Love and...

I found out Wayne had died while on deadline.

I had just finished proofing my last page and was waiting for the copy editor to make the corrections and drop it into the system for final approval when I pulled up Facebook.

An old friend and former boss, Carl Whitehill, had posted a link to Wayne Kindness's obituary with the words, "Sad news ... good memories at The Evening Sun."

I felt my stomach drop.

"OH NO," I typed before clicking on the link.

The 69-year-old had been battling health problems since I met him in May 2001. He'd been in and out of the hospital several times over the past year, as he noted in his Facebook postings. So I guess it shouldn't have been a surprise.

Still, I couldn't help but feel shocked.

He was the assistant city editor at The Evening Sun in Hanover, Pa., for many years. Before that, he'd been a reporter, photographer and copy editor, and even run his own dirt-track racing publication.

He was a good guy and a good journalist.

He had a police scanner by his side at the desk — bringing in his own, not relying on the two already squawking in the newsroom.

After our 9 a.m. deadline (before his hip surgery) he'd bring a honeybun or bear claw or other sweet pastry back from the break room vending machine before setting to work on the next day's ROP pages.

But perhaps the thing I'll remember most about him was the way he told people how to spell his last name.

"Wayne Kindness. Just like 'love and....'"

Rest easy, big guy.

On The Job

We took Sophie to Mister Ed's Elephant Museum & Candy Emporium for the shop's annual pumpkin painting event, and there I came face-to-face with my past.

Sophie had picked out a pumpkin and we walked her to the folding table set up outside the shop on the Lincoln Highway.

It was about then that I spotted him.

He was young, maybe in his early to mid-20s. He was wearing a gray hoodie, had blonde hair and was generally pleasant.

In one hand was a note pad. In the other, a pen.

He spoke to Mr. Ed — shop owner Ed Gotwalt — and nodded as the bearded candy purveyor described the scene and why he hosted this get-together for the children.

I know a guy on The Job when I see one.

A few moments later, I saw him, smiling, looking at Sophie as she globbed blue paint onto her pumpkin. He and I made eye contact.

I knew that look.

It was the same look that I had given hundreds of people hundreds of times at hundreds of community gatherings.

Town fairs. Demolition derbies. Halloween parades.

All the same.

"Excuse me, folks, can I talk to you for the newspaper?" he asked.

"Which newspaper?" I asked, knowing what was coming. 

"The Public Opinion," he replied.

"Actually, no," I said. 

He looked taken aback.

"I work for The Herald-Mail," I said, motioning to the south.

"Oh," he said, then walked away. 

I couldn't help but feel bad. I've been there.

It takes more courage than you realize to walk up to complete strangers and ask them to open up to you about the family fun they were trying to have until you interrupted them.

The only thing I ever had to lean on, to keep me from cowering back into my natural, shy state, was my smiling mug on the press pass I usually had hanging from my neck.

I'm not a creeper, I would think. See my badge? I'm just a guy trying to write a story.

Regardless, I also faced rejection. The worst was in Algonac, Mich., when I approached a man to get his take on a dying shopping center in the town situated where the St. Clair River emptied into Lake St. Clair.

"BACK OFF!" he growled at me.

That scene flickered through my head as I told the Public Opinion reporter that I could not speak to him because I work for the competition.

I wanted to find him later and explain to him I knew what he was dealing with. I saw him talking with a family near the pile of pumpkins, but when I looked up again, he was gone.

He'd gotten his story and left.

I know that feeling, too.

Silly thing

As we finished up graduation season, the copy desk at The Herald-Mail encountered the term "Silly String" for the first time this year. 

A quick Google search found Silly String is the trademarked name of the foam — at least, I think it's foam — product.

This led the copy editor in me to wonder: Is there a generic term for it? 

For those who are asking, "Why not just call it silly string?" the simple answer is that newspapers should avoid using trademarked names. Do we know for certain the students didn't use "Goofy String"? Or maybe they used "Fun Streamer"?

Yes, this is the kind of thing copy editors think about. And the Associated Press Stylebook, loathsome as it is at times, is what we're supposed to use as guidance when we encounter trademarked names.

Other examples include Dumpster (AP says, "Use trash bin or trash container instead"); Band-Aid (AP says to use "adhesive bandage"); and Kleenex (AP says to call it "facial tissue").

Yep. Even Rollerblade should be called "in-line skates," AP says.

So, what about Silly String? There is no listing in the AP Stylebook. And I don't have the money to get an account with AP's online stylebook, on which a forum might have addressed the issue at some point in the past.

Another Google search landed me on Wikipedia, which suggested "aerosol string."

Um, no.

I mean, "After the diplomas were awarded and the class custom of spraying aerosol string completed..." just lacks the same punch.

