I wish I had met Trojanowski when he was alive. Not only was he a former journalist for the Associated Press, he was a fellow overnighter.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
September 4, 2013
I wrote an obituary type thing:
Duck "Doug" Silverman came into my life about 14 years ago. He was picked up by the State running through South Central with no collar, tags or chip. Nobody claimed or adopted him so a no-kill shelter took him in. That’s where I found him -- at that shelter, in Van Nuys. Since then we have slept most every night together (and many lazy afternoons.) When we first met, the vet approximated his age at 5 ½ so I’d say he was about 19 as of yesterday, September 3, 2013.
He was a happy dog, though serene. And stoic. And he loved love.
Over the past few years he became blind, deaf, and arthritic. But with a great vet, good meds, and a first rate seeing-eye person named me, he truly seemed comfortable.
Recently, however, he stopped eating or drinking. He was skin and bones and so weak. I couldn’t figure out this hunger strike. Duck had never been political before. And then, over the weekend, I knew. It was time to let him go.
My boyfriend Kyle flew in late last night and took the day off from work to be with us. We laid in bed and massaged his tiny body, as we love to do – hearing his little “I’m in heaven” breaths.
The doctor came and Kyle, my sister, Laura and I laid on the bed. I held him close – in our usual spoon position and stroked him. I told him how loved he was, and thanked him for giving me such happiness and for his unwavering companionship and love. The doctor gave him a shot and he fell asleep, and then another that was basically an overdose of sleeping meds. I held him and kissed him and whispered to him well passed his passing. I picked him up and his body was limp – you don’t think about the head – it just falls. I held him so tight. And then finally, when his body lost its heat, and I could sense the doctor thinking about the imminent rush hour traffic, I handed him over.
My longest relationship.
My only experience of maternal love.
My constant companion.
My best friend.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
“Jerry chronicled the lives of so many people in the city, from all walks of life,” said Tribune-Review Editor Frank Craig. “His words provided comfort to many families in a time of grief and made him a well-known, well-loved figure in our community. He took great pride in his work, and he leaves a wonderful journalistic legacy.”
For more, click here.
Sunday, August 04, 2013
To enter, send an email with the subject line, Little Black Trains. Include your email address and favorite quote about death or obituaries in the body of the email. You do not have to be a member of SPOW to participate.
Deadline is Aug. 10.
Winners will be selected at random from all properly-formatted entries.
Here's the summary for "Little Black Trains: A Tale of Life, Death and Commuting" (Shaftoe Publishing, June 2013):
A prominent BBC reporter is murdered in mysterious circumstances. Her colleague, Ben Murray, has to produce her obituary for that day’s TV news bulletins. Ben commutes each day by train with another obituary writer, Steve Graham from The National Herald newspaper. Listening to Ben’s stories convinces Steve to move from sport to obituaries at his paper. Despite their shared profession, they differ in the subjects they choose. While Ben deals with the famous, Steve prefers the Morris dancer who performed before The Queen with a ferret down his trousers or the singing bus conductor. Sometimes Steve includes more details in his obits than is good for him. One thing they agree on, though, is that obituaries are about life, not death.
Among the odd characters they and their clique encounter on their daily commute is an old woman they call The Crone. One day, Steve spies her in the street and decides to follow her out of curiosity. As a result, he becomes accidentally embroiled in a web of murder and intrigue that sucks his friends in too and provides him with plenty of material for his weekly obituary column.
During his two decades at the BBC, Chaundy produced hundreds of obituaries for television and the Web, so he has the inside track on what it really means to be an obit writer. "Little Black Trains" is his debut novel, and one he describes as "by far and away his best."
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Check out the first graf here for vocabulary: "is no more" stedda "died." Also "doyen," "breathed his last" and "last remains." Later: "broked," "condoled,"
The attention to the manner of death reminds me of 19th century obits, which frequently included dramatic accounts of the deceased's last moments. You almost never see that nowadays.
The Assam Tribune Pvt Ltd