Great piece, Eric. There are no secrets in small towns, as the people who called to gossip every week proved. I was 18 and the editor of a weekly newspaper in Cloverdale, Sonoma Co., California. Beside writing up all the Little League stories, sweating the stats because someone would notice if one of them were wrong, or sharing how many pearls were hand-sewn onto a wedding dress, or covering the story of the old police chief versus the new police chief that divided the town. I kind of miss those days. I worked that job on breaks while attending college, including UO J-school, where I met Mary and Bary Hartman and family. Did work for the EO briefly, and when the newspaper market collapsed in the late 70's, and right after we got married I pivoted to being a high school journalism and photography teacher. Lots of movers and shakers among the students I taught, but it is still the people and their lives that I am interested in!
Another winner, Eric. I miss those newsroom encounters, and your stories about them. When I was city editor at The R-G, I had a somewhat regular early-morning visitor who would regale me with detailed first-person stories about his participation in some of the great battles in human history. At one point he told me his head had started to feel warm while he shared his combat memories, and he suspected he was being scanned by someone or something. He showed me a piece of foil that fit inside his stocking cap and protected him, and offered to make me one. I told him I had received special training that made me immune to such intrusions. One day I realized I hadn’t seen him for a long time, and I never did again.
I got more than my share of these Walk-in Wonders, probably because my desk was too close to that of then-City Editor Donn<cq> Bonham. who would inevitably refer them to me. I took pride in that and named myself as Nut Editor. My first encounter was with a guy I called Harry the Hiker -- can't remember his last name now. He came into the newsroom one winter day and was hoping we would write a story about his plan to hike across the country to New York City. He'd been fired from a job with the Arabian American Oil Company -- and hoped to get it back by hiking across the country to its New York City offices, theorizing that they'd be so impressed by his effort that they'd hire him back. He'd started on the beach in Florence and planned to head over the McKenzie Pass when he left Eugene. I strongly advised against that -- the pass being closed by snow for the winter. But like most people, he ignored my advice and headed up the pass. He encountered blizzard conditions and spent the night huddled under a highway culvert before retreating back to Eugene. The next time, he took the recommended (clear) Santiam Pass and made it through the mountains. I had equipped Harry with a set of postcards for him to stay in touch with me, and also gave him the names and locations of a few of my Northwestern University classmates who were now working for news organizations. They were singiuraly unimpressed with Harry, but he kept the postcard contacts going with me and made into New York City. I wrote occasionally stories about his trio, based on his postcard contacts. Butthere was no happy ending -- the oil company still didn't eant himThe last I aeard f him was a fknal postcard.
Great piece, Eric. There are no secrets in small towns, as the people who called to gossip every week proved. I was 18 and the editor of a weekly newspaper in Cloverdale, Sonoma Co., California. Beside writing up all the Little League stories, sweating the stats because someone would notice if one of them were wrong, or sharing how many pearls were hand-sewn onto a wedding dress, or covering the story of the old police chief versus the new police chief that divided the town. I kind of miss those days. I worked that job on breaks while attending college, including UO J-school, where I met Mary and Bary Hartman and family. Did work for the EO briefly, and when the newspaper market collapsed in the late 70's, and right after we got married I pivoted to being a high school journalism and photography teacher. Lots of movers and shakers among the students I taught, but it is still the people and their lives that I am interested in!
Thanks very much, Rob - and yes! to the wonderful people we encountered.
Yup. This is definitely my old pal Morty—colleague, friend and hand-holding chronicler of The Whip.
Another winner, Eric. I miss those newsroom encounters, and your stories about them. When I was city editor at The R-G, I had a somewhat regular early-morning visitor who would regale me with detailed first-person stories about his participation in some of the great battles in human history. At one point he told me his head had started to feel warm while he shared his combat memories, and he suspected he was being scanned by someone or something. He showed me a piece of foil that fit inside his stocking cap and protected him, and offered to make me one. I told him I had received special training that made me immune to such intrusions. One day I realized I hadn’t seen him for a long time, and I never did again.
I miss them, too. Great story about the foil guy!
I got more than my share of these Walk-in Wonders, probably because my desk was too close to that of then-City Editor Donn<cq> Bonham. who would inevitably refer them to me. I took pride in that and named myself as Nut Editor. My first encounter was with a guy I called Harry the Hiker -- can't remember his last name now. He came into the newsroom one winter day and was hoping we would write a story about his plan to hike across the country to New York City. He'd been fired from a job with the Arabian American Oil Company -- and hoped to get it back by hiking across the country to its New York City offices, theorizing that they'd be so impressed by his effort that they'd hire him back. He'd started on the beach in Florence and planned to head over the McKenzie Pass when he left Eugene. I strongly advised against that -- the pass being closed by snow for the winter. But like most people, he ignored my advice and headed up the pass. He encountered blizzard conditions and spent the night huddled under a highway culvert before retreating back to Eugene. The next time, he took the recommended (clear) Santiam Pass and made it through the mountains. I had equipped Harry with a set of postcards for him to stay in touch with me, and also gave him the names and locations of a few of my Northwestern University classmates who were now working for news organizations. They were singiuraly unimpressed with Harry, but he kept the postcard contacts going with me and made into New York City. I wrote occasionally stories about his trio, based on his postcard contacts. Butthere was no happy ending -- the oil company still didn't eant himThe last I aeard f him was a fknal postcard.