Too close for comfort when disaster strikes

My wife and I didn't know about the bombs in Boston until late Monday afternoon, because we were returning from St. Louis and listening to satellite radio instead of a station that would have had news bulletins.

As soon as I mentioned the bombs to my wife, she said, "Hand me the phone," and she immediately dialed the number of our son, who lives in Boston.

That's what happens when there is news of a tragedy. The first thing you think about is the welfare of someone you know close to the scene.

As it turns out, our son was OK. His office is along the Boston Marathon route but a ways from the finish line. Much of his information about the bombs came by way of cellphones. While officials said some cell towers were shut down to avoid remote detonation of another bomb, our son said the shutdown didn't affect him.

Nor was public transportation disrupted for very long.

But even though he was mere blocks from the bombings, he had little more information than we did here in Missouri. In fact, there was precious little that anyone knew for sure, other than the carnage so vividly displayed on TV screens across America.

TV news folks scrambled, as they always do in situations like this, for accurate information to pass along. But authorities were purposely tight-lipped about what they knew. This resulted in the usual flurry of speculation. This is the part of on-the-scene reporting of tragedies that ill serves those of us who want to know what happened and why.

In addition to having a son near the bombings, we also shivered when we realized we had been at the exact location of the bombings a few years ago.

My wife and I were attending a newspaper convention at one of the downtown Boston hotels. The meeting was memorable in many ways, including the fact that we were greeted as our taxi rolled to a stop at the hotel entrance by the executive editor of The Washington Post, Ben Bradlee. I shook his hand and marveled at the hospitality committee's efforts to make everyone feel welcome.

Turns out, Bradlee wanted our taxi. We didn't chum around much after that.

Michael Gartner was at the hotel's check-in counter when we were registering. Gartner was the Page One editor of The Wall Street Journal when I was an editor on the national news desk in New York. He was part of the family that owned the Des Moines Register, where he was later editor. He then bought the paper in Ames, Iowa, and brought a minor league baseball team to town. Reporters who worked for Gartner got daily one-on-one guidance from one of the best editors anywhere -- the kind of journalistic insight that is priceless.

I said to Gartner at check-in, "I'm Joe Sullivan. We worked together in New York," assuming he might need a little memory prodding.

He peered into my face and said, "You're that other Joe Sullivan, aren't you?"

I didn't -- and still don't -- know how to answer that question. Maybe I am that other one.

Even though we had special convention rates at the hotel, it was still pricey. I was on an expense account, but I drew the line at the cost of the hotel breakfast: $20 for scrambled eggs, toast and coffee -- just for me.

So I went looking for a coffee shop. I found one on Boylston Street near the public library. I got two regular coffees and four doughnuts for just over $5. My Midwestern sensibilities were assuaged.

There was no traffic along the downtown streets. They were all closed for the marathon. It was Patriots' Day.

Later that morning we headed back to the airport. Traffic was disrupted not only by closed streets, but also by parades. We waited at a stoplight for a drum-and-fife band in full colonial regalia to pass by. We still made our flight.

Not once during that visit did it ever cross our minds that there might be a mad bomber sharing the sidewalk. After events of recent years, it crosses our minds quite a bit.

Loss of life and limb is tragic. And so is the loss of our nation's tranquillity.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian. He resides in Cape Girardeau.