Thursday September 12 2013

hursday September 12 2013

Thursday is printing day, but as I’ve said before, since the advent of computers and the internet, the whole process of putting out a newspaper has gone from grueling to gravy.  Once the electronic version is done, the paper is done. 

My friend Ken, who studies techie things and is the only resident of Midden Harbour with a 3D printer, has tried (unsuccessfully) to get me to understand the new wave of technological innovation by explaining it in jargon-less language.  I don’t get most of it.  But what I have come to understand is that Ken’s claim that “If you can imagine it, it can exist.” Is absolutely valid.  On Wednesdays I imagine a newspaper—stories, ads, layout, headlines, photographs—and on Thursday, that paper starts rolling off presses a hundred miles away without me ever having to leave my desk.  Amazing!

This was Evolene’s first week at the Shoreline, and I had let her know that there was no expectation for her to develop anything on her own.  Instead, during our pleasant hours on the boat on Saturday, we chatted about the town and the people and both our expectations.   Turns out her expectations aren’t quite the same as mine, but fortunately, she’s a good listener.

Seems she had this image of launching herself onto the Midden Harbour scene with a bang.  Being the motivated go getter that she is, her prep for coming here had involved lots of research.  She had read through all the back issues I’d sent, looked at the town history online, and studied the demographics and evolution of the community.  When she pedalled over that last rise and down into Midden Harbour, she had our number.

She knew, for example, that the softwood lumber industry was still reeling from the housing downturn that began in 2008.  She knew that the Snow mill hadn’t been able to afford upgrades in a decade, and that the machinery being used had none of the newest technological benefits.  None of the most recent improvements in precision processing that allowed for increased production.  The mill, in her words “It’s a dinosaur.  The productivity sucks both in terms of return on investment and in terms of workforce productivity.  The only electronics in the place are the light bulbs. “  End of story.

After this pronouncement, while we were sitting on the aft deck of the boat in a quiet bay drinking chilled white wine as the sun set, she dug into her backpack and pulled out a sheaf of computer printout pages, and, with a self-satisfied smile, said “Here.”  At the top of the first page, in headline bold, was Midden Mill on Notice.  The story was a 500 word screed on how the mill had been left behind by the competition, forgotten by the market, and had the last nail put in its coffin by a crippling union agreement.  She had all her facts right, and all her sources cited, and the thrust of the article was true.  What she didn’t have, however, was any sense of what a piece like this would do to the community in general, and my neck in particular.

My measured response began with “This is a masterful piece of journalism, Ev.  However, you have to be out of your fucking mind if you think this is ever going to get published!  This was followed by lot of yelling on both sides, and ultimately, by a lecture by me on life in a small town.  She was hurt and embarrassed and I was pissed and embarrassed.  In the end, we drank more wine and acknowledged each others’ points. 

By the end of it all, I was too drunk to pilot the boat.  She slept in my bunk, after I had changed the sheets.  I slept on deck under a tarp.  Butkus paced.  In the morning, we were all grumpy, but friends.