Still no sign of or word from Clementine. Have concluded she’s backed out and too embarrassed
to call and tell me. Not the first time
this has happened, although it’s the first time someone has walked away from the
job without seeing Midden Harbour. Seems
small town life is a lot more appealing in the abstract than it is face to
face. Not surprised about Clementine,
she seemed a bright bulb on the phone and through email; far too ambitious to
be satisfied with a backwater job at The Shoreline. Still, she did insist she wanted the direct experience of a small operation. Sounded convincing at the time.
Anyway…
Wednesday is a working day.
The one day in the week when I have a regular job. The Shoreline has only two other employees,
Bessie and Karl. Bessie Laskey is my
office manager. Truth be told, she’s my
office—receptionist, bookkeeper, account executive, public relations officer,
and too many more positions to name. She
runs The Shoreline weekly, and is it’s only fulltime employee. Karl Bjorklund helps with production. Used to be that Karl and I would move large
layout sheets around while we cut and pasted an edition together. When hardcopy layouts were made redundant by
computers, old Karl spent a month in the city taking a course on how to do them
electronically.
On Wednesdays, the day of the week when the newspaper gets
put together, I like to get in early, before them. Usually there by 5:30 give or take. A little earlier in summer when the walk from
the boat at that time of day coincides with the sunrise, and a little later in
winter when the walk from my cabin is shorter, but more difficult because of
the darkness.
I like to arrive early because this is when I write
best. Gives me the luxury of sorting out
all the bits of notes I’ve made over the week.
Write the front page stories first,
This edition will have a photo of Beecher Street jammed with Labour Day
visitors, and a story of how each year local businesses make less money from
visitors who succumb to the siren song of Walmart and Costco before they get
here. Near the bottom of the page are
two pieces. One, about a young boy who
drowned after falling off his grandparents’ boat in rough water. The other, an ongoing story about the uncertain
lumber market and the tenuous status of the local sawmill. Aside from the money brought in by tourists,
the mill is the only source of income in Midden Harbour. If anything ever happened to the mill, the
town, says common wisdom, would die.
Rest of my day was pretty mundane: Finished by stories, fleshed out the spaces
between ads with wirecopy and photos, Karl tidied up the layout, Bessie gave it
a final look, and with a click of a mouse it was off to the printer.
Have done this countless times over the last 20 odd years,
but it still brings a great feeling of satisfaction to do it one more
time. The three of us, Bessies, Karl and
I, and Butkus who spends Wednesdays wandering up and down Beecher getting
treats from shop owners, have a tradition of going down to The Last Dance
Saloon, the local pub, and having a pint.
It’s a nice tradition.
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