Photo Credit: Jennie Anne Benigas
 

 

JUDY'S JOURNAL

 

January 2026

THWAP! That’s the sound at 4 a.m. of The New York Times hitting the driveway. Sixty-one years later, it’s a Sunday delivery that lasts more than all week long.

 

 

 


About the Sunday New York Times


Dear Reader,

In September 2004, this blog sprang into cyberspace, and I must admit that searches for a topic have not always been an easy one. It’s a matter of freedom and discipline, the first is the blessing and curse of being able to write about anything that presents itself, and the second is held in the cold hands of a monthly deadline.

“I should write about this.” When that sentence bubbles up in my head, I cheer because something has switched on the beacon to light up a topic. This month, it is my relationship with the Sunday New York Times, because it has everything to do with me sitting here, typing. Me, the five-year-old who begged Santa for a typewriter and who was deeply but silently insulted when it turned out to be a toy version of the real thing I desperately longed for.

As a high school and college student growing up in Buffalo, New York, the Times insinuated itself into my emerging self whenever I listened to smarter and more sophisticated people talk about anything: domestic and foreign news, fashion, film (tut, tut, not movies), book reviews. People I looked up to - teachers, A students, friends and friends of friends – held the key to a world of knowledge and opinion larger than the Buffalo Evening News and Courier-Express. A marker of tough times was when home delivery was too much of a stretch, and one of us was sent to corner store to “go get the paper.” Somehow, that act telegraphed how much a trusted news source mattered.

It behooves me to pause and express my gratitude to those reporters and editors who keep me informed about topics I might not think would be of interest and have taught me about the craft of writing in the bargain. As I humbly step into the role with each project, my warm-up strategy is to pick up the paper and read for a bit. It’s like dipping my toes into the water to test its temperature before plunging in to save myself from the encroaching fire behind me.

THWAP! That’s the sound at 4 a.m. of The New York Times hitting the driveway. Sixty-one years later, it’s a Sunday delivery that lasts more than all week long.