Amen.' So I'll beging with an often heard verse, "This is the day the Lord has made. Let US rejoice and be glad in it," to which he would have said ?... (Amen)

A few years ago, Tom Brokaw set out to chronicle what's become known as the greatest generation. He began to collect his thoughts about the people who came of age during his parent's youth. Some of you even lived those times too. In the end, he found more than their stories and experiences. He found more of himself too. I hope to do that here as well.

The greatest generation is most commonly associated with World War II. Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, Marines. But there were the unsung heroes of that time. Riley Haldeman was among them.

Riley Haldeman was 23 years old in 1941. He was a newlywed... and well on the way to starting the family that we know and are part of today.

Already working on the railroad... he was drafted. He wanted to go. He wanted to do his part in the war effort. The US Navy he said. He made the trip to Tyler for the standard physical. Deferred was the answer back from authorities. He was turned away, not once. Not twice. But three times he once told me. Turns out the railroad needed him at home. He indeed did his part for the war effort and his country. And his family too.

To quote my mother from yesterday, he was the definition and success story of Texarkana in the 20th century. As this community struggled to come to grips and eventually persevere through the great depression. So did he persevere.

When I think Texarkana, I think of him.

Whenever I pass by Rose Hill, I think of him.

As I travel 9th street, I think of him. Whenever I'm in another town and see a shelter or a soup kitchen, I'll think of the friendship center.

And I'll think of him.

Whenever I come to a line of cars waiting at a railroad crossing, the drivers frustrated because they don't like waiting on the train to cross. I'm likely in a hurry too. But I'll smile because I know that train is keeping our country going. And supporting countless families like mine. As the flashing red lights alternate and the horn blows, I'll think of him.

Dominoes. Arkansas Razorbacks football. Sleeping all day and working all night. Good solid life advice. Daily Devotionals. Post Toasties. Lawrence Welk. Prayers for all his people. And Vera. I'll think of him.

I had the fortune of living close by... just 30 miles. I spent many summers and weekends as a child with Nannie and Papa. The story of their 70 year marriage and 6 children has been told time and again. He told stories with a passion. Maybe it's part of where I learned the love of telling stories. I don't know. He could make you feel like you were there when it happened. And young people of the room, I have an unlikely story of the tooth fairy you might like to know. I lost a tooth while spending the night with Nannie & Papa. I was very concerned that the tooth fairy might not find me since I wasn't home. The next morning, I looked under my pillow, and sure enough... nothing was there. But my tooth was indeed gone! Papa came to check... and told me to look again. Maybe I'd missed it. Finally, I found a crisp dollar bill between the bed and the wall. You see, my Papa made sure the tooth fairy knew where to find me.

He was the baby of his family. Lived with his mother and father most of their lives. He spent time in the civilian conservation corps... the "CC Camp" as he'd call it. As a family, and by ourselves... we came to know and love his sisters. I never realized growing up, how rare it is to be so close to your parents' siblings and their in-laws. It's very common around here. He made sure of that.

Eventually... he became what my dad recently called the leader of the band. Now Dan Fogleberg's 70's hit song was probably not featured on the Lawrence Welk program... but the lyrics seem to fit perfectly. It came on the radio early Tuesday morning as Daddy got in his car to leave the hospital.

"The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old. But his blood runs through my instrument. And his song is in my soul. My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man. I'm just a living legacy to the leader of the band"

For me and some others... Riley Haldeman was our Papa. He was the leader of the band. Aside from the happy memories of him... probably the most consistent memory across our time together was...

He lived by example. He wasn't perfect and never pretended to be. But he attempted to live by example. He was a Christian man who was raised by a mother who still got on her knees to pray. Who read her bible every day. She passed on her attempt to live a good life to her son. His attempt only strengthened by Nannie. Where there is one. There is the other. Leaning on each other in hard times. Celebrating hand-in-hand in easy times.

Living by example. And through that example... his song continues to play on in my soul. But aren't we all poor attempts to imitate the man. I'm proud as I can be to be a living legacy to Riley Haldeman. And so I say to one of the unsung heroes of that greatest generation, thank you papa. I'll think of you

What do you want on your tombstone?

I don't know who wrote this obituary I just read, but it's too memorable not to pass on. You may not have known this lady but you'll wish you had after reading.

I don't know if any of her obituary will end up on her tombstone, but at least it will live on thanks to the internet. I didn't know her. I know her family though. I'm sure they'll be talking about this for a long time after this week.

http://www.batesfamilyfuneralhome.com/87/Glenna-Wilson-Memorial

It became a turning point...

I'm sitting here listening to Tom Brokaw on MSNBC. I haven't seen him since Russert died. I'm glad he's back on TV, but I'm pretty sure this is a special piece he's helped to put together. This particular piece deals with baby boomers. So far, he's covered Woodstock and the Civil Rights Movement. Brokaw is such a talented craftsman. I've always thought so. Perhaps for the first time though, I'm actually analyzing his statements. I don't mean I'm picking apart his story. I'm listening to how he writes. How he speaks. Can you hear it?

Brokaw's always had a bit of an accent. I know this all too well, because I do too. His sentences are short. They are simple. They are powerful, despite the choice to use fewer words. It reminds me of the instructions from my high school teacher, Mrs. Shumake: "OMIT NEEDLESS WORDS."

I don't do it often enough. I'm too busy trying to show off I guess.

What Mrs. Shumake was trying to tell us in that classroom, and what Brokaw is good at---
We don't need a long string of 5 dollar words to get our point across. When a few will do, then we should use a few.


On another note to the few customers I have here on this column... I'm not the anchor over at KXII-TV any more. I posted a brief piece about it over on the facebook fan page last week. No, there's nothing to worry about. It was time to go and I did. I'll keep you posted on the next chapter. Maybe I'll write more short sentences in these spaces more often. That is, as long as I leave out the extra words.

