The Northward Contrail

Awareness

By now you've probably seen this story, or some variant of it.  Granted, you'd think a beach would be a safe place to run while listening to your iPod, but then something like this happens that's so bizarre.  It reminds you that no place, really, is safe.

I like music, and I have an iPod that I enjoy.  If we lived on a beach, I'd probably run on the beach while listening to mine.  But I'm also aware of how it takes me out of the world when I'm listening to it.  It's easy to get distracted when you have music pumping into your ears, and I have a fear that if I'm listening to something while I'm in an environment I don't control, I will miss something that will, at the least, embarrass me and, at worst, kill me.  That's why I don't like to wear it when I'm outside doing most things.  I would love, for instance, to listen to some music when I'm out running.  But I also know that on our little dirt road, there's sometimes traffic, and that sometimes they fly down through there, too.  My ears are my best friends when I'm out running.  I can hear traffic coming, and know to get out of the way.  I'd love to listen to it while I'm out, but it's not the prudent thing to do where I do it. 

What I can't get over are the antics of some of the kids these days.  You see many of them walking around constantly listening to their iPods or texting away.  Which wouldn't be so bad, but they're wandering through busy parking lots doing this stuff, not paying attention to what they're doing.  It's a dangerous environment, and I have nightmares of backing over some distracted kid who crosses into my path at the last second. They're unaware of the danger in which they're placing themselves.

It's one thing when you're in a relatively controlled environment, like your home or yard or even a beach (and although the guy got killed on a beach while listening to music, and while he may have been able to save himself if he hadn't had the earbuds in, it's such a random and unlikely event that you really can't blame the guy.  It's one of those "the last little piece of Skylab falls down out of nowhere and whacks you" deals that just comes).  But out in a place where you know there could be danger...well, it bothers me.

Independence

Have you ever got up in the morning and said to yourself, "Oh, this is a beautiful day!  Oh, this is a glorious day!  Joy to the world!  I feel serene!"  And then you pick up the newspaper and you say, "Oh, Lord, they wouldn't do that?!"

                                                                            -- "Brother Dave" Gardner

Part of my job involves staying informed about what's going on.  I expect it of my students, particularly since I give them current events quizzes each week.  But I have to stay informed, too.  Besides that, it's something a good citizen should do, anyway. 

On the other hand, it's awful hard to stay informed without getting dejected these days.  And, some days, you shake your head and wonder what the hell it's all coming to.  Certainly since, in the last two decades or so, our public discourse has turned into a really bad television show in which the teams are more focused on cutthroat competition, outrageous antics and up-yours endzone dances than anything of lasting benefit.

Which, among other reasons, is why this blog stays out of public affairs, except in certain circumstances.  I write these little meditations as a diversion for myself, to share with the world some things that, I hope, we can take some mutual interest in regardless of where we are on the spectrum. Besides, there's plenty other people out there on the Internet doing political crap now, right-wing and left-wing.  Go see them if that's what you want.  I really don't want any part of it here.  I'll write my representatives and cast my ballots on my own time, my own way, thank you.  And I don't want to give voice, or space, here to polarization.  It never gets anything done.  Nor do I want to get my inbox flooded by people who either think what I write is the greatest stuff ever written and that I should run for office or have a talk show, or clogged with hate mail from people who think I'm either a fascist or a commie and should be run over by a bread truck at the earliest possible opportunity.

(By the way, if you've read this blog for however long and you think you've figured out my political views, or think I speak for you...well, no matter what you may have concluded, guess again.  And then guess that answer again.  Sure, you may find some things here and there that resonate, but I can guarantee there's stuff in my views that would comfort, distress and confound conservatives and liberals alike.  That's part of why I don't let myself be bound by an organization or a label.  Plus, I'm skeptical of every candidate, every party, every movement, every organization, every conspiracy theory, every talk show host...you name it, at least in that realm, and I'm a skeptic.  I'm not necessarily a "skeptic" in the hostile sense; rather, if you make a claim or an assertion, I really want to know how you got there, and what you're basing it on.  I've seen too much, learned too much from history, and know too much about the cycles of politics and media to take any of it at face value.  Nor do I want to join any organizations or parties or groups in the political sphere.  If I did, I'd give up my independence, and I've had bad experiences in which I've joined groups, only to find out they spend too much time on things with which I don't agree.  No, thanks.)

