I’ve decided to step away from the microphone in Northeast Ohio. Thank you for your kindness as I tried to bring my approach to afternoon radio. I will have more on my future in the coming weeks, but this is my final segment to air 17 December 2021, remembering some of the people who trusted me with their stories over the years. Please stay safe.Continue reading “A final segment after 8 years in Cleveland radio”
(This essay ran in the newsletter for Ideastream Public Media on 16 Dec 2021, announcing my departure as afternoon host after 8 years. Listen to my final segment here. More on my future to come.)Continue reading “Setting a new course between the profound and absurd”
Early in my career, just as I was leaving college, a radio program director told me to quit radio, and never look back.
“Your voice,” she said, looking to the side. “It’s just not…you should do something else. Radio’s not for you.”Continue reading “Don’t quit, in media or in life”
For nearly 14 years I’ve carried with me an aging reminder that there is value in striving for growth; growth in relationships, the workplace, my faith…and growth in myself.
Before your imagination runs wild I’ll tell you the item is just a bag, and not a particularly impressive one by the modern standards of bags. It’s rectangular and woven from a synthetic blend, with just three pockets with zippers (two outside, and the main one.)
I’ve carried in it my audio recording gear, books, snacks, and more, from Barack Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize ceremony, to a Ricola herb farm in the Alps, to many coffee shops (just regular coffee shops.)
When I received this bag from a week-long radio reporting seminar from The Poynter Institute, I didn’t realize the symbol it would become, and how much I’d appreciate it.Continue reading “A well-worn bag and a reminder of Icarus”
In this episode of The Baking Journalist a German theme: breakfast rolls or Brötchen, and three differences between journalism in Germany and the U.S.
Her screams cut me deeper than she meant them to, but the facts were clear: I was deficient, and this helplessness was a new layer to my trauma.
To her I’m a constant; one of two people she knows to rescue her from the hunger she can’t yet understand, and the fear of loneliness she knows only by instinct.
But in this state —without use of my arms after a vehicle crash— I could feel the vulnerability of not fully acting as the big, strong daddy my 7-month-old needs me to be; the one who can lift her the highest, and embrace her the tightest.
Or the one who comforts her when she cries.
I maneuvered my fractured left wrist to her one side, and my separated shoulder and damaged right arm to the other, as I bent into her bassinet as deeply as I could.
With every ounce of my strength and coordination, I pulled her small, emotionally-exhausted frame to my chest in a kind of desperate bear hug.
By the time my wife returned to the room my daughter had calmed.