An open letter to a new employee

Dear new employee:

Welcome to the first day of the rest of your career here. What the heck were you thinking? That first question might surprise you, but trust me. You'll be asking yourself that very same question in a few days. Maybe a few hours. How you answer will probably determine your attitude toward any and all undertakings as you attempt to do good work here. If you fail to even attempt to do good work, I'll eventually catch on to you. But your co-workers will catch on first. They'll be nice about it in the beginning but when they realize you've made their job harder, they'll rat you out.

Sorry to sound so pessimistic. There are just so many people who've come before you. Some of them worked out. Most of them didn't. Our qualifications are more than just having a heartbeat and being able to breathe (even though sometimes it doesn't seem that way.)

I'm actually not all that pessimistic, I just have a hard time living with mediocre work. I hope you understand. The sad part is, my claim to fame (aside from some random story about a cloned cat) is that I created a youtube video that's been viewed 500,000 times. I've received one or two awards in the business, but none of them came with cash prizes. They don't really count then, do they?

If you've been in our kind of business before, then you've heard the saying, "It gets in your blood." That saying is figuratively accurate. If you keep reminding yourself you got here because you wanted to be here, you might actually survive. Heck, there's a good chance you'll even thrive. If you try.

You already know the job doesn't pay diddly. I told you that during the job interview so don't come in complaining later. As a matter of fact, don't even joke about the money you don't make. It only reminds others about their constant struggle to pay the bills. Focus on the experience, not on the pay check.

If you want a good pay check, McDonald's and Starbucks pay better than we do. True story. I found out last weekend Starbucks offers part-time employees medical benefits. Who does that? Answer- companies that sell coffee.

There's a lot to learn here. There are computers, and procedures. Not all the computers work like they should all the time. Be patient with those machines, but don't expect patience in return. We work in a 'Get it right. Get it first.' environment. Spelling errors should be treated as egregious as factual errors. All too often our writing is vanilla and boring. I can't hold your hand every step of the way, but I'll encourage you to write effectively. Write with meaning. Omit needless words and always use proper pronouns.

The hours are awful. I told you that during the job interview too. You came anyway. Don't complain about your hours either. Before you came here, we worked as much as 10 to 12 hours a day. The company cut overtime, so we work normal 8 hours shifts now. They're not as normal as 8 to 5, but they're more normal than they used to be. Those 10 to 12 hours days still exist, but they're not as common.

You'll run into mean people inside and outside. Not everybody is as chipper as I (insert smart comment here). They care about themselves and could give a hoot about what you're doing. As long as you stay out of their way and help them out, you'll be fine. I'll tell you a secret about those people. They won't be here long. They're not interested in a team effort.

In our business, there's only one true stakeholder that matters. It's the viewer. As cliche as it sounds, I still believe in the viewer. I also believe in the Andy Rooney quote, "Somewhere along we way we stopped telling people what they needed to know and started telling them what they wanted to know." So yeah, I am indeed a walking contradiction.

Some advice for you as you start-

1- if you don't already have it, develop a real passion for news. Watch other newscasts. Read the news on the internet. Become a fan of news organizations on facebook, twitter, and whatever other social media website you can find. They still print newspapers too. Even though a lot of papers are online, there are a few weekly publications that aren't. Read those too.

2- learn to do more with a computer than play Solitaire or check the weather. Learn to send files via FTP. Learn to build a website. Learn. Learn. Learn. As a matter of fact, apply that verb to all aspects of this gig, not just computers.

3- write often. Write for the fun of it. Write because you want to. If you don't want to write, turn in your resignation now.

4- learn to create great video. This can apply even if you don't have a handicam and shoot your own. Learn to edit like a pro. There are hundreds of tip sheets online and down at the public library. It's very simple. Edit in sequence. Edit to match the copy. Edit to capture the attention spans of those viewers (see number 1). If you've ever seen a teacher who has a passion for a particular subject, then you know firsthand they tend to spread that passion to others. You can do the same with your video and copy.

5- When it gets rough, remember it's just television. Mistakes aren't always excused, but they can be lessons learned. When it seems like the world is caving in and nothing goes right, think to yourself: It's just television. There's always another show. There's always another entry on the website. There's always another day.

I could go on with the list, but you're likely overwhelmed with the job at hand.

By the way...

What in the world were you thinking?

Canvassing local art. Really local art.

One of my oldest friends has a picture he won in a raffle a few years ago. It hangs in the back of his family business where few get to see it, but I've always liked it. I make a point to go look at it when I visit. To the untrained eye (or the unfamiliar), its nothing special. Just a two lane road that runs underneath a canopy of trees. Other than the leaves and branches that hang over the path, the yellow stripes in the middle are about the only features that stand out. It's a large photograph in a nice sturdy frame and anybody would be proud to hang it on the wall.

One time I helped him move and the back seat of my old truck was where we transported this picture, along with all his other pieces of artwork. Other than the paintings and drawings of ducks, duck hunting, and retriever dogs; I noticed most of his collection was made of artwork crafted by people from our hometown. People from our past. Our childhood. Talented storytellers. Some of whom died long ago. But their work is still on canvass or picture paper for us to look at.

The picture of that narrow road was taken prior to 1995. The highway department cut those trees down and put in a new road and bridges where US 259 cuts across the Sulphur River on the way to Omaha. As a kid, it was often the spooky part of any trip south. Any time we were coming home from some place or another, you always knew you were 16 miles from home went you passed through the tunnel of trees around the Sulphur. It was shady all day on that road back then. The only break in the canopy was when you crossed those narrow old rickety bridges over the river and the flood relief slough.

The picture on the wall doesn't capture that essence, but it brings those memories. It probably brings about similar memories for anybody who stopped long enough to look at it.

That friend of mine is one of several back home who collects local art. My parents are local collectors too. My Daddy has a copy of an old railroad map from a hundred plus years ago hanging on the wall in his room. I love maps so I naturally gaze at it when I get the chance. That map shows the old Texas & Pacific rail line as it spanned north and east Texas. Towns that aren't even around anymore are dots on this extra long drawing.

My Mother has dozens of paintings. Some of them have been hanging around since before I was born. There are a few from Mrs. Lollie Moser. Over on another wall is one painted by Pam Prather. My aunts Betty Sue painted a while. Mama has some of her work.

