His name was H. Bruce Walker. He was referred to retrospectively as Bruce throughout my time as a reporter and columnist for The Corydon Democrat weekly newspaper in Corydon, Ind., an historic town of about 7,000 people 35 miles west of Louisville.
The frequency of my hearing his name mentioned soon after I took the Democrat job in 1982 testifies to Bruce's everlasting stature. He was someone you'd never forget, and someone I feel as though I know - not just knew.
I first became knowledgeable about Bruce after I decided during a quiet weekend afternoon following my shift to fill in the blanks on this deceased journalist with such indelible presence. I browsed a Democrat staff-produced booklet I had seen at the front counter called "The Writings of H. Bruce Walker."
I shortly found a person who had been part Henry David Thoreau, part Thomas Merton, and part Dave Barry.
After Bruce died unexpectedly at age 48 in 1978 of a heart attack, the Democrat staff compiled some of his best writings into that booklet. It also included several of their own thoughts and comments from readers about the pain of a shocking loss, but also the joy of having known this man about whom Democrat staffer Ed Runden wrote: "His virtues were plain and simple and uncommon in any age. He was the good and honest man we often speak of and infrequently meet."
Bruce Walker had been a professor of philosophy at DePaul University in Chicago. He had grown up in Whiting, Ind. a densely industrialized city on Chicagoland's south shore.
Bruce's columns gave measured but lively praise or criticism to county government officials for their actions he felt were in, or against the public interest. The columns also talked of such varied things as serving as a lifeguard during his youth on Lake Michigan's Whiting Beach, to General Electric's ominous efforts to win a patent on its new strain of bacteria (Bruce had studied physics and chemistry at Purdue) to the dubious distinction of being investigated by Harrison County's rural electric cooperative.
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| Bruce and Dietgard, happy with each other and with simplicity. |
Democrat managing editor Randy West told me Bruce would sometimes spot a device or piece of old furniture lying outdoors which a Harrison County property owner might have written off as junk, then buy it for a few dollars and turn it into something useful and restore it to its original charm.
Bruce owned no telephone or television. Democrat sports editor and columnist H. O. Jones wrote after Bruce's death that he and his wife Dietgard raised chickens on their property and expertly gathered plants and berries from the wild as part of their determination to avoid prepared foods with artificial ingredients.
Jones added that Bruce insisted on keeping his old Volkswagen going long past its natural life by rebuilding or replacing "every single bit of its ailing anatomy."
Bruce had great and varied technological savvy and fix-it skills, along with a philosophy of relying on the simplest technology possible.
Randy's farewell column called Bruce "a latter-day Renaissance Man," adding:
Bruce had great and varied technological savvy and fix-it skills, along with a philosophy of relying on the simplest technology possible.
Randy's farewell column called Bruce "a latter-day Renaissance Man," adding:
"(H)e was accomplished in physics, chemistry, mathematics, politics, religion, philosophy, literature, botany, conservation, organic gardening, nutrition, carpentry, mechanics, farming. The last time Bruce was at our house, he played the piano and did a Greek dance to the music from 'Zorba the Greek.' (Like Zorba, he was an Earthy, sensual man who relished food, drink and tobacco.)"
Bruce was a conservationist, and also a conversationalist.
"He had few peers as a storyteller. Gestures, dialects, the works," H. O. Jones wrote. "He had a penchant for detail in his storytelling which missed little.... He loved to nose into public records around the courthouse, find discrepancies and write about them. Just about the only enemies he had were the ones he caught with their hands in the cookie jar and readers who couldn't tell the difference between satire and seriousness."
Randy West wrote that along with Bruce's writing prowess and intellect, his easy and colorful speaking style and boisterous laugh displayed during his 1974 job interview helped persuade Randy and Democrat publisher Robert O'Bannon to hire Bruce.
Those traits never failed Bruce during his four years covering the governments of Harrison and occasionally neighboring Crawford County.
"A natural actor, his irreverent impersonations of some local public figures often left us in hysterics," staff reporter Mary Ann Sebrey wrote nine days after Bruce died.
Joy Lindauer, then a recent addition to the Democrat staff, said: "As an admirer of Bruce's writing since moving here four years ago, I marveled at how he came up with such good stories when he only started writing about two hours before deadline. He would spend a lot of time running around the courthouse, talking on the phone, scanning the newspapers, and shooting the breeze with colleagues. Then about 2 o'clock Tuesday afternoon he would begin putting his thoughts on paper in the concise professional way we all became used to in his stories."
This frenetic routine, Joy Lindauer added, did not detract from Bruce's appreciation for simple pleasures like opening his lunch bag at work and declaring: "Oh Boy. Waffles with blackberry jam!" as she recalled from one day.
Even those who did not know Bruce personally understood the love he had for his and Dietgard's two sons, Arpad and Istvan, both named for Hungarian political figures from history.
"Dietgard, Arpad and Istvan became household words in Harrison County through Bruce's columns. Whether it was telling about their awe of Smokey the Bear or their delight in their new sleeping bags, his love for his little boys shone through."
