My brother and I read a lot growing up. Our Dad, a bomb-designing nuclear engineer with the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), purchased our first television the day after we graduated from high school. Yes, there was a statement therein regarding his opinion of a pernicious distraction from our academic pursuits. I can’t imagine what he would think of social media. If we wanted to watch a World Series game, we would invite ourselves to a friend’s house. Departing Idaho Falls in 1953, where residents were still awaiting the arrival of TV broadcasts from Pocatello, for Washington, D.C., in third grade, we first began to receive a daily newspaper, a Washington Post in the morning and the Evening Star in late afternoon. Initially, I usually perused the comics and baseball scores.

Our father recommended a list of classic texts we could read for cash, which my brother Richard would trudge through: Aristotle, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius and the like. Our Dad was not your typical engineer. I opted for The Hardy Boys, Mark Tidd and The Ted Scott Flying series, likely an initial indicator of the “anti-authoritarian” streak that has influenced my conduct for decades. We left Washington for 18 months during 1955-56 and traveled to Fort Worth, Texas, where a proposed “nuclear airplane” project was underway. I still recall a dinner table pronouncement in April of 1956 when my father announced, “This damned plane is never going to fly. I have to find another job.” We soon moved to Boston for six months before he returned to the AEC in Washington. I’d missed the Washington Post, which felt like my newspaper.

Now somewhat older, I began to explore the inside pages. The premiere sportswriter and Grantland Rice and Red Smith Prize recipient at the Post was Shirley Povich, a guy burdened with a girl’s first name. His son bears a familiar name, Maury, to whom I will return shortly. Povich’s sardonic coverage of sports appealed to me as an aspiring athlete of middling talents. I soon found my way to the front page, however, recounting politics and international affairs. Soon, I began devouring the opinion pages. Meanwhile, I had become something of a Civil War buff, perusing Bruce Catton’s multi-volume history of the conflict, while living close to many of its battlefields. Not too far from our home was a wooded plot on the Ickes’ estate where Daughters of the Confederacy had placed a granite marker commemorating a cavalry patrol ambushed just 12 miles from the nation’s capital.

Attending the University of Maryland in College Park, I had the Washington Post delivered to my dorm room each morning at a negligible student rate. Elected president of the student government my senior year, I saw my name appear in the Post several times. Married in December of 1967, while serving as SGA President, Annie Groer, a reporter for the Diamondback, our campus paper, was thrilled to write up a social event. Years later, Annie would become the Style editor at the Post, retiring after 30 plus years. My favorite Post story appeared beneath one of the cleverest headlines I’ve ever seen, “Beer Issue at Maryland Comes to a Head.” The issue in question was whether students should be permitted to imbibe in their dorm rooms. That city desk editor deserved a Pulitzer. Connie Chung served in student government with me and would marry Maury Povich.

Upon graduation I accepted a job with AT&T in its management development program. As a Defense Department contractor, this afforded me a one-year draft deferment while the Montgomery County Draft Board was breathing down my neck. Rated 1A, the chances for evading Vietnam were slim.  Following the Tet offensive in January of 1968, it became evident my options were closing, so I applied to take the Naval Officer Candidate’s exam. Passing, I received orders to report to Newport, Rhode Island, on April 20. I planned to take two weeks of vacation first, so my going away party, was scheduled for April 4, the night Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis. Oblivious to what had occurred the night before, I drove to work for my last day with no inkling I wouldn’t return home for 10 days. We remained besieged inside the telephone exchange at 14th & R Streets

For the week following the outbreak of riots in Washington, which had been delayed behind most other cities by heavy rains the previous evening, it was probably the closest I will ever come to experiencing wartime chaos. From the roof of our six-story building, we could watch fires breaking out in every direction, smoke wafting across the city. Fire engines and ambulances from as far away as Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and Richmond, Virginia, were soon racing past our location. This turmoil would last for nearly a week. Directly across the street from our office was a large liquor store. On the second day of mayhem, looters pulled the metal doors off its entrance. A lone, young white cop was directing looters to pull their cars up on the sidewalk in order to keep 14th Street clear for emergency vehicles.

A Washington Post photographer happened by the looting, which lasted little more than an hour, but a photo of the police officer ran the following day. The caption indicated he was assisting the brigands. Needless to say, there was an outpouring of opprobrium aimed at the officer, who was outnumbered 80- or 100-to-1 by the thieves. Soon, it was reported he would be suspended pending disciplinary action. Those of us who had watched the looting felt he had made the best of an impossible, dangerous situation. Enforcing the law had to take second place to assuring public safety. I decided to write a letter to the Post in the officer’s defense before leaving for Officer Candidate School. Co-workers informed me the letter ran and a few weeks later and all charges against the policeman were dismissed. I would be overseas for the next three years, so I have no idea whether it was my missive that helped him, but I hope it did.

I moved to Colorado in 1972 and missed my subscription — no internet yet, no digital subscriptions. The Post’s Watergate coverage brought down the Nixon presidency. That achievement made me proud of being a lifelong fan. Traveling to Washington, I always returned with a paper. It was encouraging when Jeff Bezos bought the Post. Many of the nation’s regional mastheads were failing. Only the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal are truly healthy today. That’s unhealthy for American democracy. It was Bezos who placed, “Democracy Dies in Darkness” at the top of the paper’s front page. Darkness descended on the Post’s newsroom last week as hundreds lost their jobs and this once mighty monument extolling the nation’s free press appears a walking dead man. Its assassin was the owner, Jeff Bezos. Perhaps billionaires aren’t the best guardians for anything other than their own riches. It pains me, but I won’t renew my current Post subscription. Reading the shrunken husk that remains would simply be too painful.

Miller Hudson is a public affairs consultant and a former Colorado legislator.