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Foreword to "Counting Crows"
There was a time, back in the mid-1970s, when journalists were actually revered, not reviled. Watergate had come into our vocabulary and a disgraced president had been driven out of office by the fine work of the Washington Post's Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein.
During those halcyon days of print journalism, I made my move out of Durango, Colo., an undergraduate diploma in hand and the backseat of my Datsun B-210 cluttered with books, a battered typewriter and an Army duffle bag bulging with clothes.
I drove north to Cheyenne, Wyo., a desolate place even in the spring. But you have to start somewhere, so there I stood, outside the door to the human resources department of the Wyoming State Tribune. I knocked and entered. A very attractive young lady looked up at me.
"So you want a job in the newsroom," she asked after scanning my resume. I nodded. She smiled back. "You might be in luck."
She pointed down the hall to the editor's office. I had 70 paces to go before my future in journalism would be sealed.
Jim Flinchum stood up when I entered his glassed-in office. Tall and angular, he epitomized what journalism is all about — tough, serious, committed. He had earned his stripes at United Press International. Legend has it that one day he dashed into the Dallas UPI bureau and vaulted over desks and chairs, arriving at his Olivetti typewriter with fingers outstretched. That day in Dallas, President Kennedy had been shot. He cranked out a copy-ready story, all 300 words, in less than five minutes.
That's journalism — no glory, just seamless prose in the bat of an eye.
I handed him my resume. His eyes darted back and forth.
"Do you know anything about sports?" Flinchum asked. No friendly chitchat, no smiles, just business.
"Sure I do," I said, with a self-confident wave of my hand. Though I had never written a sports story in my life, I did like to play tennis and once had started as a defensive back on my high school's varsity football team. I figured those were worthy credentials.
"Have you ever been in a darkroom before?" he asked.
I hesitated for a moment. This is not an answer you take lightly, especially when you are out of work and have listed head grillman at McDonald's and Army medical corpsman on your resume.
I did own a camera and had taken several photos for the Durango Herald while I was finishing college. Surely those count. And how about the time a friend of mine showed me how to process film by dunking it in a vat of D-76 chemicals? That certainly took place in a darkroom.
I stared back and inhaled deeply the stale air that hung like thick automobile exhaust in the editor's office.
"Yes, I have," I said.
Flinchum's eyes dropped back down to the inked lettering on my resume.
"Can you start tomorrow morning?"
My heart skipped a few beats. I couldn't believe what I had heard.
Only later did I find out that Flinchum was desperate. His sports editor had walked out a few days earlier, forcing him to handle the sports page. And he hated sports. I was his ticket out of misery. Taking photos was an added bonus since his 72-year-old staff photographer could barely see anymore.
My first story for the sports section was a one-paragraph explanation about a high school track meet that had been canceled due to inclement weather. Though it was mid-April at the time, a blizzard had swept through Cheyenne and dumped six inches of snow, pushed along by 50-mph winds.
Flinchum pulled out the sheet of paper from my typewriter, glanced at what I had written and grunted: "This will do." That's the last sports story of mine he ever edited.
A year later, I loaded up my Datsun again and moved to Washington state, where I worked as a cop reporter and later as editor of the Skagit Valley Herald in Mount Vernon. Then I traveled across the Cascade Mountains to Yakima and the Yakima Herald-Republic where I served as city editor, responsible for coverage of local news. My career spanned another 27 years. My last job had a lofty title: editorial page editor.
During my years in journalism, I also wrote a column. Topics ranged from politics to sports to celebrities. My columns, too, included matters closer to home — about my family and the joys of raising two sons. I also wrote about what seemed the most impossible task of all — overcoming the grief of losing both a wife and a son.
Then on Nov. 11, 2006, just a few months after my 58th birthday, I married Leslie. This wonderful turn of events became, as most things do in my life, a rich source of material for future columns.
I have lined a bookshelf in my office with four thick notebooks filled with some 230 columns. With the hope of putting a book together after I retired in the fall of 2010, the challenge became what to do with all those newspaper clippings.
After organizing the columns into several categories — such as family, humor, profiles and commentary — a pattern emerged. Chapters began to take form. Photographs fell into place. I added postscripts to some columns in an effort to bring fresh details to what I had written. I inserted unpublished entries from my writer’s journal to enliven my storytelling with raw emotions.
When I completed the first draft of “Counting Crows,” Leslie gave it a thorough review. She proved to be an invaluable editor with a sharp eye for detail and narrative flow.
In the spring of 1975 when I first entered the offices of the Wyoming State Tribune, I never could have imagined that one day I would be holding in my hands a copy of my book, “Counting Crows.” I just wanted a job back then. Better yet, I wanted a job where I could get paid for writing. My dream job.
