The Story of Our Own Times

Our friend Bill has played the leading role in many funny stories which tend to be repeated whenever his name is mentioned. He purchased a Cabbage Patch doll out of a stranger’s trunk; later  his young daughter wailed, “there’s no belly button, it’s not real!” He bought a tree from a man warming his hands over a fire in a barrel on Christmas Eve – he later learned the lot owner had closed up two hours earlier. He’s also famous for a moving story – when Bill’s family was transferred by the Salvation Army, he did all the packing because his wife was ill. Everything they owned went into industrial strength black garbage bags with no labels. What a nightmare.

Packing up our belongings for our move to North Canton, I pledged I wouldn’t follow in Bill’s footsteps. I had my supplies organized, and would carefully mark each box. My plan was to start at the top of the house by clearing out the attic, then move to the second floor to sort out our bedrooms and downsize the toys I’d collected for the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful, determined Elizabeth Holiday, as we wouldn’t have space for such a wonderful playroom in our new home. The basement and the barn received some attention early on in the purging and packing, but I left the dining room and kitchen for last, knowing I’d be taking boxes eastward even after the movers left with our furniture.

Not the wisest idea. First morning in our new home: eggs and no frying pan, bread and no toaster. What was I thinking?

Determined to get this job done once and for all, I sat on the floor of the Ashland dining room late into the night, listening to the lonesome house creak and groan. Surrounded by boxes, plastic tubs, packing tape, bubble wrap, and a tall stack of newspapers, I began the slow process of wrapping plates, cups, bowls, and yes, frying pans.

I was glad our faithful paper carrier delivered the Times-Gazette to our doorstep every morning. I certainly couldn’t have wrapped our belongings in the waves of the internet! Following my parents’ example, I’ve read the newspaper from front to back since elementary school days. I grew up with Beetle Bailey and Dennis the Menace, and loved Charlie Brown, Linus and Lucy of the Peanuts gang long before they became television stars. I learned the importance of community involvement through the pages of our local newspaper, and gained a daily update on what was happening around the world. I still have the front pages that marked my childhood – the assassinations of JFK, RFK and MLK, and Armstrong’s first steps on the moon.

As a young child, I avidly read Ann Landers, whose view of problem-solving and people has helped shaped mine. A young girl wrote about being forbidden to see a “boy” who was in the Army. Ann’s answer is classic: “Dear E.V., If you ‘just graduated from grade school,’ you are about thirteen years old, Chicken. Uncle Sam needs men – you don’t. Listen to your mother, she is right. And about that boyfriend – his brains must be AWOL.” Ah, what advice, what memories.

Wrapping more dishes, I thought about the role of the newspaper within the Ashland community. These discarded pages recorded the births and deaths, weddings and divorces of Ashlanders. They chronicled the changes occurring in town, from restaurant openings to election results. Sports headlines noted victories and defeats, little league, high schools, university, and old geezers. Here it was, the heart of our identity.

Alone in that echoing dining room, I caught a whiff of printer’s ink as the lifeblood of our community passed through my hands. Historian Henry Steel Commager said it best: the newspaper is “the raw material of history; it is the story of our own times.” The journalists and other staff at the T-G labor day after day, even knowing their efforts may soon be consigned to the recycling pile or a box of china, because they are determined to tell the story (and stories) of our times. Glad today for the First Amendment, the freedom of speech, and the role of the press. Read on!