The first time it happened, I had an unimpeachable, scuse me, excuse. Walter Cronkite was 40 miles away and on another island. And high winds canceled my flight.
Sunday, alas, he was but a few — mind you, a few — humble feet out of my grasp. How long can this go on? Evidently there is no limit on the avid Cronkite Stalker.
I suppose this all began the day President Kennedy was shot, when I sat crying along with Uncle Walt. However, years passed, many, many a moon in fact, before the adult urge for an immediate Cronkite audience began asserting itself.
I at first simply recognized it as a foolish notion and disregarded it. I'm good at that. Real good.
But no dice with this monster that had arisen in my very journalistic soul. Here I was, toiling away waitressing at Hook, Line and Sinker (my day job) when Cronkite was spotted in his boat at the end of the pier that extends from the restaurant.
Dropping two ice teas and an eggs Benedict, I charged out to the end of the dock, only to see him sailing away into eternity. Not virtual, real eternity this time, as I stood abjectly hollering, "Walt, Uncle Walt, it's me, Molly!"
Turns out he had had dinner the night before at Hook, Line and Sinker — but none of the waitresses noticed. I was not there, of course. I would have noticed.
But I was there Sunday, and I blew it. Then again, under the right conditions I suppose anyone can capture a few moments of the Great Elusive's time. And I have to consider that most of us don't get two opportunities in one lifetime to blow it.
Besides, there's always the day job.
