Some Things I've Learned

One of the greatest perks of my job is that I get to meet the most interesting people. I also get to learn something new every day.

So here are some things I have learned:

• Thirty years of being an Elvis Impersonator will give you a hip condition known as "Elvis Pelvis." I asked if he has problems with his hips and he busted out laughing. His doctor coined the name.
• When asked to talk to an eighth grade class about careers don't tell them the one story that always makes you cry. The story that makes me cry happened years ago at another paper. I had to interview the volunteer of the year. She was impossible to get in contact with. Finally late one night I called her and we talked. At one point in the conversation I asked her why she volunteers and she gave me an answer about how she wants to help people. I noticed a catch in her voice, nothing big. "No, why do you volunteer? What motivates you?" The woman was quiet for a full minute before she spoke again. "I've never told anyone this before," she said. Then she told me about the worst day of her life. Late one night two counties away her husband and two little boys were coming home. They missed a curve on a country road and crashed. Her husband and two little boys were killed instantly. She only had a broken leg but was trapped in the car. She prayed to God to spare the lives of her husband and sons and to take her instead. As she lay trapped in the car begging to be taken, she heard a voice say, "Not yet, you have more work to do." "I guess that's why I volunteer." That story gets me every time, and so in front of a class of eighth graders, I cried.
• Homework can be fun. I did a story on the new homework center at the middle school. I sat down and started talking to one of the boys who was typing in a story. We had so much fun laughing. I went back the next week just to check in on things. I had a great time, once again. If this reporter thing doesn't work out . . .
• Good training can tame fear. I talked with World War II vet who survived a plane crash. They were on a mission over Berlin when their engine was shot out. They started to go down. I asked if he was scared, what was he feeling, was he afraid he was going to die? He said no. Their training kicked in. They threw a bunch of loose stuff out of the B-17. Then they took cover in the radio room. The pilot and co-pilot crashed landed the plane in a freshly plowed field. They kept the guns loaded because they didn't know where they had crashed. Villagers crowded around the plane, peering into the armed 50 caliber guns. Finally a little boy who spoke some English said they had crashed in Belgium, just 15 miles from the German boarder. They plummeted 25,000 feet out of the sky, but he wasn't scared. Makes me want to get trained. In something . . .
• Crazy has many forms; sometimes it's all about Christmas. I went to this house right before Thanksgiving. They had 18 Christmas trees, over 100 nutcrackers, 60 or more creepy animated Santas and Mrs. Clause statues, angels and Santas from around the world. There were Christmas trees in each of the bathrooms. These people even had a life sized Santa in the tower. Yes, the tower. I asked their children if they like the Christmas stuff. Both kids - elementary aged - snarled an emphatic "No!" Hmmmm. Their therapy sessions should be interesting.

And oh so much more.

TARB

Incredible

As I drove by I wondered what the Equine Center does. I stopped and asked. That's how I ended up with the horse surgery story and witnessed one of the most incredible things in my life.

The woman I first talked to kept saying, "I don't know that we do anything special." I could tell by the gigantic plastic hose that they stuff down the horses' throat that this was to be unlike anything that I've ever seen.

That's how I found myself witnessing a 1,150 pound horse flipped over onto her back, and lifted into the air by her feet. They put her on to the operating table an the two techs and doctor struggled to push the horse into the operating room.

It was perhaps one of the most unusual things I've ever seen.

Big Green (or Orange)

I have a new beat, ya'all: Giant Vegetables. Last week it was the Giant Pumpkin Guy. No joke, that's what everyone calls him. He also goes by Sonny. He's older, with an old dog. A widower. The pumpkins are a way for him to keep himself distracted. Twenty of the giants grow in his garden. A week ago it was 450 pounds. I bet its near to 500 pounds by now. He's our local expert, the one all the newbies turn to for help. And when those newbies don't take his advice, they get his friendly ribbing.

The pumpkins grow under tarps to keep the skins from splitting. The vines are tied back to keep the pumpkins from growing onto them. Then there's the Bondo. When the skins get damaged, they have to be repaired with Bondo for pumpkins.

Sonny dreams about his pumpkins, and yet he claims not to be obsessed. The pumpkin growing inside a tire is the result of a dream.

Sonny's pumpkins turn heads. Helicopters and planes fly low overhead to check out his crop. Sonny waves to them. He's usually outside. He has twenty pumpkins to take care of. Do you know the kind of work involved in that? Half hour per pumpkin each day. That's 10 hours a day.
Not to mention the rest of the garden: corn, beets, peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, hot peppers (so hot the Mexican workers from down the road stay away).

So the pumpkin guy made it into the paper. That's where the Tomato Plant Couple got the idea to call about their tomato plant. It reaches 12 feet tall and if the frost holds off, Ida will be able to pick tomatoes from her bedroom window. As it is the plant is just a foot below her window. The plant is thriving in a patch of earth 15 inches by 24 inches. Dominic kept adding tomato cages and there are now 7 of them. Adding more is out of the question. It takes a big ladder and lots of balance and Dominic lacks both.

Ask the couple what they use the tomatoes for and they answer in unison, "Pasta!"

"We're Italian," Ida explains. "We make our own ravioli and gnocchi. He makes a great sauce and I make the dough."

My mouth waters.

"We didn't really think much of it," Ida explains. "Then everyone kept saying, 'Its so big, why don't you tell the paper?' We didn't think anyone would want to know about our tomato plant, but then we saw the Giant Pumpkin Guy . . ."

So it looks like I have new beat. I can't wait for the next giant veggie. What will it be? A zucchini that needs a pallet? A green pepper the size of a basketball?

TARB

War and Warriors

I'm not much of a Patriot. I'll admit that. As an LJ or just a J, for that matter, I try not to be politically affiliated. Here's the deal: I don't like being a sheep. I don't like being told what to do or think by others. Democrats, Republicans, I won't follow anyone who tries to manipulate me and they all do.

At my first school board meeting I was asked to lead the group in the Pledge of Allegiance. It was an uncomfortable moment for me. First, I hadn't really said the Pledge in, like, twenty years or more and I couldn't remember how it went - in English. I can say it perfectly in Spanish. Second, when I was in school, I refused to say the Pledge in the first place. It was a personal choice and I didn't make a big deal out of it. I was just irritated that we said it without question about that whole separation of church and state thing. You know, "under God." I'm a history fiend. I looked it up and the original Pledge didn't have the God part. So I just didn't say it. Third, taking oaths and making pledges is against my religion. Leading the school board in the Pledge and violating my religious beliefs - kinda uncomfortable.

In my job as an LJ I have to talk to a lot of people from a lot of different backgrounds. They often surprise me. A VFW Auxiliary woman told me that she wishes President Bush's name was on the Vietnam Wall. "When I see that wall, I wonder, 'How many more walls?'" she said. What a remarkable thing to say.

One of the unenviable parts of my job is asking the really hard questions of people who have already been through enough in their lives. Operation Injured Soldier was founded by an Iraq War Vet. He was severely injured when the fuel truck he was riding in hit an IED. The explosion was devastating. Tony was terribly burned and he lost part of his hand and has burns on his face. The driver of the truck died. "I think about him every day," he told me. "He was just a kid out of basic." I had to ask him about that day. It is the story. "Tony," I said. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I understand, but can you please tell me about that day?" His voice strained with emotion, and he told me about his experience. I was shaking. He ended the interview with a fine quote. "It doesn't matter if you are for or against the war," he said. "This isn't about politics. This is about them."

