My USC-Clemson front

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The puzzle

The St. George's Cross

The Bronze Pelican

Father Frank, the pastor of Jesus Our Risen Savior Parish in Spartanburg, delivered the homily at Dad's funeral Mass.
He didn't get into too many specifics, and some in the family were initially disappointed in that.
He has a theme he uses often, my mother said. He talks about visiting cemeteries and mostly finding pleasant stories by piecing together the information on the headstones.
He also once saw his own name on a headstone and high-tailed it out of there.
And he started Dad's homily by talking about some cemeteries.
Like all of us, we believed Dad was the greatest man to walk the earth, actually exceeding a certain carpenter's son from Nazareth, so we wanted the specifics. I also wanted them because he and Mom visited the day before and he quizzzed her, and he took notes.
He did allow a eulogy of sorts right before the Mass ended, which is not strictly in the Catholic rite. And I got to say the words I said below, to offer a little glimpse.
And Fr. Frank did get into some specifics later in the homily.
My dad went to Ireland as a young man, he said.
"And they didn't want to give him back," he added, making us laugh. He went for a summer visit and got stuck when World War II broke out. Fear of U-boats.
I don't want to dismiss the sermon as an easy, boilerplate homily, though, because of the way it made me think when Fr. Frank also talked about the puzzle.
The list of things he might have said would be just pieces in a puzzle, he said. You don't know what the whole picture is until you put it all together.
And before the day was out, I got what he meant.
But I have to add to Fr. Frank, that sometimes, you can make out part of the puzzle as you do it.
My wife and son did a 1,000-piece puzzle on the dining room table once.
Was this red dot a flower on the house? Nope. Later, it turned out to be part of the small canoe of the guy on the lake.
Surrounding me at the funeral were pieces in my father's puzzle.
Three young men were the altar servers. They were brothers, all sons of a friend of my sister Anne. The Ravan boys. They are all my father's godsons.
As we were sitting in the limo, waiting to go to the cemetery, a young lady approached the car to talk to Mom. I thought it was a woman I remembered, but it was her daughter. She was the spitting image of her mom, now grown up. She used to come over to the house and was Dad's second unofficial grandchild in Spartanburg.
But she was his goddaughter.
Her mother? My mom and dad were her sponsors when she decided to become a Catholic.
Boom boom boom.
Pieces of the puzzle, right there, and pieces in the same area of the puzzle.
I also thought as we came back to church for a lunch provided by the Bereavement Guild at the church about Dad's obituary. I wrote the main body of it, and mentioned that my father had received two awards from the Catholic Church and Boy Scouting, the Bronze Pelican and the St. George's Cross.
I don't know what specifics were cited when my father was nominated, but here's what a current application form for the award says about them --

• "The St. George Award is a national recognition approved by the National Catholic Committee on Scouting. The Bronze Pelican Award is a diocesan recognition defined by the Diocesan Catholic Committee on Scouting with the approval of the local ordinary. Either award may be presented to any adult who is working in the Scouting Program. It may be given to clerics, laity, or Scouters of other faiths. 
• "The purpose of these awards is to recognize each recipient's outstanding contribution to the spiritual  development of Catholic youth in the program of the Boy Scouts of America. Other awards are available to  recognize general Scouting achievements by districts, local councils, regions, and the national office.  However, recommendations for the St. George and Bronze Pelican Awards should carefully detail how the nominee meets the selection guidelines described below. 
• "... In most cases, the Bronze Pelican is presented to a first-time selected  nominee. The St. George Award is presented to a nominee who has previously received the Bronze Pelican Award and who has continued to significantly influence Catholic Scouting for at least two additional years."

