Somewhere while walking along the driveway on Wednesday, journalism and ethics were about to collide. About the time I uncomfortably rang the doorbell, the perception of what newspapers do and why they do it could be up for public debate.

Tuesday's horrific train crash on the outskirts of Panhandle grabbed the attention of the entire area. The scope of it was terrible, more so for the four crewmen on board, three of whom were dead and another jumped to barely escape death.

To the huge majority of the public, they were just "three." No names released, and certainly nothing about who they were, what they stood for, what they liked, who they loved. Just "three."

By Tuesday night, the Amarillo Globe-News managed to obtain the names, and through some online hunting, believed we had the addresses.

And this is where one of several chasms between the media and public widens.

I was asked to try and talk with the grieving families, which was the correct course of coverage of such a tragic accident. Others would disagree.

How dare the press invade a family's privacy. Let them mourn. You're an intruder, not a friend. Go away, you're only causing pain. Tabloid journalism.

That's stoked by TV and movie images of a media mob hounding some overwhelmed woman, shouting pointed questions with microphones and tape recorders in the face, or some gum-chomping dweeb coldly asking, "How do you feel? ... And are you going to sue?"

That unfortunately may happen from time to time, and shame on this industry when it does.

The lyrics of Don Henley's "Dirty Laundry" can play well: "You know the boys in the newsroom got a running bet, get the widow on the set, we need dirty laundry."

On Wednesday, I drove to one residence in Amarillo and to another 30 miles away. No one could possibly enjoy this assignment, not if they have a soul or conscience. I made the block several times, rehearsing in my mind exactly what I wanted to say as way of an introduction.

But journalists often live in the uncomfortable - to ask the tough question of the city official or a sitting congressman, or to keep hounding for public documents.

This is a different level of uncomfortable.

Three young adults at one stop were on the porch. They listened, and declined, saying "there were too many questions internally" right now.

At the other stop, a woman said, "We still need to have a funeral. Is it all right if we put him in the ground first?"

When confronting family at one of the worst moments of their lives, it's a completely understandable response. I don't blame them. I might have said the same thing.

But the hope is by approaching with sensitivity, tastefulness and respect, family might still speak even when the grief is raw. You never know until you ask.

And then maybe these three become more than a nameless number to a public who shares in some small way their hurt and sorrow, that they were neighbors, husbands, fathers, friends who were doing nothing more than going to work Tuesday morning.

Some families might see it as intrusion by a stranger with a note pad and tape recorder, and understandably so.

Others might feel that talking is cathartic, that those lives mattered enough for someone to care to ask.

A member of both families - the Owens and Smiths - agreed to speak in some form Thursday. By then, they were able to gather themselves and stitch thoughts together.

We don't traipse off and ask to talk to every family who is dealing with a tragic death. But because of unusual circumstances, some weigh extra on the public's consciousness - a soldier in Iraq, a storm victim, the wreck of five cast members from "Texas," an awful train wreck.

Major Garrett covers the White House for CBS News. In the 1980s, he was a first-year reporter for the Globe-News and a former roommate of mine. Even now, 30 years later, he said the story that taught him the most was in Amarillo.

An 8-year-old Hispanic boy was killed by a car while riding his bike. Garrett was assigned to try and talk with the family, which was really just a single mom.

He exhaled while leaving on the assignment, but she agreed to tearfully speak to him about her son.

A few days later after the story appeared, she called to thank him. That laminated article was a reminder that her son's life mattered, that some stranger cared enough to knock on her door.

To Garrett, it taught him words are important, that the risk of a door shut in his face was worth it, and that working in the uncomfortable was part of the job.

In tragic circumstances like this, all you can do is sensitively ask - the rest is left up to human emotions.

Jon Mark Beilue is an AGN Media columnist. He can be reached at jon.beilue@amarillo.com or 806-345-3318. Twitter: @jonmarkbeilue.