20 years in journalism

Twenty years ago this month, my journalism career began.

I don't recall the ad for my first job. It must have been something like this.

“Wanted: An enthusiastic young scribe. Doesn't need to know how to type, or spell all that well. Candidates can be painfully shy, socially awkward, hopelessly introverted and lousy with names. No experience whatsoever taking a photo of anything moving is a must.”

So, clearly, I was a natural. Surprising I'm not allergic to newsprint.

But I love to write, so I gave it a shot. I took a job offer from the bi-weekly Iowa Falls Times-Citizen on May 20, 1993. I know this exactly because, after looking at a couple of apartments, I watched the last episode of “Cheers” in a local bar where nobody knew my name.

On June 1, 1993, I became “sports editor.” And also sports reporter, copy editor, photographer, darkroom apprentice, news reporter and amateur therapist to parents who thought their kids didn't get the sort of coverage they so obviously deserved.

I graduated from a university that cost $15,000 yearly and took a job that paid a couple cans of tomato soup below $13,000.

Luckily, my first apartment was only $190 per month. Unluckily, when it rained, water ran down the walls. It rained a lot in 1993, you may recall. At one point, a portion of the false ceiling collapsed on my dining “room” table, which also was in my living room.

Ironically, with all that moisture, the driest place in the joint was the shower, where a trickle of lukewarm water dripped from the clogged shower head, attached to the clogged pipe. The landlord would fix it any day now. In the meantime, I used that trickle to slowly fill a big cup, that I dumped over my head, repeatedly. Fortunately, I didn't drown. Great way to start the day.

Outside those weeping walls, Iowa Falls was a great town. Rocky's Pizza was downstairs. The 77 Lounge was a mere block away, where Pete the bartender introduced me to the charms of the properly mixed gin martini. And the sports beat was great, state tournaments, championship games. There was always good stuff to write about.

And that's always been the draw for me. Not the glamour or riches, obviously, but the work. Twenty years, nine newspapers, counting the six served by my Statehouse bureau.

I suppose this is the point where I'm supposed to stand, mouth agape, in awe of all the changes I've seen. (We used to set our tweets in lead type!)

But that couldn't be more obvious. There are now an astounding, at times, confounding, number of ways to reach and engage people. Our capacity to connect, inform and spark conversations and arguments at blinding speed is remarkable. In many ways, it's a fantastic, heady time to be in the information business. Many journalists, especially young ones more creative and agile than I, understand this.

My biggest problem with this brave new world is that it's apparently not big enough for a lot of talented, experienced folks who have found the out door either voluntarily or with institutional assistance. Many folks I respect and admire have departed the news biz. On my first day of work here in Cedar Rapids five years ago, a group of co-workers took me out for a beer. Today, I'm the only one still here. And anyone still around lives with the full knowledge that a very bad day is a very real possibility.

It's become fashionable in the sneering quarters of the mediagensia to assert that we longtime lamestreamers should be ashamed of ourselves for picking such a career-asaurus, and for sticking around. I guess, like my mom used to say while visiting one of my luxurious apartments, it's never too late for law school.

But I don't think I'd change much. If I had done something else, I would have missed a lot of fun. I would have missed seeing moments that were joyful, surprising. historic and heartbreaking. I'd have missed meeting so many smart, funny, intriguing, creative, brave, resilient people. Heck, I met my wife while covering a meeting.

I might have been a very happy businessman, but, sadly, I never would have interviewed George W. Bush with a coffee stain on my shirt the size of Madagascar. Where would I have been when elections surprised us, nature stunned us or when that kid yelling “We won!” ran down the steps of the Iowa Judicial Building waving a landmark ruling over his head?

Aside from a few spills, this work has filled my cup. To celebrate this milestone, maybe I'll dump it over my head.