RIP Bill Reynolds (1945-2023)

On July 13, Bill Reynolds, a Providence Journal columnist for almost 40 years, passed away at age 78. For the journalism community at-large, this is a monumental loss, and for me, personally, one of my literary idols is now gone.

I grew up in Rhode Island reading Reynolds’ work, specifically his wildly popular weekly column “For What It’s Worth”[1] where Reynolds would list bulleted points of whatever musings crossed his mind.

Reynolds’ writing taught me that good journalism has little to do with inverted pyramids, leads or bylines. Reynolds taught me that the best journalism is about people and empathy and a shared human condition. A good journalist allows readers to see themselves within their communities with both wonder and clarity

So here is my tribute to one of the all-time great columnists.

Rest in peace, Mr. Reynolds. You’ll be missed.

• I can remember in the 1990s climate scientists warning that if we—as a world community—don’t address global warming that in 25 years the West Coast would be burning, and the South would be baking in heat as the East Coast flooded. Well, here we are. If you’re still a global warming denier, there’s no helping you.
• The new Chris and Bill Brickley basketball courts at Wolfe Park on the West Side are absolutely gorgeous. If you haven’t had the chance to check them out, please do. Let’s hope Manchester cherishes these gifts.
• The 2023 Boston Red Sox are one of the most schizophrenic baseball teams I’ve ever seen. Are they trying to make a baseball version of the 1976 film “Sybil”?
• If someone can’t name the first five U.S. presidents and the first five Amendments in the Bill of Rights, it’s probably not worth your time to talk politics with them.
• A man walks into a bar, and the bartender asks him what he’s drinking. The man tells the bartender that he’ll have a fruit punch. The bartender tells him that he’s going to have to get in line. The guy looks around the bar, but there is no punch-line.
• Shout out to New Inkland Tattoo on Elm Street who did a bang-up job on a small tattoo that I got this week to commemorate a dear friend who we lost to pancreatic cancer last year. If you’re looking for a place to get inked, I’d suggest them. And fuck cancer.
• On Aug. 17, Manchester Ink Link columnist Rob Azevedo, Brianna Coykendall and I are hosting a Jazz/Poetry Café in Rob’s barn as part of his events series, Pembroke City Limits. If you’re a writer, a poet or jazz musician come join us for an evening of words and smooth jazz.
• Another shameless plug: on Aug. 18, my first book of poetry in nearly a decade titled “Born on Good Friday” will be released by Roadside Press.
• For the second time this summer, I fixed our downstairs toilet. I’m generally about as handy around the house as our pug, Buster, but I seem to have a real knack for fixing toilets. I’m not sure what this says about me.
• It has always been my belief that it’s a writer’s job to reach readers and make them feel something, and to make them feel less alone in this confounding orb that we inhabit. Bill Reynolds succeeded swimmingly, and I thank him for that.

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[1] When I named this column “Not That Profound,” it was a hat-tip to Reynolds, in the sense that I was also attempting to shuck literary pretensions with the name.