In a life having gone to hundreds of Masses, I vaguely remember a piece here or there of a few sermons, even from priests that I respect, admire and love.
But I can remember walking home one night, accompanied for a time by Mr. Nicholas Palazzo, our adult scout leader, who was teaching the class so us Scouts in Troop 56 could get our Ad Altare Dei awards. That's the award for Catholic Boy Scouts. We had already gotten our Parvuli Dei awards, the award for Catholic Cub Scouts. I remember a specific lesson Mr. Palazzo told me after class about the Beatitudes and about mercy.
We were definitely a Catholic Scout troop and one of the tasks they took seriously was teaching us our faith -- in a way that got us medals we could hang from our uniforms.
Again, I don't remember what my dad did for his, because they obviously wouldn't let him sign off on his own kids. But I remember we drove upstate once when he got his Bronze Pelican, and I think Monsignor Vier of St. Raymond's was there to give it to him. I remember he got his St. George's Cross at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City, the same day my brother got his Ad Altare Dei there.
Boom boom boom. More pieces of the puzzle. Same area of the puzzle. The picture really took shape.
It didn't occur to me until I started writing this to add in my father's two daughters and his two sons, whom he, along with Mom, made sure got to church every Sunday when we were growing up. Whom he put through seven to eight years of parochial school. Two daughters who got one to two years at Catholic high schools. The schooling was not free in any way.
At the luncheon after the funeral and even more clearly now, I see "the guy on the canoe in the middle of the lake" in the puzzle that is my father.
Given that we are not yet complete, and we are not sure to what degree of success it has happened, still it is clear, my father was a man who brought other people to God.
My pastor has a theme he uses often in his sermons.
"Who here wants to go to Heaven?" he asks. All the hands go up.
"Who here wants to be a saint?"
The hands go down.
Which perplexes and confounds him. Because by definition, if you go to Heaven, you are a saint. So to go to Heaven, you have to try to be a saint.
"We are called to be saints," he says, chiding us.
I don't know how many times my father was a godfather. I think about the two times I have been asked and done it, and I realize what a poor job I have been doing with my goddaughter Gracie and my godson Talmadge. That I hope to change.
I don't know how many Cub and Boy scouts he counseled on their way to a chest ribbon or two. Had to be more than a few to get those awards. The Bronze Pelican might have be pro forma thank you for anyone who pitches in. But the St. George's Cross? Not for a slacker.
So the clear picture I am getting from this part of the puzzle that is my father is this -- he was a holy man.
It is not hyperbole. I am not bragging on him. Rather, it is daunting to have that example to follow up to.
About a week or so before he died, Fr. Frank came to visit him. He gave him, he told my mother, the Anointing of the Sick. That is the more-used name of the Sacrament that doubles as Last Rites. And he did mention that my father would obtain a plenary indulgence upon death, so Dad got the Last Rites. He also took Communion, which in that context, is called Viaticum. Food for the journey. Fr. Frank also asked Dad if he had anything to confess. He said he did.
Fr. Frank promptly kicked my mother and sister out of the room and heard Dad's confession. A couple of minutes later, he was out and looking for Mom and Catherine.
"Where did you go?" he said.
Mom said she figured he would need some time, and Fr. Frank said, "You, maybe. Not him."
Knowing he had confession, an anointing and communion, I put on Facebook, as a joke, that Bud was an instrument of grace. But that's usually been the case.
It was just a bit of Catholic humor.
Now that I'm putting the puzzle together, I realize.
It was no joke.
The fact that there is a new saint in heaven is no joke.
The fact that we can call him St. Bud. That's a joke.

One he would tell, over and over again.

New Maronite pastor asks for fledging flock's compassion

New Maronite pastor asks for fledging flock's compassion

Eulogy, Stephen Christopher Guilfoyle Sr.

To my non-Catholic friends, I will explain as a preface that a personal eulogy is not generally a part of the Catholic funeral mass, but, depending on the priest you have and the sympathy he has for parishioners and family, it can be allowed.
I found out about 11 p.m. Monday night that Fr. Frank Palmieri would allow anyone who wanted a chance to say something, so I put this together. I had been thinking about some things beforehand, but then had gotten the impression they weren't going to do it. So it was not what I might have done if I had time to really work on it. And, as with the one other time I was allowed to do this, I heard something during the service and had to improvise. I went off-script a lot, and don't remember all my changes, so I added in my improvization and tried to approximate my on-the-fly edits.

Among the many things my father gave his children, particularly his sons, was a love of the movies. He loved movies. My mother will tell you that many of the dates they went on when he was courting her were to the movies, and involved hot dogs. He was a big spender.

His favorite movie was, of course, The Quiet Man, starring John Wayne. He could quote the dialogue verbatim from his favorite scenes. If he was flipping channels and happened to find it on, he would start watching. Often, we would see this, and tell him, “We’ve got the tape. We can stick it in and watch the whole thing, without commercials.” But he would say no. He had been transported wherever he went and didn’t want to go back. Driving his sons crazy.

An online posting from an old family friend called him “The Quiet Man,” and it made my sister and my mother choke up to read it. The friend saw something we saw in him; we were glad to see that others saw it to.

If you watch it and like it, the next time you see it, think of my father.

It is hard to be the type of man my father was. I hope I have learned from his example, and I want to teach my son to be the kind of man my father was. He is a gentle boy.

To my mother, I saw the remarkable care you and Catherine gave him, and it was out of love.

You have many memories to cherish, but the thing I truly grieve about is that you have lost your dance partner. I am sad because we are so left-footed. But I think John won’t mind my speaking on his behalf here. If you need a dance partner, we are here for you. As long as it is slow music and not too complicated.

It needs to be said again and loudly, that my sister Catherine basically moved into the house in the final weeks to assist Mom in taking care of Dad.

I had an asthma attack once and it put me in Mary Black Hospital. I ended up on her floor. And when she came in to my room that first time, I expected to get it, both barrels, from someone who knew all my faults. Something tough. Too tough.

When she left, I asked, “Who was that nice girl who looks like my sister?”

She was the most gentle, kindly and caring nurse I have ever had.

I once applied for a job at a newspaper, and the editor told me his father had been on her floor, and that he received excellent care from the redhead.

I know how well you cared for Dad because I know how well you cared for me. I know also that Dad would not want you to get so caught up and involved in what happened to him that you forget to take care of yourself. He wants you to continue to care for many, many others as well as you cared for him, for years and years to come. He was proud that you chose your career, and he is beyond proud with the way you have conducted your career.

I am proud of both you and mom for taking such good care of him. He died, in gentle comfort, at his home, in his own bed, because of you and your love for him.