Erma Shumake painted one of the old Shumake house near New Hope. My Great-Grandfather Ed Shumake was raise in that house along with his brothers and sisters. His brother Uncle Penn Shumake raised a large family of his own there. My cousin Shirley still lives there today.

The hometown isn't known to the outside world as an arts oriented place like Salado or Marfa but its people have produced treasures any serious collector ought to be interested in.

They came to play dominoes...

As a child/grandchild of downtown De Kalb merchants, it wasn't long before I got bored hanging around the flower shop as a kid. My grandparents were florists for decades and I loved to spend time in their shop. But it doesn't take much for a boy my size to get restless.

I often wandered to other businesses to see what was going on. There was L.B. Barrett's grocery store. There was D&C Dept. store. The De Kalb News. King's cleaners (and later pawn shop). I remember Perry Don, Lamar, and Smitty at Hawkins Appliance. Pete Evans over at the shoe shop. Don Hodges at the Austin Hotel & State Farm Insurance agency. My classmate John Telford often spent his afternoons at his family business, Telford Gas & Furniture. Robb Bates was around my age. He was based out of his family business, Bates-Rolf Funeral Home. We were always running around the alley or the sidewalk looking for adventure.

Then there was the pool hall. Some called it the domino parlor. The official name (or close to it) was the John H. Moore post of the American Legion. For several years, I was NOT to go into the pool hall. It was just down and across the street from the flower shop.

For a good while, years maybe, I obeyed the directions of those who looked after me. I always wondered why not go in there? I'd seen mail addressed to my grandfather from the American Legion. It turns out, the order to stay out had nothing to do with the organization. It had nothing to do with the men who frequented the place. It had everything to do with a curious kid, who was known to ask a lot of questions. Children are meant to be seen and not heard. In this case, it was probably best they not even be seen either.

I never got a straight answer, but thinking about it years later I think I might know why Grandma didn't want me to go inside. It was the group of men who gathered there. They came for a purpose. There was the recreation and enjoyment of the company of other men with similar backgrounds. The last thing they needed was me hanging around and bothering them.

But I got older. I'd forgotten the fact the American Legion post was off-limits. I went in. Nobody seemed to mind. If they did, they never said anything to me. It didn't take long to recognize the men there. I knew them from church, or the corner store where they drank coffee and swapped stories. Some I knew from their part-time jobs as school bus drivers. They came from all walks of life. They shared a bond more common than being from the same town. They'd served in the military. Many of them served in war time. There were even a few who carried the scars from battle wounds. One or two walked with canes or crutches and not because of old age. A few of them were amputees.

And despite my gumption for asking questions. I knew better than to ask about those wounds. I also knew better than to stare. "Don't stare," was a big rule as a kid. It was right up there with, "Don't step on the graves," which were standard instructions anytime we went to the cemetery.

The most I think I ever asked about their pasts was, "When did you serve?"

One old man quipped back almost immediately, "Spanish-American War!" and laughed until he couldn't laugh anymore. Then his laughter turned into a coughing fit. Once he was done with the coughing fit, he kept laughing at his inside joke. It was probably because at my age, I had no idea he was kidding. I had no idea the Spanish-American War was before his time.

That was Mr. Provins. He used to live at the town's boarding house and drove an old riding lawn mower the 2 blocks to the American Legion. Eventually, Mr. Provins traded in the old mower for one of those scooters that are now common among the elderly who can't get around. He was one of those at the domino tables just about every afternoon. He was full of stories about his actual time in the service, but he rarely shared them. He was more inclined to talk about making birdhouses out of plywood or how the evening meal was at the boarding house. Or how some buddy of his was good at the game of 42.

Mr. Provins' favorite subject was his family in Traverse City, Michigan. He talked just about every day about going back to Traverse City. One day he asked me if I'd be kind enough to look into how to buy a train ticket. He said he could get a ride from the VA to the depot in Texarkana. All he needed to know was how much it costs to ride the train to Traverse City. That was a tall order for a boy my age. Of course I couldn't imagine riding on a train that far away, but it was all he could think about.

Eventually, Mr. Provins found his way to Traverse City. If he ever came back to
De Kalb, I don't know. The tornado in '99 destroyed the American Legion hall. The men who show up there eventually found somewhere else to go in the afternoons. The boarding house is gone too.

Every year, people remember the servicemen and women and veterans who give to their country. I remember them too but I fondly recall those who found a common bond around a domino table. I remember those men who didn't want the recognition a veteran deserves. I remember the plastic pans full of sawdust on the floor where the men spat tobacco. I remember the smell of the wood burning stove. I remember the stories- the few that were told within earshot. I remember how the World War II veterans liked the game of 42 while the Korea and Vietnam veterans mostly seemed to prefer the snooker pool table.

I remember the plaques on the wall for American Legion accomplishments. I remember the picture of John Hartwell Moore. He was the post's namesake, a
De Kalb native and casualty of World War I. I remember a lot about home. But I remember them. I remember them all.

Mr. Haldeman goes to Washington

Almost a year ago, I took a trip to Washington, D.C. on some business for the television station and I still think about that trip. It was the second time I'd been, but I barely remember the first since I was on a 6th grade field trip.

I remember how easy it was to get around. While the landmarks and culture of that city are obviously different from home. I enjoyed taking note of the very subtle differences. I like how virtually veryone in that town walks wherever they go. We weren't there very long, so once we all got used to getting around and not getting lost- it was time for us to go home.

Have you ever taken a trip that you think about off and on long after you've returned home?

He landed a helicopter in Cash's yard...

and gave him a song.

Kris was a helicopter pilot. He flew in Vietnam. He came back to the states and chased after a dream of making music. He even moved to Nashville where he had the glorious job of sweeping up the floors at a then-well known publication called "The Music City News."

The janitor who worked at the country music trade publication played music when it could, saved a dollar or two here and there, and rented a helicopter.

The way I heard the story, Kris wrote a song with Johnny Cash in mind. But he was a nobody. He was less than a nobody. He wasn't anybody John R. Cash's people would've let in their office door. So how to get the song to the man in black? The answer? Deliver it personally.

