From time to time I go on Facebook and look for people I used to know, just in case they have a page and are still living. So far, either the tech age has eluded them or they have died. One old acquaintance with whom I worked at The New York Times Syndicate, was Breck Slossman, our communications director and I see that he died in 1993. What a bummer. But also I saw that he was my age and had, perhaps, not lived as healthy a lifestyle.

He left the Syndicate and retired to Florida and then was sorry about it because I believe he missed the northern pace and “intelligent-surround” of New York City, so he tried to come back, but was not allowed to as the waves had closed behind him. For a time he had a consulting contract and then that, too, was terminated. Breck was so pissed, he refused to return the pricey communications equipment he had been furnished with so Bill Higginbotham was sent to Florida to personally confiscate the hardware. Bill was ex United Press, had been a White House Press correspondent for the UP and then bureau chief in London during WWII. He covered Omaha Beach, running into his brother after coming ashore. Brother Jim was a surgeon and had a triage unit set up on the sand. Bill reported he looked up, saw his brother, and greeted him, “What the f… are you doing here?” Later said brother became a heart specialist and worked with DeBakey in Texas on the early heart transplants.

In his semi-retirement, Bill was selling the New York Times News Service on the road. So he drove down to Florida and found the house Breck was living in with his father. Breck comes out to the porch, sees Bill, and says @#$#@#$ and also $%*()&&. Breck was known for his colorful language. But he couldn’t say no to Bill and together they loaded the equipment into the back of Bill’s car and bill contrived to have it packed and shipped back to New York.

There was a time at the Syndicate when a particular service marketed to foreign conglomerates and heads of state was understaffed. It was decided I could fill in two days a week, Fridays and Mondays. gathering this material. Bruce Munn, a colleague of Bill’s at the UP, and also in London during WWII, did the service Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. He no longer wanted to work 5 days and who could blame him. So Bruce showed me the ropes of the service and Breck showed me the communications equipment. And it was involved.

In the morning, I stopped in the lobby of the Pan Am building (now the Met-Life building) and bought copies of The New York Times, The New York Post, the Journal of Commerce, the Wall Street Journal, and, of all things, The Christian Science Monitor. I culled news stories of interest to specific clients. I edited each relevant story down to one or two paragraphs – just the facts, ma’am – typed them into the computer and built a document to be transmitted no later than 11 a.m. to Mexico, where we had the Presidency of Mexico and a conglomerate called Alfa ready to receive and translate the copy. They would eventually get the news in the traditional fashion, but not the same day as was possible with our service. The subjects were copper mining, oil, car production, home starts, futures. I was calling Jay one evening when I finished and he said, “What’s up?” and I said, “the price of soybeans”. He laughed and was very proud of me for mastering this arcane bit of business since he “knew me when”.

A second take was to be sent by 2 p.m. with the balance of the report. I rarely sat down. I would do a search on the computer for the budgets of the Manchester Guardian, OPEC news service, and some other sources I am now having trouble remembering. While the computer was murmuring away with a search, I was choosing stories and cutting up the newspapers.

Early in my efforts, I was having trouble with the equipment so Breck came in to help me speed things up. He looked at the screen, and voila! sent the take. Wait, I said, I haven’t reviewed it yet. Breck responded, “Fuck it, send it.” And so the rest of the session went and ever after I referred to Breck as representing the Fuck it School of Journalism.

I nibbled away at raw veggies while doing this work, didn’t take a lunch break, and would work non-stop. When I looked up, the day was gone.

This period of my time at the Syndicate was one of the very best for me. I shall never forget the pride I had in my work and in sharing it with veterans of the press who respected me. One afternoon, after Bruce had totally retired, he stopped in while I was out to lunch. I got back to find this note, “This office is a mess and a disgrace to journalism.” I should have saved it.

I remember a lunch at the Overseas Press Club dining room – my boss, Bill O’Shea, a former Jesuit priest, very charismatic, ex AP,Bill Higg visiting the New York office, Bruce Munn, his ex pal from war days, and Emily Jacob, the controller (no one is missing her; she was horrid) and realize they are all gone and of that group, only I am left.

xx, Teal