In this blog I wrote about my encounter with the panel of Vietnam Vets who talked with the High School students. I often think about those kids sitting in perfect silence as one Vet read from his book about being in the war. He wrote about coming home, "home at last, home, home, home." Those Vets talked about those kids going off to war as though it were a forgone conclusion. Through choice or by draft, they will be in war.

I talked politics a little bit with my mother this weekend as she languished in the hospital, waiting for surgery. She hates the war. She always has.

As a Lesser Journalist, I find myself learning about life. I hate the war, too. People don't always have choices. Fighting isn't always cut and dry. I told my mother this: I hate the war, not the warriors. Talk to Tony for a few minutes and that becomes clear. I had one last question before I hung up with him. It just popped into my head and I asked it.

"One last thing, Tony, do you remember the date you were attacked?" He answered without hesitation.

"September 6, 2004. I'll never forget it," he said.

Neither will I.

Maybe being patriotic isn't cut and dry either.

TARB

Up To

My Internet has been down so I've had limited access to this blog. My apologies. So what has TARB been up to?

I interviewed a guy who invented a magic puzzle. It took him years to get it up and running, but he's sold 700,000 of them worldwide. I had a three hour interview and learned WAAAAAY more than I even wanted to about this guy. Like he named one of his daughters Tuesday Wednesday and that two years in advance of 9/11 he dreamed about it and told everyone he knew to stay clear of New York. It was one of the weirder conversations that I've had in my life.

I interviewed a girl who will be a famous country music star. I heard her CD that they sent to Nashville and it gave me chills. When I met her in person we hit it off right away. She has one of those stories that will make the Greater Journalists drool, too. When she was five, she was in car accident. She broke a vertbrae in her lower back, but it went undiagnosed for 9 years. She has an incredible voice, a great personality and poise. I had one of those moments with her. When she is rich and famous, I be able to say, "I remember when . . ." and my remember when is a good one. Her mother wanted her to sing for me, but she was so embarassed. It was blistering hot in the parking lot in front of the diner. She was so embarassed, she climbed into her moms truck and rolled the window all the way up so only her eyes were visible. We laughed so hard. Good kid.

I wrote a thank you letter to the editor for a woman who is dying. She wanted me to do a story and kept bothering every reporter in the office. No one wanted to deal with her, so I took her on. She'd leave these messages: "Hey. Are you going to do a story on me before I die?" Ummmmm. Finally I just told her that we needed to do this as a letter to the editor. She agreed and told me everything. I wrote it out and submitted it. Kinda weird to do it that way, but she got what she wanted and I got her off my back - you know before she dies and I spend the rest of my life feeling guilty.

Well, my job changed, too. One of the reporters on our team quit to go back to school to be a teacher. Instead of working for two papers as the education reporter, I'll be working for one paper on the education beat and covering the city. It kinda sucks, but when the industry sucks as bad as it does, well, you gotta do what ya gotta do.

With Internet up and running again, I'm back at the blog. I hope all is well with all of you.
TARB

Playing Favorites

When a favorite teacher retires it can leave a gaping hole in the community. On our community a feisty campaign to get me to write a story about one such teacher began. They called me and emailed, sent us pictures. Finally I agreed to do a story. Mrs. S raised the bar for 3rd and 4th grade kids for 20 years. She loved her students and it shows. Ask any graduate who had her when they were in elementary school. It is almost certain they will list her as a favorite teacher. I talked to several of her former students and they all raved about her. One rainy day last week I went to year round school. It was nice to see kids in school after so much summer. I really can't wait for school to start up again. Wednesday was Mrs. S's second to the last day of school. When I arrived the children were finishing up a snack. Mrs. S introduced me and we sat down to chat. Mrs. S is one of those teachers. One year she let the children decide if they wanted to buy rent or sell their desks. They earn "money" for good behavior and garner fees for bad behavior. The children have had small businesses. They have hired and fired their employees. One year one kid disputed his firing and he hired another kid to represent him as his attorney and sue his "boss." This year the students were working toward a book auction and the opportunity to bid on the classroom stuffed animal, Stripy. Some had the money and others did not. "What did the children learn from the assignment?" I asked. "Why don't we ask them?" she said. Mrs. S turned to the students. She introduced me and then asked the children what they learned from the money experiment. They talked about hard work and seeing their efforts pay off. They talked about making mistakes, consequences and learning from those mistakes. They talked about setting goals and being successful. Mrs. S turned to me with tears in her eyes. "I guess I've done my job," she said. "You guys are ready to move on." That's one of many stories you find when you talk to people about their favorite teacher and visit that teacher's classroom. Then there is the unexpected gems. When I asked Mrs. S what her favorite lessons are she politely declined to say, citing the personal lives of her students. Fortunately I had the name and number of one of those students. I just didn't know it yet. When I called I talked to mom. Her son had Mrs. S in 3rd grade. During the course of the conversation she revealed that her husband died unexpectedly when her son was in Mrs. S's class. The night before the funeral there was a school choir concert scheduled. Mrs. S insisted that the boy participate. She picked him up and took him out to dinner with his class. They dedicated the concert to the his father's memory.

"It really cheered me up," he told me.

Incredible.

Out in the hallway away from the curious ears of the children, I asked her the standard question that I ask most retiring teacher.

"What's next for you?"

She checked the door to make sure it was closed.

"I'm going to smoke, drink, learn to speak French and play piano!" We laughed till our bellies hurt.

Then she asked if I would come in and talk to the kids about being a reporter. Everything is a teachable moment. I explained above the fold and below the fold. I explained leads and pegs. And yes, the comics pages are great.

The editor said it was good story, but a long one.

As usual.

TARB

Good Feedback

A little praise goes a long way. One of my editors will give us a little praise and that's awfully nice when it happens. My other editor never gives praise. Never. While we don't really need to be praised, it's nice to have a little feedback.

I got some great feedback from a reader today.

I love making a hum-drum story interesting with unique details. When I was an intern at a daily waaaaaay back when, I remember some of the reading materials I was instructed to read focused on details. Instead of saying a blood trail led away from the scene of the murder, a reporter wrote about drops of blood about the size of a nickle. For some reason I remembered that focus on detail and I use it in my own writing.

My details are the more about the things people say and how they say them. I note when and where people pause, laugh, sigh, sound dejected or elated. People who are used to being interviewed know what to say and when. I also take note of the things people say when they don't think they are being observed. It's not necessarily off the record, its more like out of the scope of the normal conversation.

A couple of months ago the Knights of Columbus presented a check to the special education department at a local school. Hum-drum, right?

We'll there happened to be a lot of peripheral things going on. We took photos with three of the kids, the director of the program inspected the check, we chatted in her office with the Knights of Columbus guy.

The check presentation was one thing. What made the story was the conversation surrounding that event. After walking away from the photo shoot the director mumbled, "I love those kids." When she put on her glasses to read the check she said, "Whoa! We did really good this year!"

I added those details and others to the story. It wasn't really about the presentation of a check. It was about the loving administrator and the kids she works so hard for.