None of that is why I'm here.  I try to keep this blog as an oasis, a reasonably politics-free zone.  I like it that way.  There's plenty other places to go for the other stuff.  But here, I like being out of the fray.  I like the quiet and calm a lot better.  If you read this little blog, I hope you find something here that's nice, too.

The drawbridge

Of late the literary recluse has been in the news: first with the passing of a certain Mr. Salinger, and then Calvin and Hobbes creator Bill Watterson granted a rare, if brief, e-mail interview to a Cleveland newspaper.  

Out of all this has come a good deal of commentary about why these creative men kept to themselves, why they didn't contribute more, what their motivations were, and so forth.  For years, people have tried to track them down.  We've heard from someone who used to help handle Salinger's mail, and those tales are interesting, to say the least.  And journalists have tried for years to track down Salinger and Watterson, sometimes ending up with regret afterward.

Some people can't figure out why these men, with their accomplishments, did what they did: why Salinger retreated into the castle with the moat around it, only letting down the drawbridge when he wanted to.  Or why, in relative youth and with Calvin and Hobbes still reliably funny and poignant, Watterson would call it quits and find bliss in anonymity.  Some of the comments on recent articles have been interesting, with people wishing these men had been more productive or been less publicity-shy, or you name it. 

But I can read these articles and completely understand why they didn't let the drawbridge down more than they did, and why they did things on their own terms.  Why, for instance, they used their creativity as they saw fit and refused to let others dictate how they should spend it.  I have no need to second-guess what they did, because I understand it.  And, to some degree, I envy their self-determination.  I've tried to emulate it to some extent. 

For so long, I took so many orders from other folks, and took on things I hated doing.  It was like an apprenticeship, yes, and I picked up many valuable skills and life lessons.  But I also realized that life was too short, and when I was able, there were certain things I wouldn't do again.  I also came to realize that a lot of things in life that somehow meant a good deal to some people weren't really that important to me. 

To a certain extent, I began strategizing for the day when I could have my own drawbridge.  And, to a certain extent, I have one.  I have a good job that pays the bills, and I now have enough seniority to be a little more selective in how I do my work.  I have a little bit of outside consulting work, but I'm very careful not to overextend myself there, and to only do things that I feel are worth it.  With work and with outside activities, I've gotten rid of a lot of things that didn't justify themselves.  As I've grown older, I've really come to appreciate the utility of the word "no."  I still pop up, but only when I feel it's worth it.  I'm not wealthy, but I don't need to be.  I'd rather be happy.  (As I've long said, I pray not for wealth, but for "just enough."  That "just enough" gives you what you need, but reminds you not to get complacent.)

It also fits in with the fatigue I have with letting others define me, or letting myself be defined by my surroundings.  For example, when I'm not at work, I don't like being considered a "professor," because that's not who I am outside the office or classroom, and I get tired when people throw it at me outside a professional context.  I don't like when people project their hopes, dreams, desires or ambitions on me, even when some of those things might be things I'd otherwise stand for.

A few years ago I began writing a novel (that has since, it thankfully appears, died a merciful death).  The protagonist was a young airline pilot who was caught up in a set of circumstances on a certain September morning, managed to resist the takeover of her aircraft, and landed the plane safely.  Against her hopes and wishes, she became a heroine.  And, out of this, her life became a nightmare because everybody wanted her to be something she didn't want to be.  They saw her as all these things, projected onto her a lot of things she didn't want or believe in.  She just wanted to be left alone to do her work and live her life, and it made folks upset that she didn't want to fill this role other folks created for her.  (It was probably a good thing this never got finished, as without really knowing it, I realized later I'd sort of unknowingly ripped off part of Convoy.)  In the end, she ended up moving to a little town in Alaska where nobody knew her except as another bush pilot, and she created her own new life and destiny, and had her own drawbridge.