I read Cash's biography several years ago. They went on to make a movie based on that book. Maybe you saw "I walk the line."

The part about the janitor in the helicopter didn't make it into the movie, but it still makes for an epic story.

Kris landed the helicopter in Cash's yard at his place on Hickory Lake outside of Nashville. Got out of the chopper and greeted the puzzled singer with a gentleman's introduction, a handshake, and handed him a reel-to-reel with his version of "Sunday Morning Coming Down."

The rest they say...

is history.

Why I thought to tell the story, I don't know. I thought about Kris and his life's adventures after seeing a link of his one-time girlfriend, Janis Joplin. She was performing his song "Me and Bobby McGee" which is probably the only one of a handful of songs that I know every word.

They're gonna tase you, bro.

Hello from the moderately cluttered desk of a news director. So far today, we've had a brief meeting with one of the technical engineers about the names of 2 computers in our Ardmore newsroom.

When you log in to Computer 4, you have to use the name "Computer 5." When you log in to Computer 5, you're supposed to enter the name "Computer 6." The technician is a nice older gent who explained he was only doing what he was told. I couldn't help but smile. Maybe that wasn't the correct reaction, but it was the most peaceful one I could think of. As of this writing, the problem still exists.

After this productive conference, I spoke with a gentleman who wanted to know how much we charged to come out and cover an event as a news story. Sorry, Sir. We don't do that. Even though I'd love to have the extra money.

After going through the emails and hyperlinks and whatnot... I ran across a story about an overzealous fan at a baseball game. This teen jumped the fence and ran across the field during the game because he was bored. The security detail not only chased him, but they TASED him. I thought Tasers were only for people who were a threat to others. I guess these powerful shock devices are being used out of convenience now.




Now I'm gearing up for city and school board elections. They're coming up this Saturday. We have a long way to go before we're ready to dish out the latest race data from place like Honey Grove, Muenster, and Sivells Bend. Then there are no less than a dozen people running for the city council over in Bells. Only 3 or 4 of them will win. Good luck!

Connecting with the home crowd

The other day I was driving to work and thinking about all the items on my to-do list. I have several of them. One of those lists is specifically for work items. It lives on a legal pad and constantly fills a page and a half. Some days are successful and I mark off an item or two. Other days aren't so successful (at least when you measure it by the to-do list.) My personal to-do list isn't kept on any piece of paper or in any notebook. If it did, it would probably drive me crazy.

On this short trip from the house, my mind wandered from the list to people who live around here. People I know, but not really. The difference is, I haven't met them even though I know them. Maybe it's better to say they know me. OK, I feel like I know them.

Paula Booth is the court clerk in my hometown. I know her well because my mother happens to be the judge. Together they work to keep the law in the town (while the police officers keep the order I guess?). Her mom & dad live here. Paula grew up in the Sherman area.

Marsha Telford's brother is a professor at Southeastern Oklahoma State across the river in Durant. Mrs. Marsha taught me and a few thousand others Sr. English. I learned about Chaucer and Shakespeare and a few others that stick with me.

Then there are Steve McMichael's in-laws. I believe they live over in Pottsboro. That's a stone's throw from Lake Texoma. I hear about them from time to time through facebook.

And then there are the Lenoir sisters.

"Oh, have you run into the Lenior sisters?"

That's the question I'm probably asked most often when I go home and mention my current city of residence. Regrettably, I have to say no, I have not run across the Lenoir sisters. But they must be quite a pair. I've been asked about them no less than a dozen times in the last 4 years from various town folk in De Kalb. Apparently, they've lived in this part of the country for quite some time. But their years in North Texas hasn't diminished their stature in West Bowie County. They may not know it, but if they did I would hope they'd find that something to be proud of. I know I would.

One time during a short visit to my house to see great-grandchildren, my own grandmother and a few other family members were sitting around the dining room table and the Lenoir sisters came up in conversation. Grandma Suck (pronounced like sook) even pulled out a Sherman-Denison telephone book and looked them up. We never called them though because it was late in the evening. We were afraid we might disturb them I suppose.

Then there's Mr. Arnold. I can't remember Mr. Arnold's last name. He approached me at one of those television station meet & greet events to say hello. We made small talk and I learned he retired years ago from the Comptroller's office. Even though the Comptroller of Public Accounts of the State of Texas has many employees, I figured why not ask if he knew my Uncle Henry Tidwell. Well, of course he did. He and Uncle Henry worked together many years in the Longview area.

And there's the nice couple who come to the Proctor family reunions over at the FBC De Kalb Family Life Center every year. I've seen them around here too. They told me last week they may not make it to this year's reunion because they're taking their grandson to New Mexico on vacation. Maybe next year. (Side note- my great-grandmother was a Proctor. Her father, Papa Ben Proctor's descendants number in the hundreds and they're spread across the globe while many of them still keep a De Kalb or Simms address.)

And maybe I'll run into the Lenoir sisters one of these days. Maybe before next time I'm asked about them when I go home. This has turned out to be a to-do list I don't mind having.

The joy of books

I'm hearing more comments about the decline of paper lately. I don't mean to say paper is going away, but fewer people are using it for what used to be common uses. Take the mail for example. When was the last time you wrote a handwritten letter to someone just to say hello?

I can't remember either.

More places are accepting your monthly bill online. I never carry cash anymore. I usually swipe a debit card. The only paper I usually see is the thin slip of thermal paper they give you when you've paid for something.

The other day, I picked up an old book I've been meaning to read. I first read it in high school and I forgot how the plot played out. I wanted to revisit it. I believe my mother gave me a used copy a while back, so I picked it up and started to follow along.

The story was better than I remembered. The book itself was a good one to hold. It even woke me up a few times as I dropped it on my face when i dozed off late at night.

Red hard back. The pages browned with age due to the acid in the pages. It smelled old. The story may be old too, but the mental images it brought me were as fresh as any movie.

With the rapid technological revolution upon us, I wonder how many more years it will be before we're done with paper books and bills and other items altogether.

