When I started in news in Hoots, it was somewhat of a booming time. Ned McWherter was governor, manufacturing jobs were booming, agribusiness was in a good place and life was groovy. Several of the local media coming from as far as Murray, KY to Dyersburg would meet in Hoots Central every Thursday at the local Pizza Hut.
We called ourselves the Muckrakers. We even had a theme song and would occasionally throw some wild parties that would probably have freaked out the locals if they had known about them.
My friend, Leslie, who was head of PR at a regional company at the time, and I were reminiscing about this yesterday because it was a part of our lives that we remember fondly.
We would swap stories about the news in each of our towns, tease each other unmercifully, debate over politics good naturedly (despite what you might thing, I was the only liberal of the bunch) and pontificate. Sure, we would gossip. We would swap out stories. It was our version of the Algonquin Round Table and we reveled in it. It was a lot of fun. We got to know each other and we were young and carefree, believing that the world was ours.
Then life went on. The Commercial Appeal eliminated it’s northwest Tennessee writer (who is now in Chicago who unabashedly had a foot fetish that we would give him unmitigated hell over and yes, he was fascinated with my size 6 tiny foot), the Jackson Sun guy was sent back to Jackson, the Kentucky folks got out of news for better paying jobs and after several glory years there just wasn’t anybody else to muck it up with.
We had all moved on. The Muckrakers were, alas, no more. Younger journalists who moved into the area were different that we were. They really didn’t care about the camaraderie that we had created.
Life goes on. Things phase in and out but, damn, it was fun while it lasted.
I realized late yesterday that I am the last of that crew still in news.
I was reminded of The Muckrakers yesterday as I watched OJ sentenced for armed robbery over a hamburger steak at Cadillacs where Leslie, EditorBates and I had lunch.
An example of how we clicked had to do with that I was the only person in Hoots at the time in news who had an AP wire. When OJ Simpson did his infamous Broncho ride, several of us sat at the radio station one Friday night (I was news director back in the day) watching each update come on the computer which was beeping like no body’s business. (If you have ever been around a wire back then, and they may still do it, they have an annoying beep for AP breaking news.)
Yesterday, when OJ was sentenced for a completely different crime, I was reminded of the Mucks. How we sneaked a six-pack of beer into the newsroom on that Friday night, smoking cigarettes in my tiny office which wasn’t allowed by the brass and followed the ongoing police chase in LA until he surrendered.
Yeah, I’m the sole remaining working member of the Muckrakers. It was a different time. Seriously, I was the only one with the wire but now everyone has one just by logging into their computer. I do this as well.
I’m showing my age here, aren’t I?
The very mention of an AP wire machine gives me flashbacks to the (errr, ummm) late 60′s. Great reflections, ‘Coma!
We still use the AP feed machine for election results. We use it more as an audible cue that results are in because the damn thing starts printing in a loud mechanical whine, spiting out rolls of paper with perferated sprocket holes in them.
Ridiculous.
Trace, I have been thinking about you non-stop since your goodbye to print post. Like you, I’m filled with mixed emotions about the challenges media faces. This transition is important, but it’s important to note the toll it takes on a personal level. I will always remember these kind of stories you shared above from colleagues who faced similar choices and from those who had no choice at all.
When I was in high school and was asked as an assignment to write about where I’d be in 10 years (2000), I said I would be writing my first book to fund my first film as a director. Can you believe that!? Then I wasted about 3 years in college on the wrong major not paying attention to a lifelong passion that made me answer that question that way. My passion was writing and story telling.
But here’s the beauty of that passion I know you share. You and I can be 80 years old and still write. The bonus is at age 80, we have more excperience to draw from and the passion will keep us alive. My hope for the future is that society starts to value the stories of the elderly a lot more than we do today. But we can be the beginning of making that change happen.
Trace, I hope this challenge doesn’t affect your original love and passion. I hope you separate what is happening to the way the industry delivers your work with the work itself. The work itself will always exist, and when its ready to appreciate the old timers, you will be one of the most valuable people, rich with experience, battled hardened and honored. I’m confident of that.
The only thing that would prevent that is if the original passion was boiled out of people like you by this very challenging period. Don’t let it. Keep writing. Retreat to your heart’s desire and express it. Grow from the center outward. Project your light into the world. Unfurl your leaves in the new sun. When the gray space of print and TV start looking for life again in new mediums, you’ll be what they reach for.
Yep, AP wire machine – ours had a bell – I thing there was a series of dings based on news priority. Small simple printer that used ribbon and tiny rolls of yellow paper.
I think you have a nugget of a great press association “barcamp.” Provide a room and just let people talk about the way it was. We would all probably end up in a pool of our tears.
We (the newspaper) were the FIRST to know worldwide events in town. I miss those days.
Our AP machine had a little sign above it: “Listen, Daddy, an angel’s getting his wings!” I loved that sound — a jingle meant something was happening and the person with the closest desk in the pen (open office) got the job of shouting out the breaking news.
Your posts of late are making me wistful for the high-school version of me who was going to be a journalist. (This is, of course, the opposite reaction I should be having in light of circumstances, but that’s me.)