Today I called her about another story. She happily talked with me and I was grateful. When I apologized for my slow note-taking (she was my fifth major interview this morning) she told me not to worry. "You can tell you take your time with an interview," she said. "You put a lot of humanity in your writing."

Humanity in my writing. Wow. That's a huge complement.

And some nice feedback.

TARB

Weirdness

You just know any conversation that contains the words "assassinolgy" and "cryptozoology" is going to be weird. Assassinology, as in JFK Assassinology. Cryptozoology, as in Loch Ness and Big Foot.

The gentleman I interviewed on Thursday (I'll call him John) is an expert on weird phenomena. UFOs, ghosts, conspiracy theories, that whole cryptozoology thing. . . One of the libraries in our area is having UFO presentation for the teens, but anyone is welcome. I thought I'd call up the presenter.

I don't know what I was expecting. I try to keep an open mind about these things and, as it turns out, that's all John really asks for. An open mind.

It took a little bit to get him on the phone. I left messages, with no return. Then I sent him an email with an intriguing P.S. "I'm sure you hear a lot of stories. I have a story of my own." He called back in 20 minutes.

John talked a little bit about some of the UFO sightings we've had in this state. One of the most famous occurred in my hometown in the1960's. It appeared in Life and Look magazines. I know people who claimed to have seen those unusual lights and objects in the sky and on the ground. Credible sources. (I also had a middle school science teacher who claimed to have been responsible for the lights. He was a mad scientist type so I really wouldn't put it past him.)

We talked about this and other incidences. He had some interesting stories and so do I. I know of a least three people who have seen "something" followed by a period of missing time. One man was fishing on a boat. He looked up and saw "something." He woke up four hours later on the bank with no memory of what happened next. Another couple was driving on a country back road late one night. Something buzzed their car, blowing out all their electrical. It buzzed them again. They woke up two hours later on the side of the road.

And there is the incident that my friend Greg happened to have on the radio. He was a DJ on Sunday night. This is small town radio at its best. People would call in if they lost a dog or the cows got out. One night the phone lit up. Odd lights and explosions were seen in the sky. Calls came in from all over the county. Greg, being a smart guy, triangulated the events and discovered that they were centered over one particular little town. When he came back on the radio after a commercial break Greg was very subdued. "I just got a call from the United States Air Force," he announced. "I have been asked to quit broadcasting the locations of the lights we've seen in the sky. Now time for some more music." He played "2001: A Space Odyssey." The very next day my parents and I happened to be near that town were the lights triangulated. We looked up and saw a gigantic all black USAF dirigible floating low over the countryside.

John very much liked this story and followed it with a story of his own. Six police officers chased a UFO. Their conversation was recorded by dispatch. When the chase was over a Sargent erased all of the tapes regarding the UFO incident. Before that happened the dispatcher made two tapes of that UFO siting. She sent one to John and kept one for herself. The Sargent found her copy of the tape and destroyed that, too.

John says he's seen something, too. Something that didn't act like a plane. Oddly, he never thought "UFO" when he saw it. "It was as though something was blocking me from thinking that," he said.

And ghosts, yes he's seen something like that, too.

"So," I casually asked, "are you crazy?" (I still can't believe I asked the question.)

"Crazy is relative," he said. "Crazy is not thinking about these things. Crazy is being trapped by a belief system that says these things can't exist. Crazy is not being willing to step outside your comfort zone."

Oh, and I, too, have seen "something" in the sky that I can't explain. It scared me so bad I went and hid in the closet.

Remember, crazy is relative.

TARB

Stories I Hate

"He's right here. Do you want to talk to him?" Nothing like being put in a hard spot.

"Sure," I said. "That'd be great."

The little boy on the phone sounded fine. He sounded like any other 9 year old that I've talked to except he has brain cancer and things are not looking good. He told me he thought the fundraiser was "a good one," and that he was having a good day. He's been throwing up a lot recently and he has a lot bad days. But today was good.

Here's the thing: He doesn't know how sick he is and I didn't want to be the one to tell him with my story.

I can't stand covering the deaths or the impending deaths of young people. We've had a lot of them in the past two weeks.

One of the LJs had to interview the mom of a 16 year old who broke his neck while dirt bike riding. When his picture came across the fax machine it hurt. He was a handsome kid with his whole life in front of him.

Another LJ covered the deaths of a 19 year old and his 22 year old sister. Her fiance ended up dying, as well. They were killed in a car crash in Kentucky. None were wearing seat belts and all were killed when they were thrown from the car. The fiance lived for three days longer than the siblings. When she got the call about his death, she gasped and then went into the bathroom to cry a little.

We don't always know these people, but we still take their deaths hard.

When I was working at the other newspaper 10 years ago we had 10 year old girl who burned to death in a fiery car crash. The mother went back and rescued the 2 year old daughter and the 6 year old daughter. When the mom when back for the unconscious 10 year old, the van was consumed by flames. Passersby burned themselves trying to cut her free from the van. It was terribly tragic. I remember meeting up with other LJs at the Sheriff's Department. They worked in radio and from other papers. Usually competitors, we all felt the same pain.

I went to the funeral for that one. My editor made me. It was horrible. The girl's church used it as an opportunity to recruit more souls. I was sickened and I cried right along with everyone else. How could I not? And then my editor didn't use the story.

So I wrote my sick kid fundraiser story. "If it comes down to quantity or quality, the quality has got to be there," one adult said. Maybe the quote is ambiguous enough that he won't understand that he's going to die and die soon.

After it ran I started getting calls, people wanting to donate.

I guess it will be quality of life for this little boy.

I wish it were both.

TARB

Bits and Bytes, Repraise

There is a candy jar on one of my colleagues desks. It is a new addition to our newsroom and the center of a great deal of talk among my fellow LJs. We contemplate the contents as though analyzing a complicated police report. No one likes the red ones, but everyone LOVES the pink ones. We squabble for the last one. On top of the candy jar is a sticky note. It reads: Yield to Temptation. We do. Regularly.

While board the other day, two of my fellow Lesser Journalists decided to check out the state sex offender website. They were looking for the hottest chick. First of all, the sex offender website doesn't have a whole lot of women. Second, most are hideous. They were successful after trying out this municipality and that city. They found two "winners" in one of the hip towns. These two board LJs contemplated putting together a "Chicks of the Sex Offenders List" calendar. Oh my. I just marveled at how many people on the list smiled for their mug shot. I would not be smiling if that were me.

Speaking of mug shots, we keep a collection of classic mugshots. Updated regularly. We can't help ourselves. Some of them are just too good to pass up. The dude with the broken nose and crazy eyeball. The sex offender trying to look pathetic and innocent. (Someone drew a quote bubble over his head saying, "Love me . . .") We also collect classic headlines and crazy obits. Some poor dude died last week who's name was "Harry Knipple." How sad.

A bad thunderstorm hit today. We worried (OK, just me) about a tornado. Take cover would have sent us to the basement. "All we have down there is rubber duckies," my editor said. "Wha'?" asked one of the newer LJs. Yes. Rubber Duckies. We have 3,000 of them for some kind of charity function that takes place every year.

