The news wires have been buzzing with breathless prose about the “FrankenStorm.”

It looks like the “epic” storm will slam into the U.S. not far from New York City. It is a big one. We do not know how it might affect us on the peninsula, but we aren't taking any chances.

To get ready for the storm, I called master electrician Albert Greenleaf to come over to Register headquarters and check out the generator he installed a year or so ago. I wanted to make sure it still worked. I also wanted a primer on how to operate it.

I needed a lesson on generator operations, because the guy who was in charge of the generator and a lot of other chores at our shop was David McKown.

As you know, David died Thursday while he was “up to camp.” I can’t think of a better way for him to leave this world. He was doing what he loved to do in a place he loved with good friends and a box of cold beer on ice.

At age 68 he had been having some health problems and we were worried. He had an oxygen tank sitting beside his computer work station. From time to time, he would swirl the lanyard around his neck and get a shot of O2. 

After a few minutes, he would say he felt OK, and would tell us he thought he would go outside for a smoke. And he did. Now I know some of you will say that was not very smart, but that was just David. He did what he did, and when he wanted to do it. 

In the old days, he drove the truck taking the pages to the printer and even drove the editor to the scene of a big drug bust.

He started out as a typesetter. That was back when we actually had type to move around, and presses to stamp the images on paper. We had a linotype then, a wonderful machine that clanked and clunked and spat out lines of type that were set in trays. 

Now we are slaves to computers. We write on them. We edit stories on them. When folks send us letters to the editors, we sort of begrudge that we have to retype them into the computer. Don’t worry, while we would rather have them emailed to us (editorkburnham@boothbayregister.com), we will always accept written letters – even if they are written on yellow legal pad with a crayon.

David said he hated computers, but he learned to use them and did a great job laying out “his” pages. When one of the production team fell ill, he just stayed late so he could finish her pages. He was always the first guy in the shop in the morning. He would come in and open her up and start moving our stories on to the pages.

By the time I would get in, he would have placed many of the stories on pages. Then he would look at me and say “F---, there is no more news. I don’t know what those people upstairs (reporters and editors) are doing.” Then he would smile and say, “Heh, heh, heh. Morning, Joe.” Then I would always ask him how he was feeling. “Not bad,” was his stock answer.

I was one of the lucky ones to be accepted by David from the start. Or at least he let me think I was accepted, although we both understood I was from away and thus a lesser being than an 8th generation Mainer like David. 

I think he gave me credit for having the good sense to marry an East Boothbay girl, and for my service in the Marines, which included a tour of Vietnam.

Sometimes he would talk about his time with the Army in Vietnam, and the “sheet time” he served in hospitals after being wounded in action. He always said he should have died there in the jungle. And he questioned why his buddies died and he survived. I think it bothered him after all these years.

He knew my late father-in-law, J.A. “Tunk” Stevens, an owner of the Goudy & Stevens shipyard, and often talked about the yard’s most famous boat, the schooner yacht America. It was a 1967 replica of the yacht that won the first America’s Cup. She was a black-hulled beauty, sleek and fast.

While he was working at the Register, Dave told me he went home to East Boothbay for lunch one day, wandered down to the docks and signed on as a deck hand on the America. 

For the next year he helped sail her around the world. 

When she sailed back into East Boothbay, he helped dock her. Then he came back to the Register and asked for his old job back. The boss at the time hired him on the spot. Smart move.

More than 2,800 folks read our story about his death and the humorous obit he wrote himself. Lots of folks who read it said they wished they had known the guy who wrote his own obit. 

You see, it was hard not to like David. He was, well, he was just David. After spending almost 40 years in the business, I never met a more loyal and dedicated newspaperman.

Soldier – you are missed. Rest in peace.