So many years, so many stories

By MARY JANE HOLT
Contributing Writer

I stopped by Belk on my way out of town.

As I was paying for my purchase, I asked the clerk if she read the local paper.
"Oh, sure," she said, "as often as I can. I like to read it from cover to cover, but I don't always have time to do that anymore. I especially like the Sunday paper, though. I have more time then, and they are putting a lot of good stuff into it now, even a magazine."

"Great, I'm glad to hear you enjoy it. Please keep a lookout for my column. I just left their office and I've got a good feeling. I hope they are going to start publishing it."
"That's great," she said. "I'll watch for it. They have pulled my favorite column and I don't know why. But I'll watch for yours."

She told me a little about her "favorite column." It had been written by the man I had just been talking to for a couple of hours, the managing editor.

He had told me the publisher pulled the column when he announced he was running for the office of coroner. Something about a conflict of interest. I reckon if an undertaker ran for that same office he would be expected not to participate in any funerals during the campaign period. Or what if a paramedic sought the position?

All I know is that lady at Belk really did miss her column. She made me want to go back to the newsroom and ask for past issues so I could read what this man had been saying over the years.

Thirty-nine years. That's how long he's been with the local paper. Started out selling classified advertising. Did it all before he finally became managing editor. Of course, he says it's just a title now under the new management. Things change.
Things do change, don't they? And there are always those who argue that it's for the best. I wonder.

We went for lunch at a little cafe in the heart of the city. It was across the road from a most interesting old building with a strange sculpture in the front yard. The editor told me the building had once been the newspaper office. And, before that, it had been the county jail.

I commented that it looked like an old church. Pointing to the tall steeple, I asked why anybody would convert a church to a jail.

"That was the gallows," was his response.

More than one prayer probably escaped the lips of those hung there, but I suppose that was probably the only way the old building ever really could have been compared to a church. What do I know?

My new found friend, the editor, however, knows everybody. I do mean everybody. And by first names. All ages. All colors. All makes of vehicles. Everybody spoke to him, and their faces lit up when they did. Like they were talking to an old friend.

An hour or two didn't begin to cut it. You cannot imagine how I wanted to hear this man's stories. Thirty-nine years. One town. One job. One with those he served.
Don't know what will happen after the election. Win or lose, I hope the paper will print his column again. I left his town hoping he wins. As coroner, he can continue to serve his county.

He will be retiring from the newspaper next February. Of course, he has plans to do some volunteer work with Special Olympics, and travel a bit. I cannot imagine him not being in his chair in the newsroom, and I just met him. I can only begin to imagine the loss the town will know when he is no longer there.

But, things do change. People grow older. And some day they die. And when they do, they get eulogized to some extent. Some folks even get a monument, or a statue of sorts, in a public place. And folks walk up to the piece of marble, or metal, and wonder for a brief minute or two what his or her secret was.

I was afforded two short hours, and I knew in half that time there was no "secret" to his success. Clearly, it's his dedication. He loves his town, his county, his state, and its people. He counts it a privilege to serve. Service, from the heart. And total dedication. February will come too soon.

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