This past week I called a lady for one of my stories. After I rattled on for a bit about the story and started to interview her, she interrupted me. "Can I call you back? I'm in the bathtub." Noooo Problem. It reminded me of a phone call I made years ago. I don't even know what it was about, but when the woman answered, it was quite obvious that she was in the middle of having sex. As I giggled over bathtub lady I revealed the phone sex story as well. Our sports guy can't stop laughing over it. Even days later he's insisting that I tell the story to other LJs who weren't in the room for the original story.

Today we somehow got on the subject of high school crushes of actors, singers and other famous people. It is hilarious to hear the young kids say, "When I was in school all the girls LOVED Orlando Bloom." He was famous like two weeks ago, right? One girl said she had a huge thing for Dean Cain who played Clark Kent/Superman in the 1990s TV show. She became an LJ because she just loved Clark. When one of the other LJs came back from being out I admitted in code that I felt the same way. "Who are you talking about?" I wouldn't tell him. It's her business. "You just messed with the wrong cat," he said, slightly hurt. I wasn't trying to be mean. Later, guiltily, I admitted that she and I were talking about Superman. "Oh, I already know." As the afternoon wore on we learned that two other LJs - operating independently - emailed him the truth. Then I fessed up, too. "Look at us! We're reporters and we can't keep a secret!" I hollered. "Well he said he was a bad kitty!" one called back. Wrong cat. Not, bad kitty.

Just another day in the newsroom.

TARB

The Hated One

Small town politics is a remarkable thing and I'm getting a first-hand view of the dirty, dirty underbelly. As I report the news (you know, my JOB), I'm getting some interesting feedback from a variety of weird sources. Apparently, I'm getting trash-talked behind my back.

One of our LJs knows, well, everybody. She and a bunch of other LJs from other papers get together and gossip. They're gossiping about me. Apparently the PR chick from one of the school districts that I cover whined about my reporting to this other reporter from another paper. What sent me over the cliff was that she complained about something I never even printed. We changed the story at the last minute because they changed their story. My colleague ripped the reporter for reporting rumors.

(I have a cat's tail hanging over the screen. Now she's rubbing her head on it. I'll have to stop and pet her. Hold on.)

(OK, she's satisfied and in the window now.)

They don't like me because I'm "too pushy." When I was still green they treated me like a buddy. Then the director of HR didn't return my calls. I had a deadline. I called him twice a day for a week. He didn't return my calls or left blow-off messages. So, early on deadline day I showed up at his office and politely offered to wait. I only needed a few minutes. I understand that he's a very busy man, I told his disconcerted secretary. I understand completely, but I have a deadline. I'll wait, thank you.

I waited for nearly 45 minutes before he called me back. It wasn't so bad. They had chocolate in the waiting room. When I finally got into his office, he had to call the superintendent for some information.

"Guess what I have in office?" he sneered over the phone. "A reporter."

He didn't consider me a person. I was a very annoying and disgusting thing. Whatever. I got my quote and my info. My editor grinned when I told him the story.

When I was sick a few weeks ago they had a very important budget meeting. It needed to be covered and I was in no condition to do that. While they were debating cutting teaching positions my fever hit full bore. Shiver, sweat. Shiver, sweat. We sent a very competent LJ in my place (the one from above who knows everybody). She was very professional and introduced herself to everyone. When my editor told me that she would be covering the story, I breathed a sigh of relief - and went back to bed.

The school board? They asked where I was. They made it clear that they didn't trust her reporting. (She's young, but she likes covering meetings.) When she clarified a few things the next day, they attempted to positively rewrite her copy. She turned them down.

This past week I wrote a story that ended up going into both papers. Actually it was two VERY different versions of the same story with shared information and quotes from a state senator. She introduced a bill that would require the posting of salaries and compensation for superintendents. This is in response to a house bill that would cap the salaries of superintendents at the same rate as that of the governor. The senator's take: Local control. Constituents are able to make that decision, but they need easy access to the information.

One superintendent, already peeved because I got some vital info wrong (that happens, sorry to say) gave me a very quick quote and refused to say more. When I asked for the salary info, he curtly told me I'd have it momentarily. He hung up without a goodbye. Within three minutes later the info I requested appeared my inbox. I gleaned a couple of other quotes from a school board meeting. You get what you can, from anywhere you can get it.

The other school board delayed getting me the info (as usual). When they finally got back to me on Monday. They had a list of talking points. Read that as grievances. They had concerns about the administrative costs. They were concerned about having to post information already available through the Freedom Of Information Act.

When I asked for the salary info for the superintendent the other top ten paid employees in the district, they hemmed and hawed. Then I filed a Freedom of Information Act request. I'll hear back sometime next week.

The senator that I interviewed called me today. That doesn't happen. Busy politicians don't call us. We call them and beg for a quote. She called me and wanted to know why I wrote two such drastically different stories. I explained about different school districts wanting to hear from their people and not from the district next door. Then she confided that one district drives her crazy with their complaining while the other does an amazing job on very little money. Believe me, I noticed.

And that bill she introduced? Those complainers might just be the cause of it. The last Superintendent made $300,000. We'll have to see what the current one makes.

"That does it," she said. "I'm filing for the top ten salaries with the freedom of information act, too."

Hornets nest. Shaken, not stirred.

I miss the kids.

TARB

P.S. The Athletic Director I wrote about previously resigned under duress. They even wrote his resignation letter for him. He refused to sign it and wrote his own. The press release regarding his resignation was titled: "Athletic Director Seeks New Endeavors." What a load of bull.

Clap-Out

School is out and I got to participate in a great year-end event yesterday. It's called a "Clap-Out." At this particular elementary school the fifth graders are moving on to the middle school next year. Every year for the past 14 years the students are sent on their way on the last day of school by parents, friends and families. The younger students and all of the visitors lined the hallways. The fifth graders walk through while being cheered and clapped into summer and, in the fall, a new school.

It was a great way to say good-bye to the children and to the school year. The parents gathered at the two balloon arches representing the elementary school colors and the middle school colors. One mother admitted that she cried when she dropped her daughter off that morning. In the gym where the fifth graders gathered, teachers and staff members passed out tearful hugs and said good bye.

When the parade began the children whooped and clapped, slapped five and congratulated the fifth graders. The parents swung into action, cameras in hand, video rolling. Once again, it was an event that was hard to capture. Emotional, yes. I wish I had better pictures.

Once the kids went out to the buses, the teachers and staff followed. As the buses pulled away all of the windows filled with little arms waving good bye. In the parking lot, horns blared and children howled with joy.

"My daughter cried, I cried, my son cried. It was great," one dad said.

What a send-off.

TARB

New York Comes Calling

Before I ever started this blog I wrote a story about a kid who won an essay contest. He wrote about what it is like to have ADD. He won a huge national award, got to go to a major league baseball game, met a lot of famous people and generally just had a great time. We published his essay right along with the story. It was a really great essay from a really great kid.

Right after the story appeared I got a call from New York. My story was republished on an ADD website that goes to out to 8,000 people every day. That's more than our weekly circulation. It was a nice complement. Then today, nearly two months later, I got another email from New York. A magazine wants to interview this little boy and his family. I put the two in touch.

Since we published that story and published the essay, many people have come to realize that their families were unknowingly being affected by ADD. Months later I'm still hearing great things.

