Still the best job in the world
The paper as a clerk, changing her life in the process
How to impart the feeling that comes with that first byline, and the first realization that hundreds of thousands of people are reading something you wrote, and the first time someone I respected said: “Hey, good lede.” Or the rush in knowing that I was part of that addictive age- old alchemy of writers and editors and photographers and backshop boys who create the overnight miracle that is a newspaper.
And the stories. Oh, the stories.
The wheelchair- bound single father who couldn’t convince a landlord to rent to him, and didn’t mind that I’d accidentally mixed up which leg he’d had amputated because the newspaper coverage found him a home for his family.
The Terry Fox conversation, just the two of us, in the quiet of an airport lounge just days after his Marathon of Hope ended in Thunder Bay, dark disappointment lining his face as he talked of dashed dreams.
The Dalai Lama interview, before he was a rock star. The charismatic Pierre Trudeau flitting past my desk and checking out the girls on the way to an editorial board meeting.
My heart bursting with patriotism as I stood on the frozen tundra at the North Pole and watched the flickering 2010 Olympic torch light the dark Arctic night as ice crystals danced in the air.
How to forget the doors that press pass would open: the movie star fighting her weight issues and the breast cancer survivor fighting for her life; the victorious politician and the bankrupt businessman; the budding gymnast and the reformed gangster; the dead child’s mother and the wrenching funeral of a murdered policeman; and the humbling honour of being invited to share all these personal and private tragedies and triumphs with the world — all the intimate fleeting moments that are the parts forming the whole of a newspaper’s duty to inform and provoke, to reflect and reform, to enlighten and entertain, to question everything.
How not to be thankful for the years as one of the editors, blessed with the task of choosing the best stories and headlines and photographs from among the hundreds created every day. And for the opportunity to hire a new generation of fresh- faced reporters so that they, too, might be dusted by the magic.
How not to feel pride in my newspaper’s charitable endeavours and in our readers’ unwavering generosity, a formidable partnership that for decades has been raising readers through literacy programs and providing financial relief and social support for thousands of B. C. children and their parents through The Vancouver Sun Children’s Fund. How to explain what it’s like to spend half of one’s life immersed in the power of the press and the privilege and responsibility of a venerable brand like The Vancouver Sun — the bold broadsheet that was founded on Feb. 12, 1912 on scrappy ideals, building its reputation as the paper of record on enterprise and talent and commitment to community.
How to pay appropriate homage to this century- old survivor, this institution that has borne witness to world wars and moon landings, that has evolved from the typewriter to the ipad, from hot lead to digital delivery.
How to express gratitude for being allowed to tag along for the ride, for being afforded a rare front- row seat to the drafting of history’s first rough chapter.
How to say thank you for having been a small part of 100 inimitable years of newspapering. There are, truth be told, no words. Except for being so glad that I answered that ad 36 years ago.