How little it takes to have your heartstrings tugged by somebody you don't really know. I watched Donald Graham interviewed last night (Aug. 6)on the PBS news hour, about the Graham family losing the Washington Post. How sad he looked. He was admitting that the Grahams couldn't run it anymore, and hoping that the Amazon guy could. At the Rome Olympics in 1960 there was some kind of press lottery. The prize was an Olivetti portable typewriter, the last word then and surely forever, in typewriters, worth at least $40. It was won by Donnie, aged 14. I had just had my car broken into and my typewriter and other stuff stolen, I had no typewriter, and Donnie's mother Katherine Graham, told him to give me his prize, and he did. He was a nice kid and he did not become what the French call a son of daddy. When he was old enough he became a Washington street cop, and there were other stops too before he got old enough to take over the paper. I never saw him again. I wish I had. I know what it is like to have a newspaper in your veins and last night I suffered for him.
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