Randy West wrote: "Bruce impressed everyone he met. He amazed us first by showing signs of being a natural born investigative reporter. Countless times he rushed into our office with the same pronouncement: 'VERY interesting. I just found out that....' County officials soon realized, perhaps nervously, that someone was VERY interested in their work, particularly when it concerned tax dollars, and some of them caught Bruce's carefully-thought-out criticism on the editorial pages. It's pleasant to note that many of those same officials, who often heeded his words, became his good friends."
Much as Bruce and Dietgard found the natural surroundings of Harrison County (after making just one trip there from the Chicago area) perfect for trying lives of simple independence, it was nature that supremely tested their commitment.
On April 3, 1974, the worst outbreak of tornadoes in U.S. history was centered on Kentucky and Southern Indiana, destroying 900 homes in Louisville, and hundreds more in rural parts of the two states, including the dream home of two Chicago-area idealists who had relocated.
Bruce yielded to pragmatism (even Thoreau would have understood), getting a job bagging groceries in a supermarket, then soon seeking work at The Democrat.
The Walkers were not alone in feeling the call of rustic, woodsy Harrison County, which began growing in the 1970s as Louisville professional people, particularly new arrivals to the city, often made the same move, if for lives more tied to subdivision convenience than Thoreau's self-reliance.
Corydon was the first capital of Indiana, and the original State Capitol building (built between 1814 and 1816 of area limestone and logs) still draws visitors who quickly are charmed by a surrounding town square, bed and breakfasts, restaurants, and preserved homes of two early governors.
Rollercoastering gasoline prices in the last 50 years have made the city commuter population growth uneven, but Harrison County has steadily attracted esoteric free thinkers, initially via the 1970s back-to-the-land passions. Big draws are Blue River, a waterway ideal for canoeing, and some tall bluffs overlooking the Ohio River where hang gliders step into the sky.
And it has to be said that many like Harrison and its adjoining and even more rustic Crawford County because of their thin law enforcement coupled with ample marijuana, often produced in far corners of the many absentee owned wooded patches and meadows.
When I lived in Harrison and covered news in both counties from 1982 to '85, there still was a seventies live-and-let-live ethos.
But Bruce and his family valued not just the freedom and self-determination their venue gave them in that decade, but also a discipline from lives rooted in religion and philosophy.
"Bruce was a Christian," Randy West wrote, "and he shared Christ's disdain for the Pharisees. He had no time for arrogance, vanity and pretension."
Two column excerpts among the vast array in "The Writings of H. Bruce Walker" well illustrate his grasp of complex problems with which the U.S. is still beset, and the simple values that could solve them, explained by Bruce in the clear and conversational style that won him readers.
He wrote this in September 1978, though the words are central to today's situation:
Bruce was a conservationist, and also a conversationalist.
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| Office holders local and national, such as U.S. Sen. Birch Bayh, felt Bruce's scrutiny. |
Randy West wrote that along with Bruce's writing prowess and intellect, his easy and colorful speaking style and boisterous laugh displayed during his 1974 job interview helped persuade Randy and Democrat publisher Robert O'Bannon to hire Bruce.
Those traits never failed Bruce during his four years covering the governments of Harrison and occasionally neighboring Crawford County.
"A natural actor, his irreverent impersonations of some local public figures often left us in hysterics," staff reporter Mary Ann Sebrey wrote nine days after Bruce died.
Joy Lindauer, then a recent addition to the Democrat staff, said: "As an admirer of Bruce's writing since moving here four years ago, I marveled at how he came up with such good stories when he only started writing about two hours before deadline. He would spend a lot of time running around the courthouse, talking on the phone, scanning the newspapers, and shooting the breeze with colleagues. Then about 2 o'clock Tuesday afternoon he would begin putting his thoughts on paper in the concise professional way we all became used to in his stories."
This frenetic routine, Joy Lindauer added, did not detract from Bruce's appreciation for simple pleasures like opening his lunch bag at work and declaring: "Oh Boy. Waffles with blackberry jam!" as she recalled from one day.
Even those who did not know Bruce personally understood the love he had for his and Dietgard's two sons, Arpad and Istvan, both named for Hungarian political figures from history.
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| Bruce's first born son Arpad gets a hoist from his dad in the natural setting that was their home. After Bruce died in 1978, his widow Dietgard moved the family to Illinois. |
Randy West wrote: "Bruce impressed everyone he met. He amazed us first by showing signs of being a natural born investigative reporter. Countless times he rushed into our office with the same pronouncement: 'VERY interesting. I just found out that....' County officials soon realized, perhaps nervously, that someone was VERY interested in their work, particularly when it concerned tax dollars, and some of them caught Bruce's carefully-thought-out criticism on the editorial pages. It's pleasant to note that many of those same officials, who often heeded his words, became his good friends."
Much as Bruce and Dietgard found the natural surroundings of Harrison County (after making just one trip there from the Chicago area) perfect for trying lives of simple independence, it was nature that supremely tested their commitment.