Lastly, I am improvising here, but I have heard Psalm 23 before, but never quite the way it was worded today. Everyone has said what a kind man my father was. I was looking at some pictures at my brother’s home, of a trip my father took to Ireland with John and his wife. That was when Dad was beginning to slow down. And in several pictures, Dad is lagging steps behind.

You should not laugh during the responsorial Psalm, but I couldn’t help it when I heard the cantor sing, “Kindness shall follow you the rest of your days.”

Because Dad was kindness personified. And he was following us the past few years.

Ps: A1 & A2- Psalm 23

Response: The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
In verdant pastures he gives me repose;
Beside restful waters he leads me, he refreshes my soul.
Response

He guides me in right paths for his name's sake.
Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil; for you are at my side With your rod and your staff that give me courage.
Response

You spread the table before me in the sight of my foes;
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Response

Only goodness and kindness follow me all the days of my life;
And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for years to come.
Response

Stephen C. Guilfoyle, Sr., 82

Stephen Christopher Patrick Guilfoyle, 82, passed away June 29, 2013, at his home, surrounded by family.

Born Dec. 5, 1930, in New York, N.Y., Mr. Guilfoyle worked as a creditmanager in the textile industry for Springs Mills in New York City, then with Reeves Brothers in Spartanburg.

He was a veteran, first serving in the 165th Division of the U.S. Army National Guard, “The Fighting 69th," the Irish Division. He then enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, serving in the American occupation force in Germany, reaching the rank of buck sergeant.

He and the love of his life, Mary Enright Guilfoyle of the home, celebrated 50 years of marriage on June 1, 2013.  They have four children whom they never stopped loving and teaching.

As a youth, he went for what was to be a brief stay with his grandmother inLimerick, Ireland.  With the outbreak of World War II, he was forced to remain in Ireland for the duration of the war.  When he finally was able to return, his Irish friends were still calling him “Yank” because of his American accent.  But when he returned to New York, his friends noted his Irish accent.

He had a remarkable tenor voice that he kept mostly to himself, but he joined it with others as a member of the choir of St. Raymond Catholic Church and the Bronx Chorale Society. With both, he performed Handel's "Messiah" at St. Raymond 's and "Carmina Burana" at Alice Tully Music Hall in New York's Lincoln Center.

When Mr. Guilfoyle moved his family to Spartanburg in 1980 he was able to escape, for a time, the childhood nickname of “Buddy” his brother had bestowed on him in his crib.  But it gradually returned as “Bud.”

He was a Boy Scout in Ireland.  As an adult in the Bronx, he became a volunteer leader of Cub Scout Pack 56 at St. Raymond’s when his sons joined.  When his sons advanced to the Boy Scout troop, he remained with the Cubsas its Pack Leader.  For assisting in leading Scouts to develop their Catholic faith, he earned two awards given to adult Scout leaders – the Bronze Pelican and the St. George’s Cross.

In Spartanburg, he and his wife Mary became early members of Our Risen Savior Parish, where he served for a time on the parish finance committee.

He was a fan of the Dodgers, and his favorite player was Jackie Robinson.  But when the Dodgers left Brooklyn for Los Angeles, he never followed a professional sports team again.  He became a fan of the University of South Carolina.

He was predeceased by his parents, John P. Guilfoyle and Mary “Mae” Hayes Guilfoyle, as well as his older brother, John P. Guilfoyle, Jr.

In addition to his wife, Mary Enright Guilfoyle, he is survived by his sister, Eileen Guilfoyle Skeahan and husband, John Skeahan of Texas; his daughter, Anne Guilfoyle Pyle and husband Glenn of Villa Rica, GA; daughter, Catherine Mary Guilfoyle of Spartanburg; son, Stephen C. Guilfoyle, Jr. and his wife Patricia of Fort Mill; grandson, Stephen C. Guilfoyle III of Fort Mill; son, John Michael Guilfoyle and wife Deborah Gardner Guilfoyle of Spartanburg; and many beloved nieces and nephews, cousins and friends.

They will all remember Mr. Guilfoyle as a kind, gentle, funny man.  He gave out smiles and laughs, belittled no one and taught others by his quiet example.

A Rosary will be recited at 6:30 p.m. Monday, July 1, 2013 at Floyd’s Greenlawn Chapel, 2075 E. Main St., Spartanburg, SC 29307.  Visitation will follow until 8:30 PM.  A Mass of Christian Burial will be at 10 a.m. Tuesday, July 2, 2013 at the Catholic Church of Jesus Our Risen Savior, conducted by the Rev. Frank Palmieri, CRM.  Burial will be in Westwood Memorial Gardens, 6101 Reidville Road, Moore, SC 29369.

In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to The Catholic Church of Jesus our Risen Savior Building Fund, 2575 Reidville Road, Spartanburg, SC 29301 or Spartanburg Regional Hospice Home, 686 Jeff Davis Drive, Spartanburg, SC 29303.

The family is at the home.

An online guest register is available at www.floydmortuary.com

Floyd’s Greenlawn Chapel

There have been some nice comments on the obit on the funeral home's website, here, and on the Hearald Journal/Legacy.com, here. But the Legacy.com one won't be up forever.

Everything I needed to know about journalism, I learned from'Superman the Movie'

(This is a blast from the past.)

When I was 13, I heard a promise, repeated and repeated and repeated.

“You will believe a man can fly.”

