Newspaper reporter Ken Fuson has passed away.
Ken Fuson, born June 23, 1956, died Jan. 3, 2020 at Nebraska Medical Center in Omaha, of liver cirrhosis, and is stunned to learn that the world is somehow able to go on without him.
In lieu of flowers, Ken asked that everyone wear black armbands
and wail in public during a one-year grieving period.
Roy Peter Clark, at Poynter, pays tribute to his friend, and includes that
“one-paragraph, one-sentence weather story” described in the obituary.
Imagine Charlie Brown, all grown up, now an overweight gambling addict who could write like an angel.
That zigzagging image describes Ken Fuson, who died this week at the age of 63, leaving behind a complex legacy of uplifting narratives and a crippling addiction.
I loved Ken as a brother of the word, a writing pal, a comic sidekick and a captain in the army of those fighting to fill newspapers with great writing. At his best, his stories were as sharp as a Bob Gibson curveball. (Gibson was his idol.)