First I'd like to extend my condolences following Pete's death. I read with sorrow about his death. That was combined with a degree of pride in having known him and happiness in knowing that Pete had good friends, family and the respect he deserved from his peers.
I had not seen Pete in 35 years. I was a Vista volunteer serving in Indianapolis' Meyer Neighborhood House with Pete and Tim Curtin. He and I both worked together, briefly, at a state hospital in Indianapolis as psychiatric aides.
I'd like to think that I was present when Pete got his first taste of journalism. You see, we were young radicals in a very conservative city. We got involved in what was referred to as the "underground press". I remember Pete writing stories for the Indianapolis Free Press. We did everything: we wrote, edited, had all-night parties when we laidout and pasted up the finished product, before driving the paste-ups to the printer. I remember seeing Pete on street corners hawking papers.
Pete decided to leave Indianapolis and he had arranged to get a driveaway car that he was taking to Texas. There were five of us. We spent a night sleeping under the stars in KC and in the morning Pete dropped Tim and I at a highway and we hitchhiked to South Dakota to follow a story for the Free Press. Pete went on to San Francisco and lived there for a brief time, before returning to Brooklyn.
The Pete I knew was still trying to find himself, I'm glad that he was able to do so.
Apparently, about the time of Pete's death, I was having dinner with another of Pete's old friends, Mike Cruz, and we talked and laughed as we reminisced about old friends including Pete. We speculated about what had happened to him.
I emailed Pete's obit to Mike and he wrote back that he was gratified to see that Pete had matured so well and that he remembered him as "a great guy".
Once again I am sorry for your loss. Feel free to contact me by return email. I have stories that I can relate, bu that Pete was a different one than you knew, I am sure. Please relate my condolences also to your daughters.
Chuck Kuhn
LCSW, BCD
Psychotherapist
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Road Hazard
PHOTO: Peter covered the war in Bosnia. In this photo, he examines the wrecked APC in which he had been riding (1993).
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Camille Mackler: Baseball was our common language
My dad had two daughters and a very French wife. But he needed someone to discuss sports with. Unfortunately, we lived abroad for most of my childhood, mainly in countries where cricket was the most exciting sport. So my dad taught me first how to speak English, and then he taught me about sports. We lived in Hong Kong and we rooted for the New York Knicks. We moved to Brussels and I learned to love the Yankees.
The Yankees were somewhat of a conundrum for my father, having grown up in Brooklyn with the Dodgers his entire boyhood. But then, what child doesn't root for at least one team that will drive their father nuts? In the end, perhaps in one of his greatest acts of love to me, my father converted, and the Yankees became our team. Our reference point. Our go-to source for analogy and metaphor. The last time I saw my dad, we were together at Yankee stadium on our yearly excursion to the subway series. We rooted together valiantly, but unsuccessfully, for the Yanks to beat the Mets.
Of all the sports, baseball was our favorite. I don’t know why, but maybe it is because it combines our love for history and anecdotes, and because it is the one sport, more than any other, that will give an underdog a chance. Whenever our teams weren’t playing, we always rooted for the underdogs together. Even in 2005, after the Yankees inexplicably went on strike half-way through the American League Championship Series and the hated Red Sox won their first World Series in eighty-six years, my father called me to tell me that there was a very small part of him that was happy for Red Sox fans. Secretly, there was a very small part of me that agreed. And then he told me that if I ever quoted him on that, he would deny it.
I loved the stories my father told me about growing up in Brooklyn in the 50s and 60s, playing stick ball on the street. He told me how his older brother Steve took him aside one day, after a particularly miserable attempt to connect stick to ball, and taught him the secret: Just count in your head “and-one-and-two-and-swing.” He told me about how my grandfather would take him to watch batting practice at Ebbets Field and one day pointed out a particularly scrawny black kid who couldn’t seem to hit the ground with his bat when he tried. That kid, my grandfather announced, would turn into one of the greatest hitters of his time. That kid’s name was Hank Aaron. After my grandfather died, my father and I took refuge at the Museum of Natural History, which had on exhibit at the time part of the collection from the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. We found solace in wandering through the rooms, looking at Joe DiMaggio’s first glove, seats from the Polo Grounds, dirt from Candlestick Park.