It wasn't that long ago "record" stores began selling 8-track tapes. Then there were cassettes. Then along came CD's. But those mp3 files and web applications like i-tunes took hold. One day I looked up and the only 'record' sections I could find were at Wal-Mart or Hastings bookstores.

Transitions

Here in my office just outside the newsroom, you can hear and see a lot. It's what you don't see and hear from the people who pass my door as they hurry about their day that can make the workday interesting.

Nothing in particular here. There aren't a lot of whispers or gossip. It's more of a feeling in the air. It's a feeling of change coming. It's like the air just before a big spring thunderstorm blows across the horizon. You're not sure what's about to happen, but you can feel something is coming.

It's probably because some people are out on vacation. Others are just out. While at least one staffer is looking for that next career opportunity. Unfortunately it won't be with us, but they deserve a better career situation than their current one and I support them. It's almost a helpless feeling I can't help them advance here.





Every organization experiences this kind of thing. There are old dogs, new dogs, and dogs in-between. Some of the old dogs shuffle out while the new dogs trot in and the dogs in-between barely notice. That's unless there's a mass exodus or influx of new blood in the pack. In my tenure here, mass turnover has happened at least 3 times. It scares people. The viewers become worried. The staff becomes anxious. It's never as apocalyptic as some make it.





It's not exactly a sad feeling. It's more of an uncertain one. But it is a little exciting and anxious. Feeling the winds of change about to blow, only to wonder what those winds will bring.

Borrowing phrases...

Every broadcaster has a certain style. Some show theirs in the way they talk. Others demonstrate theirs as in their look. Retired WFAA weathercaster Troy Dungan was famous for his bow ties. The late Marvin Zindler at KTRK in Houston adorned himself with unique blue glasses and flashy white suits. Other broadcasters show their style with phrases and use them often.

I haven't really been anchoring very long. At least in any permanent capacity. In my present job, I've only been on the desk for a little more than 3 years. Before that, I co-anchored a morning newscast for around 11 months. Once I was promoted to the night shift, I figured why not start and end every newscast the same way. The news should be different from day to day, but the format should be somewhat familiar to your viewers. After all, you're guests in their homes when they watch.

"Hello there, I'm Charlie Haldeman..." is how most every top story script will begin, followed by a similar salutation from my co-anchor. The broadcasts conclude with a longer salute, "For David Reed, Maureen Kane, Steve LaNore, and everybody behind the camera, I'm Charlie Haldeman. We thank you for joining us. Good night."

I've been surprised people actually pay attention to those sentences. Even though it was my own adapted style, I never imagined people would come up to me later and give me compliments (or ridicule). To my amusement, both have happened with equal passion from messengers.

I started the whole "Hello there," after listening to some journalists say "Good Evening" or "Hello friends." And as innocent as it may sound, I actually borrowed the "Hello there" phrase.

Before I was born, a man named Earl Henshaw used to advertise on Texarkana television. I believe he owned a furniture store. In addition to this business, he was also a well-known leader of a gospel quartet on local radio. My parents used to imitate Henshaw's greeting at times, long after the commercials stopped airing. "Hello there, I'm Earl Henshaw," was his signature greeting. My father even introduced himself to my mother when they first met, "Hello there, I'm Earl Henshaw." My mother never forgot it. (No, that wasn't/isn't his real name).

I suppose the whole "Hello there" greeting is more of an inside joke than anything else.

The longer goodbye salute is no more than a tip of the proverbial hat to those dozen or more staff members you never see or hear from during the course of a broadcast. After all, to partially quote Walter Cronkite's farewell at CBS, we are but the most conspicuous of a superb team. I always thought they deserved some credit since on-screen credits were dropped from newscasts long ago.

To recite the short list of anchors on the desk is also a silent tribute to longtime Houston anchor Dave Ward, who continues to do this every night. You can see the KTRK newscast open & Dave's signature close here. I added the "and everyone behind the camera" as that extra tribute to our crew.

Just like borrowed clothes, I suppose you can borrow phrases, traditions, and anything else. Originality doesn't have to be your only source for a style.

PO'd about PIO's

Earlier today, a man took off in a small airplane in Georgetown, Texas and flew it right into an office building in Austin. Right now, two people are confirmed dead. Remarkably, only several people were injured. You can imagine the chaos on the scene and around the world on the news channels and internet. A plane flies into a building? Is it terrorism? Are there more coming? What's happening?

There's the key question any journalist worth their weight in salt should always ask. "What's happening?" Tom Brokaw once said that question was the one the late Tim Russert always used when greeting others. I subscribe to the theory of asking and the passion behind it.

Some time ago, organizations both public and private decided the best way to tell their story was to hire someone or a bunch of someones whose specialty was communication. Like any profession, there are good ones and there are bad ones.

Pardon the pessimism in this edition because I'm talking about the ones who've been bad at their jobs. They may be good ones, but that's for someone else to debate.

My list of worst local agencies that have poor track records of public information flow include the Grayson County Sheriff's Office, Denison Police Dept. (and city hall), and Carter County Sheriff's Office. Another that's rising to the top of the list is the Texas Department of Public Safety.

A few days ago, a young lady was walking along a country road before dawn when she was killed by a passing vehicle. She was on her way to work. The terrible ordeal was a terrible accident, the authorities determined. But it took more than 10 hours before anybody with knowledge or authorization to speak to the reporter inquiring. 10 hours. This was no murder investigation. I don't believe there was any fear of tipping off any suspects of any crime. Why take so long? I can only assume their reasons were justified. I understand it's courtesy to notify family members of a loved one's death before releasing their personal information to the public. That's not my beef here. Someone could've told what happened and kept their identity confidential long before the dozens of phone calls were made, including one to the top public information officer in Austin. More on them later.

Several weeks ago, a deputy sheriff was involved in a shooting with a man in the north part of the county. The scene was taped off with yellow tape. Our information about what was going on came from neighbors who were terrified at the time, and were more frustrated than we were because nobody would tell them what was going on either. One of our photojournalists went to the scene and was stopped at the imaginary perimeter, which is usual these days. We had video for the news and our website. We had little information from the location, and no information from anybody in the know.

