Back in 1993 I had to confront the truth and grit of journalism. Rick Doolan called and asked me to come out to his house. To talk before he died. Over the past 30 years, the obituaries, the funerals and the grind of our trips around the sun wore me down a little. Four years ago I stopped going to every funeral I reported on, sometimes having flown interstate and sat in a place where no one knew who I was.