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I had never been in a big city newsroom.
Sort-of spoiler talk
Reporters pounding their stories on manual typewriters made it noisy. The air was blue with cigarette smoke and language to make a sailor blush. To meet my editor and start my job, I had to make my way past hard-bitten smirking, leering men. The editor was kindly yet he gave me an asment appropriate for a young girl — writing features for a special advertising edition.
I wanted to hold my own in that tough newsroom. I wanted to be a real reporter. I learned right away that these superstar men planned their day around the pub.
And they had to be fast. Pubs opened for just one hour at 6 p. Barkeeps lined up pitchers of beer and filled them with hoses.
End of sort-of spoiler talk
Drinkers stood at round tables and downed all they could between drags on cigarettes in one hour. I figured if I had a shot at making my mark in the newsroom I had better prove myself at the pub. I hated beer. So to show I could hold my alcohol, I had to down gins and tonics as fast as I could. After an hour, we all walked back across the street to the newsroom — for reporters to write their stories, since we were a morning paper.
I hung around every night until the chief reporter gave me an asment. Made my story a front- lead. After 5 p. If I had — I would have been terrified. I thought he was like the highway superintendent in our little town.
Maybe he was charmed by a naive young American woman who listened to him. And did exactly what she said she would do. I was so afraid I could make a mistake in my story that I called him back and double checked that I got it right. Those hot shot, cocky, big time journalists knew too much to call anyone back. They decided what the story was before they even did the interview.
Wot i think: burly men at sea
Then there was me. I trembled with anxiety every time I banged out a story on my Underwood with five carbon copies. One weekend when only someone trying to prove themselves would be in the newsroom, the chief reporter sent me to the docks to find out what was going on. There had been reports that there might be a dock workers strike.
Shipping was a big deal in in a country way out in the Pacific that relied on ships to bring in things like cars, shoes, tractors, pretty much anything that required mass production. The country was simply too small to manufacture them.
Ships also took away the meat and cheese and timber that brought in the foreign currency that allowed importing. Within minutes I was on the docks walking between mammoth ships surrounded by burly, tough, tattooed men. No one was going to do that for sure.
Eventually someone told me that the purser on one of the ships would know. I watched for my opportunity. Snuck up the gangway and wandered around the corridors looking for the pursers office.
The offices had brass plates on them. Eventually I found the right door. Did you know these are tough guys? But I got my story — afraid that I could make a mistake. Fail to become one of those real reporters.
'burly' man grabs boerne woman's buttocks, runs off
Two Texas university employees asked students if they were vaccinated. They were fired weeks later. They have now been charged. Two TV reporters wore Afro-like wigs live on the air. They have been suspended and their boss fired. A man threw paint on a sculpture of George Floyd. News of Otsego County. She lives in Franklin. Who was the anonymous source? The minister of energy.
Not often did I have an asment that meant I could drive a company car — but this one did. But who among those dockworkers who would break ranks and let me through? Way to go, Erna!