Monday government meetings, we had little meat for the next day's paper and no plan to put any on the table. Alex's follow-up story on the lake development still had not panned out. We had a pretty decent police story about more than a hundred dachshunds being rescued from a house outside Green, along with eleven cats and an iguana, but we hadn’t gone much beyond the police report.
There was a nice food package by Anna Grace Adams. “I discovered the newspaper and the First Amendment in my seventies,” she told me when I first saw her in the lobby. “Now I’m your food columnist. I wish you’d put me on Page One.” Her story this issue was about ways to beat the winter doldrums in the kitchen and included a long batch of reader recipes.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more news today,” Alex said. His apology surprised me. “I’ll do better with upcoming editions. I’m really going somewhere with this zoning story.”
Just then Tom meandered by, eating a cookie. “Anyone mentioned the mayor's retiring?” he asked, clearly shocking Alex with the scoop.
At age 92, Mayor Oscar Myers, and that was indeed his name, had decided he had had enough. This was a big story, not only for Green, but the entire state. Myers was the oldest mayor in Louisiana and had been mayor in Green for nearly six decades. Tom picked up the tidbit over at the Cotton Boll Café. “I saw him there and asked him myself, and he said yes.”
As I hurried out the door to meet the movers, Alex jumped into high gear and started trying to find the mayor. Tom would look for our one photographer and scour the newsroom's morgue for old photos. “We must have this story,” I said, wishing the movers had kept with their schedule as planned. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
By the time I got to the house, the moving van was backed up to the front door and the guys had furniture sitting around the yard, waiting for me to get there. It looked like a giant yard sale with all my favorite stuff. They seemed relieved that there were not any stairs inside, especially when they pulled out my old upright piano. I’m going to learn to play one of these days. I bought this great instrument at an auction in Indiana, and I couldn’t bear to part with it. Now, watching these two beefy guys strain as they rolled it up on the porch, I wondered if I should have sold it.
The house had a sort of pesticide smell, and Terry Bradshaw's card lay on the kitchen counter. He had written, “Call me if you need me. I think it's all taken care of.” I opened a few cabinets and closets, looking for rats, but didn’t see any, dead or alive.
It was nearly 4:30 p.m. when they finished. I needed to get back to the paper and see how the story on the mayor was coming. We could work on it this evening and have it ready to roll in the morning, putting together a package that would do The News-Item proud. I turned out the lights and locked up.
Just then I remembered I had an appointment at the Taylor house at five o’clock. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten. I didn’t have time to go to dinner somewhere. I had work to do. And when was I going to unpack?
I raced back to the paper and stuck my head into the newsroom for a quick update. “I had a great interview with the mayor,” Alex said. “Things are coming together. This is going to sell a lot of papers.”
“Thanks,” I said, on the run and feeling like I was back in Dayton. “I’ll edit it later on tonight. Make it good!” I hurried by Iris Jo's desk to ask directions to the Taylor home and to tell her thanks again for getting the bug guy out.
“My pleasure,” she said, as though she meant it.
At five minutes after five, I pulled into the Taylor driveway, one of those neat, modest homes right on the lake, near the motel they owned. The sun was setting, leaving a beautiful glow on the horizon, but I didn’t have time to appreciate the
There was a nice food package by Anna Grace Adams. “I discovered the newspaper and the First Amendment in my seventies,” she told me when I first saw her in the lobby. “Now I’m your food columnist. I wish you’d put me on Page One.” Her story this issue was about ways to beat the winter doldrums in the kitchen and included a long batch of reader recipes.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more news today,” Alex said. His apology surprised me. “I’ll do better with upcoming editions. I’m really going somewhere with this zoning story.”
Just then Tom meandered by, eating a cookie. “Anyone mentioned the mayor's retiring?” he asked, clearly shocking Alex with the scoop.
At age 92, Mayor Oscar Myers, and that was indeed his name, had decided he had had enough. This was a big story, not only for Green, but the entire state. Myers was the oldest mayor in Louisiana and had been mayor in Green for nearly six decades. Tom picked up the tidbit over at the Cotton Boll Café. “I saw him there and asked him myself, and he said yes.”
As I hurried out the door to meet the movers, Alex jumped into high gear and started trying to find the mayor. Tom would look for our one photographer and scour the newsroom's morgue for old photos. “We must have this story,” I said, wishing the movers had kept with their schedule as planned. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
By the time I got to the house, the moving van was backed up to the front door and the guys had furniture sitting around the yard, waiting for me to get there. It looked like a giant yard sale with all my favorite stuff. They seemed relieved that there were not any stairs inside, especially when they pulled out my old upright piano. I’m going to learn to play one of these days. I bought this great instrument at an auction in Indiana, and I couldn’t bear to part with it. Now, watching these two beefy guys strain as they rolled it up on the porch, I wondered if I should have sold it.
The house had a sort of pesticide smell, and Terry Bradshaw's card lay on the kitchen counter. He had written, “Call me if you need me. I think it's all taken care of.” I opened a few cabinets and closets, looking for rats, but didn’t see any, dead or alive.
It was nearly 4:30 p.m. when they finished. I needed to get back to the paper and see how the story on the mayor was coming. We could work on it this evening and have it ready to roll in the morning, putting together a package that would do The News-Item proud. I turned out the lights and locked up.
Just then I remembered I had an appointment at the Taylor house at five o’clock. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten. I didn’t have time to go to dinner somewhere. I had work to do. And when was I going to unpack?
I raced back to the paper and stuck my head into the newsroom for a quick update. “I had a great interview with the mayor,” Alex said. “Things are coming together. This is going to sell a lot of papers.”
“Thanks,” I said, on the run and feeling like I was back in Dayton. “I’ll edit it later on tonight. Make it good!” I hurried by Iris Jo's desk to ask directions to the Taylor home and to tell her thanks again for getting the bug guy out.
“My pleasure,” she said, as though she meant it.
At five minutes after five, I pulled into the Taylor driveway, one of those neat, modest homes right on the lake, near the motel they owned. The sun was setting, leaving a beautiful glow on the horizon, but I didn’t have time to appreciate the
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