Rumpled Readers from My Past

Today is my 24^th post, and I have to admit I'm surprised that I've been so prolific. After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve written on such a regular basis. Did I say a “long time?” Actually it’s been 30 years since I last worked for a daily newspaper.

 It was 1982 when I left the Baltimore News American to move with my husband to New York. The paper didn’t actually fold until a few years later, but by 1982, there had already been a round of layoffs and the future of the paper looked bleak.

Of course, it hadn’t always been that way. A few years earlier, a new management team had been brought in to revamp the paper, and I was one of the young, eager reporters they hired.  Our newsroom was a newsy, lively place with reporters chattering away on the phone (and to each other), teletype machines clanging with  wire service updates, and even a few typewriters clack-clack-clacking (even with the new computers, some of the older reporters still preferred to type their first drafts.)  A thick cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and I bet (though I never knew for sure) some bottles of the hard stuff were stashed in desks around the room.

My husband quickly learned that when I said “everybody loved my article,” that didn’t mean the phones were ringing off the hook. It meant that my co-workers liked the piece. Yes, there were letters of praise, but not many. Complaints were more frequent and always ended with “and another thing – your writing stinks!” What I found harder to brush off were the complaints from people I had interviewed.  Public figures only objected if I got the facts wrong, and I tried hard to be accurate. But ordinary people would get upset about the strangest things. One woman was offended that her plaid couch made its way into an article. Others seemed to think that what they told me was private even though they knew I was a reporter and was taking copious notes. But the most upsetting complaint was when I wrote about a charming old man, a Yiddish poet who had escaped from Poland during World War II only to land up in a Russian gulag. I thought he was wonderful -- his poems were beautiful, and his spirit and determination were inspiring.  I wrote what I thought was a glowing piece, full of admiration and respect.  But it turned out I hurt his feelings. Why did I have to call him “rumpled?”  Because he was.

So even though I’m having a good time writing these posts, I don’t expect to get my old job back.