I spent a lot of time, and put in a lot of effort, earning what I have now.  And, having spent so long and having dedicated myself to getting here, I'm wary when others want something of me.  Inevitably, I've learned, when you do that, they'll want more.  It becomes the old "if you give a mouse a cookie" deal all over again.  So that's why I'm wary.  I do my work, sure, but outside of my work, I like the ability I've earned to ration myself.  It's not that I'm misanthropic.  It's that I'm careful.  I like, for instance, that I basically write this blog because I like to, and if I get tired of it, I can walk away from it and it costs me nothing.  No endorsement deals, no tie-ins, nothing.  It's liberating, and it stays fun that way.  I like, for instance, that most of the projects I do outside work are for myself.  If I'm building something and it doesn't come along to my satisfaction, I can shelve it and not worry about it because I'm my own client.  That's awfully nice.

I like it this way.  And I've worked to get to the point where I can enjoy it.  So, while other people wonder why Salinger and Watterson turned "reclusive," I can look at those two and say "Right on, brothers."  Because I get it.

Happy fun reading for Friday

In lieu of any content of my own (which wouldn't be interesting, anyway, given how little I've accomplished the last couple days), some things written by others:

:: Reflections of a former sports nut on why he quit.  I know how this guy felt.  I used to be the kind who would be genuinely dejected when my favorite team didn't do well, and then one day I said "enough."  Now I watch it more for amusement than anything else.  (And when a team I don't like does well, I remind myself that, regardless of what happens, I still gotta get up and go to work the next day.  It does wonders for my perspective.)

:: Happy fun reading about a tour of a Titan II silo and the security measures meant to keep from blowing ourselves up unless it was the real deal.  This makes great bedtime reading.

:: And, since I'm fascinated by evangelists, here's an interesting take on Oral Roberts, who was finally called home this week, and his influence on modern evangelism.

Your DC-3 doesn't count as "legal counsel"

The other day I found this disturbing story.  Now, whether the authorities had a beef with this guy, or the nature thereof, isn't the issue, and you can argue all day (as some have) about the merits, or demerits, of code enforcement or serving someone on airport property. 

That's not the issue. 

What is the issue is any situation where an airplane might even remotely be used that way.  And I don't care what the authorities are there for: you stop what you're doing and you interact in as civil a manner as you can muster. If you want to contest what they're trying to do, and you're not getting anywhere with them, you don't pull a "tough guy" act.  Even if you're right and they're wrong, you're gonna lose if you get confrontational with the authorities.  Even if it is code enforcement.  Instead, shut your bleepin' mouth and get a lawyer.

This guy could have done that, and we'd have never heard of it.  (And if he could afford his own DC-3, he could certainly have afforded to seek legal counsel.)  Instead, he did something very ill-advised.  Not only did he get on the news for it, but I'd imagine there will also be career implications, and he's probably also jeopardized his pilot's license. 

I often hear or read stories of people with licenses and airplanes, and the money/ability to use them, doing ill-advised things.  And I don't know whether to laugh or cry.  I have all the desire in the world to fly an airplane and finish my license, but at the moment I don't have the spare time, or the means, to carry it through.  Meanwhile, I often hear of people who have the means and ability, and who often make a living in aviation, doing things that do nobody any good: risking themselves needlessly, jeopardizing careers without any forethought, giving aviation a black eye.  

None of this is good for anyone.  It's not good for the perception of aviation at all, not when everyday airline operations have lately become the stuff of late-night monologues.  It's like every time a professor does something ill-advised, it makes it just a little bit harder for the rest of us.