Superman: The Movie, I know now, was being hyped and marketed and it had a catchphrase that stuck.

Unlike a lot of marketing moves, this one was 100 percent successful. When the movie came out, I saw it, and I believed a man could fly.

Flash forward a bit. It is 2003 or ‘04. Having just completed a round of tailgating with friends before a football, I get my sideline photo pass, grab up my cameras and head to Williams-Brice Stadium to cover a USC football game. As a graduate, but a journalist as well, I had to tread the line and not show any partiality. I had so many USC hats, I had to leave them all behind.

I grabbed a blue hat given me for Christmas or my birthday one year, from thorn-in-my-side oldest sister Anne.

I thought nothing about the hat that day, just that it was not a USC hat, so I’d be safely innocuous. If there was a too-loud cheer in the press box for a good play, suspicion would immediately fall on me if I wore the garnet and black of my beloved Gamecocks.

So it was, I thought, going to make me safe.

But it stood out in another way. It must have struck a chord with one of the Richland County deputies guarding the gates.

“Are you Superman?” he asked. I blinked, having forgotten what hat I was wearing. It was a blue hat, but with the stylized red and yellow 'S" shield of Superman.

“No,” I said. “But I am Clark Kent."

The beginning bit about the movie does lead to the latter bit about the football game. I write for a lot of reasons, but most were set well in stone when my main career goals were to be a Jedi Knight or at least a pilot.
Another movie put me on the road to being a writer.

But when the decision was made to be a writer, it was Superman: The Movie that set in stone for me what kind of writer I was going to be.

Everything I needed to know about journalism, I learned by watching Superman.

You quiz most journalists my age, and they’ll say All The President’s Men is their favorite journalism movie. More artsy types will throw Citizen Kane out there.

There was a movie way back in which Humphrey Bogart plays a reporter or an editor. Can’t remember. Just caught the tail end of it.

“This ain’t the oldest profession in the world, kid,” he tells a flunky. “But it’s the best.”

Still holds true today.

Superman: The Movie is about criminal masterminds and earthquakes and a certain son of Krypton. But you could pull out all the special effects and still have a GREAT newspaper movie. And any reporter around 40 years old who doesn't list Superman: The Movie as an influence is lying.

The fastest typist I’ve ever seen

When I “matriculated” to the University of South Carolina’s College of Journalism, the dean doing my advising was clear. I either had to pass a typing test registering me at 35 words per
minute, or I’d have to take a typing course.

Because something so mundane as a typing course was actually listed on our degree requirements, some dismissed journalism as a trade, a craft, not worthy of being taught like professions at colleges or universities.

Jerks.

It was a practical thing we needed. We had to make the choice.

In Superman, Editor-in-Chief Perry White hires Clark Kent on the spot, replacing Lois Lane on the “city beat” for a variety of reasons.

“Not only does he know how to treat his editor-in-chief with the proper respect, not only does he have a snappy, punchy pro-style, but he is in my 40 years in this business, the fastest typist I’ve ever seen.”

I tried the typing test, and with mistakes, couldn’t hit that minimal mark. So I took a course that included some shorthand lessons for taking notes. I remember about three of the shorthand notes, and have made my own shortcuts to be able to keep up.

But when computers began to come along, typing programs were, early on, one of the things they started out with.

I plugged along at about 40 words per minute when I was transcribing something. Probably a little faster, but they gig you a point here and there for misspellings and typos.

But I tried my hand at a Mac typing program, on a goof. It had a nice, different test.

It had an open field and said, “Type whatever you want.”

Victory – 135 words per minute doing the kind of typing that I would really be doing. Not secretarial transcribing, but writing. I clocked a little bit faster about five years later when I bought my first computer, and it came with Mario Teaches Typing.

Speling, spealing, schpelling

“What are you writing, Miss Lane?” Jimmy Olsen asks The Daily Planet’s star reporter.

“An Ode to Spring' – how do you spell massacre?”

Later in the same exchange – “There’s only one ‘p’ in rapist,” Olsen says.

A later dig at a similar piece she’s handing in comes from Perry White.

“There’s no ‘z’ in brasierre,” he says, looking at it for like two seconds and throwing it back at her.

What a fascinating Ode to Spring that piece must have been.

Just the facts, ma’am

Journalism has changed over the years. It once existed to tell people what was happening. But now newspapers, the bigger they are, have abandoned that as a principle and are more interested in talking about trends. Some try to make people FEEL things, some try to make people think a certain way about what is being covered.

I’ve never liked that approach, and I don’t do it in my paper.

Because of Perry White.

As he read Lois’ piece on the East side murder, she pushed at him. “This could be the basis of a whole series of articles, ‘Making Sense of Senseless Killings’ by Lois Lane,” she says.

He wasn’t buying it.

“Lois, you’re pushing a bunch of rinky dink, tabloid garbage, and The Daily Planet …”

She’s not paying him much attention, however.

To me, Perry White is saying a newspaper should be about what is happening, not why it is happening. Sometimes why stuff needs to be done, but it must follow long after what has happened.

She still tries to push the series in that same conversation.

“It’s got everything,” she says. “It’s got sex, it’s got violence, it’s got the ethnic angle.”