For simplicity's sake, we decided to leave the name Silly String, capitalized, and prayed that no one from one of the competing manufacturers gets upset, should their product have been used at the Greencastle-Antrim High School graduation in Greencastle, Pa., instead of the brand name.

Pomp and Circumstance

It's graduation season, and at a small-town newspaper, that means a plethora of stories and photos featuring caps, gowns, tears and cheers.

Plenty of talk of "reaching for the stars," and "making the future brighter."

And, from the rogues gallery that is the copy desk, plenty of cynicism.

I must admit, as the older folks groused about the future the teens are supposed to make brighter, I offered one of my favorite lines:

Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll still end up in the vacuum of space where no one can hear you scream.

Setting aside the grizzled comments from journalists who've lived at least three and four times as long as this year's graduates, I began thinking about my own high school graduation.

Based on other graduations I've witnessed, mine was atypical.

You get that with an all-boys Catholic high school run by Jesuits in the rich side of town. (I didn't live on the rich side of town; thanks to my mother teaching in a Catholic school, I was able to attend Loyola Blakefield.)

Anyway, our graduation wasn't in the gymnasium or on the football field. It was in the Hollow, a section of the 60-acre campus, nestled between some of the classroom buildings and the Jesuits' residence, that was typically used for Frisbee-throwing and napping in good weather.

We didn't graduate in caps and gowns. We wore white tuxedo jackets. It was like 172 James Bonds processed into the ceremony.

And, if memory serves me, we graduated on a Sunday.

Other than hugs from family and friends — some of whom are no longer with us — I don't really recall too much else about my graduation. And no, it's not because I was under the influence of some elixir or potion normally not allowed an 18-year-old.

I guess what was said at that time really didn't have much impact on me. For that, I apologize to Mike Evans and Chris Co, classmates who I recall speaking.

And so, these thoughts have helped diminish some of my cynicism. You see, I didn't go to high school in a small town. The local paper — The Baltimore Sun — didn't cover it.

I've realized, after sitting through probably about two dozen graduations as a reporter, and reading more than a hundred graduation stories as an editor and copy editor, that graduation coverage is one more public service done by the local newspaper.

Grandma or Aunt Ethel clip out the story and save it for you, to help you recall that time when you were young and innocent and thought maybe, you might just reach those stars.

Profane prayer

Foul language should neither offend nor shock a person who has spent any amount of time around a newsroom.

And so, when the night content production manager of The Baltimore Sun used some salty language during a workshop I attended the other day, the word did not surprise me.

But not because the term was one I've heard hundreds of times... and said hundreds of times... while in the daily production of a newspaper.

Cover of "Occupation Foole," on which
George Carlin uses the "bad word"
in a routine called "Filthy Words."

(Because this is a family blog, I won't use the word, but just know that George Carlin once called it "the heavy, the one you save for the end of the argument.")

The word didn't surprise me because I've heard more and more people use it in the same way John McIntyre used it.

The workshop McIntyre, a long-time copy editor, was leading was on skeptical editing. He said the copy editor is one who should come to the prose dispassionately, unlike an assigning editor or reporter, who views the work the same way a proud father watches his son score a touchdown.

No, the copy editor should be the devil's advocate. He or she should be the one to ask the awkward question. When the whole group says, "Yes, this is a great idea," the copy editor is the one who should, however the method, say, "Wait, something's not right here."

Unfortunately, copy editors are no longer viewed as important cogs in the machinations of news.

They're viewed as expensive: Many are older, a benefit to the green reporter learning a beat, but a curse to the budget-conscious media conglomerate that has an ever shrinking profit margin. Besides, the higher-ups think, that college-trained newbie should know how to use an archive and be familiar with proper grammar, style and punctuation.

McIntyre told the workshop that at one time, The Sun had 54 copy editors. Today, including him, there are four.

With this in mind, I asked John how a copy editor, who sometimes also has to fill the role of assigning editor at smaller newspapers, maintains the skeptical view needed to properly edit a story.

He sighed. Hands resting on his cane, he closed his eyes a moment, then looked toward the ceiling of The Sun's first-floor conference room.

He said that once the workshop was over, he would head upstairs to the newsroom and copy edit items for the bulldog edition of the Sunday paper, which is printed early. He then would slot the Saturday newspaper (which means deciding what stories go on what page), as well as copy editing some of those stories.

Along with that, he would be responsible for proofing pages. And as he was also slot for the Sunday paper, he said he'd have to start copy editing and handing out stories for that edition. And when that's completed, proofs of the business section awaited him.

"Then, at 1 o'clock, as I get home to my bourbon, I'll take a sip and pray that I didn't ---- anything up," he said.

As I stated, the way he used the swear is not the first time I've heard someone in the industry mix curse word with prayer.