I don't know if I feel more like laughing or crying when I read something like this.  It'd be funny on some level, except that this guy has flushed everything I'd love to have worked toward myself. 

Instead, I just want to dope-slap him.

Just another day

A week or so back, I saw a television commercial for a new movie that opens today, one of your late-summer early-fall box-office popcorn movies.  I turned to hubby and said, "I guess it was inevitable that date would eventually become just another day to premiere a movie." 

I'm not quite sure what to make of it.  Is this an appropriate day to be rolling out a new movie?  Or, at what point do we quit wearing the black armband on the 11th day of this month?  Is eight years enough separation from the event, or is it still too raw?  When is it appropriate to say "well, life goes on"? 

Maybe it's a function of getting older.  I remember very vividly the events of that day eight years ago.  But with each year, I'm teaching to new classes of students, whose memories of that day are progressively fuzzier.  Soon I'll be teaching to students who were too young to be aware.  And in a decade or so, I'll be teaching the first of my students who weren't even born then. 

I think of my parents' generation.  For them, November 22 will forever have a meaning I'll never truly know.  Oh, sure, I've seen how it was covered, many times over, but I will never know what it was to be there in that moment.  I will forever be unable to experience that moment.  For my grandparents, it's that Sunday in December 1941.  And, as time passes, I'll be dealing with people who may know what happened on this date in 2001, and who may know the pictures, but they won't know what it was like, watching it happen, wondering what's going to happen next, and wondering if it was the end of the world unfolding on live television.  To them, my September 11 will be like my parents' November 22.

Part of me is ready to let this be another day.  But part of me believes it doesn't feel right somehow.  Part of me says it's life going on, as life must, but part of me will always see this day as stained with the blackness of an evil deed, and its mention in so casual a way will jar me somehow.

Enough, already

The politically-charged fun continued over the weekend, despite my best efforts.  To make a long story a little less long, I accidentally got ensnarled in something with one of those types who enjoys argument for its own sake, who may hear but doesn't do so well at listening, someone who would probably understand more about the real world if they spent less time engaging in hours of online pontification, less time parroting talking points, more time engaging in constructive dialogue and less time posting indecipherable 180,000-word responses to those who disagree.  It's one of these people who, no matter what you're talking about, is an Expert on it and feels the need to demonstrate as much.  (Wonder what he'd post in response to something regarding what ladies experience once a month?)  Chances are you know the type; the Internet is full of them.

And all of this grew out of something really non-political, too.  Yeah, I'm still trying to figure that one out.

With all this going on, and coupled with my growing pessimism about discourse in this country going even farther off the rails than it already was, I'm mentally exhausted and more than a little annoyed.  It's like I've had to spend the weekend getting rid of a door-to-door salesman who just won't take the bleepin' hint.  You didn't want the salesman there, you're not interested in what he's selling because he's engaging in the hard-sell, he won't take no for an answer, and he wants the last word.  (Worse still, he had an egg salad sandwich at lunch, and he's not been shy about compromising the integrity of the room.)

I don't care if your beliefs differ from mine.  To be honest, I really don't care what my friends believe, political or spiritual or otherwise.   I don't care how they cast their ballots.  It's none of my business.  I have my beliefs, and I am firm in them, but I don't try to convert my friends.  I don't bring these types of topics up for their own sake.  And I don't require beliefs identical to mine as a prerequisite for friendship.  (To be honest, I can't figure out if I would find such a requirement ludicrous or scary or both.  Anyone whose views are identical to mine should probably seek professional help.)  All I ask is that they treat me with courtesy and respect, and that they like me as a person.  That's what I give friends in return.