It was more than a day later before a typed press release was emailed to media outlets. It left more questions than answers, which weren't really ever answered. Since nobody was reported to be hurt, it didn't become a big story and we all moved on. But still. It was the latest in a long list of examples of derelict. I write all this with mixed feelings, but the man in charge of public information for the Sheriff's Office is a great individual. He's as helpful as he can be when needed and he does indeed give information most of the time. During big stories like this though, it seems to be standard operating procedure to shut off the flow of info. By the way, we never did learn the deputy's identity or what happened to him. I hope he's fine and his actions were justified.

Today was a tragic day in Austin. Several agencies from the local, federal, and state levels are all working to get a clear picture of what happened. While the chaos was in full throttle at the crash site, national news organizations were starting to pick up the story from the local outlets. The website twitter was buzzing with the latest updates. Even the NTSB jumped in with a few small notes. Today also happened to be the appointed time the state's public safety commission got together. The director and other staffers from the Department of Public Safety were at that meeting. Take a look at snippets from my twitter feed below to see why I'm a little frustrated.

All politics is local

Politics is supposed to be local, at least that's what U.S. Rep. Tip O'Neill probably meant when he said that now famous quote. These days, candidates for office on the regional and national levels are steadily getting away from that practice. At least when it comes to the small towns and rural areas of the land.

Once upon a time, it wasn't just the local candidate who showed up on on the courthouse squares or the porches of general stores. Many of them spent as much time listening as they did talking.

I bring all this up because we are one week away from the party primaries in Texas. This election season doesn't seem very exciting. The one race around here people seem to be talking about is the primary election for Texas Governor. Governor Rick Perry is running once again. His G.O.P. challenger is U.S. Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison. They both have their talking points. Yet, it's all very routine despite the negative attacks hurled both ways.

They don't argue with each other out in public. They don't debate in a civil setting (other than a few television opportunities.) To me, they have yet to show who's the better candidate. Neither of them.

Instead, my email inbox has been filled with hundreds of messages from the camps of all candidates. The GOP candidates have been the worst by far though. Apparently, one of the candidates said something the other candidate didn't like. It obviously made them so mad, they sent out a flurry of emails bashing the other candidate.

On Friday, in the middle of our big snow event across the region, our email programs were full of snow pictures, school advisories, and traffic tips. Then, somebody floods the inbox with no less than a dozen unsolicited "Perry (or Hutchison, I can't remember which) said..."

I was more than slightly annoyed. I only needed one of those messages, not 12 to 15.

Furthermore, I never signed up for that mailing list in the first place.

And finally, I find it very interesting these campaigns are all over the place when it comes to sending information about their campaign or how awful their opponent is. But when someone finally wins office, the frequency of the messages drops to near zero.

End of rant.

Old habits are not hard to break... they just fade away

In 1996, I was introduced to the joys and pains of long distance running. Up until then, I didn't run much. I spent more time on top of a bicycle seat than I did on the ground in my growing up years.


After a week of boredom and being homesick at Texas A&M University, I joined the Corps of Cadets. They shaved my head, issued me several uniforms, and yelled at me every time I moved. I was quickly in touch with 15 to 18 other freshmen who had a week's head start on me. This was because they joined the ROTC program when they were supposed to join.


Early in the mornings before class, we often ran around campus as a group. This as a grueling experience as you can imagine. We ran in formation, much like any military platoon or outfit does. Besides being worn out, there were benefits.


I was able to see all the beauty the sprawling College Station campus had to offer. And it was at sunrise, which made it even more dramatic. We ran past the Administration Building, the statue of Sul Ross, Kyle Field, and other points of interest. It made running fun. After those days, running was no fun at all so I stopped.

On the days we didn't run, we did other rigorous exercises because we'd screwed up something. I never remember what we did wrong. For me, it was because I never kept my shoes shined. Sometimes I was forced to exercise because my grades were terrible. Too bad the push-ups, sit-up, squat-thrusts, and other sets weren't enough to improve my grades.


Since those days are gone, I've always associated exercise with pain and punishment. The running around campus is an exception of course. But lately, I've started going to an athletic club. You're supposed to do things like this to stay in shape. The trainer asked me on a scale of 1-10, what I felt my commitment level was. I told him a 6. I wanted to be a realist about the whole thing. After all, you hear stories of people who spend all this money to join a gym and then they quit going. He gave me a suspicious stare.


I don't want to be one of those people, but I wouldn't rule out the possibility. If I ever quit, it could be because I'm staring at large yellow walls inside a big metal gym. These days, on the electronic treadmill with the cable TV in front of you to watch while you run, you have to think back in your mind to visions of 45-50 young men and women running in step with a big old college campus to look at as you shuffle by.

Stop and Geaux

Much has been written and said about the Super Bowl champion New Orleans Saints football team. I saw some internet postings by native Louisianians who were very tired of all the Hurricane Katrina mentions. One person even suggested a drinking game to be played during the telecast. They said to take one drink every time Katrina was mentioned. Take another when Cinderella was mentioned. Perhaps many Saints fans participated in this because they sure looked crazy and wild down in the French Quarter after the game.

Despite 2005, I love that town. It's one of my favorite places to visit.

The last time I was there was around 2002. 12 of us rented a 42 foot long RV and left Bryan, Texas on a Friday night. I drove us along I-10 through Houston, Lake Charles, Lafayette, and Baton Rouge. We arrived in town around 9 Saturday morning. We enjoyed the city, the people, the food, the drink, and each other. Since I was the driver, I had the honor of picking how we traveled, the roads we took, and when we left.

We took the long way home. We stopped for lunch in Houma and enjoyed the best meat pies I've ever tasted. We capped that stop off with a midday parade down the city's main street. It was outstanding. I had the crew back in Bryan by 2 A.M. Monday morning.

Here's a picture of a quarter of our crew in the French Quarter.

I believe this was taken at Pat O'Briens.

Lesson learned

This is an actual bulletin from the Durant, Oklahoma Police Dept. The public information officer there says this actually happened. Actually, I laughed a little. I'm horrible for laughing, but chances are you'll laugh too. Actually...

