My access to news narrowed dramatically when I was 10 years old.

My mother’s boss passed away, so I no longer got to peruse his morning paper.

And, despite my protestations about prying the funnies from my cold, ink-stained fingers, family budget cuts meant my father could no longer splurge on the EVENING paper.

I still had the local gossip grapevine, radio newscasts and TV anchor David Brinkley; but cutting back to just the Sunday edition of print journalism left a vexing information void during the Nixon/Apollo/counterculture era.

And, oh, the taunting from the family dog! (“Look wha...