newspapers 101

i used to wish i was good at sports.
it wasn't that i hated being picked last for kickball or dreamed of becoming an athletic star. it was more about admiring the way teams seemed to be part of something bigger than the individual, and the only teams i ever saw were sports teams. i loved the way they could make things happen working together -- with secret signals, cues and shouts -- they couldn't have done on their own. i used to watch with my breath held, as if i could figure out how it was done if only i stared long and hard enough.
fast-forward to 1978, when i arrived in tallahassee, florida, fresh from community college.
i quickly got hooked, as a reader, on the tabloid newspaper in racks all over town called the florida flambeau, which turned out to be a little newspaper with a big profile. it was once the college newspaper, had recently gone independent, and often beat the larger papers of record on big stories of the day. it filled me in on my new surroundings in a way that was smart and engaging, funny and deep. eventually, i worked up the nerve to ask if i could try out for the team.
imagine the relief of discovering that what they wanted -- curiosity, stubbornness, energy to burn -- were things i already had.
others have written more eloquently about the paper (see moni basu's blog at http://evilreporterchick.blogspot.com) and the times (track down diane roberts' story about the slutboys in the archives of the oxford american). but having recently returned from the first ever flambeau reunion, i wanted to publically thank the people and place that set me on my path in life. they taught me how to separate feelings from opinions so it was possible to debate ideas. they taught me the difference between objectivity and fairness, how to engage in a community-wide conversation, how to fight for positive change.
maybe everyone who starts out at a small paper feels this way about the places that launched them, where they absorbed newspapering from the ground up.
but even a quarter-century later, i marvel at the mix of personalities and skills, backgrounds and obsessions, that came together as the flambeau newsroom. as part of the team, and as a lone voice, it's where i first learned the power of the right words at the right time.

the wait

at first it seems like such a hassle: getting to the courthouse by 8 the first monday of daylight savings time, especially if you hadn't slept well the night before.
and then it feels like one, as you sardine into the lobby with hundreds of other citizens like you, here because we've been invited to appear and have no good reason to decline, but can find no rhyme nor reason to what is passing for the formation of a line, trapped as we are in front of three glass doors, one of which revolves like the barrel of a gun, discharging lawyers and clerks and courthouse staffers into our midst like clockwork.
fortunately, we're all so sleepy (it sure feels like 7, way too early to be adrift in such a crowd) that we're docile as sheep, no pushing or shoving or Bad Attitude and before we know it, we are in fact part of some kind of line that is in fact moving forward.
some of us make small talk, glad for a distraction. others bury their noses in books or tap away on cellphones.
and then finally we whoosh through the metal detector and elevators and crowd into the grand waiting room to watch the video that lays out what's ahead.
and then we set about the business of the day, which is Waiting.
we try to respect each other's personal space, as if we're here together on the largest airplane in the world, trapped on a runway without a clue as to if it will ever take off.
those who are not summoned eventually get a lunch break. those who are summoned leave by the dozen for various courtrooms.
which is better: to be called and serve? to get inside the courtroom, learn about a case and see up close how the system works? last time, i was an alternate and took the whole thing so seriously i took copious notes on the testimony, eager to be useful once deliberations began.
in the end, i was sent to a waiting room in the basement, to be ready in case anyone got sick, which no one ever did. at first i felt ripped off, as if i'd taken all those notes for nothing. then i learned that the young man was convicted of capital murder, and i was grateful i hadn't had to be part of deliberations.
so today's wait of 7 empty hours was a relief.
i came, was ready to go. but didn't take any notes.

snow, southern style

from a second-story window it looks like snow: distinct white pellets of precipitation descending from above. heavier than rain but coming down nearly as fast. not floating down like the fluffy snow i remember from my hudson valley childhood, nor sticking as the real stuff does. but it's prettier than sleet -- which sounds like sideways metallic needles that sting when they hit your face. but oooh, even as i stare it starts to puff up into The Real Thing. here's a fast picture as it is now (hard to see unless i shoot against a dark background and even then, nowhere near as pretty as it is out the front window, against a white sky and gray tree branches, which don't, as it turns out, show up as well on film). it's slowing down, getting fatter and sticking ever-so-slightly to rooftops and boughs and even the grass. better get out there quick so i can tilt my face up into it, while it's still fresh.