“So’s a lady wrestler with a foreign accent,” he says, shutting her down.

Writers may think they have the elements to make a story rise above the average, but that is generally just the reporter trying to push a piece past what it is, at its essential level.

The readers won’t always get what you’re pushing.

“It’s too good to be true,” says Lex Luther, after going over Lois’ “I spent the night with Superman” story in which too much information is revealed. “It’s too good to be true.”

“It’s too good to be true,” says his gun moll, Eve Teschmacher. “He’s 6-foot-2, has black hair, blue eyes, doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke and TELLS the truth.”

Brevity is something to be desired in the industry, and it’s a goal I fail at miserably. But also, sometimes, you can boil something down too far.

The article explains why Superman is Superman, and reveals a weakness. (He can’t see through lead.)

Only Luther picks up on that. Teschmacher was just looking at what was the hunky Boy Scout she was probably thinking of tempting if the opportunity presented itself.

She missed what Lois was saying with her article.

“Some people can read ‘War and Peace,’ and come away thinking it’s a simple adventure story, while others can read the ingredients on a chewing gum wrapper, and unlock the secrets of the universe,” Luther tells her.

She still doesn’t get it. “Lex, what has chewing gum got to do with the secrets of the universe?”

He just rolls his eyes and tells her she’s right.

But he says, “Voila,” moments later. Somehow, by reading Lois’ piece, he’s figured out that a certain meteorite that landed in Africa was from Krypton, and it’s radiation is lethal to Superman. How? I guess I’m one of those who thinks War and Peace is just a simple adventure story.

But he was right. With the revelation about kryptonite and the lead weakness, it’s also clear that while some people will not get what you’re trying to say, others will get a WHOLE lot more out of it than you can imagine.

Get the story

During a corral of his reporters after Superman’s first appearance, Perry White shows a good insight into papers.

One day, the paper can be about one thing or a million regular things. But sooner or later, something so big is going to come along that all other considerations are put aside.

Trying to fire up his troops, Perry White says, “Whichever one of you gets it out of him, is going to end up with the single most important interview since … God talked to Moses.”

Don’t be naïve

When Superman allows Lois to interview him, he says he’s here “to fight for truth, justice and the American way.”

“You’re going to end up fighting every elected official in this country,” she says.

“I’m sure you don’t mean that, Lois,” he says. Then he tells her he never lies.

Except for that whole secret idenity thing. Sources withhold important information to protect themselves. Even the invulnerable ones have something to protect. (Clark can withstand an H-bomb, but Ma Kent? Not so much.

Even the best dump their notebook

Sometimes everything you hear shouldn’t be included in your article. I’m REAL bad about this.

But that whole, “Can’t see through lead” thing ought to give Lois pause.

She doesn’t know all the ramifications, because of the "going back in time" thing Superman did. But because she told the world that Superman can’t see through lead, Superman almost died, Lois almost died, the West Coast almost slid off into the sea, and that kid with the bad skin condition almost fell off the Golden Gate Bridge with his classmates in the school bus.

If it wasn't for Miss Teschmacher's mom living in Hackensack, who knows how many millions would have died?

We’ve got a couple of phrases for using everything. Notebook dumping is a nicer one.
Diarrhea of the typewriter is an old-style version.

Even Lois Lane does it.

The pay sucks

After her big interview/date with Superman, Lois hears the knocking at her door.

Clark shows up for the “real” date on her book.

Lois has a really nice penthouse apartment, but it’s impossible to believe that she affords it on a reporter’s salary.

Evidence Clark’s words to her as they leave.

“I was a little nervous about this, but then I decided, gosh darn it, I’ll show her the time of her life,” he says.

The good bit is fading away as the door closes behind them.

“I was figuring maybe we could go for a hamburger or whatever you like,”

The pay sucks.

There’s a whole lot more. Some bits are in Superman II.

When they find out about a nuclear bomb in Paris, Lois is sent to cover the story, not Clark.

“If Paris is going to go kablooey, I want my best reporter in the middle of it,” Perry White tells Clark.

Management appreciates your abilities, but not your life, apparently.

Also, a big story can be sitting in front of your nose and you miss it.

It takes the trip to Niagara Falls for Lois to see past the glasses at what ought to be pretty obvious.

Some reporters are willing to risk their lives for a story. Lois jumps into the Niagara River, headed to the falls. Clark does some impromptu saving without stripping down to the cape and tights.

I don’t think the potential payoff on that story is worth the risk, myself.

But the most important bit came from two characters -- the quintessential journalists in the movie. Lois and Perry both end on the same note.

"Gosh, how do you get all the great stories," Jimmy Olsen asks.

"A good reporter doesn't get great stories, Jimmy. A good reporter," she says as she walks into White's office, who's saying the same thing to Clark.

A good reporter makes them great.

I’ve gotten a nice life out of this profession, even though the pay sucks. When you get up to the editorial level, you do OK.

When you marry a beautiful publisher of the best large weekly in the state, who’s pulling down some serious bread, you find it’s much easier to have what is called “a real life." But the other rewards of the job are still the reason to do it.

There’s nothing more rewarding than a scoop, that’s for sure. Except maybe another scoop. But even if you don’t get the scoop, being allowed past police lines some of the times, looking at murder scene photos, standing next to a fire truck while a mill burns, spewing acid residue into the air, getting whipped in the face by hurricane force winds, it’s just all fun.

