First Entry

First entry!

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the premier entry in what will no doubt be a short-lived fancy. In these ephemeral electronic pages, you will get the unparalleled chance to play peeping-tom into the daily trials and tribulations of a Canadian newspaper man! Or at least, the stuff I wankishly choose to share with the "world."

You have no idea who I am, or the people I'm writing about, but it really doesn't matter. Their roles in my life, and my own role in the world, will become apparent through the context of these entries. Mainly, this journal is going to be exercise in writing - something for me to do during idle hours at work, instead of websurfing and thinking about prunes.

Anyways.

My wife and I moved into a house on Friday - an 80 year old 2.5 storey brick home about 5 kms from the house I spent most of my formative years in. Similar style of place, too. The experience of moving in and setting up the furniture reminded me of the experience of moving in to that house on Rothsay, when I was 13 years old. The difference being - I'm now "the man of the house," the guy who gets to decide what sort of crap to put in the garage.

The house sits on a very small lot, but the backyard (a 15x10 plot of grass) has an 8 foot fence, and is very private and green. There are mature trees all around, and thick grape vines form a canopy above some of the yard, as they've grown onto the clothes line. The effect is a bit like a cozy, cool green den or sanctuary, and I intend to put a few lawn chairs out there as soon as we buy some.

This morning I put the garbage out at 6:40 AM while wearing my pajamas and slippers. Short of becoming a father, I can't imagine a more final rubicon of "adultivity." Yessir... I'm all grown up now. Soon I'll get to pay property tax.

Erin and I have been talking about trying to have a baby in the new year. I'll need to find a different job before then - she intends to take a few years off teaching, and The Regional pays little more than welfare. The idea of seriously discussing having a child... I'm not sure how to indicate the feelings I have about that. I want to, I really do. I imagine I'd be a fair parent, even. It's just very strange to think of myself as "daddy." But then, these last three years have been very much years of transition...

Um. Basically, if you're a late 20-something guy, or were one, you know exactly what the heck I'm talking about. I'm sure the experience and feelings are common to just about every middle-class white guy.

I'm living in what may be properly termed "the salad days." No health problems, no money problems, and no real worries beyond getting up for work. I've finally broken beyond the "terminal summer," that depressing period after university where I finally came to grips with "reality" or at least, life outside school. I actually have a work ethic now. Yay, me!

I'm told the "salad days" usually end as soon as your first kid hits puberty. Heck, I've got another decade and a bit of relative bliss, then. :-)

Matrian, a friend from FurryMUCK, got me linked up on Livejournal here. Hiya, Mat. I'm sure I'll address the topic of furryness in a future journal.

Er... the end.

Scenting a story...

Before I left the newspaper today, I fielded a call from a obviously angry man. He was ranting about the destruction of some "wetlands" near Dunnville, about 60 km away from my office. I was about to leave for the day, and asked him if I should stop by the place on Saturday to get photos and find out more. He said it would be too late.

I suggested he call the Dunnville Chronicle (we occasionally collaborate on stories) - his reply was that the Chronicle didn't "dare stand up to that old man."

I suggested he call the police or the Ministry of Natural Resources if he wanted an immediate response - and he said the same thing. They didn't want to get involved.

At this point he started telling me the mayor of the county was refusing to get involved, and I wrote him off as a crank. I passed him off to the editor. I went back into town to pick up Erin, and we went for supper, then out to buy some stuff for the house.

I spent two hours wiring in a new chandelier before I checked my phone messages. Got one from the editor - my crank caller is a former town councillor, and knows whereof he rants. The man he's accusing of clearing wetlands is a fairly important businessman, locally.

*sniff, sniff!* *Yap!* What's that boy? You smell a story? Sic 'im!

Yeah, as a reporter I'm a bit like a senile terrier. Most of the time I'm content to doze at my desk, gnawing on the bones of council meetings and community group minutes that makeup the skeleton of a small town weekly. But give me the scent of scandal, and it's like seeing a rat scurrying off.

Away I hobble on my arthritic legs, yapping up a toothless storm at the fleeing rat. I can't do much if I catch 'em, except gum them, but I can hope that the barking wakes up some of the other dogs.

Ah, yes! The life of a small town reporter! Tommorrow, after getting photos of the big charity plane pull in Mount Hope, I'll be blazing a trail to Dunnville. Once there, I'll be immediately kneedeep in the muddy ruins of a former wetland - private property, too. (If anyone asks, I used a zoom lens, okay?) I'll be intruding on some thoughtless old small town capitalist, asking leading questions, making veiled threats about public opinion, and generally acting like the world's crappiest detective.

I may ever wear The Hat.

Heh. I love my job. :-) Good hunting!