“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all …”
I wish I could agree with the words of old Al Tennyson, that brilliant 19th century poet.
Maybe he’s right in terms of loving a person, but that isn’t the only kind of love. There are other kinds and the loss of some of them is far more destructive. If you have a job you love and then it’s taken away from you, there are times you wish you had never known it at all.
For nearly five years at the end of the last century, I had a dream job. I was a metro columnist for a daily newspaper, writing three times a week and whatever struck my fancy. I was 46 when I got the job and I truly believed it was a job I could do for the rest of my life.
Well, I lived for nearly five years.
There are two kinds of metro columnists, and I once referred to them as “good cop, bad cop.” The bad cop ones expose local corruption and stir people up, while the good cop ones write about how people live their lives and occasionally bring a tear to readers’ eyes.
Readers love the good cops, but journalists respect the bad cops.
Many journalists don’t see the value of the good cop columnists.
When our paper was sold to a big company, we got a new editor. One who didn’t see the value of a good cop column.
Twenty-two years ago this coming Wednesday, he called me in and cancelled my column. I was told I would still have a job, but I would be just another reporter.
A part of me died that day.
A position that had truly been a joy had become just a job. I would work there for nearly seven more years, but I never again loved going to work.
I have been retired for more than 15 years and I have written for various websites for all that time. Can I honestly say I would be happier if I had never written the column that was taken away from me in 2001? Honestly, I don’t know.
I do know there is one person in my life I will never. forgive for the wrong he did me. In particular for the lies he told after doing it.
Our publisher — technically his boss — asked him why my column was no longer running. He told the publisher that I hadn’t wanted to write it anymore. Readers wrote letters to the editor that were never published and others signed petitions complaining that were never acknowledged.
I wish I could write something meaningful. I have had two books published since, but both novels were things I wrote before I ever had my column. I have been working on two other stories, but it’s like trying to walk through deep mud in bare feet.
Will I ever finish anything?
I honestly don’t know. I honestly wonder if I have enough life left in me to accomplish anything meaningful.
I am reminded of Erich Segal’s book “Oliver’s Story,” the sequel to his multi-million-selling “Love Story” and its ending. Oliver Barrett looks back at his lost love.
“I’m still in shape. I jog along the Charles each evening.
“If I go five miles, I get to glimpse the lights of Harvard just across the river. And see all the places I had walked when I was happy.
“I run back in the darkness, reminiscing just to pass the time.
“Sometimes I ask myself what I would be if Jenny were alive.
“And then I answer:
“I would also be alive.”