We LJs have small voices. We don't reach a lot of people, but sometimes our voices reach further than we ever imagine.

TARB

Behind the Lens

Our photographer has a very bizarre sense of humor. One of the LJs arrived at work and found an odd photo of guy's back hair gleaming in the sun taped to her computer. Ick!

He's got a long lens camera and he uses it to capture the craziest things. People doing things they just don't want anyone else to see. Captions to photos that make the rest us snicker. If these things got out, we'd be lynched.

One long boring baseball season our photographer decided to take photos of the guys scratching their crotches. I asked him what pictures he's most proud of. He said this collection of 200 photos - which no one will ever see.

He's notorious for his drive-by shootings. "Did he even get out of the car for this?" Sometimes, no.

Don't get me wrong. This guy has won a ton of awards. One of the high schools has it's walls decorated with his photos. They are remarkable. And his office once belonged to a photographer who went on to become Pulitzer Prize Winner. But his crazy sense of humor?

We love it.

TARB

Bits of Bytes

1) My Vietnam Vet story struck a few nerves. I got a lot of emails and phone calls thanking me. The bitch-slap Marine even got interviewed on the radio. The Marine called and thanked me. "That's the first time I've ever been accurately quoted in a newspaper." I think that's a compliment. Right?


2) I attended a school board meeting this week (and by week I mean Tuesday to Tuesday). I was the hated person in the room. We printed a story this week that the school board didn't want me to print. I'll say it again. My job is not to act as a PR machine for the schools. I'm a reporter, not a lap dog. Good or bad, I report the news.

3) One of my fellow LJ's got reamed by a source. "That's not what I wanted you to print!" the woman screamed. "How could you do this to me!" This particular LJ is young, but she's smart and talented. Bigger newspapers are looking her way; she's got a bright future, but this conversation really upset her. The whole newsroom read over her story and we all agreed that she did nothing wrong. She wrote a balanced and unbiased story. She did a good job and we reassured her of that.

4) I might be covering a teenager who spotted unusual lights in the sky by Wal-Mart. He took video. His librarian told me about it. Hmmmm. Never thought I'd be doing an Alien story.

TARB

A Lowly Beat

This is the kind thing that happens at work. We're sitting there quietly, keyboards clicking, papers rustling. Then someone says, "What exactly is 'Sexual Intercourse?'" Snide comments ensue about the educational abilities of said reporter's parents. A lengthy discussion begins that involves all the ins and outs (I couldn't resist . . .) of legal definitions and personal opinions.

As an education reporter it is rare that I have to deal with these kinds of questions. A couple of towns away a teacher got caught in a "relationship" with a fifteen-year-old. Some reporters would salivate to have that kind of story. A couple of jealous LJs in our office certainly had to wipe the drool from their mouths. But me? I'm not a fan of that kind of story.

It's been a week filled with sex offenders. The most dramatic case had the whole metro area talking. About a month ago a man walked by an apartment at about 3:30 in the morning. He saw a little girl sleeping on the couch, opened the door and kidnapped her. He took her to the roof of the apartment and proceeded to molest her. Here's an interesting detail: an illegal immigrant called 911 at about 4:00 in the morning. He risked being deported to do the right thing. He even testified in court. The police showed up. They thought they were being called to a man on the roof, not a kidnapping/molestation of a eight year old.

The officer - with his civilian ride-along in tow - climbed the stairs. The little girl screamed. The kidnapper put his hands up. The girl ran off and disappeared. The kidnapper pushed the officer down and plowed down the stairs. The civilian ride-along tackled the guy. The little girl ran home and awakened her mother. She said she thought the girl just had a bad dream. Then the police showed up. In court, the astounding testimony of an eight-year-old girl will put away a dangerous criminal. He choked her into submission. She still fought against him and refused to put herself in a position where she could be raped. She admitted to liking the part where the police tasered the guy.

I hate these kinds of cases. In the coming weeks I'll interview a elementary principal of a severely underfunded school who spends the summer visiting the homes of every pre-kindergartner in her school. I'll go to babysitting school. I may even visit Chinese Camp. Those other reporters can have their sex-offender/kidnapping/murder/mayhem/chaos stories.

I'll take my lowly education beat, thank you.

TARB

Best Friend, Biggest Fan

I heard them long before I ever saw them coming. On Friday afternoon I sat in my car at one of the high schools. Hot and steamy air oppressed us all day long. The clouds billowed into threatening storms with spikes of sunlight streaming through. I napped for a few minutes in my car and then I heard the rumbling.

"Here they come," I said to myself. I grabbed my notebook, pen and keys and hopped out into humid air. At the stoplight the Hogs thundered.

So here's the question: What does an education reporter have to do with a bunch of bikers? It's a weird juxtaposition.

The bikes thundered around the corner into the lot at the high school. Parents waiting to pick up their kids sidled into their cell phones, calling around to ask what heck is going on. The bikers revved and rumbled. Students pressed against the windows of the classrooms, jaws dropped. The kids playing tennis stopped and stared. They pulled to the end of the lot in front of the art classrooms and revved some more before turning off their engines.

As I approached, one of the art teachers came out of the building and into the leather-clad loving arms of his wife. This is his 37th year as an teacher at this particular school. After next week he is retiring to paint - what else - the chrome on Harley's. He and his wife belong to a biker club and she even rides her bike to work. She's a special ed teacher. He designed her tattoo. And their granddaughter's, as well.

His wife has been planning this surprise for weeks. She let me in on the secret, but asked me not to say a word. The Principal appeared, walkie-talkie in hand. Once he figured out that all was well he went over and shook hands and gave the teacher's wife a hug. I asked him what brought him outside this afternoon.

"I started getting calls that the school was being invaded by bikers. This is even better. He's a great teacher," he said.

The revelers (and rumblers) headed over to a local eatery where friends, family, former students and community members were invited to spend the evening. A live band would be playing at around nine.

Here's the kicker for me with this story. It's not just about a teacher retiring and the great surprise by his wife. When I interviewed her a couple of weeks ago she and I sat together, looking at pictures of her husband and his artwork. At one point her eyes teared up.

"You know, he worked two jobs for eight years to put me through school," she said, her voice choking with emotion. "He started talking about keeping the second job, but I made him promise to quit as soon as I started teaching."

Best friend, biggest fan.

"He's easily hoodwinked," she said with a laugh as the Harley's started to rev again.

What a great story.

TARB

A Quick Update

The "Bitch-Slap" quote made it into the paper. I even got a compliment on the story and a request from a radio host about how to contact the ex-Marine who made the quote.

The big desk belonging to Eus made the move to the office just fine. She proudly dotes over that desk.

I hate the phrase "going forward." At a school board meeting tonight that phase was used 7 times. Six of those were by one board member. From now on I'm keeping running total regarding usage of that phase.

It's late (or really early). I'm going to bed.

TARB

Bugged

Our Sports Guy's Monday started weird. Two bizarre voice mails left the rest of us giggling. A grandma called demanding that he write something about a semi-athletic granddaughter. The other one involved a confused woman asking about mouth guards. He made me listen to that one.

I hate the term "Going Forward." I deal with politicians. I hear it a lot as they discuss their plans. I bitched, but another reporter called me on the fact that I had complained about "Going Forward" before.