It would be my hope, though, that if you wanted to be my friend, you'd give my beliefs the same elbow room I give yours.  I'd hope that you wouldn't provoke me on them just because you think it's fun.  (I don't find it fun.  Plus, poke me hard enough and I go off.  Like a Roman candle.  That's part of why I really have trouble dealing with people who enjoy provocation, because I can hold my temper for only so long.)  And I'd also hope you would understand that there are times when certain types of discourse aren't appropriate, and that it isn't necessary to turn every conversation into a soapbox.

This, by the way, has nothing to do with "freedom of speech."  It has everything to do with "not acting like a jerk."

Open browser, insert foot, close mind

I spend perhaps half an hour each morning, after breakfast and before everything wakes up, checking out the Interwebs.  There are a few sites I know I'll hit, mainly to read the headlines and see what happened overnight.  Then there are one or two other sites to which I'll hopscotch.

There used to be a lot more I'd visit.  Why have I dropped them?  Because of the big guys in the sandbox, mostly.  For whatever reason, I can have a bad experience at a website and not want to go back again for a long, long time. 

Sometimes I'm the one who's the guilty party.  A couple years ago, I used to hang out at one of the surplus military rifle forums, and I'd post every now and again if I felt I had something to add, until one day at work (between tasks, and in a hurry) I didn't think completely through something before posting, made an error, and got nailed on it.  I conceded my error as gracefully as I could, and then never went back.  Between the stupidity of my error, and the way it was pointed out to me, the thrill was gone. 

The same deal happened at a blog I used to visit, where because of one adjectival inaccuracy in a comment I made, I got about two or three paragraphs' worth of lecture from this one guy about how wrong I was.  The guy was correct, of course, but, man, you don't have to make me feel any more like a schmuck than I already do, okay?  (Because nobody's going to be harder on myself about it than I am.)  Likewise, I've disappeared from there.  The thrill is gone.

Then there are the sites I flirt with, but to which I can't commit.  Invariably, it's due to the ideologues taking over.  I am neither right nor left-wing (I often describe myself as a "knee-jerk moderate"), but, holy cow, what's the power the Internet has to bring out the Kool-Aid drinkers and assorted nutjobs -- not just on the political websites, but on forums devoted to anything but politics?  Too many times, to read about things I'm interested in on some of these websites, I have to wade through all this crap about how this politician or that party is the embodiment of pure evil, or try (and fail) to ignore comments that tap-dance on the grave of somebody who's just died but was perceived by certain quarters as "disloyal" or "un-American" for whatever action or inaction the poster has stuck in his or her craw. 

Never mind that such topics have nothing to do with the subject of the website (and, to be honest, I lay the blame for this on the sites' moderators, who really should patrol their boards a lot more closely).  Still, I mean, I don't go to a political website to read about my hobby, so I don't want to read political comments on a hobby website.  I just got through reading a series of posts on a ship modeling forum in which one factual comment turned into a political foodfight, with predictable ideologically-oriented results, as partisans tried to pin the blame on one side or the other, with strong implications of disloyalty and corruption for the opposing side.  Enough already!  This has nothing to do with ship modeling.  There are plenty of sites out there where you can engage in all the political braying you want.  (And, besides, if you try to pin the blame on one political persuasion, you're missing the point.  A pox on all their houses for the way they've broken the system, says this registered Independent.)

More than that, I can't stand ideologues anyway.  There are people at political extremes with whom I'll happily break bread; they have their beliefs, but they are also ladies and gentlemen, and they also have common sense about when it's appropriate to talk about such things because they know there's so much more to life than politics. They also know how to separate the belief from the human being espousing it, too.  But if all you can do is hurl accusation and chant slogans and holler at me about how wrong I am (and that, for this reason, I don't meet your standards), or feel the need to inject political diatribes into everything, then I have no time or inclination to put up with you.   I don't need that.  I cannot put up with that kind of smugness and moral certitude.  You can believe in something, and that's fine.  But don't be a...well, there's at least a couple of anatomical analogies for it, but since I try to keep this relatively clean, I'll let you figure it out.