When we moved to the States, my dad introduced me to American football. And yes, I say American football, because the tenacious French person in me will not agree to a game that actually involves a foot and a ball being renamed soccer for America's convenience. We added the NY Giants to our roster of conversation topics. Last February, I came down to DC to watch our Giants compete in the Superbowl for the first time in eight years. I hadn't done that since college, but then again, neither had the Giants. Whether we won or lost, one thing was clear, my father was the only person I wanted to be with when it happened. We commiserated, cheered, and lamented through the first 3 quarters together. We kneeled side by side on the floor in front of the TV, knuckles white, during the last drive of the game, not breathing until David Tyree caught that last pass over his head and Plaxico Buress scored the final touch down. We jumped up and down like maniacs when the game was over, screaming, cheering, hugging, and probably convincing my mom we both needed to be committed without delay. That would have been fine, as long as we had neighboring padded cells. He bought the DVD that memorialized the Giants 2007-2008 season, and watched it when he’d had a bad day.
My dad often told me I should become a sports writer. He loved reading the round ups of the local teams’ efforts that I would send to his email box whenever he was off in some remote corner of the world, covering, or more often than not anticipating, the next big story. I was proud to think he enjoyed my writing. But mostly, I was happy that we had this world that we could share, just the two of us. Just one more facet of our priceless bond.
-- Camille Mackler
The Yankees were somewhat of a conundrum for my father, having grown up in Brooklyn with the Dodgers his entire boyhood. But then, what child doesn't root for at least one team that will drive their father nuts? In the end, perhaps in one of his greatest acts of love to me, my father converted, and the Yankees became our team. Our reference point. Our go-to source for analogy and metaphor. The last time I saw my dad, we were together at Yankee stadium on our yearly excursion to the subway series. We rooted together valiantly, but unsuccessfully, for the Yanks to beat the Mets.
Of all the sports, baseball was our favorite. I don’t know why, but maybe it is because it combines our love for history and anecdotes, and because it is the one sport, more than any other, that will give an underdog a chance. Whenever our teams weren’t playing, we always rooted for the underdogs together. Even in 2005, after the Yankees inexplicably went on strike half-way through the American League Championship Series and the hated Red Sox won their first World Series in eighty-six years, my father called me to tell me that there was a very small part of him that was happy for Red Sox fans. Secretly, there was a very small part of me that agreed. And then he told me that if I ever quoted him on that, he would deny it.
I loved the stories my father told me about growing up in Brooklyn in the 50s and 60s, playing stick ball on the street. He told me how his older brother Steve took him aside one day, after a particularly miserable attempt to connect stick to ball, and taught him the secret: Just count in your head “and-one-and-two-and-swing.” He told me about how my grandfather would take him to watch batting practice at Ebbets Field and one day pointed out a particularly scrawny black kid who couldn’t seem to hit the ground with his bat when he tried. That kid, my grandfather announced, would turn into one of the greatest hitters of his time. That kid’s name was Hank Aaron. After my grandfather died, my father and I took refuge at the Museum of Natural History, which had on exhibit at the time part of the collection from the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. We found solace in wandering through the rooms, looking at Joe DiMaggio’s first glove, seats from the Polo Grounds, dirt from Candlestick Park.
When we moved to the States, my dad introduced me to American football. And yes, I say American football, because the tenacious French person in me will not agree to a game that actually involves a foot and a ball being renamed soccer for America's convenience. We added the NY Giants to our roster of conversation topics. Last February, I came down to DC to watch our Giants compete in the Superbowl for the first time in eight years. I hadn't done that since college, but then again, neither had the Giants. Whether we won or lost, one thing was clear, my father was the only person I wanted to be with when it happened. We commiserated, cheered, and lamented through the first 3 quarters together. We kneeled side by side on the floor in front of the TV, knuckles white, during the last drive of the game, not breathing until David Tyree caught that last pass over his head and Plaxico Buress scored the final touch down. We jumped up and down like maniacs when the game was over, screaming, cheering, hugging, and probably convincing my mom we both needed to be committed without delay. That would have been fine, as long as we had neighboring padded cells. He bought the DVD that memorialized the Giants 2007-2008 season, and watched it when he’d had a bad day.