"Remember?" she asked.

"Yeah, but not with these people," I said. "There must be something that bugs you?"

"I hate 'Trials and Tribulations!'" she said with a southern accent.

"I can't stand, 'These Ones' or 'Those Ones,'" another LJ joined in.

"The one that gets me is 'One of the Only.' If it's really One of the Only, that still means it could be one of hundreds. I hate that."

"'Couple Few.' What's with that?"

"So Sports Guy, what's your least favorite thing?"

"Grandmas calling me," he grumbled.

TARB

Keeping Scavengers At Bay

Yesterday I was thanked for my morality. That kind of thing doesn't happen in most other kinds of jobs. When was the last time you were thanked for your ethics?

The Athletic Director at a local high school was fired. Well, not exactly "fired." His contract was not renewed which is pretty much the same. Understand, this is a decent guy who got caught up in a political situation.

"You know the day I found out I picked up my four year old son and I could look him in the eye and know that I did the right thing," he told me.

The thing he did is support a coach that the administration wanted gone. He inherited the situation and didn't know that he was supposed to give a bad evaluation to the coach.

So I caught wind of the situation and started making calls. The athletic office said he wasn't in. The schools PR person said they were making some changes, but they were not prepared to make a statement at this time. Ummmhummm.

A few minutes later the AD called me back from his cell phone. Panicked. I reassured him that I wanted to get the truth out there. My story would reflect the truth of the situation. He refused to comment on the record. But off the record he spilled his guts. "I'm putting down my pen," I told him. "If it's not in the notebook, it's not in the paper."

All I had were two no comments. That's not a story.

My third call went to the president of the school board. She apparently didn't get that memo about not making a statement at this time. I chatted with her before I asked the money question. And she proceeded to run her mouth about the AD being let go.

Confirmation.

I now had a story. I had to call back the AD and let him know that I would be printing something. He was panicked again. This poor guy lost his job, is looking for work elsewhere and now the paper is printing a story about it. My editor stood off to the side watching me handle this interview.

I explained that we would be printing something. That because I had gotten on the record confirmation that he was let go and that nothing scandalous happened, nothing I printed would reflect badly on him. If anything the school board looked like idiots.

"This is your opportunity," I told him. "Now is your chance to say something on the record. " So he did. And he ended up looking like a saint. He talked about his appreciation for the staff, coaches and students. Particularly the students.

I always could count on him for a good quote.

That's when he thanked me for my morality. "At least you're not like these other people. You're not under their thumb."

I don't work for the school board. I work for the people of this community. That's where my loyalties lie.

Everyone must have had time to think about things over the weekend. The PR chick called on Monday morning begging me not print the story. She found out that the president of the school board talked. The school board chick called too, begging me not to print anything. I called them all back and assured them that I would be printing something. They were crushed.

Then this morning my editor asked me to rewrite the story. The director of human resources met with the AD and they are looking at keeping him on.

I called the AD. After an conversation with a lot of off the record quotes. (Really good ones, too.) I finally asked him the question that had been bugging me the whole time.

"Do you really want to continue working for these people?" I asked.

There was a very long pause. "I want to continue working with the coaches and the kids," he said. "I love this place. The people here have been very welcoming."

So the story has been heavily edited, but at least it will run.

Hopefully this will stop some of the scavengers who like to tear apart decent people.

TARB

Testing the Bitch-Slap

The other day I went to a panel discussion with a group of five Vietnam Vets. Every year for the past 25 years they have been coming to the high school to talk to the students about their experiences. These men pull no punches. They lay it on the line and speak some uncomfortable truths. I'm sure there are plenty of people who just don' t want to know the dirty bits of war, but these men lived through that whether they volunteered for it or not.

The men talked about joining up and coming home. They talked about what they saw and did and did not do. They talked about this current war and what that means for this new generation. They didn't mess around.

They talked to the students about the role of the media then and now. The students didn't seem to understand that what they see on tv isn't an accurate representation of what is really happening in Iraq and Afganistan.

"What you see on tv isn't even one tenth of one percent of what is really going on," one of the men said. "When was the last time you saw a disemboweled body of a soldier on tv? It happens every day in Iraq. And they just can't show you what it smells like. That's what I'll never forget. The smell."

One of the men was in information. He said he would go out with Walter Cronkite and his film crew. That night their story about the mission would appear on the evening news. He said he didn't recognize the mission. What he saw standing next to Cronkite and what Cronkite reported had nothing to do with each other. The war became about the numbers - VC killed compared to our soldiers. "It became a football game," he said. "I'll tell you this I always hated the term 'Light Causualties.' There's no such thing when you are the causualty."

At the end of the discussion, one of the men read a passage from his book. He wrote about his experieces as a grunt in Vietnam. The students who arrived chatty with their talk of summer vacation listened to him read about comeing home in complete silence. I've never heard a quieter classroom filled with students. They responded to his emotional reading with resounding applause. Afterwards many of the students went to the front to shake the men's hands.

When the students finally left I went to talk with the them.

"Sorry about bashing the media like that," one of the guys said.

"Believe me, I wasn't offeded. I'm not anything like Cronkite. I'm what's known as a 'lesser journalist,'" I said.

"Not in our eyes," one vet said. "All you have to do is tell the truth."

I do my best.

When I got back to the office, the news room was full of talk. The editors were both gone and we were busy, as usual, but that never stops us. We were talking about our big stories, our hardest interviews and the good and bad editors we've had. One reporter talked about a murder that happened at his college campus. He ended up meeting big, angry football players in dark parking lots. Others were bizarre stories of oddball crimes. Then the conversation switched to what it takes to be a good paper, a good editor, a good journalist. One reporter talked about an editor who never stood up for her reporters, who always played it safe and never risked offending some portion of the readership.

"Jesus! Grow some balls!" I growled.

"Yeah! What she said," one of my more conservative colleagues laughed.

I can't stand sticking my neck out and then getting executed infront of our readers. My editor, he's pretty good. He stands up for us when he needs to and never lets us down when we need him most. Thank God for that.

Of couse with that Vietnam Vet story I'm giving him a little trouble. One of the Vets talked about some of the kids testing them with questions that are meant to get a rise out of their classmates.

"That's when we bitch-slap them back into place," the vet said. ("I don't think you can put that in the paper," he immediatly said. "I know," I answered. "But I'm gonna try.")

We'll have to see if the "bitch-slap" makes it into print.

Small joys for a Lesser Journalist.

TARB

Windows

When I arrived back at work from my two-day sick leave, there was a gigantic sheet cake on the table in the kitchen. The downtown merchants got together and bought a cake that read, "We will miss you!" The feeling is mutual.

The move for the most part was successful. My desk has a window which is of a little concern to my boss. He doesn't want me to be distracted, but truthfully, the natural sunlight is very nice. I do better with natural light. Because I work for both papers, being in two offices was very difficult for me. But one location has helped me dramatically. I'm much more organized and less scattered. For the rest of the bunch, there is a ton more driving. I guess we'll live.

One interesting part of this whole move is that both staffs are now together in one room. The interaction is interesting. While working on our deadlines the other day we started talking about being Lesser Journalists. One of the reporters, a young guy had to do a career day event as a presenter. (I covered the event as a reporter.) He said he told the students not to get into reporting unless you have a passion and love for it, because it just doesn't pay.

