At this point, I’m not sure exactly when ActionNW was launched as weekly tabloid insert focusing on outdoors activities and opportunities, everything from hiking and camping to hunting and fishing and rodeos and travel, especially daytrips.

I do know that it soon became one of my responsibilities at the paper, Noted on 10:III:77, eight months after my arrival, “ActionNW preprinted today — I finally changed the format, raw-wraps [ragged right] and quote-outs. Oxford rules atop the pp. A cram-jam job that worked, and I’m happy.”

Obviously, we weren’t doing a lot of discussion before each edition. It really was seat-of-the-pants, like so much American journalism.

Over time, it would become the closest I would have to running a magazine … I took some inspiration from the Sunday Herald Tribune’s New York section. Yes, the Sunday magazine continues long after the newspaper itself folded.

I also found a letter of recommendation I wrote for a photojournalist buddy: “He sets high standards for himself and uses his art as a means of maintaining a state of constant discovery about life itself. As a result, he has deep influence on many of his colleagues.” Little would I know the eventual downfall …

Goz, bringing in a Time magazine review to Wren, pointed out: journalists as novelists seem to lack plumage. They cannot make their sentences dance, they cannot make them spin with magic.

Sounds like so many of the rejections I’ve been collecting.

James Michael Gosney, 79, died Nov 7, 2017. He was a sportswriter we tasked with the lead stories in ActionNW before giving him a daily column he used to profile everyday locals …

~*~

Noted on 30:VI:77, full moon: Maurie retired today — reception party at the office, surprise party later — new suit, everything like a high school graduation …

Officially, he was news editor of the afternoon edition … died March 16, ’92, in Yakima nursing home, I find now …

A sweet guy, as I recall … pretty much semi-retired already …

Was this another opening for me?

[How much I was oblivious to what was popping up around me or my threat to others and their existing order.]

So during this stretch I had Mondays off … allowing me an “outdoors day” free of the weekend crowds …

In mid-August: With a Wednesday off work, I slept till 11. Who needs 11 hours sleep? I had set the alarm for 6.

Wednesday, I shift back to two weeks of night labor, wondering how Tippet will accept my presence over him …

Friday night, after work, stopped at the Lewisville (a log cabin tavern) for a pitcher with Whiz and Jeff. Goz dropped in after a glut-out on escargot and Reisling. He and I talked out back till 3:30 under half moon and clouds after the tavern closed. He wondered about the value of it all, “Am I a good writer?” Answering himself, no, but later, yes, reflecting on the joy he’d given old men with one piece.

“Hooper, he was a good editor. Could really make a piece sparkle. But you, Mr. Hodson, have a touch that may be better.”

~*~

How many times have I not done something because I know from news stories how dangerous the time/place/action is?

How much have I never done because I was doing my job instead?

~*~

A really bad night at the office, when Macknicki and I were suddenly far behind after the new copy courier had dumped all of the UPI perforated tapes because the machine had gone bad. Perton swearing he’d never seen things so bad, copy piled up, etc.

Yes, I was dead when Kitty came home and was pissed I slept late the next morning.

Notes of frustration, having to cover for Mrs. Stone plus a farm tab on top of what was already too much …

~*~

22 Nov., morning, I note working two weeks of day slot (the afternoon edition), which even means getting Thanksgiving Day off … (Hurray!)

And then our HR administrator noticed Mrs. Stone was 15 minutes late the day she “fell” … um …

[slackers]. And thus to can or ax a bounder can become natural, to make the forest come to climax or to fulfill its own — to bump them off keeps the youngest saplings from starving.

16:XII: Worked night shift, came home, my wife within, the little house seemed so sad, even from the distance.

At work, two-paragraph story, conductor Thomas Schipper had died, of cancer, age 47. I had almost played his recording of Rossini’s Stabet Mater today as a requiem for Nosmo. How strange.

~*~

Gil’s leaving, for Woodbury, NJ, and a daily of his own, yet our sense of loss and reassurance, Whiz and me.

Gil telling me how Kent’s a bit afraid of me, thinks I’m unpredictable, too independent for his taste — how the back shop claims I’m indecisive (what I get for being considerate of them).

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.

As I noted:

My mother-in-law sent a copy of the R-T — nothing there but sadness — the only merit to the pages at all were touches I had added: Datebook, Round the Square — a paper the current staff can’t handle …

And then, Friday night, 2 pitchers of beer with Gil, many revelations, that he has his eye on many people and when he gets his own paper, he’ll go after them … and that I’m No. 1 on his list. “It’s almost eerie how you take a project of mine and do what I want and improve on it” … would especially like to see me in a weekend editor capacity, responsible for the whole paper … also, details about the new photographer, as photo chief over Dean / fireworks … desire to revamp the p.m. edition but no idea what the publisher wants … As Gil said to Tippet: “Hodson’s my man, he never was part of the news desk pool” … that Kent can’t stand [fill in the blank], “Every office has the squealers who camp in the boss’ office” … Gil keeps waiting for the bubble to burst, for the dream to fade, but it doesn’t … [how was Kent able to create Gil’s position and then mine?] … In that regard, this was my golden era … not a later leap, back in Ohio, despite its aspirations … I came in there a step too late and D.P.’s fatal blow sent us reeling …

Here, though, our initial changes seem to be working: “We’ve thrown just about everything at you and you’ve improved it all,” as Gill confided in me.