I remember the early days of the Internet, and all the promises that were made about how it'll do so much to enlighten people, bring them together, shrink distances, and all that good stuff.  Now I look back on all that and I can't help laughing.  I wonder if all this (including the rather pointless blog you're reading now) was what they had in mind back then?

On the other hand, the less time I spend on the sites I no longer visit at least means I have more time to do other things.  Such as discovering books again, for one.  It's remarkable what that can do for you, and it angries up the blood a lot less, too.

Uncle Walter

Today's entry was to have been about the Apollo 11 lunar landing, 40 years ago today.  Instead, the 40th anniversary of the flight of Apollo 11 coincided with the passing of Walter Cronkite. 

It's almost impossible, if you're an American, to think of the space program's early days without thinking about Cronkite covering the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo flights.  They're intertwined.  Jules Bergman of ABC and Frank McGee at NBC were on the story, too, but it seems nobody remembers them as much as they do Uncle Walter keeping up the commentary, throwing out facts and figures in his fatherly baritone with that herky-jerky cadence. 

There are a lot of stories out there already about Cronkite's passing, and the same thrice-told tales are being told again and again: Cronkite restraining his grief when giving the official word of President Kennedy's death, Cronkite's 1968 commentary about Vietnam, Cronkite at the chaotic 1968 Democratic National Convention, Cronkite exclaiming "Oh, boy!" when Eagle had landed, Cronkite reporting on Watergate.  There's a lot of stuff out there; seek out any of the usual newspapers and news sources, and you'll find it. 

(There are some tales less-told that didn't make the cut, too.  One of my favorites -- and there's footage of it on YouTube -- came as CBS was live as Eagle was descending to the Moon.  The simulations -- remember, there was no live television of the landing, so they had to represent it through models and animation -- were timed to the exact second on the flight plan.  Only problem was, Neil Armstrong had to take manual control of Eagle in the final moments of landing to steer around some unfavorable terrain.  So if you watch the footage, you will see that CBS landed on the Moon about 25 seconds before Apollo 11 did.  Cronkite would sometimes tell that one, in one of those "well, we can laugh about it now" moments.  One place he told it was the delightful Discovery Channel series "Cronkite Remembers," available on DVD.  I highly recommend it.)

I have my own Walter Cronkite story.  I never got to meet him, but there was a distant encounter I cherish.  When I was growing up, Cronkite was the face and voice of the news, and if he said it, you could take it to the bank.  This wasn't to disparage anything John Chancellor at NBC or Harry Reasoner at ABC did, mind you; it's merely that Cronkite was the face and the voice that first came to mind, the first to really make the impression on me growing up.  I grew up admiring him.  He'd appear on the cover of TV Guide when I was four or five and I'd beg to save the issue when we were done with it.  I'd see those pictures of him in his office, with all these shelves loaded down with reference books, and, man, I wanted an office like that one someday.  I got my library card when I was 10, and I'd check out all these books about the great broadcast reporters, and I'd devour everything I could about guys like Murrow and Cronkite. 

Later in life I decided to get into reporting.  To get on the staff of the newspaper in high school, you had to write an essay about why you wanted to be a reporter and what your values were about reporting.  I remember making a point of citing Walter Cronkite (among others) as the kind of journalist I wanted to emulate.  All the while I was reporting, he was sort of a guiding light: Be honest, be fair, be accurate, and do your best.  Trust has to be earned.

It was while I was in high school I wrote to Walter Cronkite.  I'd been playing with the idea for a while, after seeing a story on a network show about an autograph collector, and one autograph he had was Cronkite's.  Why not write and ask for one?  I finally screwed up my courage and wrote to him, in care of CBS.  I remember writing to him that I didn't make a habit of writing to celebrities for autographs, but that I admired him so much, and that he'd inspired me to look at a career in journalism, and I'd sure appreciate an autograph.  I mailed the letter off and forgot about it.  Sometimes I'd think about it, and I figured the letter just disappeared down a black hole.  Cronkite's probably a busy man, and you know how these big companies are.

