Newspapers Need Great Stories Told Well

Much of what’s to be read online in the news revolves around loss of jobs and our ailing economy. I work as a freelance writer, which is a succinct way of saying my income depends on someone willing to pay me to write.

Cut to the cascade of failing newspapers and out-of-work reporters and editors, and I’m sorely aware that something has gone terribly wrong with the business of journalism. What happened to our newspapers?

I’m not what you’d call a real reporter. My experience as a journalist arose from an intense desire to work from home while I tended my children and an average ability to construct newsworthy features. My college degree is in biology, but my passion lies in telling stories.

When you work as a freelance writer, the opportunities to meet interesting people are endless, as are the opportunities to meet people who think they are interesting. Sometimes, you discover you are conversing with someone whose experiences would read like an Oscar-winning screenplay. I love those times. That’s when the writing is less for the buck and more for the sheer pleasure of catching a glimpse of a lovely life.

I came to know of such a life when a man named Norm wrote to me about one of my newspaper columns.

Norm loved puns. He told very silly jokes. I never met him in person, but coming to know him through his emails and posts to a humor writers’ group led me to believe that this man laughed long and loudly much of the time.

Several months into our correspondence, Norm shared that he had had a stroke years before that left him fairly limited in his ability to move. He adapted by using a motorized chair. He participated in university research in Florida that developed devices for survivors of stroke and other impairments. He was a fighter and a lover of life.

Norm’s emails were usually brief, devoid of capital letters, and always, always funny. But, one day I opened an email that was fairly lengthy. I imagine it took him hours to type it. It was a love story. I remember reading that email over and over, stunned by two things: there was not one stupid joke in it, and it was a hell of a story. A true story. The kind of story that, had he shared it with a real reporter, he might have seen it win a Pulitzer prize before he passed away.

When he fell gravely ill as a result of a second stroke, his daughter sent an email to those of us who had shared emails and online friendships with her dad. She warned us that it was unlikely Norm would recover. He died a few days later. The family established a memorial in his honor online where we could post our condolences and share our love of Norm. It was the first time I ever saw a photo of him. He was handsome, smiling like he’d won the lottery in every last frame.

I never wrote about Norm because I felt that his family might want to tell his story in their own way. His daughter is a writer, an obviously talented one from what I read in her correspondence with me. It’s not my story to tell, but it is my inspiration for believing that there are truly remarkable people with incredible stories that do make a powerful difference in the way the rest of us live our lives.

So, I wonder, how much of this mess that is the floundering newspaper industry can be tied to the fact that we have devalued the talent of intelligent, creative writing? Has our need for instantaneous news and bawdy tales of the sensational overtaken the potential for finely crafted stories to remind us that we humans actually have a lot to live for, regardless of the stock market and the current status of Britney Spears?

When I was a kid, I read the newspaper. I worked as much of the crossword as my limited skills allowed. I learned about government and how to cook, about local veterans and faraway places and that a columnist from Dayton, Ohio could make my South Mississippi mother laugh out loud on a weekly basis, in spite of us clinging kids and only three channels of network TV.

I'm not saying there are no talented reporters with bylines in newspapers. I'm saying that somewhere along the line, those who manage newspapers let go of the fundamental purpose of newspapers, that the bottom line shouldn't be about keeping advertisers happy. The bottom line should be about serving your readership, and that means hiring and supporting a staff of competent, hopefully imaginative writers who cover the news, sports and stories of human interest with perhaps a little fire in the belly.

Whatever the future holds for newspapers, I hope somebody remembers that whether it’s printed on paper or posted online, the written word remains one of our most treasured and effective tools in documenting the current state of human affairs. It’s a condition that could use some substantial encouragement in the form of great stories told well.

When Toads and Fears Collide

Honey patrols our back yard for toads as if the creatures harbor some secret sinister agenda. One of four poodles we indulgently adopted, Honey faithfully confronts toads in a comical assault, something we call “Poke-A-Toad.”

When our crew of canines bolts outside to empty bladders and bowels, Honey circumnavigates our fenced lot on self-appointed border patrol. She stops dead in her tracks when she discovers yet another amphibious intruder. Her helicopter tail runs full throttle as she prods the hapless toad with tentative paws.

