`Big Artie’ remembered

Margaret Sullivan takes her journalism passion to Duke

By Ken Tingley

The obituary was sparse by most measures, and perhaps appropriate for such a humble and gentle man. But it didn’t seem right that we didn’t get our chance to say a proper goodbye.

In the tight-knit Tingley community that calls “The Valley” its base in southern Connecticut, Artie’s passing slipped through the cracks like few others. Such a thing would never have been possible in the past.

In my childhood, the Tingley Labor Day reunion was the exclamation point on the summer with a hundred Tingleys descending on three adjacent properties on Prindle Avenue in Ansonia. There was horseshoes, clam chowder, hot dogs, hamburgers and a legendary softball game that was the highlight of the summer for me as a boy.

Once a year we got a chance to catch up, see who had gotten married or had a baby and marvel at the growth of the children. And also lament those who had left us. The reunion has been gone for years, but it lives on as one of my touchstone of my childhood and family relationships.

Artie Tingley was certainly not a dominant figure in that time, except that he was larger than life. He had to be 6-2 or 6-3 with broad shoulders and a booming laugh that would envelop a room. Frankly, he scared me as a child.

In those legendary Labor Day softball games, there were no fences in the old pasture, but there was a tree line. It was Artie would would deposit the ball into the trees where it often could not be found as he loped easily around the bases. He was the standard for excellence in that game. In that sense, I always looked up to him.

I remember once in high school, Artie swatted a ball as high as I had ever seen a ball hit. It seemed to arc over the sun before beginning its descent. When it finally landed in my glove I expected it to have icicles on it.

Artie was my father’s first cousin, the son of my father’s brother. Uncle Ed lived next door to his brother Joe Tingley. Ed was a carpenter and the brothers helped each other build their houses on Prindle Avenue during the Great Depression. That’s how it was done in those days. In the floor of the front room at the base of the staircase at my grandparents house, they had inlaid in the hardwood floors in dark brown wood the name “Tingley.” It was their signature I suspect the final piece of a job well done.

Artie was a younger than my dad so I’m not sure how close they were.

My dad joined the Navy during the Korean conflict and Artie followed during the Vietnam War. Afterwards he became a carpenter like his dad.

When my father was building his dream home, it was Uncle Ed and Artie who built the house that my brother occupies now. One summer as a 10-year-old, I was employed to do odd jobs around the construction site - sweeping up debris, burning construction debris, filling nail holes with puddy and painting.

But I was always a little afraid of Artie.

When the house wasn’t finished in time for us to move in that September, Artie would give me a ride to school before heading off to work at the house. I don’t think I ever said a word to him.

As the house neared completion, I remember walking through the house with my father and Artie to inspect the final product. When we got to the room that my brother and I would occupy, my father pointed to a hole in the corner of the ceiling.

Artie sheepish admitted he had found a bird’s nest there and didn’t feel right covering it up. He finally closed the up the ceiling, but only after the birds left. I remember my dad telling that story repeatedly about the soft spot in this big man’s heart.

Years later, Artie got married, but it didn’t last.

After his father died, Artie drifted away from carpentry and did other jobs. We eventually lost track of him.

My last recollection was at wake at the family funeral home on Franklin Street. The men had gathered in one corner and Artie was talking about how uncomfortable it would be wearing a necktie for eternity.

He turned to us, the generation of cousins after him, and made us promise that when the time came for his own wake, that one of us would make sure the necktie was removed before they closed the lid.

With that, Artie’s booming laugh filled the funeral home and raised a few eyebrows.

The news finally reached me last week as it usually does these days via Facebook. One of my cousins announced  Artie had passed away a few years ago from lung cancer.

The obituary was bare bones. It mentioned his father and mother who had predeceased him, his time in the Navy, that he was a carpenter and that he was survived by a brother and sister.

Arthur S. Tingley died on May 2, 2015 and was buried in Indiantown Gap National Cemetery in Annville, Pa.

I just hope there was someone there to remove his necktie.

Margaret Sullivan @Sulliview

Can confirm this ~personal~ news, and deeply appreciate the sentiments here!! It’s been quite a ride and a great privilege

Oliver Darcy @oliverdarcy

Here's the full memo that just went out to staffers at The Washington Post: "More than a star columnist, she has been a mentor, sounding board and role model for our media team and the newsroom at large." https://t.co/jrj8SEmL6M

Moving on

When I was looking for someone to write a foreward to my collection of columns, “The Last American Editor,” I was hoping to get a big name in the journalism industry.

I knew Margaret Sullivan from her time at the Buffalo News. She had grown up in Buffalo, spent her entire career at the News and had gone on to big jobs at the New York Times and Washington Post. She had a passion for community news.

I was surprised when she not only responded to my email, but she agreed to do it. Her words in that foreward were greatly appreciated and provided me further insights into my own life in journalism.

She wrote that our words were not only “of the moment” but also of “lasting value.” It meant a lot to me.

It was announced Wednesday she is leaving the Washington Post to teach at Duke University where I’m sure she will continue to be advocate for community journalism everywhere.

In my note to her Thursday morning, I thanked her for being such an important voice in journalism and hoped the new job came with basketball tickets.

Change the menu

I snapped the photograph below while purchasing a bottle of water in 105-degree heat at San Antonio Sea World last week. It was hard to imagine any scenario when a cup of hot chocolate would be welcome in San Antonio, but especially not in August.

Tweet of the Day

snopes.com @snopes

For many people, a challenge to their worldview feels like an attack on their personal identity and can cause them to harden their position, writes Keith M. Bellizzi of the University of Connecticut. — The Conversation

snopes.comWhy Don’t Facts Change Minds? A Researcher In Human Development ExplainsHere’s a look into research that explains why it’s natural to resist changing your mind — and how you can get better at making these shifts.