020310

Public Intoxication

On 02-02-10 at 0358 hours, Jared Billy called the Durant Police Department. He asked the dispatcher if officers could give him a ride home because he was very drunk. Dispatch told him the police were not a taxi service. Mr. Billy started rambling on about being drunk and being at the 9th St. bar. Dispatch asked him if he wanted to speak with a supervisor at which point Capt. Andy Navid spoke with him over the phone. Mr. Billy stated he had been drinking a lot at the bar and later at a friends house. At first he wanted to tell Capt. Navid where he was so officers would stay away from there so he wouldn't go to jail. He later decided that someone needed to teach him a lesson and he needed to go to jail. He stated he was a block from his house at 7th and Alabama. Capt. Navid asked him “why don't you go home if you are a block away from your house.” He said because “I need to be taught a lesson.” He stated he would wait for Capt. Navid at 7th and Alabama. Billy was located at this location. He had bloodshot eyes, slurred speech, was very unsteady on his feet, and had an odor of an alcoholic beverage upon his breath. He was placed under arrest and transported him to Bryan County Jail.

THAT just happened...

I don't know who said it. It happened on one of those road trips from long ago. Something funny. It may have been at a Huntsville Wal-Mart parking lot at 3am or it could have been in North Pole, Oklahoma on a Saturday afternoon. Three words with extra emphasis on the first.

"THAT just happened."

Maybe it was Austin. Maybe it was Galveston. It could have been West Texas, where the rolling plains give way to flat, unforgiving country that appears to be terribly boring. Phrases like this were usually the follow-up to something that broke the silence and the distance.

I'm almost sure it wasn't West Texas, but that doesn't matter.

"THAT just happened." It's something that's usually said out loud just after a burst of laughter. You might say it if you've ever seen first hand what's featured on the website http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/ or the awful antics of people who post last night's text messages on the vulgar http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/

I've heard it many times before and each time I have to smile.

That's probably because it carries over to the profession. Journalism these days is all about social media, two-way communication, and technology. Those are some new ways to get tell the story.

But one of the principal tenets of the craft that remain the same: We're supposed to do our best to tell people, "THAT just happened."

A handyman malfunction

One of the many rituals of the weekend is attempting to check off an item or two from a growing list of tasks around the home place. This week's list had a new addition. One of our kitchen cabinet doors came loose from its proper place. In frustration, I removed the door and propped it against the fridge a few days ago.


Unlike other projects I've put off for days, weeks, and even months; I attempted to take care of this one with some sort of urgency. In the process, I managed to ram a screwdriver into my upper lip, which left a small but painful cut.


The pain was worse than the actual wound. As it happened, I just knew it was going to bleed everywhere. I mean it felt like it. As I held my mouth and stumbled to the bathroom for treatment, I thought I could feel the blood pouring from the lip.

Nope. No such thing happened. There was no grotesque wound. There was no major swelling. No need for stitches down at the local emergency room. No need for shock and awe from other members of the household.


I've always known I don't tolerate pain very well but this would have to be a record set for the most pain with the least amount to show.


Take a look.





Does that look like it hurt? You can't even tell it's cut, can you? No, I can't either.



How it happened: Instead of using a step ladder, I climbed upon the kitchen counter with the cabinet door, 4 screws, wood glue, and a screwdriver in hand. I successfully screwed the first top screw in its place and went to work on a bottom screw. As I go to work on the bottom screw, the top screw popped out of its hole, sending the door toward my face. I go to catch it with both hands... I caught it for sure. In my left hand was the screw driver, which ended up in my lip with weapon-like accuracy.


After a few minutes tending to the small wound, I finally secured the cabinet door and looked to see the rest of my to-do list.

Next up: Replacing a rotting back door. Surely that won't be dangerous.

Winter weather or midget wrestling?

I recently posted a note on the facebook page making fun of an event at a local watering hole. The event is "Extreme Midget Wrestling." This isn't just wrestling. It's extreme.



For several days leading up to this event, I ran into several people who seemed to be excited about such a thing. They planned to go and see these people fight each other under the banner of "midgetry."



One of my reporters at the television station pitched a story idea about covering the crew that puts this show together. I agreed because I'd heard enough people talking about it, and wondered what people of short stature would think. That's one of the monikers that's preferred by an association dedicated to little people, "people of short stature."

You can see reporter Maddie Garrett's dispatch here.

The other big story of the day is winter weather. Of course it was the first story of the 6 O'clock news. The wrestling piece was at the top of what we call the B-Block. One side note about our business- Usually when journalists cover stories at ticketed events, the venue will let them in free of charge. Today when Maddie and producer Stormi O'donnell were asked by organizers if they were coming to the big event, they said they were. The organizers told them they could buy their tickets for just $12.

As for me, I've declined to attend.

When it rains... or snows

Winter weather is about to move in again. I'm a vocal proponent of Spring and its beauty. Spring teased us a little with temperatures in the early 70's. The warm air moved in not long after a bout with near-record cold. But the hint of warmth in the North Texas air is about to end, at least temporarily.

Earlier this month, temperatures were in the teens and the wind howled from the north with a fierce bite. It cut through me every time I stepped outside. I'm glad to see this round won't be like the last.

But it's still dreadful to me.

Spring time will be here before we know it.

I hope so.

Accomplishments in the new year (and before)

Christmas wasn't really that long ago but it sure feels like it. At least to me it does. I looked up at the calendar on my office wall just now and noticed we've moved past Martin Luther King Jr. Day, New Year's, and Christmas. Funny how that happened. I barely noticed.

What I did notice were some minor things that I've accomplished since Christmas. A couple of weeks ago, the temperatures dipped into the teens and the cold wind froze the water in our pipes under the house. At the time I discovered it, it was too early to tell if the pipes had burst. As I put on the old, thick coveralls and prepared to crawl underneath our home I certainly hoped the damage was minimal.

It turns out they were only stopped up with ice. It took several hours and a half-day off from work but with the help of a blowtorch, I managed to thaw out the frozen pipes. So far this year, that's probably my biggest accomplishment to date.