Sometimes a dream does come true. It certainly has for me.
During those halcyon days of print journalism, I made my move out of Durango, Colo., an undergraduate diploma in hand and the backseat of my Datsun B-210 cluttered with books, a battered typewriter and an Army duffle bag bulging with clothes.
I drove north to Cheyenne, Wyo., a desolate place even in the spring. But you have to start somewhere, so there I stood, outside the door to the human resources department of the Wyoming State Tribune. I knocked and entered. A very attractive young lady looked up at me.
"So you want a job in the newsroom," she asked after scanning my resume. I nodded. She smiled back. "You might be in luck."
She pointed down the hall to the editor's office. I had 70 paces to go before my future in journalism would be sealed.
Jim Flinchum stood up when I entered his glassed-in office. Tall and angular, he epitomized what journalism is all about — tough, serious, committed. He had earned his stripes at United Press International. Legend has it that one day he dashed into the Dallas UPI bureau and vaulted over desks and chairs, arriving at his Olivetti typewriter with fingers outstretched. That day in Dallas, President Kennedy had been shot. He cranked out a copy-ready story, all 300 words, in less than five minutes.
That's journalism — no glory, just seamless prose in the bat of an eye.
I handed him my resume. His eyes darted back and forth.
"Do you know anything about sports?" Flinchum asked. No friendly chitchat, no smiles, just business.
"Sure I do," I said, with a self-confident wave of my hand. Though I had never written a sports story in my life, I did like to play tennis and once had started as a defensive back on my high school's varsity football team. I figured those were worthy credentials.
"Have you ever been in a darkroom before?" he asked.
I hesitated for a moment. This is not an answer you take lightly, especially when you are out of work and have listed head grillman at McDonald's and Army medical corpsman on your resume.
I did own a camera and had taken several photos for the Durango Herald while I was finishing college. Surely those count. And how about the time a friend of mine showed me how to process film by dunking it in a vat of D-76 chemicals? That certainly took place in a darkroom.
I stared back and inhaled deeply the stale air that hung like thick automobile exhaust in the editor's office.
"Yes, I have," I said.
Flinchum's eyes dropped back down to the inked lettering on my resume.
"Can you start tomorrow morning?"
My heart skipped a few beats. I couldn't believe what I had heard.
Only later did I find out that Flinchum was desperate. His sports editor had walked out a few days earlier, forcing him to handle the sports page. And he hated sports. I was his ticket out of misery. Taking photos was an added bonus since his 72-year-old staff photographer could barely see anymore.
My first story for the sports section was a one-paragraph explanation about a high school track meet that had been canceled due to inclement weather. Though it was mid-April at the time, a blizzard had swept through Cheyenne and dumped six inches of snow, pushed along by 50-mph winds.
Flinchum pulled out the sheet of paper from my typewriter, glanced at what I had written and grunted: "This will do." That's the last sports story of mine he ever edited.
A year later, I loaded up my Datsun again and moved to Washington state, where I worked as a cop reporter and later as editor of the Skagit Valley Herald in Mount Vernon. Then I traveled across the Cascade Mountains to Yakima and the Yakima Herald-Republic where I served as city editor, responsible for coverage of local news. My career spanned another 27 years. My last job had a lofty title: editorial page editor.
During my years in journalism, I also wrote a column. Topics ranged from politics to sports to celebrities. My columns, too, included matters closer to home — about my family and the joys of raising two sons. I also wrote about what seemed the most impossible task of all — overcoming the grief of losing both a wife and a son.
Then on Nov. 11, 2006, just a few months after my 58th birthday, I married Leslie. This wonderful turn of events became, as most things do in my life, a rich source of material for future columns.
I have lined a bookshelf in my office with four thick notebooks filled with some 230 columns. With the hope of putting a book together after I retired in the fall of 2010, the challenge became what to do with all those newspaper clippings.
After organizing the columns into several categories — such as family, humor, profiles and commentary — a pattern emerged. Chapters began to take form. Photographs fell into place. I added postscripts to some columns in an effort to bring fresh details to what I had written. I inserted unpublished entries from my writer’s journal to enliven my storytelling with raw emotions.
When I completed the first draft of “Counting Crows,” Leslie gave it a thorough review. She proved to be an invaluable editor with a sharp eye for detail and narrative flow.
In the spring of 1975 when I first entered the offices of the Wyoming State Tribune, I never could have imagined that one day I would be holding in my hands a copy of my book, “Counting Crows.” I just wanted a job back then. Better yet, I wanted a job where I could get paid for writing. My dream job.
Sometimes a dream does come true. It certainly has for me.