As pines keep the shape of

the wind even when the wind has fled and is no longer there, so words

guard the shape of man, even when man has fled and is no longer there.

George Seferis 1900-1971

How many times can a heart

break, and heal again?

Seeing my grieving colleagues

on The Citizen last week, I couldn't help thinking that I am among the

oldest of those whose hearts broke when Dave Hamrick left us so suddenly,

so suddenly.

The others eyes red, expressions

bewildered are so young I'm not sure they've experienced death before,

close up. Death becomes a familiar presence as we age. Not a friend, no,

but more than a distant acquaintance. We've lost parents, siblings, even

children, and certainly friends.

The young have not; no wonder

they look so stricken.

My association with the paper,

hence with its editors, is different from theirs. I've often described

it as a love-hate relationship; that's not exactly true. I've had, let's

see, nine, maybe 10, editors since 1979 when this column was born. I really

didn't like only a few. I cherish the rest as enduring friends.

Unlike the other staffers,

I rarely go to the office. Now that e-mail is easy and dependable, I dutifully

file the column from home, usually close to deadline, sometimes a couple

of weeks early. I have only the vaguest idea how a weekly newspaper is

constructed from the time my words arrive on The Citizen's computer screen.

To be honest, I'm not totally

sure who guides my copy to the page, but in my imagination, it was Dave

Hamrick who popped open the file and said, "Oh, good, Sallie's column.

What a great way to start the day." He'd read it, smile in all the

right places, nod in agreement, cluck in disagreement, pronounce it error-free,

and send it on to wherever columns go next.

I said "in my imagination."

In reality, I've found mistakes unfixed, and whined that someone at the

paper wasn't doing his job. Worse, much worse, when my editor-du-jour

"fixed" what he saw as a mistake and made it wrong. That's when

poor Dave heard from me, and usually took the blame for the error.

But not always. A few weeks

ago, in a story about Fayette County's water, I said I keep a "picture"

of filtered water in the fridge, and when it published that way, I ranted

to Dave, and for the first time I can remember, he wrote back that he

had indeed caught it "I'm vindicated!" but someone else picked

up and used the first copy.

Dave loved words with a passion

and understood my pride in using them correctly. For that he got blamed

when my mistakes got through and never got credited for making me look

better than I am.

Besides the column, my informal

contract with the paper is to write feature stories when I'm in town,

and I try to do so, if I can do it without breaking a sweat. They are

occasionally my idea, or else stories Dave needed doing, stories he would

pitch as "Sallie stories."

What that meant, of course,

was that he couldn't get anyone else away from the relentless pressure

of regular beat deadlines. I knew that, but was still flattered to think

he felt a story needed that special touch only I could give it.

Naturally, I'd fall for it,

although I usually demanded extra time and behaved like the diva we agreed

I am. Then he'd write me back, "Thank you, thank you, thank you,"

and I'd respond, "I love it when you grovel."

He used to post what he called

"nag reports" to all the staff writers (or so I presume), grievances

about style inconsistencies and mistakes professional writers simply should

not make. The "nags" were thoughtful and usually gentle, although

once, when he was trying to get his staff to rewrite press releases that

come in to the office, he let loose with the following: "Fix the

%&*@$ quote marks and apostrophes!" and after writing "bold

face and caps aren't allowed," he added, "RUN SPELLCHECK!"

But, characteristically, by

the end of the missive, he had used the word "please" twice.

The thing is, he managed to

make every one of us think he was resorting to those little mass mailings

because of the others on the staff, not ourselves. I'd get them and think,

"Oh, they are driving poor Dave crazy." No way on earth could

I believe he meant me in his diatribes.

I had only talked to him on

the telephone before we met in person in 1993. Reporter Beth Bostian,

who has since moved away, had a brand-new baby girl, and Dave graciously

agreed to meet in her Peachtree City living room to discuss our roles

and assignments for The Citizen. We'd been in shock over the demise of

the Fayette and Southside Sun, and now were downright giddy to be part

of a start-up.

Since that terrible call late

Wednesday night, I've been searching computer files for notes Dave sent

me, rambling letters about words, jokes and e-mail he thought I'd appreciate.

I feel as though I'm sweeping up the shards of a treasured broken bowl,

just to have something, anything for souvenirs.

The most repeated phrase in

the office this week has surely been, "I can't believe he's gone."

Hard enough not to see him in my e-mail, and to know I never will again.

But I just can't imagine that darkened monitor and empty chair.

His words guard the shape of

a man, even when he is no longer there.

I wonder if this time my heart

won't heal.