My dad often told me I should become a sports writer. He loved reading the round ups of the local teams’ efforts that I would send to his email box whenever he was off in some remote corner of the world, covering, or more often than not anticipating, the next big story. I was proud to think he enjoyed my writing. But mostly, I was happy that we had this world that we could share, just the two of us. Just one more facet of our priceless bond.
-- Camille Mackler
Monday, July 14, 2008
James Brown: Deepest sympathies
I wanted to pass on our deepest sympathies to everyone at AFP – I was greatly saddened to hear of Peter’s death.
I remember meeting Peter for the first time in 2006 when we first thinking of launching ForesightNews in the States.
To be honest I wondered what his reaction would be to some upstart Englishman who dared to even think of starting up a news-events service for journalists – and, if I am honest, it was with great trepidation that I waited to meet him !
Like every time I subsequently met him, he never seemed to be doing less than 20 things at once, whether editing, monitoring the wires, questioning passing colleagues and having at least 2 telephone lines perpetually “blinking” at him.
In the midst of this stream of all equally urgent business, he was incredibly generous with his time and showed such great faith in what we wanted to achieve.
It was only over the next couple of years that I found out by chance that he had from time-to-time passed our name to other agencies in DC suggesting they contact us – typically he never told me he had done this for us, but as someone let slip a couple of months ago, he had said wanted to support us in anyway he could.
Peter continually demanded we “raise the bar”, always said we could do better and better and his wise words and advice were always hugely appreciated.
Peter was a “giant” and I wanted to convey in a small way our huge debt to him for all his support and the great kindness he showed to us.
-- JAMES BROWN
Key Accounts Director
ForesightNews
I remember meeting Peter for the first time in 2006 when we first thinking of launching ForesightNews in the States.
To be honest I wondered what his reaction would be to some upstart Englishman who dared to even think of starting up a news-events service for journalists – and, if I am honest, it was with great trepidation that I waited to meet him !
Like every time I subsequently met him, he never seemed to be doing less than 20 things at once, whether editing, monitoring the wires, questioning passing colleagues and having at least 2 telephone lines perpetually “blinking” at him.
In the midst of this stream of all equally urgent business, he was incredibly generous with his time and showed such great faith in what we wanted to achieve.
It was only over the next couple of years that I found out by chance that he had from time-to-time passed our name to other agencies in DC suggesting they contact us – typically he never told me he had done this for us, but as someone let slip a couple of months ago, he had said wanted to support us in anyway he could.
Peter continually demanded we “raise the bar”, always said we could do better and better and his wise words and advice were always hugely appreciated.
Peter was a “giant” and I wanted to convey in a small way our huge debt to him for all his support and the great kindness he showed to us.
-- JAMES BROWN
Key Accounts Director
ForesightNews
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Bogonko Bosire: 'Bosire, do you want coffee or should I show you how we transmit?
I first and last saw Peter on the morning of January 9, 2005, when he accompanied Colin Powell to Nairobi for the signing of the Sudan Peace Agreement. I met him in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel.
After I introduced myself, Peter asked me: "Bosire, do you want coffee or should I show you how we transmit?" I opted for the latter, even though he gave me a choice
We chatted for about 20 minutes during which he praised the Nairobi bureau for leading the competition in the coverage of the Sudan peace talks. He encouraged me to keep this lead and"nature" will take its course.
"My journalism is driven by a sense of duty not ambition ... There is no mountain that the human spirit, guided by some higher spirit , cannot attain," he said to me before hurrying off to the van taking State Department correspondents to the national stadium for the signing ceremony.
His quote stuck in my mind. Who cannot admire a man with such bountiful humanity and professional goodwill and energy? I saw him again at the stadium and he kindly introduced me to some of his State Department colleagues. Before we parted ways, he asked me to give his regards to Matthew Lee, who had started only hours before as the deputy in AFP's Nairobi bureau. That evening, Matt -- whom Peter has replaced as the AFP correspondent at the State Department -- asked me if I had met Peter.
