My Mayberry existence — once upon a time

Years ago I lived in a small college town in near a large city, but not too close. It felt like it was out a ways from everything. If it hadn’t been a college town, I would have thought I really was way out in the country.

Now this little town was like some place you’d imagine in a dream. It was quite idyllic — literally. It had a small, liberal arts college with an excellent reputation, nestled in a beautiful setting with enormous old trees. It had a nice park downtown where the local folks could have their picnics, band concerts, arts events and festivals. And they did.

The Park was directly across the street from exceedingly quaint Main Street, with its two blocks of brick buildings housing a bank, gift shop, a sandwich shop, some specialty stores, an old Rexall drug dtore, the post office, a real estate establishment, and an assortment of other businesses. One block housed the newspaper office where I worked as editor of the local paper which came out weekly.

When I landed that job, the paper was about ready to collapse into nothing. It was 6-8 pages with few ads, and the local businesses had ceased to support it because, founded and owned locally for many years, it was now part of a haphazard chain of weeklies based in another state. Of course, when I took the job, I had no idea how mismanaged that company was. I soon found out.

Into this situation an idalistic and somewhat naive 26-year-old editor came to make his mark, laden with the enthusiasm only someone so young could muster, given the realities of the situation. I had new ideas, or so I thought. I even had a philosophy about community journalism which I wrote about the first week on the job in my inaugural column.

I couldn’t believe my luck. I had an office on Main Street, and I was my own boss, basically. One good thing about the company — they didn’t care what I did and they never sent anyone from headquarters up that way except for one time when we instituted a futile circulation-building campaign. There were two other people to assist me in producing the paper each week.

I remember a flurry of activity those months I was there: interviews for feature stories, photographs to take, town council meetings to cover.

Each morning, I’d come into the office, put my stuff down, and head a couple of stores up Main Street to the sandwich shop for a fresh-squeezed orange drink and an egg salad sandwich on toast. This was a college hangout, truly an institution around those parts, and the sandwich and drink were two of the specialities of the house which the owners, whipped out all morning long. I can see Murray now slicing those oranges and placing them deftly under the squeezer. Very simple, very basic food, but good.

Next, I’d walk a block from there to the post office, collect the mail, including dozens of press releases, and come back to the office and begin editing them if I planned to use any in that week’s paper. Some gave me ideas for local stories.

As the day wore on, I’d be out taking pictures, doing interviews, and, in general, living the life of a small-town newspaper editor.

I was too young to know any better, but I really imagined myself to be some sort of prominent man in the town. Editor of the paper. I even imagined people passing me on the sidewalk on Main Street and saying to themselves, “There’s the newspaper editor. I wonder what’ll be on the front page this week.” Of course, most people didn’t know me from the merest stranger passing through town. I’d only been there a few months, didn’t have any family or connections in the area, and so I wasn’t vested in the community as are some family-owned papers and their editors.

Of course, I had my regular, favorite places to eat, including a motel restaurant outside town where I could get a fried pork chop, mashed potatoes and gravy, navy beans, collard greens, corn bread, and all the sweet tea I could drink for one low price. A meat and two vegetables and dessert. That was the lunch special each day.

In a way, I lived a kind of charmed, Mayberry-type existence. There wasn’t any crime to speak of. I recall the first week I was on the job, the first armed robbery in 20 years occurred when someone robbed the Rexall Drug Store of about $500. I wrote the story up on the front page, it was such an unusual thing to happen in that town.

I’d ride my bike through the college campus, visit its very nice library and sometimes eat lunch in the student center snack bar. I would on occasion go hear speakers and write stories for the paper on their presentations.

It was a great place to live. I got up each morning excited about going to work. I published a number of local writers who sent in contributions, including one delightful woman I’ll never forget, with whom I became good friends. She would turn in the most enchanting and evocative pieces reminiscing about her childhood. They were wonderful memory pieces written in a knowing and wise manner. She lived in the country outside of town and had me over to dinner a few times. She made some of the best fried chicken and potato salad I had ever tasted. She was a member of a writing class at the local community college, and when I left that job, they all held a going away party for me and wrote farewell poems. I was immensely moved, and touched deeply by their thoughfulness and friendship.

I was there less than a year. The paper just wasn’t making any money, so it was sold. The new owner wanted to do everything himself, so I had to pack up my bags and reluctantly leave that little garden spot on the map.

I still can picture those old houses near the college with their huge front porches, and the big trees everywhere which gave the whole place a verdant, wooded appearance.

It had its problems. I don’t mean to ignore that. It certainly had it’s other side of the tracks, but it was essentially a college town, a place anchored by a seat of learning and culture that had a long and proud history.

To me, for a few short, but intensely lived months, it was a dream job in a little place that wasn’t too far removed from what I imagined Utopia to be like, in my youthful naivite, of course. It seemed to be a place in harmony with its surroundings, and it made me think, “This is a good place to be. I could live here for a long, long time.” But of course, I didn’t.