by Daleen Berry
“Now, let’s see, Marianne—our photographer—she’s been covering the sheriff’s office, but why don’t you handle that? That will free her up to do more photography. And we’ll let you report on local city and county government meetings, once you learn the ropes. Concentrate on settling in and after you’ve done that, start with getting the police news. How’s that sound for starters?”
“Wonderful. Oh, and I wanted to say that Marianne’s a distant relative.”
“Great, that’s even better. You shouldn’t have any problems then,” Linda said.
I was hesitant to show my ignorance, but knew I had to ask. “Do you have any pointers about collecting news from the sheriff’s department?”
“Yes, you can either call or run across the street to pick up any accidents or crime reports. Try to go in person whenever you can, or just hang out there. It’s a great way to pick up a lead on a story you might not get otherwise. As for what to get, check with the sheriff or the dispatcher, if the sheriff’s not in. Find out what’s happened overnight, and ask them to direct you to the right people. Write down all the vital information, and then type it into the computer.” Linda’s smile was full of confidence. “You’ll do fine—you have a natural instinct for what makes a news story. Just remember to answer the five W’s in the first paragraph or two of each story: who, what, where, when and why. Try to explain “how” after that. And don’t use too many big words, because no one will understand them.”
“Okay.” I nodded.
“You’ll pick up ideas as you go along, and when you do, come on in and we’ll talk about them before I give you the go ahead. I think that’s about it.”
As I left Linda’s office, I realized I was eager to get started. But I also had a small case of the jitters, and self-doubt was starting to creep in.
What if I make a mistake? I squared my shoulders. I’m not going to.
Back at my desk, I grabbed a phone book and found the number of the sheriff’s office and punched it in. “Hello, Preston County Sheriff’s Department,” a male voice said.
“Hi, this is Daleen Leigh. I’m with The Preston County Journal. I’m calling to get any news you might have.”
“I’m afraid we don’t, just a small car fire from last night,” the voice said. He gave me some details to jot down, and when I hung up I was pleased: I knew at 10:30 p.m. the night before, a 1984 Chrysler LeBaron owned by Rick Sanders caught fire outside Billy’s Place, a local tavern. I knew the Kingwood Volunteer Fire Department responded with six firefighters, and they put the engine blaze out in less than thirty minutes. The cause was still under investigation, but initial reports indicated faulty wiring. I began typing, amazed to see the words appear on the screen as if by magic, almost faster than I could type them.
These are my words, and this is my very first news story, working as a reporter for the Preston County Journal.
Nothing could have tickled me more, and I felt like I’d finally found my niche.
I read the words again and saw some things I wasn’t satisfied with, so I began editing the short piece. I had no idea anyone else was in the room until I heard movement behind me. Turning around, I saw Marianne.
“Hi there!” she said, placing her camera bag on her desk. “So, how do you like our little newspaper crew?”
“Everyone is great. I hope you don’t mind sharing your office with me.”
She shrugged slender shoulders and smiled easily. “You’ll be fine as long as you remember that Delbert’s the boss. Linda’s a piece of cake, really sweet and easy to work for.” She winked at me.
I watched Marianne unload the film from her camera. “I’m going to the dungeon. That’s the darkroom; have you seen it yet?” she asked.
“Just briefly, when Delbert gave me a tour.”
“Fun place,” Marianne winked again and was gone.
Delbert was right, for when my byline appeared in newsprint, I felt an excitement that surpassed anything from my high school days. I was helping put the paper together in the production room, where several thousand copies of the article I had written for that issue were rolling off the press. When I sat down later to look over a press copy, I turned to page two and saw my first article, and felt a budding sense of pride in my work. The next time was even more exciting, because my byline was on the front page, above the fold.
Four weeks later, I was putting the final touches on a humorous piece I had written, loosely based on a recent shopping experience with my family. I gathered up my courage and took it to Linda.
“I don’t know if this is something you can use, but I was just killing time and thought you might want to see it.” I nervously handed it to her, and a small voice told me she wouldn’t even like it. Then I squared my shoulders and decided what did I have to lose? Besides, even if she didn’t think there was any place for it in the newspaper, I knew it was good—and that it was funny.
Linda was immersed in writing her editorial, but told me to leave it on her desk. An hour later I heard her laughter, just before she appeared at my door. “This is great. Do you think you could write more like this?”
“Yes. I have others at home, written after one of the kids did something really funny or really awful that made me grab my pen and notebook so I could jot it down.”
“You don’t have a computer?” she asked.
“No, just a typewriter. Money’s been tight with all of the mining layoffs.”
“Well, we’re upgrading the office computers, so maybe we can give you one of the old ones to use at home.”
“Thank you; that would be great.” I said, unable to keep a huge, silly grin off my face.
She turned to go. “We’ll run this in the Saturday edition. Why don’t you come up with a name for your weekly column and have it to me by Friday morning?”