"That's true. I do this because I love it, not because I want to make a lot of money," one of the LJs said. She's addicted to the randomness of it all. A week or two ago a citizen on a ride along with the police tackled a guy who had just kidnapped a little girl and was caught in the act of molesting her. It was big news and it happened to us.

This is the kind of job where you just never know who you are going to meet. The guy down the street might just have a facinating story to tell.

It's up to us Lesser Journalists to uncover that story and write something that people want to read. We're doing the best we can, even with a window office.

TARB

Sickness

I don't know where I picked up the germ that got me, but it got me good. While out for a jog early last Tuesday I stopped to cough. And nearly threw up in some lady's driveway. She tottled out to pick up the paper and there I stood, coughing and heaving in her driveway.

On Thursday I had a day off and felt something coming on. I was unable to get to preventive meds like zinc. Friday I felt scratchy, but went to work anyway. By Saturday I was voiceless and coughing. Miserable. My boyfriend thought it was hilarious that I was completely voiceless. Sunday night the fever hit. But before the fever hit I had an interesting meeting with a little girl in my neighborhood.

When I was driving by her house a few days ago she looked really familiar. "I know her," I told my sister. Then Sunday night I saw her again out rollerskating. I went for a walk; I had to solve this mystery.

"Excuse me!" I rasped, "Do you go to H----- Elementary in M---------?" She had a startled look on her face.

"Yes."

"I thought I recognized you," I said as I crossed the street. "I'm the reporter for the paper. I saw your rehearsal for you concert the other day."

We introduced ourselves.

"You're a the reporter?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Wow! The reporter lives right in my neighborhood!"

She's ten. And the concert turned out really well. And she has a Scottie dog named Butch. He's two. She moved from Oklahoma. She can't wait to go swimming. And she still couldn't believe that a REAL REPORTER lives right in her neighborhood.

So the kids get me sick. That's part of the trouble with being a Lesser Journalist with an education beat.

I'll live with the germs.

TARB

Letting Down the Editor

"I'm so disappointed in you," my editor said to me today.

"What! What did I do?!" I wailed.

"Go check your e-mail," he said with his usual hard-to-read editor face.

With dread I slunk back to my computer. I don't like disappointing anybody, especially my boss. He's so laid back anyway, I can't imagine making him really mad.

His email went something like this:

Every time you get an email you make this little sound. I hope you make it when you get this one, too.

Apparently I didn't make the sound and that's what disappointed him.

"I didn't even know I did that," I said.

"It's kind of like a sigh and a grunt. It mostly happens on Mondays when you're on deadline and stressed out," he explained.

My editor is disappointed with me because I didn't grunt at his email.

Now if only people would call me back so I could meet those nasty Monday deadlines . . .

TARB

Doggy Day

Murray Too, the Coated German Shepherd stood eye-to-eye with the seven-year-olds. He's just a year old and taller than a lot of the kids. Murray calmly endured their hands and later their kisses as the children filed out of the assembly at a local elementary school. Did I mention that I love my job? Little kids kissing dogs bigger than them. How great is that?

The dogs were part of the Leader Dogs for the Blind program. Of the five dogs in attendance the star of the show was Morgan, a 14-week-old puppy who slept soundly on the stage while the excited children filed in for the assembly. Part way through the assembly he woke up and immediately had to do what most animals do when they wake up: he had to pee. As he disappeared out the door Murray Too and the other dogs watched Morgan leave, stood up and whimpered.

"Don't worry! Your baby will be back!" the trainer told the dogs as the children giggled.

Later, the trainer pulled a trick on 14-week-old Morgan. While the children distracted him at the front of the room the trainer made her way to the back and hid behind a partition. Part of the basic training for Leader Dogs is known as "recall" or the ability to immediately come when called. From behind the partition the trainer called, "Morgan! MORGAN!" His ears perked up and he whipped his whole body around at the first call of his name. By the time she called his name again Morgan was halfway through the crowd, clamoring over the little bodies of squealing children. Despite the serious distractions (namely, scores of little hands and squirming, laughing children) Morgan made his way to the hidden trainer. As soon as Morgan found the trainer she scooped him up and snuggled him, praising him all the way back to the front of the room.

"I am sooo proud of you Morgan! That's the first time he's ever done that!" she told the children.

What a cutie.

It was a very interesting assembly and the children seemed to love the event.

At the end of the assembly I talked to the other people on the stage. One blind man informed me that he doesn't like his dog. "I love her. She's my freedom," he said.

Take that, blindness!

TARB

Remarkable Finds

We've been cleaning and packing a lot recently. There is just way too much stuff that needs to be gone through. So here we are, filling up and tossing bag after bag of junk.

Yesterday while hip deep in a cabinet that hadn't been cleaned in years, I came upon an old ledger from 1900. It was the school board records and expense accounts for the Village school. Below that were three other similar ledgers dating back to 1887. The oldest of the bunch dated back to 1867. It was all a remarkable find.

For me, though the most interesting of all of the books was the student record book for 1920-21. There the teacher wrote notes on various students. They were charming and curious.

One girl was described as "mischievous" and another as "industrious." I really would have loved to have met both of those children. If they are alive, they are both in their 90's. I wonder about their lives and hope they lived a good life. A good, full life, even despite the ups and the downs.

The books are now in the hands of the school again. I hope they will not be packed away and forgotten as they were with us. They are so much more than just crumbling pieces of paper.

TARB

A Visit From Sam

While typing on a story the other day I heard a familiar jingling sound. Shortly thereafter a ginger colored dog jogged through the office. A dog. In the office.

"I know you," the woman next to me said. "You're Sam."

Sam wagged her whole body as my colleague petted her. After a little bit Sam went around and said hello, even to the sports reporter who doesn't really like dogs.

But Sam really isn't like most dogs. No drool or bad breath. No jumping up on people. No bad behavior. When she gets slightly too interested in something she shouldn't be interested in her owner, Paul, says, "Sam," and she goes back to him.

Paul came in to pass the time, say hello and place an ad. Sam came along for company. She wore a leash but it was only a foot long. The Village has a leash law, but Paul has protested it. Sam never runs off or misbehaves. She's good company and never gets into trouble. Why leash a dog like that? The city said she still had to wear a leash. So she does. A ridiculously short leash. The cops all know Sam and Paul. They just shake their heads and look the other way. Paul pointed out that the dog has a leash, but he will never need to restrain her. Sam's happy with that compromise.

A visit from Sam is one of those things I will miss when we move. People in this Village will miss that kind of interaction, as well.

A little while later Paul and Sam returned. He asked if she could hang out with us for a few minutes while he visited a not-so-dog-friendly office down the street.

Of course, we said. We like the dog. Even the sports guy admitted that Sam's not so bad - for a dog.

TARB

Getting Wet

The assignment, well, it sounded kind of boring: a fun run at one of the schools. A parent organizer called it in. And then I forgot all about it. It was supposed to happen yesterday, but we were rained out. But this was no little rain. Let me put this in perspective. I commute to work on a busy expressway. On Wednesday as I drove at a whopping 40 miles an hour on said expressway I lost the truck that was driving right in front of me. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there. Somewhere.

