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
Monday, May 28, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
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
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
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
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
"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
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
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
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
Friday, May 11, 2007
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
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
"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
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
Thursday, May 10, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
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
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
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
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