By Bruce Hotchkiss

Senior Editor The Delmarva Farmer

Cronkite no stranger to this newspaper

Walter Cronkite, America’s iconic television newsman and certainly, in my time, one of the most revered and respected reporters within our ranks, died July 17, 2009, at the age of 92.
He once wrote that “newspapering was my first love.” He knew about The Delmarva Farmer. I told him all about it.

In the early days of The Delmarva Farmer — the first issue of the newspaper by that name rolled off the presses in March 1978 — we were one of a large group of papers owned by Chesapeake Publishing Company.
Our offices — actually it was more like singular office — was in the Star-Democrat building in Easton, Md., where CPC’s only daily newspaper at that time, was published, printed and headquartered.
Chesapeake Publishing Company, again at that time, was a part of Whitney Communications Corp. of New York City, publishers, it should be noted, of such proud papers as the Herald Tribune.
Occasionally, the directors of Whitney Communications would decide to flee Manhattan for their meetings and gather comfortably in the “Land of Pleasant Living,” a long-cherished nickname for Maryland’s Eastern Shore, and The Star-Democrat conference room offered such an agreeable location.
Walter Cronkite was a member of the board of Whitney Communications.
Now, entry to The Delmarva Farmer office was conveniently located off the Star-Democrat parking lot, and often visitors avoided the front door to the plant and the receptionist there by simply traipsing through The Farmer.
It was a rainy day in the closing years of the 1970s, and Walter Cronkite came into The Farmer office, shook off his umbrella and paused momentarily.
“I hear typewriters,” he said.
Jack O’Brien and I, then the news staff of this paper, were typing stories in an adjoining small and open room.
He and I had been vigorously resisting the computer invasion, which was under way in the news room of the Star-Democrat in another part of the building.
“Now, that,” said Cronkite, “is what a newsroom should sound like. I haven’t heard that sound in a long time.”
Popping his head around the corner to us, he said, “Keep up the good work, gentlemen.”
Then, in the early winter of 1979, Whitney Communications/Chesapeake Publishing held a corporate retreat to which all of the editors were invited — perhaps “summoned” is a better word — at which we would each give presentations.
I recall that during the course of my little speech, I predicted that animal rights would someday become an issue for livestock producers, a forecast that drew laughter from some of those in the audience.
Perhaps not Cronkite, however, for over the course of those several days of the retreat, I had the good fortune to be among a few who shared a dinner table with Cronkite.
He remembered the typewriters and asked me about The Farmer, how it started, where we hoped it go with it and the like.
I was delighted to tell him, of course, and he seemed genuinely interested.
The last time I saw the great man was as he entered The Delmarva Farmer from the parking lot, bound again for another meeting inside.
In those days, Carol Kinsley — who was our circulation manager (and today is editor of The Mid-Atlantic Grower for American Farm Publications) lived on Tilghman Island and on occasion — would bring with her to the office a bushel or so of oysters. She was well aware of the passion O’Brien and I shared for them.
Jack and I would take breaks periodically throughout the morning, adjourn to the stoop at the office door off the parking lot and shuck and slurp to our hearts’ content.
We were thus engaged when Cronkite, to our surprise, appeared on the steps.
“Hey Walter,” I said, “good to see you. Have an oyster.”
I offered him my knife. It was about 10 o’clock in the morning.
“Gentlemen,” he said, smiling, “no thank you. I think I will wait until lunch.”
O’Brien, slurping yet another oyster, looked up.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said,
And that’s the way it was.