John Dycus taught me some core context for life: “I’m blessed.”
I learned that from him during my eight years at the Star-Telegram, seven of which were spent as the paper’s reader advocate.
On most Friday afternoons, a little before 4, I’d hear the crescendo of John’s buzzing motorized wheelchair approaching my office off the newsroom as he made his way down the hall. He would drop by before beginning the night shift on the copy desk where he worked parttime. And he would roll in with a big smile.
“John Dycus!” I’d exclaim. “How in the world are you?"
“I’m blessed,” he’d say, or some version of that. His wheelchair was a blessing. His equipment that helped him operate it was a blessing. His specially equipped van was a blessing. But, to me and his friends, his intellectual acumen, keen sense of justice and ethics and his hilarious sense of humor were and are something far more than blessings. They were exceptional gifts, and John showered us with them and the inspiration and encouragement they radiated. You see all those qualities at work in his wonderful website.
I looked forward to those brief Friday afternoon visits with John. We talked about all sorts of things –- what the readers had been saying that day, John's musings, the copy desk’s killer Friday-night copy flow laden with big Sunday stories moving late, credibility issues, plagiarism developments, and, until my wife died of breast cancer in 2005, he would always ask sincerely: “How’s your wife?”
After Dale’s death, I didn’t get to see John much. I was moved from the third-floor office to the second-floor editorial board office where editorial writing was added to my duties in response to my interest in learning that part of the craft. Friday afternoons were spent proofing weekend and Monday editorial and op-ed pages.
If someone asked how I was doing, I knew to say, as I’d learned from listening to and observing John: “I’m blessed,” and I meant it.
Later, when Andra came into my life in such a beautiful way, and we were married, John’s ovations poured forth whenever we bumped into each other.
“How are you?” he’d ask, smiling from ear to ear. “I’m blessed,” I’d say with joy. “You sure are!” he’d reply. John knows Andra and respects her skills as a communicator/writer and her integrity every bit as much as he admires her lovely charisma. And she holds him in mutual esteem.
I’m writing this because today I learned this morning that John will be honored Oct. 5 in Las Vegas with the national Society of Professional Journalists’ Howard S. Dubin Outstanding Professional Member Award. I just want to say, "Congratulations John."
The award recognizes an SPJ member who has made considerable contributions to his or her local SPJ chapter and region. Read about the award here.
There’s no more worthy honoree than John, a master freelance editor who retired in 1998 from a distinguished and honored 28-year career at the University of Texas at Arlington. Read about some of that here.
John has been a devoted member of SPJ for 36 years and has been a cornerstone for the Fort Worth chapter. Think “SPJ,” and “John Dycus” comes to mind. Organizer, fundraiser, promoter, champion -– he’s all those things for SPJ, and he’s always there when needed, which is often.
I started wondering about a couple of things as I thought about SPJ honoring John. What attracted him to journalism and what has kept him in the craft?
I was embarrassed to admit to myself that I’d never asked him. So I did. I e-mailed him with some questions for this blog. He called, and we talked for a while.
John told me he’d taken a journalism class during his senior year, 1964-65, at Paschal High School in Fort Worth. His teacher, he said, was the inimitable Margaret Caskey, a brilliant teacher who wheeled around “in a big ol’ wide-mouth green Buick.”
He remembers only one story he wrote for the school newspaper: what life was like for someone in a wheelchair during those frantic minutes in between bells when moving from one class to the next. The photographer, John said, shot pictures from John’s view.
He enjoyed that class but didn’t major in journalism when he entered UTA. He was advised that a career in accounting would be something he could do physically as well as intellectually. “That wouldn’t be too popular a view these days,” he said. But he agreed and was graduated with a degree in accounting.
After graduation, he was job-searching when he received an interesting offer from UTA’s legendary Student Publications Director Dorothy Estes. She wanted to know if John would be interested in a staff position with her operation.
He took the offer and grew into the beloved, respected Shorthorn adviser and then associate director of student publications. That’s how John got into journalism.