And come to think of it, when I cover stories like that, I can actually get hurt if something else comes along. Unlike a certain Last Son of Krypton.

But anyway, in honor of Superman starting up in a few days, I figured I’d finally get around to penning this.

I’m not Superman, but I am Clark Kent.

I’m almost 6-foot, have black hair, blue eyes, I seldom drink and never smoke, and I tell the truth.

I fight for Truth, Justice and the American Way.

With a pen.

Best weapon available.

More later, maybe.

P.S. This is 2,167 words long, and it was done in 20 minutes. That’s
108 WPM. Must be some kryptonite nearby slowing me down.

Blast from the Past: Jackie Robinson and Bud

I am a serial rehasher of things I have written before, when they seem to somehow become relavent again.
I saw the Jackie Robinson biopic "42" with Dad this weekend. And this seems, again, relavent. 
I'll have one more comment at the end. 

Dad taught me to be who I am

News Editor

Stephen Guilfoyle

When he was born –

• a man named Franklin Delano Roosevelt was not yet president.

• the greatest epoch of the 20^th Century, World War II, was nine years in the future;

• a small man full of hatred was legally forbidden to speak in Germany, but Adolf Hitler, not yet elected to anything, was gaining influence and backing from powerful industrialists of that country;

• there was a 40-foot deep pit on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 32nd Street, where, 18 months later, would rise the grandest building ever built, the Empire State Building; and

• the New York Yankees were the greatest baseball team ever, with a lineup that included Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.

I’m a mean kid at times and sometimes I make fun of my dad for being old.

But I look back on the world into which he was born and I realize that he has indeed somehow, behind my back, really gotten old.

I’ve never much written about my dad because it’s more fun to make fun of Mom, because her sense of humor is always taxed.

I often wonder why someone like Dad, who always jokes, ended up with Mom, who almost never does.

Dad and I go to movies. That’s what we do. We talk football now.

I am whatever kind of man one might think I am because of what I learn from him.

But I learn not from him telling me what he wants to teach, but from my watching what he

does.

I picked the historical markers, because they all have some significance to either his life or my

view of it.

Roosevelt, well, that’s my joke. “Geez, Dad, you were born before Roosevelt was President.”

And Roosevelt was president for a long time.

The Empire State Building, well, I connect that with Dad because he’s always seemed to

me a New Yorker. He’s settled down fine in South Carolina these past 20 years, but it’s just not his natural place.

If someone were to put him in an alien zoo and were to create his natural habitat, there would have to be canyons made of concrete and glass and subways.

Hitler is not included because Dad was a tyrant. Dad is a gentle man. But Dad took a little trip to Ireland when he was a youth and got stuck there for years because of World War II.

He was raised over there by his aunt.

It shaped him to be a very different sort from his brother and his sister.

I include the Yankees because, despite being born in the Bronx, the Yankees were never his team.

But it is important to note that the greatest team of all time was the Yankees of the ’30s.

When my father was born in 1930, those Yankees were a segregated team, white men only need apply.

One of the most important lessons I learned from my father, and about my father, came unspoken

but etched in deep.

My father’s favorite baseball team was dem Bums, the Brooklyn Dodgers. His favorite player

was Jackie Robinson.

My father loved Jackie Robinson’s ability to make a play out of nothing, score a run after getting

walked to first base.

It taught me all I ever needed to know about race relations and how to judge people. You judge a man by his ability, not by the color of his skin.

What a fabulous teacher he was. I gained a core belief in justice and fair play and fundamental human equality, just because Dad said, “Jackie Robinson was my favorite baseball player.”

So my Dad turned 70 Tuesday.

I wish there were someway to stop it, but I can’t. Instead, I’ll remember again all that he’s taught me. .

And I’ll feel humbled, because I’m not half the man he is, but I’ll feel lucky that I know to keep trying to measure up.

P.S. Dad liked the movie. But he doesn't like it as much as he liked "The Jackie Robinson Story." It's probably because Jackie Robinson played Jackie Robinson. (And Pee Wee Reese played Pee Wee Reese, for that matter.) Thought it was good. But it's no Jackie Robinson.
P.P.S. Dad would absolutely have loved the PBS miniseries on Jackie by Ken Burns. I know I did.

SC Press Association awards

The S.C. Press Association held its annual meeting on Friday and gave out awards.
I received three awards:
• A first place award for best single front in a small weekly, for a page done for The Lake City News & Post;
• A first place award for best front page design portfolio, for three pages done for The Hartsville Messenger; and
• A third place award for best single front page for the The Hartsville Messenger.
I didn't get to go to pick up my plaques, so I missed out on seeing some old friends.
I am particularly thrilled with the performance of my colleagues at The News & Reporter in Chester. They won at least 23 awards, most ever, and won first place in General Excellence for two- to three times weekly papers. We were doing almost that good when I was there, but never better than third in General Excellence. Travis Jenkins certainly has them rolling along.
Proud of him. Hope they are paying him better than they paid me, because he's earning it.

Funeral for a friend: Jim Davenport

The funeral in Columbia on Friday for the Associated Press’s Jim Davenport was not what I expected it to be, and probably not what most attending it expected it to be.

