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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link="#0563C1" vlink="#954F72"><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal>The Reporter<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Copyright January 2018<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Word Count: 1140<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Through thick glasses, I squinted at my first boss, the editor of a small town weekly. Mr. Conway’s fat fingers danced like popcorn on the round typewriter keys, clickety-clack, pressing words onto the page. His burning cigarette rested neglected in the ashtray as he churned out copy. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal> <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I was his cub reporter. New on the job, fresh out of college. I turned to my notes from the town hall meeting as he banged out highlights of Homecoming week at the local high school. Football, I was learning, was the only big news in this little town. He hit the return, advancing the page to the next line with a “ding.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Mr. Conway’s overflowing ashtray was perched on the edge of his oversize wooden desk, which was backed up to mine. It was 1976, and it was common to light up indoors. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Through a continuous curl of smoke, I peered as he lifted a corner of the sheet for a quick scan. Seeming satisfied, he whipped the coarse paper out of the roller and pinned it to the desk blotter with his left elbow. Dwarfing a #2 pencil in his right hand, he circled the headline, marked up a typo, and indicated the end with a “30” before into the “out” basket the story flew. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>A police scanner perched on a tall table across the room squealed and squawked , alerting us that emergency vehicles were being dispatched to an accident on the two-lane highway heading out of town. I blinked as the big newsman’s chair scraped across the wood floor. He shrugged on a jacket and crushed a pack of cigarettes into the breast pocket of his button-down shirt. Grabbing a 35 mm camera and a film canister, he grinned at me. I remained rooted to my wooden swivel chair.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“You coming?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I had been on the job only one month. Until then, my boss had assigned me to cover the desk while he chased the more urgent news. I leapt up, grabbing a notebook and my coat. Mr. Conway’s unsmoked cigarette, cold ashes end-to-end, still rested perfectly shaped in the tray.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I followed my editor out of the back room, the “news room,” through the front office, the “sales room,” heads lifting and turning as we flew out the front door. We jaywalked across Main Street to the parking lot opposite the office. The newspaper boasted a prominent two-story storefront near the end of the mile-long business district. The paper’s name, the Express Breeze, was emblazoned bright white like a masthead across the barn red building façade. Hopping into Mr. Conway’s old Buick that day, I asked him about the paper’s unusual name.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“The family had two rags,” he said. “The Express was a weekly and The Breeze came out once a month. When we were bought out by the Freedom Newspaper chain, they were merged.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>At that time, many family-owned papers were being taken over by syndicates, but <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Express/Breeze? I wondered if they had thought about changing the name when they had the chance, but I kept quiet. Still the new girl on the job, I didn’t want to be rude. My fellow grads wouldn’t be too impressed, I lamented. They had landed jobs on solid papers called “The herald” or “The Tribune” or “The Times.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Prior to graduating that summer with a Journalism degree, I had mailed out 100 mimeographed copies of my inaugural resume, but I had received only standard rejection letters. Ultimately, I landed my first job by word of mouth; the editor of my college paper met Mr. Conway at a conference and learned firsthand that the small town weekly was looking to hire a reporter. I jumped on the job. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Not calculating culture shock, I moved 3,000 miles from my high country Colorado home to the rolling hills of western New York. Without considering, I traded in a campus swelling with 11,000 radical bodies, most in their 20s, for a little town of 7,000 sedate souls ranging in age from one day to one hundred plus years. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal> I thought I was worldly and ready for adulthood after sampling the freedom of college life, but sex, drugs and rock and roll in between cramming and churning out term papers couldn’t have prepared me for rural life in small town America. I would soon learn that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>In Dansville, like Mayberry RFD on television, families were rooted, extended, crossed, and co-mingled for generations. Everybody knew everyone; they were all cousins or in-laws, or so it seemed to me. Mr. Conway’s brother was the mayor, and their wives were sisters. Extended family members – aunts, uncles, children, and their childrens’ children - worked at the bank, owned the men’s clothing store, coached at the high school, sold real estate, taught music, and cut hair.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>As Mr. Conway steered his sedan out of town on the tree-lined road, I recalled driving my purple boat-of-a-car into Dansville for the first time the month before. Cresting a hill, I had glimpsed a picturesque village cradled in brilliant fall color. I couldn’t have predicted that my move to this scenic valley would prove nearly fatal.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>New in town, I felt invisible, although hidden eyes watched warily as I drove around. Scouting for a place to live, I picked up a PennySaver and scoured the classifieds for rentals. It was easy in the tiny town to locate most addresses. Still, there were some apartments for rent on streets that I couldn’t find. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Turning a corner, I spied the quaint Town Hall and decided to stop in and ask for a map of the area. Walking into the dimly lit lobby from the bright outdoors, I heard someone say, “You’re the new reporter.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>It wasn’t a question, so I replied with one.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“Yes?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“You’re looking for a place to live.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Again, this shadowy man appeared to know me. So, I asked, “How do you know?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“Sue is my sister.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I stood, hands in the pockets of my khaki pants, still puzzled. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>He continued. “She works in the sales room at the paper. She said you should call Betty Fox. She’s looking to rent the top part of her house on Franklin Street.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>It was like I had been transported into an episode of The Twilight Zone. I wasn’t comfortable with this strange man knowing my business. I was used to coming and going without anyone caring or knowing my whereabouts. I had deliberately moved far away from the prying eyes of my parents, and I had envisioned anonymity in my new life. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Light drifted into the lobby from an opening door, and the silhouette of a holstered gun took shape. The man, I now realized, was a cop. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>He led me into an office, pointed to a village map taped to a countertop, winked at me, and walked out.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p></div></body></html>