Thankfully, she never tries to eat them. In fact, she barely touches them. She appears innately afraid of, yet irresistibly drawn to toads. She is wary, yet boldly curious. Often, while she lounges inside, a toad will land on the door sill in full view through the French doors. Honey comes completely undone.

We live down south where a plentiful variety of amphibians enjoy a warm, moist climate much of the year. After Hurricane Katrina, it seemed the selection expanded exponentially. I’ve lived in Mississippi for 44 years. I’ve seen wall crawlers since that storm that never before appeared among the typical salamanders and tree frogs familiar to my outdoor jaunts.

Maybe I just never noticed them. Maybe I was too focused on other things, much like Honey and her toads. She won’t give a gecko the time of day. Every night, when all the other dogs answer the call for bed, Honey insists on making one last circuit. Sometimes I have to physically retrieve her. She watches the windows as I tote her inside.

One morning, the unthinkable happened. A toad made it inside. My son spotted one in the corner of our half-bath, tucked in the shadows. Of course, we immediately summoned Honey.
“Look what’s in the bathroom, Honey!” we chimed. She remained motionless, perched on the sofa back, unaware that her worst fear was about to be realized.
I picked her up and dropped her beneath the pedestal sink in full view of her nemesis. The toad crouched in the corner, and Honey surprised us all.

She did absolutely nothing. Not a whimper or bark of defiance did she utter. She simply locked eyes with her web-footed demon then quietly walked away.

Perhaps her behavior should be dismissed as just one more puzzling poodle oddity, but I sensed there was some semblance of a metaphor there.

For Honey, the threat of toads proved almost unbearable at times. Yet, once the unknown was finally realized, fear gave way to understanding. Truth reigned supreme, and the only thing left to face was the possibility that she had wasted way too much time worrying over toads.

She still pokes toads, still takes it upon herself to diligently track their scent and alert the entire neighborhood of their tireless invasion. But I detect a calm resolve where previously there was simply raw anxiety. She has seen the cornered toad, and it is—completely boring.

Then and Now

A guy I knew from community college called this week. He had heard that my parents had passed away a year and a half ago and wanted to share his condolences. My dad had taught him when we were both students in the biological sciences.

When I heard Ray's voice on the answering machine, I didn't recognize it. But when we talked, I recalled how he always made my dad laugh out loud. We shared a deep and abiding appreciation for irreverent jokes. They still make me howl--and blush.

It's strange to strike up a conversation with someone who knew you in a "previous" life. A friend of mine refers to that time as "BC," Before Children. When I think about how very naive and green I was at that stage of development, I cringe. To recall being 18 years old is to instantly feel 180. Many miles and memories span those 25 years.

I was a new student and working part-time at Biloxi Animal Hospital. My dad taught biological sciences. I enrolled in his classes as part of my pre-veterinary curriculum. We learned a lot about living organisms in zoology, anatomy and physiology. But that's not all.

We shared a common experience of learning that was as diverse as the creatures we classified. We learned how to love the natural world. Students from all walks of life, all ages and backgrounds filled those classrooms. My dad reveled in that. He loved to open minds and guide his students toward a lifelong love of learning, especially those who had to work extra hard just to be there.

Dad was a tough instructor. His tests were notoriously challenging. Yet, students like Ray took away from his lessons the heart of what he most wanted to share--a thirst for knowledge and satisfaction in learning.

Ray tells me he is working on his doctorate in marine biology. He is 51. I know that my dad would be glad of that. His former student told tales of Dad busting a gut trying not to laugh while conducting labs or lectures. Ray's words brought bittersweet feelings that resonate with what I loved about Dad so very much. He found humor in most everything, even when he was up to his elbows in dissected fetal pigs or explaining for the umpteenth time the Watson and Crick model of DNA.

Perhaps that is why I take such pleasure in the fact that my own children harbor that same love of learning. My children revel in the sciences like their Paw Paw. They read and write with passion. And I remain fascinated by the wonders of our natural world, including off-color humor.

Good luck with the marine biology, Ray, and know that somewhere out there Dad is cheering you on.

Check out my essay in "The Home Forum" of The Christian Science Monitor:

Spider Lilies Herald Welcome Seasonal Shift

Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

More than sixteen years ago, my husband and I became parents when I gave birth to our son. Our daughter arrived on the scene a couple of years after that. Suddenly, they are both in high school, both on the fast track to leaving us for college. It occurred to me recently that we just might survive this parenting gig.

