By Frederick A. Hurst

I must admit to our readers that we had seriously considered ending the publication of Point of View by the end of this year (2022) or, at least, no later than early next year (March 2023), which would mark our 20th anniversary. And we may still do it. But after reading the Letters to the Publisher responses to our June article “To Dig a Ditch,” I was moved to rethink the idea.
First, let me state categorically that the recent sale of our office building at 688 Boston Road had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not we would continue publishing Point of View or continue any of our other business operations, all of which we continue to operate at our new address. Our business telephone numbers remain the same although our fax numbers have been changed to 413-782-3520.

Our June issue, which was the first issue to be distributed from our new address, was our Father’s Day edition. As we have done five times in the past, we reprinted an article I wrote about my grandfather and me digging ditches and the valuable lessons it taught me about how to work. But this time our editor decided to make it our front-page feature article. Why she decided to make it a front-page feature, I don’t know because after reprinting it five times, it seemed to me to be a little too much (as my oldest son said after the 3rd reprint). Judging by the response from our readers, both my son and I must have been wrong.
I’m not the type of person who fishes for approval and that was certainly not what motivated me to write about my grandfather. The idea of honoring my grandfather, who took me under his wings before I was out of grade school and stuck with me through most of college, has always been on my mind and writing about him in my own paper was a natural thing for me to do. And that so many people, including new readers, thought so well of what I wrote about him made my memory of him that much more satisfying and gratifying and even moved me to reconsider the future of Point of View.
Sandy wrote: “My father came to America from Lithuania, where all his family members but one were killed in the Holocaust. He came with a grade school education, when he arrived in Worcester, MA. He sold junk from his truck (as did my grandfather and I), going into the country buying pieces of scrap metal, and selling it wherever he could. He worked very hard to feed our family of 7.” Sandy also described how for a long time she “didn’t know how noble it was to do what he did.” Her letter contained much more worth reading especially about how she eventually honored her own father for his work ethic (see page 2).
Mark D. wrote: “The last edition I read had a Great story about Mr. Hurst’s grandfather. I must tip my cap on that one for sure!!! I wonder if that was on everyone’s refrigerator every day and parents and children of all ages read that article? Perhaps the World may be a better place for everyone.” For more, (see page 2).
Mark F. wrote: “You are a lucky man to have had your grandfather in your life.” Mark F. is right about that. But he had much more to say in a short letter that picked up the spirit of what “To Dig a Ditch” was all about, “excellence,” “the work ethic,” “teaching moments,” and more (see page 2).
Trevor wrote: “…there are also many new readers, like myself, constantly being added who read “To Dig a Ditch” in the June issue for the very first time…. What a fine and inspiring article! I thank you for reprinting it for the sixth time. It was a delight to read your grandfather’s story and be treated to some of his wisdom. It is, indeed, inspiring.” And Trevor wrote much more: “While I’m at it…,” he wrote, (see page 2).
I wrote “To Dig a Ditch” eighteen years ago in June of 2004, a bit more than a year after we started Point of View in 2003. Many years before, while I was away in college, my grandfather was killed in a truck accident while driving to complete another of his variety of jobs. He had my young nephew in the truck with him when an errant driver blew a stop sign and came straight at the passenger side of the truck. My grandfather, who was an excellent driver in his late 60s (he taught me to drive and gave me my first car), gave the steering wheel an exaggerated swerve to protect my nephew, his great grandson, who he was teaching to work (just as he did for me) and the truck tipped over onto him and his injuries were fatal. My nephew survived unscathed. And, in the eyes of our family, my grandfather died a hero.
But to me, he never died.
I won’t forget the moment I learned of his passing by way of a telegram from my mother. The evening before, I was walking across Howard University’s campus in Washington, D.C. just behind Frederick Douglas Hall escorting my girlfriend, Marjorie Jackson (Hurst), to her dormitory when some college guys from New Jersey approached us from the opposite direction and one of them – a short, stocky guy with a big head – made a pass at Marjorie and I reacted.
But it was not until the next day that the encounter came to a head in front of my Georgia Avenue apartment building where I ran into the same group of guys. I was alone and they were more than a half a dozen. I confronted the short, stocky guy with the big head even though I doubted that I could beat him and, even if I could, nothing would stop the others from jumping me. But “honor” was on the line and we started to square off just as a Western Union Telegraph truck pulled up and the driver jumped out and handed me a telegram informing me that my grandfather had died.
I’ll never forget what happened next. This was about 1965. There was no email, no fax or Facebook. Instant communication often came by telephone or by telegram and if, for whatever reason, the telephone contact was unavailable, the telegram was it – which was likely the case at the time because there was no way my folks would have sent a telegram if they could have contacted me by phone.
All I recall is that when the Western Union Telegraph truck pulled up and the uniformed driver rushed forward, everything came to an abrupt halt. All eyes focused on the uniformed figure of authority walking toward us and the yellow paper in his hand. All I can say to describe it – from the time the truck pulled up and the driver reached us – is suspended chaos.
And the White driver didn’t just hand me the telegram. I suspect he was a bit intimidated by the crowd. We were all Black and our adrenalin was pumping and he had to go through us to get to the door of my apartment building. So, he did what any smart White person concerned with his wellbeing in the presence of a group of wild-eyed Black young men primed for a fight would do. Without bothering to go into the lobby to check the apartment listings, he politely asked the tensed-up group, “Does Frederick Hurst live here?”
His cautious inquiry certainly distinguished me from the crowd that was busy pondering the purpose of the uniformed White man and gave me some valuable time as I owned up to who I was and opened the telegram that read simply, “Grandpa passed.”
I mean, you talk about cognitive dissonance, a phrase the meaning of which I did not even understand at the time!
I was conflicted and confused and, honestly, befuddled. I recall repeating the words in the telegram over and over again as though nobody else was present. And it was also in my mind that I was in the middle of a fist fight that I wanted to have as a matter of “street” honor. And at the same time, I was embarrassed at the thought that I was dishonoring my grandfather with a frivolous fight over nothing that really mattered rather than mourning him.
And as all of this was transpiring in my mixed-up mind, I was about as vulnerable as one could be to the half dozen or more New Jersey guys who could pounce at any minute. I was helpless but their predation was the last thing on my mind. I really didn’t care. I just wanted to sort things out.
As it turned out, the Jersey guys never attacked. They appeared to be just as disoriented as I was. I don’t even recall how they disconnected from the once impending melee. They just seemed to fade away as if they knew and understood tragedy. And as I thought about it later, I believe, to this day, that my grandfather, as he had always done, was watching out for me even from his grave and, I’m sure, from somewhere on high.
I’m at least 10 years older than my grandfather was when he passed. And I think about him often and wonder who and what I would have become if he had not taken me under his wing and taught me how to work and many other things about life such as his story about the Maltese cat* that I passed on to my sons and I know they are passing it on (another article).
My grandfather was not a perfect man but he was my guardian and hero. To be able to honor him in a writing in my own publication and bring him to the attention of others to appreciate is just that much more rewarding.
All that to say that I have been so moved by the comments from folks who have read “To Dig a Ditch” and to the many others who, over the years, have expressed appreciation for what we do that I’m inclined to believe that Point of View is too important to the community at large to let it die.
And, as I think about it, 20 years is hardly enough. ■

*It took me a few years before I realized that the story that he repeated over and over again was not about a cat but was his way of educating me about safe sex.