“It was something I could do,” he said. But he also reveled in the freedoms of professional journalism, the craft and issues, and the captivating colleagues. I can attest that when journalism gets into one’s blood, there’s no substitute or antidote, assuming burnout or some other curse doesn’t take its toll.
John and I share many colleagues’ concerns about threats to journalism -– increasing disrespect for journalists out there in our politically tormented world filled with more propaganda and less truth than ever, newsroom morale challenges in shouldering increased workloads from staff cuts while wondering whether and where the axe will fall next, the for-profit model’s impact on quality, etc., etc.
Ah, but when all of that weighs on us, when specters swarm around us, we lift up our hearts. Times may be hard, daily struggles may be tough, but we say in unison and with conviction: “I’m blessed.”
Any thoughts you'd like to share?
An odd anniversary
Today is the second anniversary of my release from the Star-Telegram, the end of my newspaper career and the beginning of my freelance career.
I’ve been trying to think of what to say. So far, it’s “ .”
It’s not the first time I’ve been at a loss for words.
I didn’t know what to say in 1964 when that chunky Marine recruiter told me: “Son, we can’t take you.” Why, sir? Epilepsy from a baseball head injury. Line drive between the eyes left a scar on my brain. Caused epilepsy. I grew out of it but not before the Marines rejected me, I’d also failed a physical to be a commercial pilot (my other great dream) and, later, a physical for the Dallas Police Department. No one wanted me, not even the U.S. Army postal operations. “Epilepsy” frightened everyone back then. Still does, I'd guess.
But the injury steered me to journalism, thanks to my columnist mom who got me my first job. Newspapers. They took me. And I had a great career. Dallas, Denver, St. Petersburg, Corpus Christi (to help rebuild that wonderful Gulf Coast daily through the '90s). And some other places. Couldn’t imagine my career ever ending but knew it would someday. Just not the way it happened. I became part of the Fourth Estate’s 21st-century rubble. Kills me to see newspapers withering. But then I see journalism blossoming on the Web, and I’m up again. (Check out the Texas Tribune.) There are awesome possibilities for bona fide journalism on the Web. Let's pray that it overcomes all the uninformed, self-serving garbage opinion that's filling cyberspace.
But I have been so blessed these past two years. Overcame a goodly amount of humiliating experiences such as that awful process of applying for state unemployment benefits (oxymoron) and sending out around 70 resumes, only one of which drew a thank-you-but response (from Concussion ad agency in Fort Worth … thank you, Concussion). Age matters. Anyone who says otherwise is full of crap. Not having a master’s degree also matters. I couldn’t teach even at TCC because I hadn’t paid my way through a f*****g research degree. Galling. Exec editor earlier, but I couldn’t teach freshmen how to write a spot news story? How does that square?
Still, I have done some pretty good work for the Fort Worth Chamber of Commerce (bless you, Marilyn Gilbert and Andra Bennett), Tarrant County College (bless you, Donna Darovich), NewsCorp (bless you, Scott Norvell) and some other folks (bless you all). I’m pretty much proud of the work, and who could ask for anything better than to feel reasonably good about their next-stage work that had been reduced to zilch in the newspaper industry?
But that’s all about work. Real stuff is home and family, and I’ve been incredibly blessed by my wife, Andra, who I never expected to be my wife or much in my life. I thought I was on my way to seminary in Milwaukee. Late-life vocation to the priesthood after losing my wife, Dale, to breast cancer. God had a better idea: Andra. And there’s our wonderful home, the gardens I plant and tend, the anoles and other critters I chat with daily when it's warm enough for them to be out and about, our home office that can rock as much as any newsroom on some high-pressure days. My daughters and grandchildren.
And there’s tomorrow. I still have that sense of “tomorrow,” thank God. I’m still here because I still have something to do, I believe. What would that be? God, literally, knows. But, hey, Lord, give me the assignment. And bless all journalists everywhere.
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Tags: downsizing, family, journalism, journalists, newspapers, priesthood, work