My parents married on Memorial Day in 1953, which occurred then always on May 30. I have their marriage license in my files. As the oldest of three sons, I’m the keeper of the records, the family photographs and all things that prove they were on this planet — apart from the collective memory of those of us who know them, of course.
Or knew them, in my dad’s case. He died in February of last year. I figure most of you reading this have lost a parent, sibling or someone close to you. I miss him every day — but especially on days like this — what would have been their 57th anniversary.
Mom...
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I have unpacked after my migration from Texas, except for setting up the woodshop, which is this weekend’s planned activity — along with yard work and other domestic chores to make this place feel as if it belongs like home on the outside. It already feels that way inside, with great help from my fiancé, aka the Beautiful Mystery Companion, who alas won’t be arriving here for some months to come. Thanks to her the household was unpacked quickly.
I admit to OCD tendencies on most matters. Unpacking brings out the worst of them. My mover — a gentle, semi-retired rodeo cowboy from Gladewater,...
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Greetings from Junction City, Kansas.
I have taken up residence and work here as editor and publisher of the Daily Union, as well as publisher of the weekly Wamego Smoke Signal — with responsibility for a printing plant to boot.
I’m happy there is a printing press, and that the papers aren’t printed elsewhere. I love being able to walk to the back of the building and hear that press running, though mostly that occurs at night — and with luck I mainly work days. But there is something about a press on site that is reassuring to me. We really do buy our ink by the barrel and newsprint...
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This is my last week as a resident of Texas, at least for the foreseeable future. Nearly everything I own — save my car, a suitcase and the laptop on which I’m typing this — now are ensconced in a house in northeast Kansas, which is where I take up shop next week. I’m purposely being vague about my next gig so as not to scoop the newspaper for which I’m going to work, which will make the official announcement next weekend.
The past few weeks have flown by in a haze of activity. I managed to finish building a desk in the shop before the movers came, of knock-down trestle construction...
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More than 20 months ago I put my house up for sale when the owners of the newspaper did the same. I didn’t have a great feeling about my job prospects if and when the paper sold, which turned out to be prescient. There were personal reasons as well, such as wanting a larger house for my fiancé and her daughter, since this lovely old house has doodly squat for closet space. I had no idea it would take this long to sell a house. The fact the market crashed the next month should have told me something. My house sat on the market with few lookers and no offers, month after month.
When I was unceremoniously...
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I interviewed for a faculty/media position a few weeks back at a university that shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say that the main campus is about five hours southeast of Longview. Its fans wear lots of purple and are considered quite rabid in their devotion to their athletic teams — football in particular. And the mascot is a large feline. You can take it from there.
Anyway, I didn’t get the job. Nobody got the job, as it turned out. I was informed that the search would begin anew, that the committee elected not to choose any of the three finalists, including yours truly. I don’t...
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I am preparing to leave Longview. No surprise there, because I’m unemployed and on relief, as my aged friend puts it. Job prospects are poor here, since I’m only interested in running a newspaper. That job has been taken, rather rudely I might add.
I received my first relief check the other day. Actually, now one receives a debit card with a weekly amount placed on it, which is mighty handy. This is the first time in my 40-year work history that I have received unemployment, so I have a clear conscience. What is more, it will be short-lived. It is too early to make an announcement. It is not too early...
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A few months ago I received a postcard. Its cover displayed a photograph of a magenta camellia blossom, a raindrop about to slide off the lowest pedal. How lovely, I thought. Fan mail.
The canceled stamp featured legendary black baseball pitcher Satchel Paige, who pitched three shutout innings at the estimated age of 60 (nobody, apparently including him, knew his actual birthday) pitched three shutout innings for the Kansas City Athletics in 1965. Paige was a legend in the Negro Leagues, a showboat who backed up his boasting with his deeds, a precursor to Muhammad Ali. Paige finally got his chance...
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OUTSIDE OF WACO — We sat swapping stories and sipping whiskey on the back porch — five newspapermen with plenty of mileage on us — as March blew out through a haze of pollen. I calculate together we have logged somewhere around 180 years in this business. All those years working at newspapers guaranteed some fine tales to tell. But first we feasted on ribs, grilled shrimp, Uncle Dan’s famous white potato salad, and beans — all washed down with ice-cold beer. The whiskey came later. As Texas songwriter Radney Foster put it, “Good whiskey never done me wrong.”
Our host retired as a publisher...
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Tick, tock! Tick, tock!
Forty ’leven by the clock.
Tick, tock! Tick, tock!
Leroy F. Jackson
I have now been unemployed for two weeks. The job search began in earnest the day after I was informed my services were no longer needed at the paper. At my age I figure there is no sense being leisurely about this. Thanks to all who have e-mailed and called to wish me luck. I am optimistic that this jobless situation will be temporary. Compared to many folks out there seeking work, I feel fortunate because I do have some concrete prospects.
Not having to get up to go work has changed...
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