"That guy is a phenomenal ... I wish you could have worked with him," Matt said. I always wondered what he meant -- until I read the tributes to Peter in this blog. I now have the answer.
And so, my tribute to this man I met only once will be to try to emulate him.
Bogonko Bosire, Nairobi Bureau
AFP, East Africa and Indian Ocean
After I introduced myself, Peter asked me: "Bosire, do you want coffee or should I show you how we transmit?" I opted for the latter, even though he gave me a choice
We chatted for about 20 minutes during which he praised the Nairobi bureau for leading the competition in the coverage of the Sudan peace talks. He encouraged me to keep this lead and"nature" will take its course.
"My journalism is driven by a sense of duty not ambition ... There is no mountain that the human spirit, guided by some higher spirit , cannot attain," he said to me before hurrying off to the van taking State Department correspondents to the national stadium for the signing ceremony.
His quote stuck in my mind. Who cannot admire a man with such bountiful humanity and professional goodwill and energy? I saw him again at the stadium and he kindly introduced me to some of his State Department colleagues. Before we parted ways, he asked me to give his regards to Matthew Lee, who had started only hours before as the deputy in AFP's Nairobi bureau. That evening, Matt -- whom Peter has replaced as the AFP correspondent at the State Department -- asked me if I had met Peter.
"That guy is a phenomenal ... I wish you could have worked with him," Matt said. I always wondered what he meant -- until I read the tributes to Peter in this blog. I now have the answer.
And so, my tribute to this man I met only once will be to try to emulate him.
Bogonko Bosire, Nairobi Bureau
AFP, East Africa and Indian Ocean
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Nathaniel Harrison: Journalists of a certain age
My special memory of Peter has nothing directly to do with his extraordinary gifts as a journalist, leader and teacher, all of which have been justifiably acclaimed.
My story is set in the late 1990s in the Washington AFP bureau where at one point the resident journalists (as opposed to those of us posted from Paris headquarters) were threatening to strike over pay and other issues. It was informally assumed that if the local journalists downed tools those of us from Paris would step in and try to carry on. As a dues-paying member of the CGT I had no intention of breaking a strike.
But I nonetheless trembled a bit when Peter, who was management, stopped by my desk one day and asked me into his office. I feared the worst, sensing I would be asked about my strike plans. Would I have the guts, I wondered, to jeopardize my livelihood to support the strike? I needn't have worried.
"Nat," he said, "you're an American citizen and you have rights here. I just want you to know that you should do whatever your conscience dictates."
I could have kissed the guy. I left his office light of step, and a little ashamed for having thought Peter's position would be any different from what it was.
He and I are roughly of the same vintage. We came of age on the political left in the late 1960s in America, when "to be young was very heaven."
Some of the younger readers of this blog might not get the references here.
But Peter knew, and still knows, what I'm talking about.
-- Nathaniel Harrison
AFP, Paris
My story is set in the late 1990s in the Washington AFP bureau where at one point the resident journalists (as opposed to those of us posted from Paris headquarters) were threatening to strike over pay and other issues. It was informally assumed that if the local journalists downed tools those of us from Paris would step in and try to carry on. As a dues-paying member of the CGT I had no intention of breaking a strike.
But I nonetheless trembled a bit when Peter, who was management, stopped by my desk one day and asked me into his office. I feared the worst, sensing I would be asked about my strike plans. Would I have the guts, I wondered, to jeopardize my livelihood to support the strike? I needn't have worried.
"Nat," he said, "you're an American citizen and you have rights here. I just want you to know that you should do whatever your conscience dictates."
I could have kissed the guy. I left his office light of step, and a little ashamed for having thought Peter's position would be any different from what it was.
He and I are roughly of the same vintage. We came of age on the political left in the late 1960s in America, when "to be young was very heaven."
Some of the younger readers of this blog might not get the references here.
But Peter knew, and still knows, what I'm talking about.
-- Nathaniel Harrison
AFP, Paris
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