Why Not?

 




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      I was shocked to find this note clipped to a cheque for my weekly writing in the Teeswater News.
“… I have known for some time that it was not working well to produce the Teeswater News from over here in Kincardine. A paper should come from the town it represents, and the owner should live in the town, so I have decided to put the paper up for sale. I think you would be good for the paper. You could do it. And the paper would be back in town. Call me if you are interested.”     Eric Howald.

Harry and I read the note over and over. Eventually we could not resist the challenge. We called Eric for an appointment.

	 The next day Eric gave us a complete tour of his operation. “A Comp Junior,” he explained and pointed to a strange blue machine—a kind of typewriter, we guessed.

	 We witnessed a string of letters flash along an inch-high screen at the typist’s eye level as her fingers flew across its key-board. Those letters disappeared with a munching sound but the next volley of letters appeared as she continued typing. The machine munched on, letters appearing and disappearing.

	 For no apparent reason the typist stopped and then from Comp Junior’s innards she extracted a peculiar black box that had white paper protruding from it. This she fed into a gizmo about the size of a breadbox. She pushed the ‘on’ button.

	 It was a miracle. Before our very eyes the same white paper now emerged wet and somewhat smelly. A strip of news had birthed … If one can fall in love with an enterprise, we were already in love.

	 “I’ll phone the accountants. We need a second opinion. Agreed?” Harry, my strong heart.

	 “Publishing has always been considered a risky business,” the accountant said. “Banks have little faith in print. They don’t recognize a subscription list as an asset and that is all you would be buying, that and a few machines.”

	 Now that did it. Bob looked at his two clients who had farmed for a quarter century and were now considering a wild gamble, a truly preposterous idea. He sensed our shock and tried one more tack.

	 “Of course, I can’t tell you not to buy this paper. I can tell you it is a poor risk. However, if you want to buy it, and you are willing to pay his price, then you will do just that. That decision is yours.”

	 Walking side-by-side back to the van with Harry’s warm hand holding mine, I started right in. “Do you think he made sense? I was ready to argue. But better I talk to you than with him. At least you don’t charge by the minute.” Harry just kept walking.

	 “He never looked at the community situation, a town that would like to have its editors living in the community. A town with community spirit and history. Stories to tell. A small town business to rebuild. Did he ever think of that?” Harry could see I needed this time to vent my anger.

	 As Harry drove back to Teeswater and the farm I continued to steam. “I think he only sees two people who farmed. What says a farmer can’t be a publisher, a writer—or anything else for that matter, damn it!”

	 “But that’s his job.” Harry broke his silence. “Let’s lay it out on the table. You like to write. I can see you’re excited. And I have to admit, I like the idea.” He finally had said it and he gave me one of his stunning smiles. “And anyway, why not?”

	 What a clincher. We had used those words so many times over the last two decades. Another day. Another challenge. Why not? Farming, show dogs, exchange students, even giving an ex-prisoner a chance to work for us, to help him get rehabilitated.

	 What harm would it be to try publishing? (The ex-con disappeared with his first pay cheque, I must qualify.)

	 Another great smile spread across Harry’s face. “And what do accountants know anyway?”



©2008 Carolyn Muir Helfenstein




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