Everybody knows that I’m the newsboy of the town.
You can hear me yelling ‘Morning Star’ as I run along the street,
I’ve got no hat upon my head, no shoes upon my feet.”---A.P. Carter
There are no Jimmie Browns around these days, and a good thing, too. The state of the newspaper business being what it is, Jimmie would be in even worse shape. Television was once proclaimed to be the eventual slayer of newsprint but the tube was a mere annoyance compared to the colossal tsunami which is the internet. That beast, with its up-to-the-second information and ad revenue-sapping tentacles has almost eliminated the newspaper from American life.
The nation’s first daily newspaper, The Pennsylvania Packet, began publication on September 21, 1784, though many weekly papers preceded it. The first independent newspaper, The New England Courant, was published by Benjamin Franklin’s older brother James in 1721. The papers were the exclusive source of news and perhaps the greatest influence on society during the Golden Age of the Newspaper from 1830 to 1930, when the coming of radio news offered the first hint of competition.
Born in response to a thirst for news in the large eastern cities such as Boston, New York and Philadelphia, the mood of the modern metropolitan papers eventually spread across the nation, led by the great innovators of the American press—men like Bennett, Greeley, Bryant, Pulitzer, Hearst and Scripps. Bonds developed between the newspapers and the citizens of the republic and the papers became an intimate part of daily life. Technological advances in papermaking, typesetting and printing as well as the growth of advertising gradually made possible huge metropolitan dailies with circulations in the hundreds of thousands.
Soon, journalism became a way of life for a host of publishers, editors and reporters. Feature sections arose containing comics, sports, puzzles, cartoons, advice columns and letters-to-the-editor. Small newsstands popped up all over the downtowns of large cities and wandering newsboys like Jimmie Brown loudly brandished their products. “Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” promised juicy scoops. Tabloids—many of them William Randolph Hearst papers—used brazen headlines celebrating feats of war and Hollywood gossip to attract readers. Hearst made the back page a second front page, exclusively for sports.
And then, of course, there was politics.
Dewey Defeats Truman! Or Maybe Not.
Since early in their history, newspapers have leaned one way or another politically, usually in the direction most of their customers were inclined to, although there were noteworthy exceptions. The St. Petersburg Times was a famous liberal institution in a retirement town and carried a lot of clout. In small cities and towns, an endorsement by the local paper was tantamount to victory in mayoral races, city and country commission contests and the like. The large city dailies generally reflected the views of their ownership, which remained steady over decades.
In 1948, The Chicago Tribune, a famously Republican paper which had once called Democratic presidential candidate Harry Truman a nincompoop, celebrated the election a smidge too early with a headline claiming Republican Tom Dewey had won. In no time, there were newspaper photographs everywhere of the eventually victorious Truman holding up the errant Trib front page. “Who’s the nincompoop now?” Harry gleefully asked.
In 1972, Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, two young reporters at the Washington Post, patiently gathered up the bits and pieces of the Nixon administration’s misdeeds which led to the Watergate scandal. Without the cleverness and determination of those two and lacking the guidance and gumption of Post editor Ben Bradlee, Richard Nixon would likely have slipped through the cracks and held onto his office. Because of them, Nixon was routed and his crew of slimeballs either went to jail or disappeared into the night.
With the dawn of 24-hour television news, the influence of newspapers has gradually waned, but the best of them continue to be the consciences of their communities. The New York Times and the Washington Post have led the counterattack against the current feckless administration in D.C., publicizing every outrage, challenging each false claim, holding up a mirror to the emperor’s new clothes. Without these two newspapers and a battery of likeminded allies, who knows what dire straits the country might find itself in? Edmund Burke once said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of Evil is for good men to do nothing.” Too many good men are doing just that. In perilous times, it remains for our old friends the newspapers to man the battlements. Long live their names and long live their glory and long may their stories be told.
The Days Of Disappearing Ink
Fifty years ago, there were seven daily newspapers in New York City. Today, there are three, excluding The Wall Street Journal, which is more of a specialty paper. That’s three more than there are in some towns, where the newspaper has ebbed and flowed out to sea. In most places, one lonely paper is holding on. The Gainesville Sun and the Ocala Star-Banner, owned by the same people, continue to hang by the skin of their teeth, now printed in the same facility, using much of the same staff.
Virtually everywhere, page numbers are down, as is the overall size of the paper. In some vicinities, you can hold the newspaper up to the sun and almost see through it. The number of copies printed has also been cut to the bone. The Sun was once available in adjacent Marion County but is no longer, the victim of insufficient sales. And while the papers are smaller, the price is greater, doubled in some cases. The price of the Gainesville and Ocala dailies is now $2, a buck more on Sundays. Few people are thrilled with the notion of paying two dollars for a minuscule newspaper, let alone an extra one for the Sunday comics and an emaciated Parade magazine. But then there’s Bill Killeen and his ilk.
From The Cradle To The Grave
I remember newspapers almost from my infancy. Before I could read them, I held them close enough to smell the ink while I perused the photographs. Newspapermen are sometimes called ink-stained wretches, but I actually was covered with the stuff, loath as it was to cling to the paper.