It's almost a shame too because millions of people have raised billions of dollars to help thousands of people in Haiti. That's quite an accomplishment. The earthquake there turned every one's attention to a country that already had major problems before the event. My co-anchor visited Haiti once around two years ago to help her dad, who is a doctor. He volunteers there and she went along for a few days once. She saw first-hand how the people in that country lived before and her stories weren't promising then. She doesn't talk much about the trip, but I know she had a good time giving aid to those who needed it. I remember she returned bearing gifts. I received a nice bottle of rum.

That bottle sits on a shelf in my workshop, not far from the blowtorch I used a few weeks ago. Both haven't really been used to their full potential since I acquired them.

I've never been a fan

The phrase "humpday." It means you're over the hump of a long week and it's supposedly a downhill slide to the weekend. Humpday. It's not anywhere near my favorite made-up words. I can't say I hate it but I sure don't use it.

Wednesday is one of my "long days" at work. More on that in a future blog. But Wednesday does mark a small accomplishment for countless people who do the Monday through Friday schedule so i guess that's why the verbal garbage remains part of our collective vocabularies.

When I see the word hump, it brings to mind several things. Of course there's the sexual reference, but that's usually not the first on my list. Really.

I come from a railroad family so the phrase "DO NOT HUMP" is up there. The "DO NOT HUMP" sentence can be see on rail cars that carry mixed freight across the country. It's usually on rail cars that are "piggy back," meaning the flat cars haul shipping containers or trailers that are pulled by 18-wheelers on the highway.

Then there's the "HUMP IT" phrase from my days at Texas A&M. During football games and yell practices, the yell leaders down in the front would holler, "HUMP IT AGS" which signaled us to bend slightly forward and put our hands on our slightly bent knees and prepare to start yelling those chants you hear at Aggie athletic contests. Those are often the subject of humor by people from outside the world of Aggieland, but I digress.





Humpday. Not a fan. Any day I can get away from the windowless office of mine (including while I'm still on the job) is a day I claim allegiance to.

Dreams of the big city

The other night I had a dream I was in a large city. This is notable because I don't remember dreams very often these days. I've been told by somebody it's probably because I don't sleep very well. I don't remember who. The dream was short and I remember being sad.

This episode begins in the middle of a city block with old towering

buildings near and far. I assume this city was New York, but I don't know. The buildings were brick and mortar with old style windows. There weren't any glass skyscrapers that I can recall. It was a cold and overcast day. No sun was seen in the sky. Only gray. There may have been ice on the ground, but not much.

All that happens in this dream? I stand there on the sidewalk looking out onto the street in front of me and the towering buildings that dotted the skyline for as far as can be seen.

People hurried by. Cars traveled down the wet and icy road. I don't remember noise, but I remember the activity around me. I remember starting to feel sad. It was the same kind of feeling you might get when you weep. Or maybe it's the feeling you have just before you start to bawl. And I felt homesick.

When I say homesick, I don't mean longing for my home and family here. I wanted to go back to De Kalb and see my parents and other members of the family. I remember thinking of them while standing there on that street corner and how far away I felt from all of them. The irony is (don't all dreams have some hint of irony?) some of these loved ones of mine have been dead for years now.

The dream fades from memory shortly after the sadness overtook me. I woke up barely remembering I'd even dreamed at all. I may have even awoke in a good mood. This was several days ago, so I don't remember for sure.

I wonder what it all meant?

Back to the books

Lately, the region where I spend most of my time has been graced with weather that's not characteristic of January. It's been sunny with temperatures reaching until the upper 60's and lower 70's. That could be why I've been feeling a bit restless lately.

In addition to the urge to get up, get out, and go do something, I've also started to read more. For one reason or another, I got away from reading books. About the only thing I've read on a regular basis besides articles on the Internet has been Texas Monthly. That magazine comes every month to the mailbox in addition to its online additions.

Last week, I went back to the hometown for a minute or two and caught up with my mother and father. Mama had just finished Teddy Kennedy's autobiography, "True Compass." She offered to loan me her copy, so back to Sherman I went with the book in tow.

So far, it's a quick read. It's easy to follow along the usual path of the Kennedy dynasty, especially if you're already aware of those events that lead up to Ambassador Joseph Kennedy's assignment in London before World War II, Jack Kennedy's ascension to the White House, etc. I suppose what makes it quick to follow is the book is filled with the back stories you don't know. How their father and mother managed to amass their wealth... Where they lived, what they did in the summers, and so on. I'm half way through the book right now. So far, very little of this book is what I'd call political ideology. Of course, there are a few paragraphs but what do you expect? Kennedy was a politician and one of the most well-known of our time.

In addition to the reading, I spent part of the weekend outside. I washed off the front porch of the home place and let the kids play in the front yard. They don't get to do this often even though they seem to prefer it. My wife wonders why. I think it's because there's no fence out front. I remember that feeling as a kid. There was more to see. More cars passing, more people on the sidewalks, and the lack of a fence make the yard feel more wide open.

I began to start daydreaming about things I'd like to accomplish with the house. A NEW fence is desperately needed in the back. The kitchen and bathroom are screaming for handy work. There's that problem of the old pier & beam foundation needing a level. After the reading and the mental list making, I got tired and went in the house for a nap.

Here's a look at my reading "list" at work. These are magazines, catalogs, and other essays from near and far about journalism, broadcasting, technology, and other related materials. The metal object shoved among the stack is the CD player from a closed-down bar just up the street. It doesn't work.

Even this pile makes me want another nap.

2010: A Space Oddity

Do you remember the movie 2010? It's a science fiction flick that deals with HAL 9000 the supercomputer and a big trip to Jupiter. It picks up where the movie 2001: A space Odyssey left off.

Now that it is 2010 for real, I think I'll have to look at this movie again to see what they were thinking when that filmed it all those years ago. The web nugget wikipedia has a long list of differences between today and when the movie was made. There are plenty of interesting facts like how the Astrodome is referenced, the cold war is over, and other inconsistencies.

On another note, happy new year! Here's to hoping there aren't any HAL 9000 malfunctions this year.