“I don’t think so,” she said, not quite the reassurance I had hoped for.
“Gone to Green,” I wrote on a sheet of paper with a black marker, giving my cell phone number and e-mail address. “Stay in touch.” I taped it to the newsroom mailboxes and walked out of the Dayton newspaper, wanting to laugh and cry.
I pulled out of my garage at 10:45 a.m. on New Year's Eve, my car loaded down with everything I hadn’t entrusted to the movers. My belongings had been put into a big load with two other families’ precious things, to be dropped off at some undetermined time. I hoped I would see my stuff again and that my green pottery collection wouldn’t be unloaded at the Smith family home in Peoria. I also hoped I wasn’t making the worst mistake of my life.
An odd, fast-motion account of my adult life unwound in my mind as I drove out of Dayton. I wondered yet again what Ed had been thinking when he wrote my name in his will on the same line as the The Green News-Item.
Pulling into Green in the middle of the next afternoon, with the official newspaper meeting fast approaching, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
“The quaint lakeside town I had pictured does not exist,” I said to Marti, during an SOS call from the car. “Obviously, whoever did the Chamber's Web site is a master at good lighting and interesting angles and hyperbole.”
“Maybe you can hire them for the paper,” she said, trying to sound supportive. I could hear the sounds of a football game in the background and remembered she had invited a few of our friends over.
“The outskirts of town look like an ad for fast-food franchises and stores where everything costs a dollar. It's horrible. What have I done? I want to go home.”
“Lois Barker, you’ll be fine. You always are. Now, pull yourself together. Call me back later when you know more. I’m having a terrible time hearing you.”
Desperate to find a real neighborhood, I turned down a small side street with potholes big enough to suck up my car. Several overturned garbage cans spilled out a week's worth of trash on the sidewalks, and candy wrappers and soft drink cans littered the front yards of the small, shabby houses.
I had imagined driving into a sweet town with children dressed in colorful sweaters riding their bikes. Instead, junk cars rusted in front yards, and upholstered furniture decorated more than one porch. The area looked like something out of a Third-World country. Only a few houses were halfway neat and adorned with old tires, cut and painted white to make flowerbeds.
People stared at me, and I stared back. I resisted the urge to roll down my window and explain that I was the new owner of the paper. My urgent need to get out of that place surpassed the desire to interact.
After a couple of wrong turns, I did a stealth drive-by of the newspaper building. It had a sort of noble, forlorn look, with one battered pickup parked in the lot. I squinted and saw that it had “News-Item, No. 1” painted on it.
Downtown was deserted except for a teen-age girl who lounged on a bench outside the paper, smoking a cigarette. The small surge of pride I had felt at surveying my domain was sullied by worries about how to deal with stray people who hung around the loading dock.
The area near the paper included a barbershop with a sign that read “Jesus Saves”; a Ford dealership, proudly proclaiming itself the smallest in the South; an antique mall, advertising booths for rent; and a small local department store. I already knew the store and car dealership were important in my life. Iris Jo had told me over the phone that they were among the biggest advertisers in the paper, and both were owned by one of the richest families in town.
Right on the dot of four o’clock, I knocked on the front door of my inheritance for someone to let me in. A trim woman, about my age and dressed in blue jeans and a fleece pullover, opened the door.
“Lois?” she asked in a soft southern voice. “Welcome. I’m Iris Jo. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person. Follow me, please.” I was momentarily astonished. The way she spoke on the phone, I had expected a woman in her sixties.
She led me into a 1970s style boardroom decorated with a couple of paintings of English foxhunts, a faded silk fern, and a huge conference table occupied by the two McCuller men who were to help me make the transition. Both men had thinning gray hair, but Chuck appeared to be the older of the two— somewhere in his early sixties. His portly stomach strained against his knit shirt and the waistband of his burgundy polyester pants, and his blotchy red face looked like he drank too much. Dub stopped short of being thin, but at least he wore up-to-date pressed jeans and a button-down blue oxford shirt. His smile came more frequently than his brother's.
