Neill

As I get older, I keep getting reminded of my own mortality.

When that happens, it almost always means somebody else has come to the end of their journey. And those reminders are coming at me quicker and quicker these days, it seems. 

Neill

 So on Thursday, I learned that Neill Caldwell, a good friend and former Dispatch colleague of mine, was in the hospital following a fall he'd taken earlier in the week. But his hospitalization addressed other issues as well, including advanced pneumonia.

He'd been treated with intravenous medications, but with no effect and consequently, he was taken taken off the ventilator that morning. He died shortly thereafter. He was only 65.

News like that often travels along curious paths, sometimes arriving with lightening speed, at other times showing up frustratingly incomplete. 

It's confusing. And unreal. And that word – what do you mean, he died?

It requires processing. Remembering. Grieving.

My own memories are a little spotty these days, so forgive me if I don't catch it all, or I don't see something in the same way that you did. But what I do remember is this:

I was a few years into my job as a sports writer at The Dispatch. This would have been in the early 1980s, and the two-man sports department was seriously understaffed. One day, sports editor Larry Lyon told me The Dispatch had approved of adding another member, somebody who would cover sports half of his time and shoot photos for the entire newsroom the other half.

Neill in his natural habitat.

 Then Neill came in. 

The first thing I noticed, because you couldn't unnotice it, was his physical stature. He was short. I'm not sure he cleared five feet.  

But the moment Larry introduced us, the bonding began, as you would hope with any new employee finding his way. Or rather, us finding our way. I think we went to lunch together that very first day as the newly constituted sports department. Larry already knew Neill previously, but I immediately found out Neill had a quick sense of humor and he certainly was friendly enough.

As time progressed, it was clear to me that Neill was also a talented writer and a dedicated journalist. He was a great addition to the staff. Although his time was supposed to be divided 50-50 between writing and photography, I think it gradually morphed to something more like 60-40, and then maybe even 70-30 in favor of writing. The sports department might have silently endorsed that invisible shift in his job description.

Neill (right) in his other natural habitat.

 Although I will say this: Neill was proud of his work behind the lens as well as in the darkroom. He was a better photojournalist than I could ever be.

It also became clear that Neill could have a short fuse. If the newsroom photo machine got jammed at deadline or a story wasn't panning out the way he wanted, not only could you see the air turn blue, you could feel it, too. Sometimes it paid to walk a wide circle around Neill on those off days.

Then he met Lynne. They fell in love. They got married. Neill, from my perspective, became a calmer, more patient person. The two of them traveled everywhere. Lynne was a Methodist minister and Neill fully supported her, becoming involved in the church as well. He served as an editor for the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church as well as a correspondent for the United Methodist News Service. And when he was done there, he became the editor of The Stokes News.

Printer's ink was in his blood. If nothing else, Neill was as versatile as they came.

In the past few years, as time put more distance between us former Dispatchers, we'd try to get together as a sports department once in a while to catch a minor league baseball game. A reunion, of sorts. We traded our life stories like they were baseball cards, talked sports, talked nonsense and just figured we'd see each other again next season.

We were, after all, a team. There's always next season.

Except when there's not. 

Fare thee well, my friend. Fare thee well.