One day a few months later, a big gray envelope came in the mail.  It had a CBS return address, in that familiar Didot typeface.  Inside, there was a file folder, and inside that file folder was a glossy publicity photo of Uncle Walter, personally inscribed to me.  "Good luck in your journalism career!" it said.  Oh, my goodness.  Oh, my.  I prized that thing.  I framed it and kept it on my wall for the longest time.  I wrote Cronkite a thank-you letter (it took me a little longer to do that than I care to admit, I'm ashamed to say).

I still have that photo, though now it's stored away in a safe place, and I still cherish that as I cherish few other things.  I'll never forget how the great man gave me a moment of his time, and something with which I'd never want to part.  It's partly because of what he wrote to me that I felt I'd made a promise and had an obligation to fulfill; it wasn't the way I'd imagined, but I went on to work in broadcasting and in reporting, and now I teach journalism for a living, so I hope that's helped square up my end of the deal.  I hope he'd be happy with it, anyway.  To this day, the example of Cronkite is one that helps inform what I teach my students.  (And my admiration for him makes me all the more irate at some of the truly nasty, hateful comments that his passing has met with in certain quarters.  It never fails to amaze me how some people just cannot wait to piss on someone's grave.)

I knew Uncle Walter was ailing, so the news didn't surprise me.  But it sure didn't make it sting any less.  To me, it was always a world with Cronkite in it.  He was always out there, and even after he'd retired, his presence made you feel like things were okay somehow.  Now he's off, exploring new realms.  Walter Cronkite always wanted to fly in space, and wished he could have gone along to the Moon.  I hope he's finally getting the chance to find out what it's like, and that he's having a great time.

Thank you, Uncle Walter.  You were an inspiration, a role model, a family friend who visited five nights a week, and so much more.  I'm glad I shared the planet with you for a little while.  (And say hi to your old pal Wally Schirra for me, too.  Can you imagine what those two are up to now?)

The big story

Sometimes an event will get me to thinking about alternate paths, or different ways the present could have played out, or opportunities not taken.  For instance, watching all the drama play out in South Carolina over the last week, and the work of a reporter or two in particular, got me thinking about what might have happened if I'd stuck with journalism and made a thing of it. 

I backed into journalism, anyway.  As best I can figure, it grew out of my love of history, and my love of the history of broadcasting.  Read and see enough of Cronkite, Murrow, Brinkley and those guys and it rubs off, and I guess that's what happened to me.  While my high school classmates were playing sports (or playing other things), I was working on the school paper.  I did the same in college, too.  Thing was, back then I was really enjoying it.  There was a challenge in putting a piece together, tracking down the people I needed to talk to, and putting it all together by deadline.  Within that hermetic atmosphere, most everybody there understood what we did and happily cooperated.

That changed a bit during my brief, unhappy stint as editor of a weekly real-world newspaper.  It's a bit unfair to ascribe it all to the job; I ascribe most of my unhappiness during that period to the newspaper's owner/publisher (and de facto editor, for he insisted on keeping control of the things I was supposedly hired to help with).  This was an old guy, almost deaf, who'd worked in the textile mills for most of his life and, I guess, saved every penny he'd ever earned.  That's how he was able to start a newspaper.  He was mad at the local daily paper, felt it was screwing the advertisers through its monopoly on newspaper advertising, and started his weekly as a way for the advertisers to have another venue.  (He'd talk your ears off about it.)  To him, editorial content was secondary.  The big thing for him was having a low-cost or free paper with the maximum number of ads in it. 