“Well, you’re a lot younger and prettier than that friend of yours,” Dub said as I approached. “Taller too.”
While Dub was prone to chitchat, Chuck seemed to be in charge and plunged right in. His only advice amounted to telling me who in the community I needed to be extra nice to. “You want to treat your advertisers right. Let them know you’re part of the community. Don’t make waves.”
“Treat them right,” Dub repeated.
“Make sure they know the paper appreciates them,” Chuck continued. “Needs them. Major Wilson, Eva Hillburn, a handful of others—very important to the paper.”
Dub pointed to two boxes on the big table and quickly walked me through a few files, telling me to let Iris Jo know if I had questions.
At this point, I had nothing but questions—about my newspaper, my life, my sanity. I smiled and said “thanks” and headed out for a tour of the building with Iris Jo. Entering the cavernous pressroom, I squinted in the dim light and breathed the familiar smell of newsprint and ink. Pallets of sales flyers lined one end of the room, waiting to be inserted, a good sign for my bottom line.
“This is our cranky old letter press,” Iris said. “It's called Bossy because it determines if the paper gets out. No press, no paper. And this is the mailroom where papers are prepared for delivery.”
She walked me through a messy coffee station near what might be called the newsroom, tiny compared to Dayton's, with four desks and a small TV. “Our staff is no doubt smaller than you’re used to,” she said, “but you’ve got good, hardworking folks here.”
The two former owners, who had pawed through a filing cabinet in the office while we were gone, had a few files in their hands when Iris handed me a big batch of keys, sorted in white envelopes labeled “front door,” “McCuller office,” and “miscellaneous.” Holding those keys, with no pomp and little circumstance, I truly became the owner of The Green News-Item. I shook hands with the unenthusiastic Hoss and Little Joe and agreed to meet them at eight the next morning for the announcement to the staff.
“We’ve got you all set for the next few days at the Lakeside Motel and Marina,” Iris Jo said. “The owners are small advertisers and willing to do a trade with the paper for your room. I think you’ll like this better than the new chain motel on the other side of town. That one's more suited for out-of-towners here to attend a funeral or wedding.”
She handed me directions. “It's easy to find. Call me tonight if you need me.”
I nodded and walked out, anxiety washing over me.
Not surprisingly, the Lakeside, on the banks of Bayou Lake, was old and slightly rundown. Its neon sign proclaimed, “Nice Rooms, Good View.” A note taped to the front door for “Ms. Barker, News-Item” told me Room Eight was unlocked and mine for the next five nights. By now it was nearly dark outside, and the parking lot lights appeared to be burned out or turned off for the evening.
Sticking my head inside the room, I flipped on the light. To my surprise, the space was tidy and fairly modern. A small welcome basket with bottled water, cheese crackers, and an apple sat on the dresser. A note welcomed me in the same beautiful script as the one that had directed me to this room. They might not be much on desk service, but they sure had good penmanship.
My first order of business was to call Marti back. When she picked up the phone, I burst into tears. “It's ugly,” I
said. “It's dirty and ugly. The old owners are condescending, and the downtown looks abandoned. What have I done?”
Marti immediately shifted into her logical mode. “Now, Lois, calm down. Don’t you think it’ll look better by light of day?”
“I got here by light of day. It looks terrible. This town needs a makeover worse than I do.”
“Aren’t you proud of yourself for getting out of Dayton? And taking care of Ed's pet project? You’re going to do great. You’re just tired. You’ve had a full day.”
Her encouraging words and familiar laughter did help. Slowly, I began to feel better.
“What would your mother say?” Marti asked. She had known my mother for only a couple of years but had loved her and often brought up her memory. Mom had appreciated the fact that Marti “kept an eye on me.”
“She’d say for me to pray about it and get a good night's sleep. And to keep my hairbrush and panty hose clean.”
“Okay, then what are you going to do?”
