Baking Some Good News
Tuesday, January 14, 2003@ 1:00 AM
As a former reporter and editor, I am a news junkie. So when my husband gave me the day-after-Christmas gift of time for a long bath, I grabbed all the papers from the past few days and headed for a soak. But I quickly regretted my choice of reading material.
In the post-Christmas glow, the papers seemed especially grim. First I read the story of Bethlehem, virtually empty and devoid of celebration. None of the news from overseas seemed any cheerier. Closer to home, and what put me over the edge, was the story of a baby killed in the crossfire of a dispute in Carrboro on the afternoon of the 24th, including the odd detail of the sheriff unable to find the baby’s mother by late that night.
Finally, I read the obituary of the news we had heard on Christmas Eve, the death of Paul Montgomery.
He was one of the area’s best jazz pianists, but to those in my generation from Raleigh, he will forever be simply “Uncle Paul,” the host of a children’s TV show from the WRAL studio. He was my earliest brush with fame, good for bragging rights on my school playground, because he went to my church and was friends with my parents. Even with my mediocre memory, I could still draw a detailed picture of the show’s studio, from the vantage point of the audience bleachers. It was a funny, warm show, gentle like Mr. Rogers or Captain Kangaroo, and so unlike the junk on kids’ TV today.
In the post-Christmas glow, the papers seemed especially grim. First I read the story of Bethlehem, virtually empty and devoid of celebration. None of the news from overseas seemed any cheerier. Closer to home, and what put me over the edge, was the story of a baby killed in the crossfire of a dispute in Carrboro on the afternoon of the 24th, including the odd detail of the sheriff unable to find the baby’s mother by late that night.
Finally, I read the obituary of the news we had heard on Christmas Eve, the death of Paul Montgomery.
He was one of the area’s best jazz pianists, but to those in my generation from Raleigh, he will forever be simply “Uncle Paul,” the host of a children’s TV show from the WRAL studio. He was my earliest brush with fame, good for bragging rights on my school playground, because he went to my church and was friends with my parents. Even with my mediocre memory, I could still draw a detailed picture of the show’s studio, from the vantage point of the audience bleachers. It was a funny, warm show, gentle like Mr. Rogers or Captain Kangaroo, and so unlike the junk on kids’ TV today.
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