Last week, a good newspaperman died. His name was Laurence Jolidon, and he was press spokesman for NATO forces in Bosnia when a heart attack felled him after a morning jog.
Larry, 64, a war correspondent who covered the Gulf War and Somalia and wrote two books, made his mark at such papers as the Dallas Times-Herald, St. Petersburg Times, and USA Today, where he worked when I met him.
We only had a passing friendship built upon a common interest in American prisoners of war and missing in action, who we believed our government had abandoned to the enemy.
But I learned this about Larry Jolidon. He did not view the world through the eyes of the know-it-alls who govern journalism. He viewed it through the eyes of an Army veteran and former Marine, a witness of death, a man with a lot to say.
A Man of Sublime Wisdom
I met Larry when I was writing about POWs and MIAs for The Washington Times and working on a book about these forgotten heroes.
Larry wrote about them too, and we compared notes and shared many of the same views on the subject. But it was later, when I worked for a presidential commission studying the assignment of women in the military, that I learned how quickly Larry's fine mind worked, and the kind of man he was.
The commission held hearings across America, and as media liaison I often sat in the audience, taking notes and working with reporters. Larry was there the day we suffered through the inane testimony of some Amazonian soldierettes with more bravado than brains.
A commissioner asked one why the military should risk women in crucial combat assignments, given the obvious problem of pregnancy, and what removing a pregnant women from a unit for a lengthy period of time would mean for cohesion, readiness and morale.
In so many words, here was the answer: “A pregnancy is no different than a broken leg. It should be treated like a sickness or temporary disability. You return to service when your leg gets better; you return after your pregnancy.”
I sat next to Larry that day. He turned his head of curly hair toward me and murmured: “When you break your leg, you get better. When you get pregnant, you become a mother.”
A Good Guy
Larry Jolidon was a patient, gentle and good guy.
One evening in downtown Washington, D.C., at a joint called La Tomate, we shared dinner and drinks. This kind “French leprechaun,” as one friend described him for the Associated Press obituary, listened to a nattering, bibulous monologue.
When Larry left the table for a moment, my date, now Mrs. Kirkwood, reproved me for talking too much.
“Larry, she says I'm talkin' too much,” I said when he returned. “Am I talkin' too much?” He smiled knowingly and quietly said, “No, you're not talking too much.” Of course I was, but his genial look said, “So what. You're having a good time. Go ahead.”
That was about 10 years ago. Since then, I meant to call Larry to say hello and thank him for that evening, as well as that little bit of wisdom, in a world lacking it, about motherhood. But I didn't.
So I thank him now with a simple prayer:
Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace. Amen.
(This article courtesy of Agape Press.)