So the fun run was postponed and I got a call from my editor telling me so. Ummm. Ok. I had no idea what he was talking about. But this morning, glorious sunshine. Warm, with no wind. We were blessed.

I arrived a few minutes later, after having had a snafu with the camera. The children were out and running on a path around the school. A fire truck sat by the playground as the children jogged by. By the time I parked and walked over to the fire truck many of the students had already made their way around the required six times. (Though "required" is much too harsh of a word. This was all just plain fun.) Time for the fire truck to swing into action.

The sweaty children ages 5 to 11 got a good drenching. The fireman sprayed the water up into the air and and it showered down on them. In the morning sun it looked like golden droplets. The children squealed with joy, ran from the water, then ran back for more. They gathered under the water, getting soaked.

"All wet children run that way," the fireman pointed up the path. The dry ones stayed and became wet, too.

At the event each child got some fruit and a water bottle. They also got soaked.

Towards the end, the fireman extended the ladder all the way. It towered above our heads 100 feet. The children gathered on the field and then he showered them with water. They were so happy they could not contain their joy. They leaped and ran around. They laughed and screamed with happiness. They beamed and glowed. It is hard to really capture the moment. I think one little boy did a pretty good job, though.

"This is the awesomist day of school EVER!!" he shouted.

I couldn't agree more.

I left school with an ear-to-ear grin. How could I not be happy? I just whitenessed 240 children get soaked. Their exuberance, spilled over onto us. They could not contain their joy. I wonder if I have ever been that happy, that joyous. There must have been a day like that in my own past.

I have a friend, Conor, who runs his own orphanage in Nepal. One of the holi days involves splashing each other with water. He posted pictures of the kids. I can tell you this, children are the same all over the world. A world away and the children in Nepal look exactly like those kids I had the pleasure of watching today.

"Awesomist day of school ever."

Indeed.

TARB

No Telephone-y, No Work-y

The phones went out this afternoon. We LJs attempted to look busy, but it didn't work. We all had a ton of people to call and no way of calling them. Cell phones? "I'm not using MY minutes," one co-worker said.

The editor at the paper is more like one of the gang. He still writes stories and edits, too. He wandered into the back to chat with us - we were no longer working. We started discussing THE MOVE. It will be a big and distressing ordeal. All of the cubes need to be moved. Stuff needs to be boxed. At the other office, everything must be labeled.

Out of the blue one of the co-workers said, "My desk makes my pants dirty." We three chicks in the group busted raucous cackles. "It's just the way you said it, like a little kid, 'My butt hurts.' What can you say to that? 'I know and I'm sorry." ("I'm glad it's just your desk," the receptionist said. She started us laughing again.)

The desks are the thing. They come from an era when people were shorter and used typewriters. Us tall 21st century people hobble home from work, wounded by the short desks. Lowering the chair is not an option because the chairs are crap. There is no up and down movement. You're lucky if you have an armrest. Two armrests is almost too much to ask. I took a mini-tour of the office today and discovered a mini-office chair cemetery in what will soon be our kitchen.

Of course, then there is the subject of The Desk. The Desk belongs to Eus. She's worked for the paper for 29 years. She started off as a paper girl (she claims). The Desk has made the move a couple of times before. It is huge, wooden and in good shape. And by huge I mean four feet deep and nearly seven feet long. She loves that thing. The movers are none too happy about moving the desk. "We'll find a place for it," one of them said today, "That might just be a dumpster." She'd be heartbroken.

One more thing, because of this move we are losing one staff member. On Tuesday we had a little ice cream party for her. She's a really nice woman, a pleasure to work with. So we offered the sports guy a big piece of cake and ice cream. "No thanks. I'm going to Curves tonight," he said. We all cracked up. He's so quiet, whenever he says something funny it really throws us off. Great fun. Good people. Bad, bad cubicles.

TARB

In The Middle

I'm pretty sure I have one of the most rewarding jobs on the planet. If you work with kids and you actually like kids, then every moment you spend with them isn't work. It's fun.

Today I attended "Mystery Day" at one of the local middle schools. Basically it's a critical thinking event. The teachers dress in 1950's garb for the 1957 class reunion. One of the classmates is dead and one of the people in attendance is responsible for his death. The kids have to use deductive reasoning to figure it out. At first, all was chaos. Kids were yelling, rushing to find a spot, trying to figure out what they were supposed to be doing. One teacher leaned over to me and said, "This is middle school. If there wasn't chaos, then we'd know something is wrong."

Middle school kids are great. They're bright, charming, silly, energetic, without guile, perceptive, positive, funny and hard working.

At one school I was taking pictures of a group shot outside. We had bright sun and it was right in the kids eyes. "What I really need is a sombrero," one boy whined.

At another school I was covering a middle school play of "Looking Glass Land" about Alice in the crazy alternate world. The girl who played the Red Queen said, "I like beating up my best friend, 'cause in real life I'm a really nice person and in the play I get to be really, really mean."

The kids love having their picture taken and their names in the paper. They beg you to interview them. Usually I comply. One boy at Mystery Day dragged me back to his table where he proceeded to force me to interview him and his friends. "We have a ton of clues," he said. "We think it's either Mark or Jenny. Or Linda. Or maybe, Maria. It could be Susan or Carl." He listed nearly the entire cast. It didn't matter. He was having a great time and he had thrown his whole heart into the task at hand.

The little kids in elementary want be, well, not kids. The High School kids are focused on being adults. But the Middle school kids are just kids.

Just like cookies, the good stuff is in the middle.

TARB

Background Info

This first entry on a new blog is a lot like my own life at the moment: Starting fresh, full of possibility and the potential for disaster, too.

I get this a lot: "You should write about that!" when I tell people stories about what I do. I am the education reporter for two small town newspapers. It is split between the two towns, but soon all that will change. I live in a state where the economy is in big trouble. It's the same old story, you know. Too dependent on one industry and the next thing you know presidential candidates are telling us we have to change, like we didn't already know that. So in a couple of weeks my primary newspaper will be shutting its doors on main street and moving to our sister offices two towns over. I cover both areas so it isn't as big a deal for me. It just means more driving. We just couldn't afford the rent on main street anymore.

For me, this job is new. I just moved over this way about three months ago. A long and complicated story there. I live with my sister and brother-in-law. For a year and a half I ran my own freelance writing and editing business. But it didn't pay the bills. Shortly after I moved in my sister plopped a classified ad in front of me. It was for a reporter position at a small town paper. "You're applying for this," she said. And I did. I worked as a reporter 10 years ago, but had since moved on to the corporate world. Then I became a victim of the aforementioned bad economy. Being a reporter again? Hmmmm. That was something I didn't think I'd do again, but the opportunity was just too good to pass up. I call it a small town paper, but it is actually attached to a big company. Nationwide. Benefits, health care. I've been there five weeks.

As for the name of this little blog, I was talking with a friend of mine. She's a writer, but not a reporter. She just doesn't have that curiosity that I have. "Well at least you're making money again," she said. "I mean not like some of the magazine people, but good money for a lesser journalist."

This blog is dedicated to my fellow Lesser Journalists. May your pen always have ink, may the "E" on your keyboard always work, may your editor be cool and your co-workers fun.

Best Wishes to all,
TARB