And that's a sad commentary. For decades, it's been do more with less.

There should be people checking stories for more than just grammar and punctuation, if they even do that. There also should be copy editors to check for context, credibility, chronology and bias.

The wall of The Sun's conference room
contains front pages dating back to the
newspaper's founding in 1837

How many hundreds of people, be they print readers or web readers, are relying on the trustworthiness of your news organization?

Instead, more and more newspapers are slashing copy editing positions and asking reporters to self-edit before the story gets posted online.

Trust is the only real bond you have with the reading public. Journalists of bygone eras knew this, learning it over more than a hundred years of trial and error.

Working without a net can lead to some big losses in trust... and lawsuits.

One would think a copy editor's salary and health care is cheaper in the long run than being hauled into court. It's akin to taking out an insurance policy.

No. Apparently prayer should suffice.

I Will Follow You Into the Dark

When I first heard this song nearly a decade ago, I thought it was about a guy who saw love of another as the one, true faith.

But recently, I listened to this song again and came to a different interpretation.

As some of you are aware, I just went back to working the night shift for a daily newspaper.

For decades now, newspapers have been forced to reinvent themselves to varying degrees of success. No one really knows exactly where they are going. But it's for damn sure the old way is breathing its last. 

Some of us, though, are too in love with the newspaper life to simply give up. 

Though uncertain, we're sticking with her. 

Listen up

The scratchy static of the police scanner.

The sports guy loudly asking, "What was the score?"

The ticks and clicks of dozens of keyboards and mice.

I'm back in a daily newsroom.

I started as Sunday editor at The Herald-Mail in Hagerstown, Md., on March 31. My job is to plan and execute the Sunday edition, as well as picking up copy editing and layout duties the rest of the week.

Before I can plan and execute, I have to learn the system here. That's nothing new; I've worked at five other newspapers in the past 14 years. Each place had its own quirky computer system and house style.

But for the past year, I worked for a business weekly based in Harrisburg, Pa. My week was split between the home office and the "satellite office" down Interstate 83 in York.

While relatively pleasant, neither location felt like a newsroom.

And so, as I end my third night on the job, I take in the sounds, sights and... yes, smells... of a daily newspaper's headquarters.

It feels good.

Is this real?

I had off Monday. 

My company, Journal Multimedia, parent of Central Penn Business Journal, was closed to observe Presidents Day. 

Before she left Friday, my boss at the business journal actually told me, "Remember not to come in on Monday."

I thought for a moment that this couldn't be real. 

I'm not going to lie, as a daily newspaperman my entire professional career, this feels … strange. 

This is the first time since I was a teenager, if not longer, that I've had off because the day was a federally recognized holiday (other than Christmas and New Years, and that's only because The Evening Sun didn't publish on some of them).

I've had off holidays, but it's been through a quirk of scheduling. Otherwise, I've had to talk to folks picnicking on Memorial Day, or hunting Easter eggs on Easter Sunday. 

Or, sometimes, I've had to call the coroner about a deadly crash on Thanksgiving. 

A day off with the rest of the 9-5 crowd is a change. 

Like it's a change for my old boss, Marc, to move from his job as editor in Hanover back to the main offices in York. 

Or for my friends, Caitlin and Brendan, to welcome their first child in August. 

It's the one lesson that's always been hard for me to learn: Change is the only constant. 

It never gets a day off. 

Do they make mental prune juice?

Writing is hard. 

Like that's something new. But here's my situation:

I've been thinking about writing a short story. Something uncomplicated that just lets out what is in my head. 

The problem I'm facing is, well, not to be too gross, mental constipation. 

Yes, I said it. 

I have ideas come to me all the time: That would be a great detail to include in a story. Or, that's a great character name. Or that's a good plot point. 

But then I pull up a blank page on the computer (or iPhone). The cursor is blinking. I know there are things in my mind that want — need — to come out. 

Nothing. 

I might struggle or strain. Nope. I sit there a while. Drink coffee. Read other people's writing. Nothing. 

Here's my self-diagnosis: I've been a professional journalist for more than a dozen years now. What I have written about (or edited or assigned) has been real. I'm working on a story or editorial that is grounded in reality. 

It's been a long time since I've flexed my creative writing muscle. Probably since high school, save for a few quickly constructed mock newspaper covers done for special occasions for friends and family. 

How do I get that mojo working again? It really hurts just staring at that blinking cursor, knowing I have to go but can't get it started. 

Bibulous

It's no secret journalists — generally — like to imbibe.

It was the Bard of Baltimore, H.L. Mencken, who coined the term "bibulous" to describe himself.

    Here's H.L. Mencken in a Baltimore bar shortly after the repeal of Prohibition.

Webster's has since defined the word as "addicted to or fond of alcohol." (That's actually the No. 2 definition. The first is "highly absorbent." Same difference.)

