Hello, folks. Welcome to my blog. This is the second in a series in which I try to report news as if I still had a paid job. In some posts, I show readers a few fundamentals of basic journalism and "how we used to do it in my day. I tell ya."
By Peter Healy
Mostly Unpublished Writer
I still get nightmares about traumatic experiences that happened during my 28-year career as a reporter and copy editor with a daily newspaper.
In one of the recurring dreams, I am gazing at a blank computer screen that was supposed to have a story on it - five minutes before deadline. That came close to happening many times in reality and pops up now and then in subconscious, nocturnal visions. And I believe they are real until I wake up.
I stressed out the most when I covered mundane events, such as a parade, a carnival, an oyster or garlic festival and a maple syrup or sheep-shearing day.
The challenge was finding 500 to 600 words that anyone would want to read - about those not so earth-shattering experiences.
I can recall bits and pieces of my sheep-shearing assignment that happened more than 40 years ago at the Stamford Museum & Nature Center. I was desperate to find an angle, until I met a prominent Stamford real estate developer and his wife. They raised sheep at their home in Westchester County and had visited the Falkland Islands, which are full of sheep. (humor writer Jerry Zezima would love that one) The sheepish couple provided enough fodder for a readable story.
On March 29, 2025, I decided to revisit the original source of my nightmares - which had run the gamut from sheep-shearing days to United Way fundraisers, running races and marching band competitions.
I went to the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Mamaroneck, N.Y., and pretended to be a reporter. I tried to cover the event from a jaded, cynical curmudgeon’s point of view, with a sharp eye for Irish parade cliches. A chain-smoking curmudgeon and my former coworker at the Stamford Advocate told me almost daily “pretend you are a real reporter today.” Those were terms of endearment, right, Mr. G? They weren’t a swipe at my reporting and writing skills, were they, Tommy Boy?
I could have started the parade article with a cliche paragraph: “Everyone was Irish yesterday at Mamaroneck’s 13th annual wearing of the green. Even though it was the village’s 13th St. Pat’s parade, the luck of the Emerald Isle brought temperatures in the 70s and peeks of sporadic sunshine.” (A rainbow at the end of the parade route would have been a mega-cliche, laddie.)
The second paragraph could have been, “Hundreds of people lined Mamaroneck Avenue to watch bagpipe bands, Irish dancers, police, firefighters, fire trucks, emergency medical technicians, politicians, the grand marshal and people wearing knit sweaters make their way from Mamaroneck Avenue School to Harbor Island Park.”
The cliche format also could have added, “The procession began at 1:45 p.m., with about 30 police officers on motorcycles revving their engines.”
Parades I saw in Stamford and Greenwich this past March also began with the stock motorcycle blitzkrieg.
Cliche. Touché. More cliches.
An honor guard from the Mamaroneck Police Department followed, with their flags snapping in the brisk breeze.
Bagpipe bands from Westchester, New York City and other locales played typical Irish tunes, such as The Minstrel Boy. The pipers, however, are a mandatory cliché, like hot dogs at a baseball game.
The procession did not have mounted police units or any horseback riders. Equestrians and their pooper scoopers - who have 20/20 hindsight - are a parade staple.
The marchers had no Irish wolfhounds or smaller dogs dyed green.
Also missing in action were Civil War and American Revolution re-enactors and their deafening gun salutes.
And the classic parade cliche - Shriners wearing hats with tassels and driving tiny red cars - were absent. The street, which is Mamaroneck’s entertainment and restaurant row, did not have a green stripe painted down the middle.
I failed to notice the Stamford connection to the parade. Members of our city’s Belltown Fire Department marched on foot without their distinctive white trucks. They might have been hard to spot, according to the father of one of Belltown’s bravest.
My readers, who are numerous enough to fit inside a phone booth, might want to know where the parade story is. It's incomplete, just as it would be in my dreams (mostly nightmares). Parts of it are buried in this blog post. The sum of those parts might not comprise a whole.
Will I keep on writing, or revert to life as the Rip Van Winkle of journalism. (Wow! That's a local Westchester connection.) I am not sure. Let's take this one day at a time, with baby steps - and a cliche or two.
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For more clichés, follow the Peter Healy blog, which is currently at StamfordInk.blogspot.com