“Cry and head back to Dayton.”
“Not the answer I wanted to hear.”
“I guess I’ll scrounge up a burger and hit the sack. Tomorrow I have to march into that building and meet a group of people who probably won’t like me and figure out how to make money out of this newspaper. On second thought, maybe I will pray. Talk to you tomorrow. And, Marti, don’t tell Zach.”
If I was going to suffer, I sure didn’t want him to know.
4
LuAnn Torti, director of the local feline rescue society, was
knocked unconscious this week by a cat who
pushed an antique pitcher off LuAnn's refrigerator,
striking the animal lover on the back of the head.
“She's a sweet kitty and never would intentionally hurt
anyone,” LuAnn said, holding an icepack to her hair and
petting her baby with her other hand.
—The Green News-Item
After taking advantage of both cups of coffee in the tiny pot in the room—one regular, one decaf—I replaced my pajamas with sweats and a T-shirt and stepped outside.
The darkness of night still surrounded the Lakeside. I was definitely the only one stirring on day two of the New Year. The wind down here in North Louisiana was colder than I had expected. It blew off Bayou Lake with a dampness that ate into my midwestern bones. The complete darkness confused me, and I went back into the room to double-check the clock radio. It was, indeed, nearly 6:30 a.m.
I grabbed a jacket and sat down in the plastic Adirondack chair on my small porch, curious and scared about what the day and the new year would bring.
Slowly, a deep red sliver appeared. The sky exploded with pink and orange as the sun rose over the lake, a scene right out of a Louisiana travel brochure. Cypress trees grew everywhere, and Spanish moss glowed in the morning light. At least, I thought they were cypress trees because they had those odd knobby roots growing around them. They jogged a memory from a family vacation to Florida in third grade.
Preparing for the first day at my new job, I deliberately chose the same outfit I had worn the day I learned about Ed's gift to me. The symbolism gave me much-needed optimism—a professional suit of armor as I headed into battle. The newspaper business is my life, but this morning I felt like a rank amateur.
Nervously, I gathered my notebook and file folders into my briefcase and accidentally picked up the Gideon Bible from the bedside table. I flipped it open and my eyes went directly to the word “wisdom.” I read the verse. “If anybody lacks wisdom, ask God, and it will be provided. Believe and do not doubt.”
I was full of doubts.
Driving into the newspaper, I took the most direct route. Today was not a day for sightseeing. Besides, I was afraid if I detoured at all, I might hop up on the highway, head to the interstate, and never look back. When I arrived, I bypassed the “Publisher” spot in the rough parking lot, as well as one of three visitor spaces still open, and parked in the back near The News-Item No. 1 truck. No doubt it was the pride of my fleet. I dug in my purse for my envelopes of keys, fished out the front door key, and stumbled on the steps in the process. Looking up, I noticed a list of about a half-dozen names painted on the window in that kind of paint that high schools use for pep rallies. What in the world?
I stooped to pick up the copies of the day's Baton Rouge Morning Advocate and New Orleans Times Picayune, the big-city papers from down the road, thrown on the steps. The rolled-up newspapers were oddly comforting—a ritual at newsrooms across the country and a fix for news junkies.
Juggling the newspapers, my envelopes of keys, my briefcase and purse, I struggled with the door and nearly fell inside just as someone unlocked it for me. This was not the entrance I planned, nor the encounter the startled desk clerk expected.
“May I help you?” she asked in a slightly aggravated Southern voice, with about the same enthusiasm I had given unexpected newsroom callers at my former job.
“Oh, hello, good morning … I’m Lois Barker, here to see Dub and Chuck McCuller.” This was not the time to mention I was her new boss, and that I hated the amateurish painting on the front window.
The woman, in her late twenties, didn’t offer her name and gave me a look that said I must be kidding. “Mr. Dub and Mr. Chuck don’t usually get in quite this early,” she said. “I’d say they won’t be here for another hour or so. Could someone else help you?”
