Street Level

I still remember the day I decided journalism was for me.
There wasn't any "calling" or "save the world" inspiration; there was a pamphlet in the guidance counsellor's room promoting a full-ride four-year scholarship to the University of Western Ontario to study journalism.
Now that sounded pretty darn sweet, the criteria didn't look too difficult (able to write, knowledge of current affairs, understanding of grammar, stuff like that).
Bunch of interview and aptitude tests later and there it was -- my B.A. basically paid for and a job through university to boot.
And that's why I became a reporter.
Why I remain a reporter is much different.
After retiring from it once (having put in the requisite 25 years), the allure dragged me back a year after moving to Kamloops because if there's one thing that is predictable about being a reporter, it's the unpredictability.
Consider some of the moments from last week:
* Someone called and left a strange voicemail message (yes, I know her name and have her phone number now) about how to steal electricity from others. At least I think that's what it was; her voice was soft, almost whispery like she was revealing some kind of conspiracy.
* In the pursuit of a potential story, I learned from the school board that if a teacher is charged with sexually assaulting a child, but it's plea-bargained down to something minor, that teacher gets to keep on teaching. Talk about inspiration to really go after this story.
* A woman stopped me on the street to tell me I'm missing the "real" story at RIH. Apparently they're hiding the fact people are dying there. I'm not sure if she's read one too many Robin Cook novels or if she hasn't figured out that sometimes, people die in the hospital. This harangue continued with my teen tapping his toes loudly, wishing she'd stop, I'd stop her -- anything so we could get going.
* A friend called with a real concern about RIH. I listened, commiserated and, when she asked me to do a story, had to explain to her that I don't do news stories that involve friends, and would pass the info on. A lot of friends have had to learn that I'd prefer they remain friends and not become stories for me.
* Yet another friend sought me out to tell me the Daily would be doing a feature on her and she hoped I didn't mind. Had to explain to her the above.
There was a lot more, but these provide a glimpse into life at the massive, ancient wooden desk I call home for many hours of each day. I talk to drug addicts and businesspeople, little old ladies and MLAs.
It's a far cry from the post-retirement gig at the federal passport office, where even your break times were assigned.
Sure, I take some of my work home in my head at night, and sometimes contacts find me in the phone book and start calling outside of work hours, but for the most part, that's not a problem because, when the paper is delivered, even though I've worked on much of it, there's something tangible that shows the work had some meaning.
And that's cool.

Posted by Dale at 10:26 a.m. Comments