I’m getting a head start on Father’s Day, already picking out pictures to celebrate my late, one-of-a-kind, Marine Corps-to-Peace Corps, writer, teacher, newspaperman, linguist father. Here mocking risk as always on a beach near Yelapa on the Pacific coast of Mexico in 1975. I could live without the snakes but otherwise thanks, Dad.
Too windy for birds this morning. And for me, when it comes to the latest debates in journalism, too windy to haul rocks. Maybe I finally have a grasp of that cryptic phrase often heard from a late photojournalist friend, Richard Pipes, a real pro who hailed from the gusty plains of West Texas. I’m …
“I am ashamed — ashamed for myself and for the church — that we have not been here sooner.” That was Monsignor David Cantwell of the Catholic Interracial Council of Chicago speaking to my father at the end of the five-day civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery in March 1965, led by the Rev. …
I have been thinking about this photo, too, on this Father’s Day, a family photo from the 1930s. It’s my father, Bob Robertson, and his father, Homer W. Robertson, helping my father’s older sister, Marcella Jean, who suffered from cerebral palsy. Marcella couldn’t walk on her own and had trouble speaking, but her mind and …
Today was a day of ups and downs for me in my reading about journalists and the newspaper business. I don’t know whether to make heads or tails of it. I’ll just tell you how it went. I started by reading at elle.com an exciting profile of Jane Mayer, stellar investigative reporter for The New …
Along with Martin Luther King Jr. and many others, I always think of my father on this day. More of these stories here: https://dreamranch.wordpress.com/2015/03/07/a-singing-heard-in-selmas-mud/
dream ranch 