~*~

Early February ’77:

Bummed and surprised after Whiz-Boy’s first slide show at the office and the threatened reaction of the drones, sleepwalkers like Marriott and the admen … the comfort of mediocrity, newspapers dying in their sleep versus the growth and excitement of life and excellence …

Early March:

Awoke at 4:30 despite falling off at 10:30 or 11 at Whiz and Wisteria’s, where we felt the awkwardness of office status distinctions. He was officially a step above me, meaning having dinner with the Kents and Gils the night before and, besides, they get a free membership at the Y.

My wife was secretly resentful, but it’s not a just world.

Monday night, the 4^th, at work — everything going well until the end, when heds piled up (Marriott on the rim), meaning we didn’t finish shipping until 12:20, didn’t get off the floor until 1 … bad night, horoscope said it was good day for my career …

The workweek was too long. Arriving at the office on Tuesday, already a day behind. The TV booklet was due out back on Monday. On Friday I lose three hours to the arts section and meetings. No time to breathe in between, no sense of creation. That’s no way to work.

August:

Kent “unveiled” his master plan yesterday — going to a more “magazine” style (my God, how many typographical sins have been committed under that category? How many magazines practice any kind of layout of that order?). Where we had variety, flexibility, we now have one rigid style; where we once kept mediums with mediums, we are now ordered to mix them, not necessarily attractively. … We now have a complex set of directives of what size goes with what hammer, depending on the number of columns used in that instance.

The new plan requires twice the time to perform, and twice the space, of the old …

Surprisingly, Gil was never consulted. Whiz is not a makeup man; Gil is. Gil is supposed to be in charge of the desk. But these orders came down on him as much of a surprise as to the rest of us.

Realize I need to sit back now, just do my job, not offer any help (it’s requested but never used). Let Kent do himself in or split somewhere with Gil.

The entire newsroom reaction: resentment. Fishback’s Q in the staff meeting wasn’t about feature photographs at all. It was about content and guts. Just where are we really going?

Enough of this. Must remember not to pull any “grand plans” when I’m in the place. Take everyone into my confidence.

[One thing I did win here was raising datelines to their own line of type, flush right, in the manner of the New York Herald Tribune.]

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.

In reviewing my journal scribblings, I’ve been surprised how little I recorded about my introductory months at the Herald-Republic. By the way, that had been “Republican” for much of the paper’s history. What I am seeing, though, is how much I was Gil’s right-hand man, rather than the newbie at the bottom of the pecking order. Still, I was a utility player who had to jump in wherever the need arose. Not exactly a floater but close.

For the first time in my career, I was working closely under a manager who was actively grooming me. It was definitely different from my internships at the Journal Herald, which had presented some solid coaching all the same.

I don’t know how much of this period was reacclimating myself to daily journalism after my year-and-a-half break in academia, but in addition to adapting to a new landscape quite different than any I had known, I was also observing the lay of the land inside the newsroom, where Kent and Gil hadn’t made any big changes yet.

Astrologically, my Aquarius was a complementary opposite to Gil’s Leo, and from the ashram, I had learned to let him shine. In return, he respected my need for independence. It worked well. He was an avid sports fan, contrary to me, and had even been executive sports editor at the Miami News in one of his stints.

One bit of interesting coincidence was that in the Air Force, he had almost been posted in Enewetak in the Air Weather Service, 1957-’58, when Sam [my father-on-law] was the meteorologist in charge during hydrogen bomb tests.

In trying to catch up now, I see that he was born in Omaha in 1936 and died in Newburgh, New York, in 2015. I always thought of him as a Californian and learn from his obituary that he moved there after his military service, attended college, and then worked at a series of California papers before joining Kent as the assistant managing editor in Yakima.

~*~

As for my floater situation? As I noted:

Tenth straight day of work. The Sunday night/Monday morning doing me in. But have built the GR boards (timeless backup stories ready to paste up if the system crashes) and removed deadwood. …

On day shift this week and told I’ll be editor of special sections — day shift, M-F, beginning early December … [four months away] .

~*~

~*~

 Should you wonder why I go by Jnana:

Ours was a newsroom of Jims: both the current and future publishers, the city editor and his assistant, the sports editor, our local columnist, maybe a reporter or two … ultimately, a third of the males in the newsroom … as for the composing room, advertising, the pressmen? It was like being named “Boy.”

Even so, I was back to my pedestrian given name in this setting, unlike Bloomington. Here, Jnana became reserved for my friends, fellow Quakers, and literary endeavors. You’ve probably figured out by now that I have often functioned by relying on a compartmentalized life.

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.