I'll never forget how Christopher Mele
saved my life.
We were hiking in the Poconos.
My son and I. We got lost in a thick fog.
So thick that it felt like bacon
on the back of your hand.
Just as Willy and I were about
to give up hope.
About to sit down under a tree
to slip away into the final dream;
Mele came striding along,
whistling Nessun dorma from
Turnadot.
He gently took our hands.
Which by now were pale and palsied
and smelled of bacon.
He lifted us up.
And with a journalistic flourish
he guided us to the Promised Land.
A land of ink and honey.
Where the Hudson Valley River Steamer
still delivered stacks of
the New York Times
to indigent farmers and mechanics.
For only a nickel.
Mr. Mele set my son up as
a copy boy in the cavernous
basement. Washing linotype.
He ought to get an award.
Mr. Mele, I mean. For saving us.
And for his extraordinary attention
to detail in tight time constraints.
*********************************
The journalist himself emailed me back:
Thank you! I saw this on Twitter and I don't know what to say! To what do I owe this honor?
Been a while since I've had a byline (doing mostly editing these days), so I wondered what inspired this?
Good to hear from you. Hope you are well. And love the photo on your site!
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