From its first editor to present day: Beacon to honor 50 years this month

With a dateline of Nov. 1, 1962, newspaper founder and editor Robert Stanley addressed newspaper readers in his column, Brunswick Stew.

Writing for what was then called The Shallotte Press, an adjacent article sharing space on the same page urged Brunswick citizens to compete in naming this newspaper, which would later become The Brunswick Beacon.

This month the Beacon celebrates 50 great years serving Brunswick County as the most comprehensive news source for our community.

It’s been an amazing time, and as we look forward, we’re committed to continuing to provide award-winning, community-enhancing coverage of all things Brunswick County. From the editor’s desk in 2012, a lot of things have changed since the first publication 50 years ago. For me, it has been an honor and privilege to be a part of this prestigious newspaper journey.

On Nov. 15, our readers are invited to join in honoring our past and celebrating our future. From 4-6 p.m. you’re encouraged to stop by the Beacon office at 208 Smith Ave. in Shallotte. We’re across the street from the post office.

If you come by, you’ll have a chance to get to know the people who work here, take a walk down memory lane and, like all good celebrations, be treated to music, refreshments, cake and more.

If you’re a former Beacon employee—from any time—please join us and share your stories and memories about working for your community newspaper.

There will be a brief ceremony, which will begin at 4:15 p.m., but you can stop by anytime between 4-6 p.m. on Nov. 15.

For the past year, we have been taking a look back on our community’s past with our Looking Back series. Today, you can find the most recent installment on page XA. It covers the years 2003-2005.

To further honor our beginnings, below is a copy of Stanley’s first Brunswick Stew column, published as it appeared in the newspaper on Nov. 1, 1962.

“Home is the hunter, home from the hill

And the sailor, home from the sea.”

The above lines were written by Tennyson long ago but they hold a special meaning for yours truly. After a number of years of semi-exile, during which your scribe tried to take on the polish supposed to go along with a college diploma and later, the years spent beneath the burning sun of Texas, I have returned to scene of nativity thankfully and hopefully. I suppose most literate young men dream of owning their own newspaper. Here in Shallotte, my birthplace, I find myself in this enviable (?) position. As Walt Whitman once wrote, “I but wheel and advance for a moment, then depart, leaving the main things to you.”

This personal column will not attempt to right the wrongs of the world; on the other hand it shall be composed of a sort of stew, a few bouquets, a few brickbats, all sent out with nonmalice and a attempt to cover all with a sense of humor, however crude it might sometimes appear.

Item One: A deep chuckle toward the frightened tourists rushing frantically northward past the Press Offices on U.S. Highway 17, while thundering in the opposite direction, an awesome —and inspiring—array of military might in the form of convoys converging on the Peninsula State, where a panic button just itches to be pushed.

And that’s one of the most cheering aspects of a very cheerless situation. The old gentleman with the whiskers, has simply reared up to full height and plainly told Castro, Khruschev and Co., will not be pushed an inch further! Time the mightiest nation [on] earth showed some of the old time gumption, say we.

Item Two: With some dismay we note the beautiful lingering Indian Summer which lies like a benediction over our favorite county. The other day the temp. reached 81 degrees and October far advanced. On the trees of Brunswick the leaves remained affixed, as though reluctant to part from their high and safe place, close to the sky.

And what, you ask, is so alarming about this abundance from nature so late in the season? But ah, my friends, it is sad but true fact that there is usually a lull before the storm. From England, Rupert Brooke wrote in June of 1914: “It has been a truly magnificent spring…just enough rain and at opportune time…and the fields burst with crops and in meadows and woodlands the wild flowers never bloomed so varied and glorious…” Two months after this was penned the world exploded with rage and hate, and before it was over and done with, nine million young men lay in hurried graves in France, in Italy, in Belgium and in Austria. On the plains of Poland, a whole generation of young Russians fell like chaff before the might of the Kaiser’s hordes. And, saddest of all, Rupert Brooke, 28-year-old Oxford graduate and the poet laureate of the British Isles, had been transformed from Captain Rubert Brooke, to a corpse buried beneath an olive tree in Turkey. Thus bearing out the prophetic line he had penned on the troopship which took him to his death;

“I should die, think only this of me

Than there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England!”

Item Three: In all due modesty we cannot but blush with pride when we consider how Shallotte so swiftly undergoes metamorphosis and, emerging from its cocoon takes the play away from a certain town lying eastward. A newspaper is very necessary for progress. More than a convenience, it is a necessity long felt here. And the promise of a radio broadcasting station just beyond tomorrow’s horizon. Verily, our cup is filled to overflowing. To heck with second-place. Let’s not quit till we climb to the top.

 Pensive thoughts upon visiting the dentist; wish I had teeth like Liberace. Sure, everyone has 32 teeth. But only Liberace has them all in the front!