Guy Wheatley
The Texarkana Gazette
When I first came to the paper, the reporters were close to my age.
Now, they're all kids. They're nice kids. They're sharp kids but, jeepers,
they look young. I have to run the gauntlet between two rows of them to
get to the restroom.
I usually drink several cups of coffee in the morning and by noon I'll
have made the trip several times. Creaking down the isle toward the restroom
between rows of these fresh young faces for the third or fourth time reminds
me that I'm not as young as I used to be. I've always been a coffee drinker,
but I didn't always make so many pit stops. I've even sneaked down the
back stairs to the men's room on the first floor, rather than let those
kids see me make yet another trip.
I'm headed down the aisle toward the restroom one morning, when I notice
the assistant city editor standing at a reporter's desk. A group of them
is huddled around her, looking at something. As I curiously approach they
began scrutinizing me, glancing from me back to the object the editor is
holding. "We were cleaning up and found these old pictures ..." the editor
starts to explain when she is interrupted by an outburst from one the reporters.
"Gosh, you were cute!" the young lady exclaims. Something in her tone
and expression gives me the idea that this is a novel concept to her. A
possibility she had simply never considered before. I'm flattered and insulted
at the same time. "Yeah I was cute." I think to myself, "Why is that so
hard to believe?" Then they hand me the picture.
There are four people in the photo. Two of us are still here as fixtures
at the Gazette. One of the others has died, and the last one moved
away years ago. The picture was taken to commemorate the completion of
a special project. I was the graphic artist. Two of the other faces belong
to editors and the final person was the lead reporter on the project.
The reporter is sitting in front of an old terminal. Back in those
days, there were only four terminals that all of the reporters shared.
They took notes longhand or on typewriters, but getting their story into
the system meant waiting their turn for a terminal. The technology in the
photo looks like something out of the dark ages. "How the heck did we ever
get a paper out back then?" I wonder.
A flood of memories pours over me. I remember the project. We were
justifiably proud of our effort. We were pushing the technological envelope
with the use of coordinating graphics. It seems we bumped into hundreds
of obstacles, but we always found a way around them.
We were tigers, too. The guy with his hand in the cookie jar always
thinks reporters are just "out for a story," and should "mind their own
business." The harder they tried to cover something up, the harder we dug.
I still believe in the press, and that journalism is a higher calling.
In a kill-the-messenger society, reporters are all too often the bearers
of bad news. Too many people are willing to accept the easy answers. They
forget that the first voice, in what became the American Revolution, was
a nosey reporter who wouldn't "mind his own business."
Yep. Old Ben Franklin was quite a troublemaker. The legitimate government
of the day, based on Christian principals and authority, didn't think much
of old Ben or his friends. Remember, God appointed the king. Ben and his
crew thought that people, "the people," should decide who led them.
We weren't Ben Franklin but I'd like to think we made a difference.
I hope we did.
Over the years, things have changed. My focus has moved on to the mundane
routine of keeping the equipment running. New people have come in and filled
the chairs we left vacant. I had forgotten what it felt like to sit there.
There's no time for more reflection. My aged bladder demands relief.
I head to the restroom with the image still in my mind. I see the familiar,
fresh young faces staring out at me from the photo. They're all kids. They're
nice kids. They're sharp kids but, jeepers, they look young.
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