(This is the resurrection of a column I wrote several years ago. I decided to ask to have it run again in light of the recent announcement of the pending closing of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and the passing of Bobby Weir of the Grateful Dead.)
I am sitting in the little reading room off my front hall very early on a Sunday morning when I am startled by the newspaper landing on my front porch, sliding across the tile floor, and crashing into my screen door. Today’s crash is by far the loudest and most terrifying of the week, the Sunday edition having several sections and being chock full of advertising inserts, the lifeblood of the newspaper business.
I still subscribe to daily delivery of the local paper, probably for several reasons buried in my sub-conscience. First, I am sure a large part of it is the warm feeling I get from thinking of my dad sitting at the kitchen table every morning of my childhood, reading the newspaper and complaining about how silly such and such a columnist was or how off-base some reporter’s coverage was or how there was more to the great world of sports than Virginia Tech. Time permitting, he would read the paper from front to back, including the comics (we called them the “funnies”). My mom would also immerse herself in the paper, but only after my dad was finished and handed it over to her, section by section. She would also read one part my father didn’t – the serials in the comics section, like Mary Worth and Steve Roper, those being preferable to her over television soap operas. In the evening, Evans and Katy would alternate doing the crossword puzzle and the Jumble, and they would discuss in depth the “Charles Goren on Bridge” column. No two people ever got more of their money’s worth for a product than my parents did for the quarter they paid each day for the Roanoke Times.
Another reason for my continued addiction to “print edition” is probably civic responsibility. Great cities and small villages throughout America historically have been defined by their local newspapers, in their role as both local cheerleader and community rabble rouser. I feel like I need to do my part to at least be a member of the subscriber base. In this day of unlimited access to so many sources of information – real and fake and everywhere in-between – I find it part of my role as a responsible adult to look at what is, likely and hopefully, the most accurate chronicler of local events. There is a reason many newspapers adopted “name of your town.com” (for example, Roanoke.com) for their website. No industry has historically been more linked to its cities of origin than the newspaper business. After 45 years living near Pittsburgh, I am horribly saddened that the “PG” apparently will soon be no more.
The foundation of the First Amendment was the desire to have the freedom to express opinions and report events as the writer saw them, and having an identifiable publisher to hold accountable has long been the way to assure some degree of responsibility and commitment to accuracy. In the world of the internet, accountability and civility have long ago been sacrificed, often ridiculed as arcane. Even great newspapers have at times lost any semblance of objectivity in reporting events, surrendering to political correctness, and becoming political tools far beyond what their forebears were, but they remain shining stars of journalistic integrity compared to the morass of social media. So, I continue to feel obligated to read the work of those who bother to put it in hard copy, attach their names to it, and pass it out among us.
Another major reason I subscribe is out of fondness and loyalty to my major client over most of my legal career, a fifth-generation newspaper family with over 50 dailies and hundreds of weeklies and other publications spread around the country. I have represented them from Maui to Nashua and from Minot to Sanibel Island. In the world of declining circulation and frightening competition, they have tried to strike a balance between maintaining a commitment to responsible journalism and keeping the financial ship afloat. I have fought many a battle for the family over the years – against people who didn’t care for the way they were portrayed in their papers and against government officials who wouldn’t give us access to documents we thought we deserved and advertisers who thought the advertising space was free. So, while my longtime client doesn’t own my local paper, I would feel guilty if I didn’t lead by example by getting home delivery.
All of which brings me back to the crash against my front door a few moments ago. For the third time this week, my delivery guy rounded the corner on which my house sits, almost on two wheels, slowing down just enough to fling the paper through the huge potted begonias which I tend to on my front porch for six months of the year. The shattered remains of beautiful pink blooms (I prefer to call them scarlet because of my love for the Grateful Dead, i.e., the song “Scarlet Begonias”) painstakingly cared for since May by the writer, are strewn across the porch, hours of watering and pruning up in smoke (to continue the Grateful Dead theme). The paper itself once again is stained with telltale red (I’ll compromise) marks, Exhibit A, should I choose to sue.
A few weeks ago I was on the front porch sweeping when the delivery guy slowed, tossed the paper only half way up the sidewalk, and, apparently agitated by others who complained about picking their papers out of the shrubs, yelled something about “these %#*& people, you’d think these $%#? things were made of gold”. I know he wasn’t mad at me, as I have never lodged a complaint – yet, it was before he declared war on my begonias – but I found it odd that he chose to insult the few and proud among us who actually subscribe to his $&%# newspaper!
At least these unwarranted attacks on my begonias have brought back another warm memory of my childhood. My dad, being an extremely early riser, and by example making me one since early childhood, I can still see him stomping around in our house, muttering under his breath about where in the bleep was the paperboy? For years we had the same kid (George) who was just not on the same schedule as my father, who wanted to have read the paper from front to back before leaving for the office at 8. Once, in an emergency, and before I was old enough to do so, he hired paper boy George to mow our yard. George managed to take a big chunk out of the bark of the Japanese cherry tree (for which our street was named) in our front yard, confirming once for and for all my Dad’s opinion of him.
So, in conclusion, I am a big believer in subscribing to the local newspaper. I feel it is the American way. But if that $%#@ carrier hits my begonias one more time, I’m out.
(And may the Post-Gazette and Bobby Weir rest in peace. We enjoyed the ride.)