When they were babies, veteran parents offered sage advice, from pacifiers to toilet training to teaching them their A, B, C’s. With all the do’s and don’ts proffered, we had to find our own way. Mainly, we had to realize that to raise kids, you have to be a little bit crazy because no truly sane person could stomach this job.

Doctors will tell you that as you age, your body changes and so does your ability to do things you’ve always done with ease. I’m not so sure about that. I’m thinking that it could be this parenting endeavor that has short-circuited my brain function to that of a house plant. When my back aches and my muscles throb, I feel certain it has more to do with the fact that the last time I truly relaxed was 1991.

My son started driving. This singular event has altered the nature of my psyche to the point that I’m fairly certain the person I used to be was abducted by aliens and supplanted by a large lump of anxiety fashioned into some trembling semblance of the former me, but with lots more gray hair. Every time the car leaves the driveway, so do half my nerves.

I shared my concerns with my husband one evening when our son’s expected time of arrival came and went.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this,” I told him stiffly. “Ever.”

“I see what you mean,” he said with a smirk. “I’m sure my mom still worries every day that I’m driving out there all on my own. It’s been what, only three decades?”

Where logic is his forte’, mine is listening for the garage door to open.

“It’s just that so many things can happen on the road. And we’re just allowing him to go, free as a bird. What kind of parent does that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Normal ones, maybe?”

That’s when I remembered that to be a parent, you have to be insane.

One afternoon, my son tromped across the front yard to check the mail. I watched him from the front porch as this small flutter of panic rose in my chest. He is grown! Years ago, he would walk to the mailbox as I peered from the window, making sure he remembered to look for cars that could flatten him. Now he drives off and I’m not there to remind him, “Look both ways, mister!”

In no time, this girl of ours will be getting her driver’s permit and testing the highways herself. It is more than I can fathom. Every wreck I see, every patrol car in hot pursuit, every ambulance with siren wailing makes me want to pull over and lose my lunch. And this is normal?

Through every stage of their development, I have admired their abilities and strengths. Our children have good hearts, good heads on their shoulders, and recognize what a tremendous gift a life of purpose can be. They amaze me daily. Worry me constantly. But they totally make this parenting thing worthwhile.

What I hope they realize is that the term “driving me crazy” must have been coined by a parent, most likely while pounding an imaginary brake and muttering prayers of deliverance through gritted teeth. I also hope they understand that this white-knuckled ride we share with them is one we wouldn’t trade for anything, in spite of that requisite loss of sanity. Parenting proves to be the ultimate, most rewarding job, followed closely by backseat driving.

Front Porches Revive the Spirit

Mrs. Harmon turned to me during the “meet and greet” part of church service a few weeks ago.

“I want you to write about front porches,” she said. “I was sitting on mine the other day and decided to tell you that you should write about front porches.”

As we returned to our seats, I thought about my assignment. Within seconds, I was a kid again, lounging like a lovesick lizard on my Grandma Long’s front porch swing.

Grandma’s house on Mulberry Hill in Ellisville faced a deep pasture of sprawling hills dotted with maples and black walnut trees, oaks and sweet gum. Blackberry bushes clotted the low areas and sometimes a few cows would graze and ruminate in the shade of the trees. It was pretty country, and you could soak it all in from her porch.

The swing, painted white with a slatted back, dangled at one end of the porch from two lengths of chain that creaked musically with the slightest nudge. During the sticky heat of summer with no air conditioning, it was one of the few spots you could sit and hope to feel the air move.

Most always, my cousin Dwelia and I would perch together, our bare toes just touching the smooth, cool concrete, and we’d sing:

“Bimbo, Bimbo, where ya’ gonna go-ee-oh. Bimbo, Bimbo, whatcha gonna do-ee-oh?”

Her mama, my Aunt Bobbie, taught us that song, and we belted it out with opera lungs.

“Bimbo, Bimbo, does your mama know? That you’re goin’ down the road, to see a little girlie-o!”
We pushed back and forth in rhythm with our jubilant, if not harmonized, voices.

One time when our cousin Scott was visiting from Ohio, we had a chinquapin war headquartered at the front porch. He plucked dozens of berries from the tree just behind the porch and popped us so hard with those green bullets they left red hot spots on our freckled skin. We did our best to nail him from our fortress, but he was too quick and we were laughing too hard.