He was, quite simply, the best reporter in the state. During the bulk of his career, nobody talked much about that. Not until he took a leave of absence from the AP two years ago to begin his fight against cancer. He came back, worked as hard as he always did until very close to the end. But a few weeks ago, I sent him a message on his AP Twitter account and I got a message back saying it had been discontinued.

He worked on stories up until a few months ago, but then it was time to go home and wait.

Jim Davenport, if you browse the blogs and the S.C. Press Association, read the obituaries on the Associated Press and in the State newspaper, was there when a lot of the most recent history in the state of South Carolina was made.

The general public, on larger scale stories, does not recognize or care about bylines unless a story has something they want to challenge or dismiss. They want to find out who wrote this or that, find out what political party they ascribe to so they can say, “Oh, see, he’s a Democrat out to get Republicans.” More rarely, but still in South Carolina, the opposite has been said.

I have seen no one say that about Jim Davenport.

When Jim Hodges was governor of South Carolina, Jim Davenport asked him challenging questions, and wrote stories that Jim Hodges did not like. When Mark Sanford took over, Jim asked challenging questions and wrote challenging stories.

A lot of people, particularly those who feel themselves victimized by reporters, say that it is impossible to be objective.

Jim Davenport was objective, through and through.

If the average South Carolinian knows him, they know him because he is the guy who first broke news that S.C. Gov. Mark Sanford was “missing,” with a spokesman saying the governor had chosen, on a Father’s Day weekend, to take a hike on the Appalachian Trail. After making call after call, Jim Davenport got through to the former First Lady and the former wife of the governor. Jenny Sanford told him, in terse language, she didn’t know where the governor was.

Jim wrote down the line, but with just enough juice to let the whole world know what Jenny Sanford had communicated to him. She wasn’t happy with the governor.

And the story blossomed until the governor was outed as having taken a trip or two to Venezuela during his term in office to meet a “paramour.”

Jim wasn't there when Sanford got off the plane from Venezuela from his Father's Day trip, but I contend no reporter would have been there to meet him if not for Jim's scoop.

It was just one of many "gets" in his career. A "get" in newspapers isn't just when you "get" a politician in a pickle, though it includes many of those. A get is a big story.

Jim was there when the agreement to bring down the Confederate flag from atop the State House was signed – on a Confederate flag, no less.

His obituary from the AP said he helped lead the first statewide audit of statewide FOIA compliance among local officials, which I contend is wrong. We've only had two, and yes, he organized the first. But he also organized the second. The only thing I think I ever helped do for Jim was after the second. I made a point to tell the S.C. Press Association director that Jim deserved some kind of recognition for that work. He got a special commendation from the SCPA a little while later.

When the second FOI audit was done, I was editor in Chester. I was asked to head back to my old stomping grounds of Chesterfield County and see how that sheriff was doing. "Big Sam" Parker wasn't sheriff when I left, and I had met him once or twice, but the odds were his new office people wouldn’t know me. They didn't, and they balked at releasing information that state law says had to be released immediately.

With both audits, the results were taken and used by the lobbyists for the SCPA to request improvements in the law, since it wasn't working as well as it was intended to work. I don't think the law is great, in practical, day-to-day usage. It can be and is abused too easily by public officials every day. But it is stronger now than it was 20 years ago because of those FOI audits. Because of Jim.

On the SCPA website, there is an obituary for Jim, and also a 23-minute "oral history" video clip, an interview with Jim about the stories he covered and the battles he won.

Because Jim Davenport took a look at the law and figured out the clear meaning of the law said the party legislative caucuses, in this modern era the GOP caucuses, were public bodies themselves because they received public money and all the real discussion of public policy seemed to be done at that level, so Jim tried to cover them. They tried to keep Jim out.

They lost.

When Mark Sanford held his first cabinet meeting, this candidate who had run on a platform of openness tried to have a closed-door meeting. Jim objected, and struck the first blow in the fight to get them open.

I don't remember if the first was open or not, but there was a brief period of fussing and negotiation back and forth. State law was changed, with negotiations from Sanford and staff, requiring the cabinet to meet, at least at the beginning, in the open, but allowing it, if necessary, to be closed for certain topics. In other words, it had to perform as any other public body.

Sanford and his supporters might think with that change in the law that they had won the point. But no other cabinet meeting under Sanford was closed to the public, at any time.

Point Davenport.

In one other instance, mentioned on the oral history, when the legislature switched to being controlled by the Republican Party, Sen. Harvey Peeler, Jim recalls, wanted to close an early meeting in the session to remove state Sen. Hugh Leatherman from his post as leader of the Senate Finance Committee. Leatherman, at the time, was still a Democrat.

Peeler wanted to do that behind closed doors. Jim found out about, tried to get the new GOP leadership to commit to doing it in the open, but as a body, it wouldn't commit. So Jim approached senators one by one until he found one who said, "You been fair to me," and let Jim enter the chamber with him. When Sen. Peeler made a move to have Jim removed, other senators, either believing in transparency a bit more than originally thought, or perhaps sensing the negative headlines that might result from ejecting a reporter while trying to punish a politician for suddenly being on the wrong side of the aisle after an election, voted to let Jim stay. I don't think Leatherman was pushed out, either.

