Here in not for the wide array of characters, being in this business since the Jimmy Carter administration would have been pretty boring along the way.
While the bigger stories garner most of a writer’s attention, often it’s the behind-the-scenes people and events that provided much of the discussions around the water cooler, er, coffee pot in the newsrooms.
There was the big hailstorm we had in Fayetteville, Ark. A local “bag lady” wandered into the newsroom, peeled back her matted hair and proceeded to inform a few of us in the immediate area that we needed to do a story on the knot on her head that the hail had caused.
In Oklahoma, a man walked up to my desk as I was reading a letter and began to tell me how I needed to take a picture of what had been killing all of his ducks on his farm pond. “Sure,” I said, seeing the man out of the corner of my eye as I finished the last paragraph on the letter. I figured he wanted me to come out to his farm and take a picture of a giant snake, a fox, or perhaps evidence that someone had been shooting them.
As I turned to look at the man, I barely had time to notice a large cage at his feet, which I quickly estimated was less than the length of two rulers from my feet. At approximately the same moment, something from the back of the cage lunged to the front of the cage, the part nearest my feet. Simultaneously, the thing let out a bloodcurdling scream that was so terrifying that I couldn’t jump. I couldn’t even scream. All I could do is stand in one spot and shake uncontrollably. I think something came out of my mouth, although I doubt even I could have understood it, what with the drool that probably joined it.
Fortunately, the cage held up and the adult bobcat the man had trapped was unable to feast upon my leg right there in front of a terrified newsroom. Well, those that weren’t terrified were laughing hysterically at me. As my system began working again, I informed the man in no uncertain words to get the bobcat outside, “NOW!”
In Selma, Ala., where time stands still – circa 1963, I guessed – with some people, I covered a local club championship golf tournament in the early 1990’s. I was told the tournament had never received such good coverage and how much it was appreciated. In the next breath, I was asked to keep my photographer of a different ethnicity away from the course. I don’t think I ever covered another event there.
I learned that you should never confuse a Breakfast Lion with an Evening Lion in Hot Springs Village.
I learned that to the Springdale locals, the stench of chicken processing plants is considered the beautiful aroma of money.
In Georgia, about all I learned was that regardless of which interstate you drove through the city, anything less than 85 miles-per-hour would get you a bevy of messages, both in the form of horns honking and sign language. Everyone from soccer moms to bus drivers seemed to be on daily auditions for NASCAR.
I’ve worked for some great companies and even greater people in the last 32 years. I’ve also worked for others. I actually had an executive editor once at a magazine argue over my insistence that “governor” was not spelled “govenor,” as she had it spelled on the cover. Fortunately, she swallowed her pride and asked someone else before it went to press. I knew then that was not the working environment in which I needed to be.
All of the stops along the way eventually led me to the Daily Record, so they were all worthwhile, even if a few of them didn’t seem like it at the time.