For 35 years, newspaper has been a great home
In geological terms, 35 years is but the blink of an eye. Still, North America and Europe are almost 3 feet farther apart than they were back in 1985, which doesn’t seem like much, unless you’re moving continents.
On a human scale, 35 years is much longer, at least objectively. (I can still manage to broad jump 3 feet if I must, but I no longer enjoy it.)
And yet, it’s hard to believe that 12,796 days have passed since I signed on with the Columbus Dispatch.
In 1985, I was an eager, immature, headstrong and confident young reporter. I’m still all of that, except for “young,” and, as of tomorrow, “reporter.”
Monday will be my last day with the
Dispatch, at least as a full-time writer. It has been, to borrow a phrase, a hoot.
A century or so ago, the great newspaperman H.L. Mencken, now residing in Valhalla, said, “I know of no human being who has a better time than an eager and energetic young reporter.”
That was certainly still true in 1985, at least for me. Today? I can’t say, so I’ll leave that question to others.
I really don’t want to get too sentimental — I’m trying to approach the day with the attitude Lebron James had when he left Cleveland and took his talents to South Beach.
But working for my hometown newspaper has seemed like a wonderful dream to me since my days as a 12-yearold Dispatch newspaper boy.
The gigantic neon sign above the Dispatch building, proudly proclaiming the product produced there “Ohio’s Greatest Home Newspaper,” inspired such awe in me, as if it were a Wonder of the
World akin to the Great Pyramid of Giza or the Beast at King’s Island.
Although I’ve lost my youthful taste for roller coasters, the Dispatch sign, even still, gives me a thrill.
And how could I not want to work at the newspaper where famed humorist and cartoonist James Thurber got his start?
Thurber, of course, quickly moved on. But unlike him, I was having far too much fun — and loved my hometown too much — to seriously consider leaving. And I’ve never regretted, for more than a few minutes at a time, my choice to stay, to settle in, to raise a family, to make my home and career in the city I love.
The friends I’ve made at the Dispatch, among both colleagues and readers, are among my life’s biggest joys. Oh, I’ve tussled at times with editors; with publishers; even, occasionally, with readers. But the give-andtake of a turn-of-the-century newsroom was all part of the action, the excitement, the sense of purpose, the fun.
During the last half of my career, the job got even better. Being a full-time newspaper travel writer was the most exhausting and challenging assignment I’ve ever had. But it also was at least two hoots. I’d give it a full three hoots, but then I’d be denying myself the admittedly unlikely possibility of discovering something better — also the reason I don’t give five-star reviews.
Full-time newspaper travel writers are now, alas, as rare as the ivory-billed woodpecker. I have heard rumors that one might still exist in the wild, but I would need more proof than the odd sighting in a hotel bar near the Okefenokee Swamp. And I’m certain you would never find a breeding pair.
Also, it’s no secret that newspapers are a declining species. Now would be when I should probably offer an unsolicited civics lesson about the importance of local journalism and subscribing to your local paper. But I assume most of you reading this are adults, and if you aren’t good citizens by now, there probably isn’t much hope. And, hey, you’re already reading this, so good for you. And remember to floss.
So the Dispatch and I have agreed that 35 short years might be long enough. It’s certainly longer than most marriages last. But unlike many exes, we are parting as friends.
I’ll miss the Big D and all my assignments over the years, including my last one here in the At Home section. I’ll certainly keep reading. And, who knows, maybe I’ll show up in these pages again from time to time. (No, now is NOT the time to make an obituary joke.)
In the meantime, I’ll be focusing on other endeavors, probably some combination of day trading, goat herding, fiction and politics, which are all much more closely related than the average person realizes.
So goodbye, Dispatch. You’ve moved the earth under my feet for 35 years. It’s been — OK, OK — three hoots. Steve Stephens is, until tomorrow, the Dispatch home reporter. Email him at sstephens@dispatch.com or follow him on Twitter @Stevestephens.