"Always happy to save a reporter's ass"

A Vanitas Still Life, by Pieter Claesz (Franz Hals Museum)

     Sixty-five is not 57. That's for sure. While living through my 50s I felt I was bustling around the anteroom of age, now I feel I've entered in, found a comfortable chair, and am contemplating the effort of getting up while watching the clock tick.
     COVID must have had something to do with it. Society shut down. More than a million Americans died —a fact our nation just shrugged off. We all stopped going to work and despite continual corporate vows to the contrary, never really went back.

     It's not just perception. The world is definitely more menacing. In his second term, Donald Trump has gotten better at destroying America, and has an army of lapdogs and sycophants eager to help him. But life also just seems more disordered, chaotic, confusing, objectionable.

     Last Wednesday I wrote a column analyzing the word "fuck," since Gov. JB Pritzker told our loathsome leader to "fuck all the way off." It was dashed in the paper, f - - -, but I was amazed they ran it at all. These are desperate times, and I think the general timidity that can affect newspaper editors is being sandblasted away by children being snatched off the street and sent to detention centers in Texas. Now is not the time to debate fine points.
     Regarding "fuck," a number of readers felt Pritzker shouldn't have said it. "I was taught casual swearing is laziness at best and a corrupted heart at worst," one sniffed. Which did not strike me as odd until I noticed this post, from 2018, "Is Ivanka Trump a feckless cunt." It had ... just a more buoyant spirit to it. No one in the comments dabbed a perfumed hankie to their lips and recoiled in horror from the term. 

     Sure, maybe it was because I wrote it exclusively for the blog, with none of the toning down that a newspaper requires. That could be it.

     Still, I thought to myself: "We're growing old, all of us, me and the readers combined, a bunch of seniors in a barrel going over the falls of life, heading to the rocks."
     Too stark? Maybe because a certain reader weighs in, in a footnote, brushing off my concerns, "Honey, I'm your mother. C'mon," and I realized again how much I miss her. Maybe because another colleague died the other day, Mo Cotter. Almost a quarter century on the copy desk. I remember her only vaguely: no-nonsense, in a good way, with just a crinkle of humor at the corner of an eagle eye. I plugged her name into gmail, and years of interactions came up, mostly her telling me I'd made some goof and she was fixing it, half courtesy, half reprimand. In 2012 I'd quoted a St. Josephinum English teacher Haley Coller. "I find a Hayley Keller on the school's faculty list," Cotter wrote. "OK if I change it?"

     Shit yes. I felt like a man, about to step off a cliff, who felt a sudden tug on his shirt. Mistakes are bad and screwing up names is particular bad. The scar of the Medill F stung. I thanked her profusely.
     "That's my job," Cotter replied, with customary terseness. 

      "Nevertheless, not everyone would look that up — I should have and didn't," I continued, "— so I appreciate you sparing me a lousy day tomorrow."
     "If I don't know a name or if it just looks funny, I look it up," she wrote back, subtly reminding me: do better. "I'm always happy to save a reporter's ass."

     Mo was 64. A year younger than me. 

     I made that last quote into the headline of today's post, as a kind of tribute, looked at it, and realized there was no possessive in "reporters." Had Cotter made a mistake herself? I thought, with a flash of something like excitement — we reporters secretly loved the rare-to-almost nonexistent times it is the copy desk in error. I glanced at her email. No, the fault was mine, of course. She used it. I dropped the possessive, typing the line in. Should have cut and pasted. We have to be so careful not to drop things, in the shortening period before, one fine day, everything simply drops.