A little older, I read the paper for the sports pages, especially to follow the Red Sox, Celtics and Bruins. I memorized the standings, the statistics, the starting lineups. My grandfather delighted in my vast reservoir of knowledge, showing me off at five-years-old to his friends. “Billy, tell them who the top ten hitters are in the American League.” Nothing to it, Grampa.
In grade school, I read the entire sports section, high school, college, pro sports, even dubious stuff like automobile racing of which I had no interest. I liked the writing, which was very professional, often clever and sometimes sarcastic. Someday, this could be a backup career if I wasn’t good enough to play first base for the Red Sox.
In high school, I started reading the editorial pages, poked around in politics, saw that the writing style in these areas was more fastidious, regimented, less colorful. I discovered that writers of straight news were to lead with who, what, where, when and why because readers didn’t want to dawdle around getting the facts.
In college, I majored in Journalism, worked for the Oklahoma State University college paper (named the O’Collegian, of all the horrible alternatives) and dependably turned in a lot of material. I became aware there was a newspaper hierarchy, which consisted of various editors, several of whom could alter and reduce your copy, a wretched affront. I was also shocked to discover that certain articles were censored because the University deemed them unhelpful to its image. In protest of this outrage, I published my own magazine and wrote anything I chose, which earned me a warning from the OSU supreme beings: if this sort of thing continued, I might be thrown out of school. Well, harrumph! After three years, I left of my own volition….probably just before the giant boot arrived.
Current Affairs
One of my favorite parts of the day is sitting down around noon with the day’s newspaper. The mornings are taken up with blog writing, gymgoing and various kinds of septuagenarian maintenance, but the afternoons are largely available for reading. There is no reliable newspaper delivery in the depths of the countryside where I spend my days, so I must rely on the kindness of strangers or a 25-minute automobile roundtrip to the hamlet of Williston to secure my Gainesville Sun. Now a pale shadow of its former brawny self, the Sun remains the only decent independent source of local news and sports coverage.
I think that in a previous life I may have been a sports reporter, so it’s logical that I’ll first be checking in to see what my current brethren are up to. Then, it’s off to the editorial page for comic relief. There are few snippets of humor as crackingly funny as missives from the outraged citizens of rubeville outposts such as Starke, Lake City and Old Town who are certain that the world has turned on its head and it’s only a matter of time until the Huns sack the palace. The real comic page cannot compete for hilarity with the letters but I read it anyway, for old times’ sake. Sometimes, I check in with Dear Abby’s daughter for sensible advice. Eventually, I get to the front page, where I diligently search for a speck of hope that the president may be showing early signs of Cotard’s Delusion or Exploding Head Syndrome. Disappointed, I check the weather.
Sometimes, when I’m waiting in line with my newspaper, I get sarcasm from my fellow customers. “I can’t believe anybody still reads the newspaper. Double the old price and half the pages.” Or, “I get all my information from the internet.” Or Fox News. Or The National Enquirer. Or “My husband says that’s all baloney, the boys at the lodge have the real scoop.”
This is a big mistake on their part. They have now awakened Preacher Bill for his Sermon on the Mount. I remind them of the value of community and assure them that the local paper is the soul of the area, as nothing else can be. Who else has the welfare of the people at heart? Who else will advise you of the sub rosa goings-on at city hall, where the money for road repair has gone into Commissioner Canopener’s pocket? Who else will raise a hue and cry at the outlandish racket those horrendous airboats are making on the lake or advise you that alligator poachers are running wild on the prairie or warning that the Republicans are putting pizza with anchovies back on the school lunch menu? Nobody, that’s who.
You will miss your little newspaper when it’s gone. No more Doonesbury. No more holding the basketball coach’s feet to the fire. No more maps of the worst pothole areas to avoid. No more checking the Lotto numbers on page 2. How will you know what to do without your daily horoscope to refer to? Where will you get your crossword puzzle, find out what’s on TV, see who bought the farm lately?
A recent survey found that the average Joes did not feel the local newspaper was a key source of information. Yet, when asked about specific local topics and which sources they relied on for that info, it turned out that most people are quite reliant on newspapers and their websites. Of the 16 specific local topics queried, newspapers ranked as the most relied upon source for 11 of the 16. Among all adults, newspapers were cited as the most relied upon source for information on crime, taxes, local government activities, schools, local politics, local jobs, community events, the arts, zoning information, social services, real estate and housing and who put the Ram in the Rama Lama Ding Dong.
I will admit to having a personal stake in this, being the world’s greatest Jumble savant and now finding my Jumble availability at risk. Also, I will have a very hard time keeping up with Prince Valiant and his lovely wife, Aleta. You can’t just call up some hotline and find out what’s going on in the Misty Isles. And how will I know what magnesium supplements to take if Suzy Cohen is no longer around? How will I know which horses to bet on? It’s a nightmare, a flirtation with darkness, a rash leap into the abyss. Let’s slow down here and think about this. Does anyone have a phone number for William Randolph Hearst?
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