This guy had no use for any of the modern managerial practices, either.  He'd pulled himself up by his bootstraps and was suspicious of anyone who hadn't come up the way he did.  He had no use for anyone with a college degree; I suspected it was because we represented something that had been denied to him.  He talked loudly, persuaded through intimidation and belittlement.  Everybody was afraid of him.  I mean, everybody.  Except for one staff member who was his best buddy and slightly preachy, know-it-all right-hand man, we all cringed when he was around.  It was interesting watching staffers who had worked for him for years and years: when he wasn't in the office, they'd laugh and joke and have fun.  But the moment he came in, it was like they were all walking on eggshells.  Nobody laughed, nobody did anything.  It was exactly like the "Twilight Zone" episode where the kid would turn you into a giant jack-in-the-box or send you to the cornfield if you did anything that made him angry.

I think it was about then it started to sour.  Oh, I enjoyed some of the work, and I met some really interesting people.  But it was then that I really started to find that aspects of the job didn't suit me.  The biggest problem is that I'm an incurable introvert, and I really hate asking other people for things.  That's part and parcel of being a reporter: you have to call people up, sometimes when they don't want to talk to you, and ask them for interviews or information or material.  Even then, you have to be careful about not misquoting them.  Libel's a constant danger; the last thing you want is to be sued.  And you have to be careful that you don't let yourself be used.  Even then, if you report it straight down the middle, you run the risk of someone writing an angry letter accusing you of bias.  (Even more of a risk in the Internet age, when any crank can hit the "comments" button and write comments that were once scrawled in crayon on onion-skin paper and dropped in a mailbox.)

Part of it, too, became that I wanted a career in which the hours would be fairly stable and predictable.  I knew that getting into big-league reporting would mean losing that.  I remember having to get up in the wee hours one morning to be in town so I could photograph a historic sign being dismantled downtown.  I think it was that morning, as I was standing there waiting, I thought of my potential future: being awakened by a phone call at two in the morning to cover some crime story or accident that'd be shoved to the third page, not being able to count on a good night's sleep, having to be up at oh-stupid-thirty the next day to keep an appointment with some minor functionary about some project that wouldn't matter in the long run, having no social life because I'd have to stay late and cover tedious council meetings that night, and all of that.  I thought about having to monitor police scanners, cover shootings and stabbings, talking to sobbing relatives of crime victims, having to view gory crime scenes.  I thought about having to spend the rest of my life overcoming the knot in my stomach as I had to call people I didn't know, talk to them about things I didn't know much about, fretting about if I got it correct in the story, and having a bullseye painted on my behind for anyone with an axe to grind about the result.  And I thought to myself, "Is this how I want to spend the next several years of my life?"  I decided it wasn't. 

I haven't abandoned journalism, not by any means.  I still file the occasional feature piece here and there, when the opportunity comes and when I'm asked nicely, and I have a side gig doing some editing and consulting.  It's a nice way to keep my hand in it a little bit, I guess, and it's on my terms.  And, of course, the time I spent as a media professional (both in radio and in newspapering) was an absolute qualification for the job I now have. 

If I'd had a more cooperative personality style and if my introversion wasn't so overpowering, maybe I'd have made a career of being a reporter.  There are times I envy them, especially when a big story breaks.  People laugh about the reporter's impulse to chase the police car or the fire engine, but I understand it.  I understand the thrill that comes when a big story breaks, as a reporter digs and scratches to find something nobody else knows and scrambles to report it first.  Part of me wishes I was doing that.  Part of me looks at someone like Christiane Amanpour with awe and admiration and a little bit of envy, that had I played my cards differently I could be reporting on these big stories, traveling to exotic (and sometimes dangerous) places, doing my part to explain things to the folks at home and helping people understand, helping expose untold stories, holding people accountable for their actions, letting a little sunshine disinfect things.

But it wasn't meant to be.  And though I am a little envious of reporters when they get to break open a big story, there's no question I dig what I do.  In its own way, it brings thrills and occasional excitement and lets me use sunshine as a disinfectant, and life's given me plenty of adventures.