On April 3, 1974, the worst outbreak of tornadoes in U.S. history was centered on Kentucky and Southern Indiana, destroying 900 homes in Louisville, and hundreds more in rural parts of the two states, including the dream home of two Chicago-area idealists who had relocated.
Bruce yielded to pragmatism (even Thoreau would have understood), getting a job bagging groceries in a supermarket, then soon seeking work at The Democrat.
The Walkers were not alone in feeling the call of rustic, woodsy Harrison County, which began growing in the 1970s as Louisville professional people, particularly new arrivals to the city, often made the same move, if for lives more tied to subdivision convenience than Thoreau's self-reliance.
Corydon was the first capital of Indiana, and the original State Capitol building (built between 1814 and 1816 of area limestone and logs) still draws visitors who quickly are charmed by a surrounding town square, bed and breakfasts, restaurants, and preserved homes of two early governors.
 |
| Bruce pretends to gloat as he and Sports Editor H.O. Jones add Hoosier State Press Association awards to the newsroom wall. It was a yearly ritual at the acclaimed Corydon weekly. |
And it has to be said that many like Harrison and its adjoining and even more rustic Crawford County because of their thin law enforcement coupled with ample marijuana, often produced in far corners of the many absentee owned wooded patches and meadows.
When I lived in Harrison and covered news in both counties from 1982 to '85, there still was a seventies live-and-let-live ethos.
But Bruce and his family valued not just the freedom and self-determination their venue gave them in that decade, but also a discipline from lives rooted in religion and philosophy.
"Bruce was a Christian," Randy West wrote, "and he shared Christ's disdain for the Pharisees. He had no time for arrogance, vanity and pretension."
Two column excerpts among the vast array in "The Writings of H. Bruce Walker" well illustrate his grasp of complex problems with which the U.S. is still beset, and the simple values that could solve them, explained by Bruce in the clear and conversational style that won him readers.
He wrote this in September 1978, though the words are central to today's situation:
"Because energy was cheap, we didn't feel a twinge of guilt or even have a remote sense that wasting all this energy was wrong.
"But now energy is no longer cheap, and it never will be again. The days of cheap and abundant oil are gone, and the price of coal is going up. We're in the position of having to learn new attitudes toward energy."
In December 1977, these seasonal words offered timeless advice for anyone - religious or not - seeking to reconnect with truth and authenticity. The conclusion touches me like the words of the good friend I have in the person I never met:
"Times have changed. The simplicity of the first Christmas has become complicated for many into a frenzy of activity that clouds this original simplicity.
"From about the day after Halloween, we're bombarded by advertising displaying hundreds of gift suggestions.... There are hundreds of Christmas cards to sign and stamp and decisions made on who to send them to.
"All this takes place to the strains of 'Peace on Earth, Good will to men.' By the time Christmas arrives, many if not most people are so physically and emotionally exhausted that the day brings relief rather than joy. But buried in all this, the original simplicity and joy is still there.
"All we have to do is find it."
Brian Arbenz lives in Louisville, Ky. USA. The pictures used in this story are reproduced from, "The Writings of H. Bruce Walker" with permission of Randy West, retired editor of The Corydon Democrat and member of the Indiana Journalism Hall of Fame.
Great article about a great man who died much too young.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Bill. It was thoroughly nostalgic to write this. Bruce lived a life of integrity, and during that era, I believed such values as his could prevail. Though I never knew Bruce, when I discovered him in retrospect, I realized what a friend I had missed, but also how his writings and the vivid descriptions of him by others would enable him to be a living person to me.
ReplyDeleteThis is a fine tribute, and fascinating to read-thanks! I'm sorry I'm so tardy; I've had troubles getting on blogspot sites this past week. Internet anomaly, I'm sure. I'm happy I got to read it, it's also motivating.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Ali. And this has only been on a few days. You're one of the early ones! :) ... I'm glad you found some inspiration in Bruce Walker. He would have liked your area. He found greatness everywhere he looked.
DeleteThanks for writing this essay about someone I knew well and worked with all those years ago. His loss was huge to the staff of The Corydon Democrat as well as all those whose lives he touched in southern Indiana. Bruce was a larger than life figure who influenced so many of us and we'll never forget him. -- Mary Ann Whitley (formerly Sebrey)
ReplyDeleteHello Mary Ann, and thank you for your comments. One moment in which I realized I had something in common with Bruce was a couple of years after I read your memorial recollection of his habit of lightheartedly referring to radio station WPDF as “Whippadif,” and the TG&Y store as “Tiggy.” By 1985 I had moved to Louisville, and when it would be time to pay my gas and electricity bill, I’d write LG&E on the check, but I’d often pronounce it “Lugganee.”
ReplyDeleteBruce would have understood!
It was a delight to hear that my blog piece meant something to you. I recall you stopping into the Democrat office once or twice during my time there.
Oh, and your writing about the laughs all had over Bruce’s “typing ability — or should I say, lack of it…” Yep, that’s me as well, though I am constantly bailed out by the spellcheck Bruce didn’t have.