By the Book

I tossed the last of my framed journalism awards and plaques into the trash this weekend. I found them while I was cleaning out our storage shed. They were packed in a retired cardboard pet carrier that bore tooth marks from our dear departed cat, Janet.

When I was in television news I won a lot of awards. People in television spend a lot of time giving each other awards. Since leaving television, I don't believe I've won any professional awards. Of course, there have been times when I haven't been sure what profession I was in, so perhaps I just didn't know where to enter.

But I'm pretty sure there are no awards for best ghost-written speech, best PowerPoint presentation, best original campaign management software, best staff report to a local legislative authority, or best series of news releases headlined, “Council Postpones action on . . .”

In any case, honors do not age well. Every time I get off the ferry in Anacortes, Washington, I pass a restaurant that bears the banner, “Voted best chef, 5 years in a row.” The sign looks sad, hanging over the entrance of a restaurant that closed years ago.

One of the award plaques I tossed out was “Best Documentary” from the New York International Firm and Television Festival. The awards show was emceed by the comedy duo, Stiller and Meara –  Ben Stiller's parents. Back then, they were still doing edgy stand up.

Another award I pulled out of the box was a gold-embossed “Broadcast Media Award” for consumer reporting. It was dated 1977. There are reporters on Seattle Television whose parents had not even met when I reported on whatever outrage it was that prompted the judges at San Francisco State to honor me that year.

I remember being a 20-something street reporter in Miami, Florida; standing out front of a place where a boatload of Haitian refugees were being processed. The refugees' boat had washed up on Palm Beach at sunset, so it was late at night by the time they'd been gathered up and bused to “Freedom Tower” in downtown Miami.

The only locals out in that neighborhood at that time of night were the alcoholics, addicts and schizophrenics who made themselves invisible by day, but took over the streets after dark.

One fellow with a bottle of cheap wine protruding from his side pocket, kept threatening to kill me if I didn't leave immediately. Finally I told him that my boss would kill me if I did leave. He nodded sympathetically and said he'd let me live this once.

Then another fellow walked up to me and complained that our government was spending all this money on refugees, but didn't give a damn about people like him. He said he'd been a police detective in New York, but his partner had gotten killed and he'd lost his house in a divorce, then lost his job because he started drinking. Now he was living on the street in Miami and nobody wanted to even look at him. “What the hell's wrong?” he asked.

After he walked off, I pointed him out to one of the Federal agents escorting the refugees and said he'd claimed that he'd been a cop. I'll never forget his matter-of-fact tone when he looked the wino up and down and said, “He probably was.”

In the day-to-day world, nobody really cares a whole lot about who or what we used to be but are no more.

I thought about that as I tried to decided what to do with that box of faded glory. We all know that the past is prologue, but it's hard to tell what part of the story we're in now.

Looking at the classic story structure, I'm either approaching my journey's end – settling down to let my wounds heal while I enjoy the rewards won in my life's battles; or I'm fast approaching the point in the story where the hero has to face the ultimate antagonist, and in doing so, face his own worst fears and internal demons.

If it's the latter, then the protagonist must strip down to the essentials and be prepared to use the lessons he's learned, the allies he's made and the weapons he's acquired to face the challenge the whole damned, convoluted story has led to. In a novel, it's usually something unexpected that the hero has held onto that tips the balance in the final battle.

I did feel as if a plot point was passing as I tossed that box of awards into the trash. A little while later, I decided to hang onto a box containing my collection of FBI Wanted posters from the 1960s and early '70s. Someday they might be of some value.

The protagonist never gets to know in advance.