Anyhow, I've spent a few moments of my life perched on a barstool. It tends to fit the lifestyle: Long, odd hours filled with depressing news and jerks who don't want you to know things because, well, it might make them look bad/cost them a job/put them in jail. The fact the industry is going through dramatic, at times painful, changes doesn't help. 

It's not just the alcohol. I've never been to a bar without a friend. I've gotten reasonably good at darts and fooseball. And I've had pleasant, interesting and fun conversation. 

As I've aged, I've calmed my tendency toward vice. I owe some of that to Jen, who while helping rein me in, is not a Puritan herself. 

It's Sophie, though, who's put the biggest damper on my journalism lifestyle. A 2-month-old will do that. 

This is not a bad thing, mind you. 

I just find it strange that I've gone from throwing darts and sampling the microbrews of Blue Point Brewing Co. of Long Island, New York, to watching the Muppet Show on DVD while drinking water (filtered by our knockoff Brita, thankyouverymuch).

Sophie is very much worth it all. I just have to see her smile at me to know that.

   Sophie during a recent trip to the changing table.

But I wonder how other journalist types have dealt with this. What would Mencken do?

Then I remember: Mencken didn't have any children. 

No smoking aloud

The printed photograph was of a sign that had a cigarette with a slash through it.

The sign read, “No smoking aloud.”

“Shhhhh,” I said, as I pinned it up in my work space.

If nothing else, working for a newspaper offers the opportunity to laugh at linguistic and grammatical mishmash.

As with all human beings, I am far from innocent when it comes to such errors. When typing quickly, I’ve confused “it’s” and “its” and “your” with “you’re.”

And I’ve rightly taken my lumps.

That doesn't stop me from giggling at the quirks of language. It has also made me realize just how important knowing the basics of language, grammar and syntax really are.

Here’s an absurd example that’s made the rounds:

"Let’s eat, Grandma," is not the same as "Let’s eat Grandma." Punctuation saves lives.

I point this out because, recently, a family member or two has taunted me for being a “grammar nazi.” I take some umbrage, as I’m not some sort of tyrant about it.

Believe me, if I was asked to diagram a sentence, I’m not sure I could do it. Maybe when I was in sixth grade.

My concern has more to do with knowing my family members have benefited from an upbringing similar to mine, and I’m sure our parents would be sad to know the money they spent on 12 years of Catholic schooling bounced like a brick falling off a highway overpass.

A basic understanding of the rules is all I’m asking for; I’ve been trained to write for the masses at a fourth-grade level in hopes everyone will understand what I’m trying to say. The least the masses can do is live up to that fourth-grade education.

And maybe try to take some pride in their upbringing.

Newspapering is an abusive relationship

I’ve often said that the newspaper business is an abusive relationship.

We love it. We defend it. We live for it.

But it beats us down. It treats us badly. It slowly kills us.

Yet, every day, we go back in.

I once had a journalism professor, Larry Lain, say that it’s the newsprint itself. The ink that ends up staining your fingers seeps into your bloodstream.

In truth, he tried to get away from the industry. He started out at a small Midwestern newspaper, but grew tired of the crazy schedule. He became a high school English teacher.

The principal made him adviser of the student newspaper.

Then he decided to get his master’s and his doctorate in communication. 

After becoming a professor at the University of Dayton, he was made adviser of the student newspaper.

“You can’t get away,” he told us the day the 2000-2001 Flyer News staff gathered for the first time.

Little did I realize, as I took on the mantle of editor in chief that year, he was right.

I’ve tried to leave it. I’ve applied for jobs outside of the industry.

But then I get assigned a story that sends me hunting down experts and documents. Or the emergency dispatcher comes across the scanner calling out a three-alarm structure fire. Or, as of late, I’m told to design the cover of the newspaper, with popping graphics, splashy photos and prosaic prose.

That’s why I disagree with Dr. Lain about the ink being what gets in you.

I think it’s the instant gratification.

I pour my soul into a piece of work, then I have to wait less than 24 hours to see the results. And not only do I see the results, but tens of thousands of others across the area get to see it, too.

I love it.

My work day starts when the sun is setting and isn’t over until there’s an hour or less till last call. My schedule changes weekly, depending on who else on the copy desk has vacation, or if there’s an election or major catastrophe that requires all hands to be on deck.

The pay... well, it’s better than it was when I was a reporter, but it certainly doesn’t match my friends who are engineers and actuaries and college professors. I’m certainly the poorest of my college friends, financially.

But I love this job and I keep hoping it will love me back.

There are a few flickers.

The boss says, “Good job with that story.” A source sends you a thank you note. The publishers provide free food.

And I’ll be back at the desk tomorrow, ready to take on the next assignment.