Jim was there for a lot of the history that has been made in the past 13 years, and the one thing everyone said about Jim was he was fair, objective. And he was great.

If you met friends, you might hear tales about guy with a wicked, slightly off sense of humor. Goofy smile. He used to be part of our card game for a couple of years back in college.

Being at his funeral, a lesson I learned was I need to know my friends better, and I need to not compartmentalize them so much.

But the really surprising thing about that funeral, which had a sizable contingent of journalists at it, and perhaps a public official or two, though I didn't catch any, was that the funeral wasn't about Jim Davenport, the mover of events, the rattler of government cages, Jim, the just-damn good reporter.

The funeral was a mass, and it was about Jim Davenport, the Catholic. I don't remember it ever coming up when we were back at USC, but of course, for most kids, particularly those taking a liberal dose of liberal arts classes, your religion isn't a topic of discussion at college. And if it had come up then, well, I had begun a long period of serious lapsing, so it probably wouldn't have made us any closer. We were buds who played some cards, worked on student publications together, made jokes about the student reporters who thought they were good but ... weren't. And we made a LOT of jokes about the university president.

But in the intervening years, I lapsed less and less and have tried to make a better go of my faith.

I knew Jim was married and had heard him talk about his wife a few times. But I didn't know he was a father.

If you knew Jim Davenport at all, you probably knew the reporter. But to the priest giving the sermon at the funeral mass, his career went almost unmentioned.

It couldn't go completely unmentioned, because, if the priest wasn’t sure, I can guarantee it for him. Jim was a good reporter, and he was the kind of reporter he was, because he was a good Catholic.

In the movie "The Siege," Denzel Washington plays a goody-two-shoes, completely-by-the-book, black-and-white, good-and-evil, never-the-twain-shall-meet FBI agent. He was, simply put, too good to be true, and I was on the verge of writing the movie off. But halfway through, Annette Bening's fallen-from-grace CIA agent says she has been sizing him up.

She says, "Catholic school boy," and he replies, "St. Raymond's, in the Bronx."

The first time I saw it, I actually shouted out in the movie theater. I realized that there was a possibility he could be that good and that uncompromising. I think the character might have been talking about the boys' high school and not the elementary school, which I attended. But the indoctrination in what is good and bad and what is fair was strict at both.

It was an "aha" moment.

When I saw St. Joseph's Catholic Church listed as the place of his funeral mass in the obituary, I had the same kind of moment.

"Well, that certainly explains it," I said.

Being a good reporter (or fictional FBI agent, for that matter) isn't the province of a parochial school or even of the Catholic faith. Goodness and fairness is taught in many places.. I am not saying you have to be a good Catholic to be a good reporter. Too many good reporters have been without faith.

But Jim Davenport was as good as he was because he was a Catholic. It had to inform his sense of fairness, but also his dedication to his readers. He believed in the truth, both little t and big T.

I didn't catch the name of the priest who said Jim's mass and gave the sermon. But during that sermon, he talked about Jim's love of his faith, and of its symbols. I've not been to enough funerals to know even what a full-bore Catholic funeral mass might be. The one I remember most, my Aunt Kathleen's, I remember as much for the fact that I was allowed to give a eulogy for her, and Catholics generally don't allow eulogies.

But this priest, I think, sensed he was going to have an audience he might not normally have in attendance. I think he knew he was going to have a higher percentage of non-Catholics. So he went over carefully, the symbols used. A white pall was put over the casket. This is used as a remembrance of baptism, when Catholic children are put in a white baptismal gown (even us guys). There was a candle, like the candle given at baptism. The casket was sprinkled with water, again, a reminder of baptism, which our faith tells us removes the taint of original sin and sets the clock anew for us, giving us a chance to make our way to heaven.

And incense was used. It was used back in the ancient days to remove bad odors, but it is considered a pleasing fragrance, both to man and to God.

The incense rises, the priest said, as if going to God, to ask if Jim had led a "fragrant life," one pleasing to the Lord.

The priest had made clear that Jim was a very good Catholic. Jim didn't go through the motions, and he had his beliefs.

I never knew that about my friend, or that he had a daughter. We were both journalists, USC grads, card players, scoundrels (at times). But we didn't share with each other perhaps the two most meaningful "traits."

Catholics, and fathers.

I will miss my friend for what I did know about him, but I will miss him even more for what I found out too late about him.

My parish priest likes to confuse people, not on purpose. But he asks all the time, "Do you want to be a saint?" And people tell him no. He is shocked, he says, shocked.

If he asked, "Do you want to go to heaven?" they would of course say yes. They just don't want to be saints to do it. But the questions are one in the same. To go to heaven is to be a saint, and to be a saint, one must be worthy to go to heaven, head to the front of the line.

We are called to be saints, my priest says frequently. Everyone is called to be saints, and Catholics have no excuse for not knowing that is their calling.

So like I said, I was surprised during that funeral mass for my old drinking buddy.

It sounded, I swear I do not exaggerate, like the funeral mass for someone who might be a saint, and if not, is on the express elevator through Purgatory.

If so, an awesome story. And a roomful of the best reporters in the state of South Carolina might have missed it.