Friendship stays alive in memories

The email was just one word: “Sadly.”

It was accompanied by a link that provided information about the death of David Swearingen.

You’ve never heard of Dave. And you might not have liked him if you had met him.

He was unorthodox. He was undisciplined. He was seriously overweight.

And he was my friend.

Not everyone’s cup of tea.

I first met Dave in the spring of 1978. Our twins had been born the previous July, and a gathering of the Indiana Associated Press Managing Editors at Cliffty Falls State Park provided our first getaway as a couple from the rigors of parenthood.

What we did not know — since I didn’t know what the organization was and had barely heard of it — was that we were wandering in to a very tense situation.

The AP bureau chief for Indianapolis was being replaced, following something like an insurrection, and Swearingen was being brought in to placate the media members, get things back on track and make corporate headaches go away.

The powers that be couldn’t have made a more unlikely choice.

Dave was nobody’s logical selection when it came to smoothing things over.

He was enthusiastic, he was driven, he could be rowdy, he could be profane, he had a great laugh and when it came to the details, he was often inclined to be sloppy.

But he was new on the job, and I was new on the job, having been made editor less than a year before, so I cut him some slack and he did the same for me, and a friendship was born.

It helped that he was from New England. He’d grown up in Bath, Maine, and our favorite campground was only a short drive down the coast to a spot called Hermit Island.

That first weekend meeting was a hit all around, and a friendship was born.

Less than a year later, I found myself vice president of that AP organization I’d never heard of. And when a Gannett editor was transferred from Indiana to California, I found myself president of whatever it was I’d gotten myself into.

And mostly, that meant more time working with Dave.

An AP bureau chief, back in the day, was a bit like a newspaper publisher. He or she had to work closely with the news staff but also had to struggle with things like budgets and edicts from headquarters.

Dave was better with the former than with the latter. He was great at identifying and nurturing talented reporters and writers; he was less than great when the AP honchos came to call. Stories of his screw-ups with AP brass are legendary.

Eventually, he and the AP parted ways.

Dave got an offer to take over the reins of his hometown newspaper in Bath and jumped ship.

But we still stayed in touch: Cookouts on the sand at Hermit Island while our kids ran around like wild creatures, lobster at a lake cabin he had rented.

Then, finally, as these things so often happen, we began to lose touch.

Dave got caught in budget cutbacks in Bath, then he had some miscues as editor of a weekly on Cape Cod.

And then, it was as if he had purchased the opposite of a winning Powerball ticket. He was struck by a car while coming out of a restaurant, run over, awakening in the hospital.

And his life was never quite the same.

It’s been a few years now, but Connie and I tried to reunite him with his former AP communications chief. The two of them had fought routinely when they worked together, but they respected one another.

Our job that night was to play the role of referees, keeping them talking, keeping them laughing and avoiding those minefields that could erupt in acrimony.

It was a great night.

And I somehow knew when we took Dave back to his apartment in Greenfield that it would be the last time I’d ever see him.

Memories will have to suffice.