Weeping for Daniel Schorr
I’ll confess it: I am a total NPR junkie. I wake to it in the morning. When I get to my car after work, it’s already on. On weekends, I plan my activities around it. On Saturday mornings, I especially waited for the segment in which Scott Simon would talk with Daniel Schorr about his thoughts and perspective on the political news of the week.
Over the last couple of years, I’ve been thinking, “What in the world will I do when Daniel Schorr is gone?” I knew he was beyond 90 years old. I knew he would have to die some day. I just couldn’t imagine what NPR or the world of journalism or I would be without his wise voice, his perspective, his wisdom.
When I got into the car last evening, I heard the sad news from NPR that he died yesterday. I was shocked by the sobs that came. And I was moved by the 15-minute tribute they offered to him.
What a hero he was. What a courageous mountain of a man. What a saint of journalism. The world of journalism is impoverished by his death. And we – we who seek to be informed citizens – are impoverished.
I don’t keep up with popular culture. Standing in line at the grocery store, I am ignorant about the names that blaze from the magazine covers. Lindsay Lohan? Perez Hilton? Some Mel Gibson blow-up? Lady Gaga? Ignorant. I’m totally ignorant about all that stuff.
But in my little world, yesterday’s death of Daniel Schorr was like a major earthquake. I felt like I knew him. I trusted him. I am strangely grieved by the death of this man whom I never met. It still brings tears to my eyes.