That was how “Vintage Berry Wine” was born. Loyal readers wrote to tell me they read every column, eager to see what new and daring escapade my brood had gotten into. Usually I wrote about their childish antics—how they interacted with each other, with me, and how utterly rotten they were. Not bad, just mischievous. Readers loved it.
One month later, Linda sent me across the street to the courthouse, so I could begin covering county commission meetings. I was green, nervous, and self-conscious. Instead of meeting the snarky, highly competitive people who worked at other news outlets, I met fellow reporters who were helpful and kind. Before long, we were a loosely-knit group, banded together in a small corner of the room, trying to find stories were there were none, figuring out how to make sense of complicated issues such as solid waste or school bond money that arose during the often tedious two-, three- or even four-hour meetings. Sometimes we just turned to one other, to keep from laughing at the absurdity of what took place.
Two months into the job by then, I knew I loved my work and would stay there forever, if I could. I lived to go to the office each day, where I made phone calls, got the latest police reports or court documents, and turned my notes into articles that would appear in print. I knew Linda trusted me, or else she wouldn’t have given me more and weightier assignments.
I felt a sense of joy and self-confidence like never before, as people learned who I was and began stopping me in the street, commenting about an article I had written, or offering me a news tip for a story I would then scoop, beating out the competition. I felt like I had finally found my place—and the feeling buoyed me up and kept me floating, even when things at home threatened to overwhelm me.
That was happening less often, though, because I was keeping so busy with work, and the new, positive experiences were crowding out the older, negative ones. I also found myself using what I learned in the workplace at home.
For instance, I interviewed a mental health clinic director, who spoke about the family stress that comes from unemployment. I also interviewed several people who were out of work. Their experiences verified what the director told me—marriage and family suffer when the breadwinner loses his job, his i
ncome and then his self-esteem.
As I reviewed my written notes, I underlined the most significant elements of the interviews, and starred the quotes I wanted to use. I was amazed at the number of people I knew all around me who were without work. I pictured them all, living like my children and I had been living, walking on proverbial “eggshells,” in an effort to keep the man of the house from taking out his anger on his family.
Equally eye-opening were the interviews I conducted for an article about a local counseling center for abused women and children. The center director told me people mistakenly think a woman has to have bruises to be abused, and I wrote down her words verbatim. She also said if a man threatens a woman with bodily harm but doesn’t touch her, that’s still abuse. I wrote as fast as I could.
“Then there are the mind games,” she added. “That’s where the men manipulate these women—even though the women are intelligent and articulate.”
I couldn’t write fast enough, and as I was fighting to keep up I saw mental images of similar scenes from my past. I returned to the office with mixed feelings, having just learned what I was—an abused wife. I knew it was true, just as I realized I’d been trying to hide that awful, ugly truth for a very long time.
The months flew by as I settled into my new routine. Each morning, I got the kids ready for school, then dressed myself and left for work. Once there, I made my daily rounds, going first to the sheriff’s office, then to the state police barracks. Back at the office, I checked my messages and returned phone calls, saving the best for last when I would sit down at my computer and write my stories.
By then I had developed a rapport with the police, and found other community figures candidly answered my questions. I allowed my natural curiosity to determine if there was a story and then tried to show both sides. My techniques weren’t aggressive, which worked in my favor, since people told me I was easy to talk to.
At least one or two evenings a week, Linda sent me to cover a local town hall meeting somewhere in the county. Before long, I began taking one or two of the kids with me when I knew the meeting wouldn’t keep them up too late on a school night. It gave us more personal time together, gave me precious minutes to hear about their day at school, and they got a chance to see me in action.
The small-town politicians loved having them there and if the kids didn’t bring their homework or something to play with, the town council members usually supplied them with paper, markers and other office items that kept them preoccupied throughout the meeting. Just having children in the room seemed to lighten everyone’s mood and once the meeting ended, they would tease the kids or compliment them on their good behavior, or even offer them candy or a soda pop—endearing themselves to my little ones. They, in return, would color pictures and present them as gifts, which were accepted and taped to the walls as if the childish drawings were of great value. All of the positive attention made their little faces positively glow with happiness.
I loved being able to give them that time away from home, with me and other adults who treated them with kindness. Whenever I couldn’t bring them, the politicians would express disappointment at not being able to see the children, which made me proud.
I was also secretly glad my meetings steered them away from the path of their father, who never failed to lose his temper during the times he agreed to babysit for me, taking his anger out on them. I wished I could take all four of them with me every single time, but that would prevent me from focusing on my work. Besides, I knew having my entire brood tag along would be unprofessional. Instead, the kids would clamor over whose turn it was “to go to work with Mommy.” I knew they were eager to be rewarded with the special treat I always promised them—usually an ice cream cone—for being on their best behavior, after the meeting.
