Walter Cronkite died yesterday. Stunning that it’s been nearly thirty years since his last broadcast, but I guess…that’s the way it is. He was on my television all the years I was at home. Each week day graduated into a week night with supper at five o’clock and then him shortly after. We never watched anything else at news time.
Three broadcast stations, 2, 4, and 7, channel 9 from Canada, a fuzzy Toledo, OH channel 11, and three, depending-on-the-weather UHF choices – 50, 56, and 62 – made our boobtube line up. There was seldom more than one choice of what to watch at a particular time anyway but Walter was my father’s choice.
During the CBS Evening News we’d sit quietly, even during the commercials, because that’s how Dad played it. He never commented on anything said – just watched and maybe glanced at the paper.
As for me, I remember this one thing: starting in 1967 – with my oldest brother in Vietnam – my attention concentrated to a laser focus when the little box appeared over Cronkite's left shoulder showing enemy dead and wounded as compared to American dead and wounded.
I’d hold my breath momentarily when I knew the box was about to appear and then slowly exhale as the inevitable results – like the score of some fairy tale, happy ending, never lose, hometown baseball team – told the, “Hey, rest easy; more of them then us,” score.
Walter’s broadcast was a well-oiled, calm and professional machine that all seemed to fit. Nary a frantic, "OMG! A Democratic duck’s kidney has been transplanted into a Libertarian transvestite’s body; stay tuned!" piece rolling on for days and weeks bolstered by unnamed sources. Certainly it was, is, and always will be TV, meant to sell, sell, sell and Cronkite produced higher ratings and more advertising dollars, but at least – even to a nine-year-old – it appeared written and produced by serious, intelligent people for folks of the same ilk.
Walter might close with an ironic story, and update of something earlier in the week, or just a throw in piece, but my favorite was when he’d add some amusing bit of not quite fluff onto the end of his newscast and then with an every so slight, wry smile, close with his line.
Right after that…every single night I can remember…my Dad would repeat, “And that’s the way it is, Walter,” and head back to his paper, while I jumped back to my children’s world.
I don’t watch the news anymore; haven’t watched the news in many years but from what I can tell, there really aren’t any news shows on anyway.
We know what Walter would say about that, don’t we?