At that moment, I wanted to declare myself emperor, march past her, and take control of my office, my paper, my destiny. I longed for the snippy guard at my former newspaper. But I rather nervously said, “Any chance Iris Jo is around, or might I wait in the boardroom?”
The clerk led me begrudgingly into the archaic room, stopping to grab the phone at the counter on the way. She neglected to show me that I had to push a small latch to get through the swinging gate, and my legs hit hard before I realized my mistake.
When she left me in the boardroom, she closed the door behind her, as though I might escape and ransack the building. I deliberately pulled out the heavy chair at the head of the table and settled in, anxiously arranging files to look official and to feel as though I belonged here, even though I was alone in the room.
Give me wisdom. The unspoken prayer came from some unexpected spot.
For the next few minutes, I looked at the odd foxhunt paintings and decided to replace them with photos from the newspaper. I wondered if there was an executive restroom for my use and my use only. When Iris Jo came in, I wanted to hug her—and chide her for not being there before me.
“Welcome back,” she said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Drinking coffee together at the large table, we went over the day's plans. “I expect the McCullers any minute now. They’ve planned a building-wide gathering in the newsroom/ composing room for 8:15,” she said. “They’ll announce the sale of the paper to you and take questions.”
The brothers waltzed in late, with no apology. “Let's get this show on the road,” Chuck said impatiently, as though I had held him up. He left the boardroom and turned right to walk down a short hall, Dub one step behind. I fell into line, my heart thudding in my chest.
The announcement was a bit more dramatic than the passing of the keys the previous day—but not by much. Just over half of the staff of twelve showed up. Two were out in the field selling ads, one was on sick leave following hernia surgery, and one was on a duck-hunting vacation. The crowd was small.
Iris Jo brought chocolate and glazed Southern Girl doughnuts, apparently a newspaper tradition for special occasions. She passed them out as we gathered, with Dub and Chuck shaking hands and chatting before becoming more official.
“Morning, everyone,” Dub said. “Hope you all had a good holiday. My brother and I are here to tell you this morning that we’ve made a few New Year's resolutions. We plan to spend more time on the lake and in the woods.”
The staffers laughed. I scanned the room in search of a friendly face.
/> Chuck jumped in. “After much thought, the McCuller family has decided to sell The Green News-Item, and we are happy to introduce you to the new owner—Miss Lois Barker. This pretty lady is an editor from a big newspaper up north and is ready to roll up her sleeves and get to work. She comes highly recommended.”
I stared at him, wondering if he had actually checked me out and bemused by his use of the world “pretty.”
The announcement seemed to be a surprise … and not the good kind of surprise. The young woman from the front desk groaned softly. The pressman, easily identified by his stained jumpsuit, gave Iris Jo a questioning look. The one person wearing a tie kept glancing over at the McCullers and then down at the floor.
The only newsroom person who had made the meeting raised his hand immediately. “Do you expect to make any staff changes?”
Before I could answer, he threw two more questions at me. “Have you ever been to Green before? Will you consider increasing the amount the staff gets paid for mileage?”
“Now wait a minute, son, before you start interrogating her,” Chuck said. “First we want to tell you that things are not going to change. Our News-Item will continue to uphold the fine traditions it always has. Everyone's job is safe. Isn’t that right, Miss Lois?” He winked when he turned to me and then looked back at the staff. “And if she gets too frisky, y’all just give me and Dub a call, and we’ll come right over and make everything right.”
Uneasiness ran through me at the joking threat. I wondered if the McCullers might remain a bit more involved than expected.
“I’m so happy to be here,” I said in the world's shortest acceptance speech. “I look forward to working with each of you. Thank you, Dub and Chuck and the rest of your family, for your years of stewardship of this paper and this community. We wish you all the best and hope you’ll keep your subscription to the paper and that LSU always wins.”
People laughed nervously. Iris Jo and the woman from the lobby applauded.
Gone to Green (Green (Abingdon Press)) Page 3
