“Don’t shoot the messenger”

That was an inside joke at the newspaper where I worked almost 10 years following my stroke.
The newspaper was the Daily Messenger in nearby Canandaigua.
It was a wonderful job, largely responsible for my recovery from a stroke.
The Messenger was part of the dreaded media, scurrilous scumbags with the awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to report the actual news instead of what people wanted to hear, especially fat-cats.
Of course, even a newspaper is a human endeavor. It could promote a so-called “fevered agenda.” Limbaugh CONSERVATIVES loudly accused us of holding furtive meetings to advance our liberal agenda (Gasp!).
Like, when did we ever have time to hold such meetings?
A gang of idiots and ne’er-do-wells arrived before the crack of dawn to slam together the equivalent of a book.
“Yo K-man, I got an eight-inch hole on 4A.”
“How about that Uganda brief? You’ll hafta cut.”
All the news that fits.
Not too long ago my brother in northern DE set up a private Facebook called “Connor-Jeans.”
I’ll be diplomatic and not explain the name, except it’s a takeoff on “genes.”
Connor is my mother’s maiden name.
Like my father, she became a strident Christian, and somewhat badmouthed some of her siblings. There were many.
One was my Uncle Bucky (Walter), and his wife Francis.
Perhaps Bucky made some wisecrack that inflamed my mother, or perhaps he pilloried Bible-beaters.
Whatever, this negatory brainwashing rubbed off on me, so I felt Bucky and Francis were unsavory.
We visited occasionally, but I was always warned.
On Connor-Jeans I apparently made some comment reflecting this negatory brainwashing.
Quite justifiably it got some of Bucky’s children, cousins, all bent outta shape.
I began to realize my parents were the ones wrong; Bucky was pretty cool.
I tried to apologize, but that didn’t work.
My parents were both dead, but I was still alive.
I was the messenger, so I should be shot.
Finally I decided the only thing for me to do was pull all my comments, plus take down old photographs I posted — but only because such pictures might also have comments, and I don’t know how Facebook works.
Suddenly deafening silence. Connor-Jeans went dead. No more weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Except just recently one of Bucky’s daughters posted an old picture of two of her sisters, one of whom was later murdered. The messenger, me, wasn’t allowed to see it.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.