The job was making me more socially conscious, too, which helped me use what I was learning—not just by writing about in my columns—but by applying it in my own life. After reading about two babies who died inside a car when the temperature rose to one-hundred-fifty degrees, I became outraged. The father admitted he hid the car behind his barn in the sun, because police were searching for him. I lambasted the father, writing a diatribe about parents who neglect or abuse their children, only to get a slap on the wrist. My growing awareness about such things had tapped a vein within me, providing an outlet for my own simmering anger, which I then released through my writing.
By early July, I recognized my anger for what it was: pure, righteous outrage that people would commit such violent acts in the name of love. That’s when a local man was charged with killing his 56-year-old wife while she slept on the sofa, after she had refused to fix his dinner. Or so he claimed. It was the first fatality I covered. Ironically, it occurred the same week Eddie moved out, after I found out he was seeing another woman. As I interviewed Deputy Joe Stiles, an investigator with the sheriff’s department, I found myself thinking about what went on in my own home.
That’s when I started feeling differently about myself as a woman. Linda sent me to cover a press conference at Benedum Airport, about an hour away. The West Virginia Air National Guard was bringing in a C-130, and wanted to demonstrate its features for the media. Linda told me to call Brad Jansen, a part-time photographer we had recently begun using. We hadn’t met yet, but I had seen some of his shots, and knew he did good work.
When we met a week later, I was completely unprepared for Brad. I was sitting in my car when his black truck pulled up beside me. The man I assumed was Brad jumped out, looked at me and smiled, his white teeth flashing in the sunshine.
Oh brother, please let him not be obnoxious. The good-looking ones usually are.
“You must be Brad.”
He took my extended hand and smiled that beautiful smile again. “Yes, and you must be Daleen.”
I laughed. “Yes, I am.” When he turned to get his camera equipment, I couldn’t stop thinking how he looked just like a Greek god. His short, wavy hair was blond and he had lovely, sea-blue eyes. He was tanned, and I could see muscles rippling under his cotton shirt.
If he isn’t a bodybuilder, he’s certainly missing a good chance.
“That’s it.” Brad hopped in the passenger side and closed the door. “It’s a gorgeous day for a flight. I’m really looking forward to this.”
“Actually, I’ve wanted to meet you. I mean, we work for the same newspaper, and until today we didn’t even know each other,” I smiled wryly. “Besides, you do great work.”
“Well thank you. So do you. I’ve read several of your articles and wondered if we would ever meet. So this was a good idea.”
“Yes, it was.” I looked across the car and smiled at him, wondering how many women hit on him during any given day.
Driving to the airport, Brad told me how he came to be a photographer and I shared my experience about working at the newspaper. Since he was freelance, Brad said he usually just went on assignments when Linda or Delbert asked him to. He developed the prints in the darkroom basement at the office, but it was usually long after everyone had gone home, so he didn’t really know the staff.
“Well, here we are.” I maneuvered the car into a parking space and we jumped out. Walking into the airport, I kept fidgeting with my pantsuit. White, with a large black rose pattern, it was cool and comfortable, but with the heat I was also afraid it was showing every bulge.
I turned to see Brad grinning at me. “Do I look all right?”
His look was mixed with humor. “You look great, really.”
I felt my face turn red. “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment; it’s just that this thing tends to cling sometimes.”
“I know you weren’t. And it isn’t. It’s fine.” He laughed and I immediately felt comfortable.
After a short media briefing, we were led to the C-130, which looked like a large green bumblebee. Brad and I found two seats and snapped on our seatbelts. After takeoff, we donned what seemed to be a serious-looking harness and then made our way to the ca
rgo door at the rear. It had been opened to the daylight outside, so we could see the terrain a few thousand feet below. The rushing wind, combined with the noise of the huge engines, was so loud it was almost impossible to hear one another.
Brad leaned over and yelled into my ear, “Why don’t you stand near the edge and I’ll get a shot?” I looked at him like he was crazy, but he was so taken by the idea that I took his advice. A few minutes later I was peering down over the edge, my harness the only thing keeping me from blowing away, as the wind whipped against me.
“This must be what it feels like to skydive,” I yelled. “It’s incredible!
Brad flashed a huge grin and gave me a thumbs-up sign, before snapping several more photos. Then it was his turn. I marveled as he leaned toward the opening, camera in hand, clicking away. Brad seemed fearless, standing much closer to the edge than I had.
After the flight, our group was walking back to the airport when we saw the pilot and some of the other military personnel waving. I waved back. “They like you.” He grinned.
“I’m sure they’re waving at all of us,” I said as I laughed.
“Maybe, but in that outfit, they’re probably waving more at you. I know for sure those eager waves aren’t intended for me, or at least, I hope not!” He chuckled sincerely afterward.
I realized he was teasing me, and felt myself blushing.
As we left the airport building, Brad held the door open for me. The gesture made me think of Eddie, who never did. “It’s nice to know chivalry isn’t dead, after all. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I do it for my wife all the time.”
“She must be happy to have you around. What’s her name?” I asked.
“Connie. We have a two-year-old son, Jason.”
“That’s great. I’ll bet he’s a doll baby.” I smiled.