Grandpa Long would sit in his aluminum chair right at the edge of the porch near the steps to spit and whittle. A rare August breeze would carry the sweet scent of cedar shavings across the porch and through the screened windows. The aroma always made me think of quilts and winter time. I would rock on that swing, close my eyes and dream of cool autumn air.

When Ms. Harmon asked that I write about front porches, I was ashamed at just how little time I spend on mine. Some of the best therapy in the world can be found atop a rocking chair in full view of the world just outside my door. Sitting outside at dusk, when squirrels scamper in the fading light and birds settle in the branches, I feel comforted. And much like a good hymn sung with sincere and earnest praise, time on a front porch revives your spirit with life’s very best tonic.

Few things are more wasteful than an empty front porch. So in the interest of enjoying a much needed respite, I sat on mine this evening and settled into the calm. I watched moonlit clouds sail slowly above the pines. I could taste that rain was on the way and savored the pleasant quiet as even the bugs seemed to soften their chirping and buzzing.

It was peaceful, beautiful and I wondered why I don’t venture out there more often. I do know that I fully agree with Ms. Harmon. Front porches are certainly worth writing about, and I thank her for the essential reminder.

Have Family, Will Travel

We decided we should take a family vacation this summer. This is no small thing. Whenever all four of us travel, that leaves the five dogs, two cats, one guinea pig and a brood of saltwater fish in need of surrogate care. For what it costs us to accommodate the animals, we could stay an extra couple of nights at a five-star hotel. Perhaps anyone stupid enough to have so many pets doesn’t deserve to get away. But we hope to, if we can agree on a destination.

We talked about driving out west to Yellowstone or Yosemite National Park. This would require at least two weeks on the road. The kids predict that enduring that much family togetherness would cause a major rift in our familial bond to rival that of the Grand Canyon. As much as I’d like to see the real thing, I’m not sure it’s worth our children divorcing us.

While my daughter and I could see ourselves taking in the sights of the Big Apple, my son and husband insist that a river, ocean or lake be the primary focus of our adventure. The two of them drove to northern Minnesota last summer and fished from daylight to dark the better part of two weeks. As thrilling as that sounds, somehow I doubt it would work for certain family members who prefer the comfort and convenience of hotel hot tubs and sushi bars.

We’ve done Disney. We’ve camped at nearly every state park in Mississippi. We’ve been to the nation’s capital, stayed in the Rockies twice, done Jellystone Park in the Smokies and hit the beach a time or two. There are millions of places we haven’t been, but narrowing down the choices proves surprisingly difficult. It’s not a lack of places to visit that challenges us . It’s the potential for disaster on the road. That’s why I’m considering a most novel idea. What about a vacation at home?

I can’t help but think about the time our son got food poisoning and yorked his way across Texas. Then there was the seatbelt incident on a lonely stretch of road in Colorado when our then five-year-old daughter nearly strangled herself after attempting somersaults in her seat. Of course, the fastener wouldn’t release. We were seconds from cutting the seatbelt with a pocket knife when she turned upside-down and simply shimmied out.

There was the chewing gum incident where I unceremoniously spat a wad of bubblegum out the van window, only to have it boomerang back and land squarely on my laptop keyboard. While driving at a crawl up a perilous cliff in the Rocky Mountain tundra, my husband experienced full and immediate paralysis when my son suddenly screamed , “WOW! LOOK AT ALL THOSE ELK!” They say family vacations are all about the memories. I will never forget how his face froze in a state of sheer panic and his fingers formed a death grip on the steering wheel. When I consider these incidents, staying at home sounds like more than a good idea. It actually could be a lifesaver.

But then, if we stayed home, we wouldn’t experience the new perspective you get on this beautiful country of ours whenever you see the sun set on an unfamiliar but spectacular horizon. We would miss out on those unforgettable images that evoke some deep and primal longing, from the rush of magnificent views of rolling hills and wide open sky to the panoramic display of land and sea along some emerald stretch of coastal waters.

I’m not sure where we’ll end up this summer. We might not make it far. But what I do know is that every time we hit the road together, we never fail to return with a renewed appreciation for this great land of ours, and an even greater appreciation for that place we call home.