He Wrote Hard News, I Wrote Fluff
“Don’t waste your time. They’re not hiring,” said the inky-haired reporter taking a smoke break outside The Carthage Press. I applied anyway. Hired on the spot, I activated my journalism degree two desks east of the smoker. He wrote hard news; I wrote fluffy features. He was a Jewish Tunisian immigrant; I was a Baptist Ozarkian. He liked classical music; I liked hootenannies. Together, we found words that worked. Today, the 1884 Missouri newspaper is history, its building edited into apartments. The reporter and I celebrated our 46th anniversary. I’m glad he quit smoking. He’s glad I wasted my time. — Marti Attoun
A Baseball Player Remembers
My sister Marge died when my son was only 5. During those five years, when she was battling cancer, the two of them bonded over baseball. Once she confided that she was scared he would forget her. I’ve taken every opportunity to bring up Marge’s name, but didn’t know if it made any difference. Eight years later, my son is on the school baseball team. On the first day of the season, I told him how much Marge would have enjoyed watching him. In response, he showed me his bat, where he had written Marge’s name in thick, black marker. — Mary Girsch-Bock
