Guy Wheatley
The Texarkana Gazette

When I first came to the paper, the reporters were close to my age. Now, they're all kids. They're nice kids. They're sharp kids but, jeepers, they look young. I have to run the gauntlet between two rows of them to get to the restroom.
I usually drink several cups of coffee in the morning and by noon I'll have made the trip several times. Creaking down the isle toward the restroom between rows of these fresh young faces for the third or fourth time reminds me that I'm not as young as I used to be. I've always been a coffee drinker, but I didn't always make so many pit stops. I've even sneaked down the back stairs to the men's room on the first floor, rather than let those kids see me make yet another trip.
I'm headed down the aisle toward the restroom one morning, when I notice the assistant city editor standing at a reporter's desk. A group of them is huddled around her, looking at something. As I curiously approach they began scrutinizing me, glancing from me back to the object the editor is holding. "We were cleaning up and found these old pictures ..." the editor starts to explain when she is interrupted by an outburst from one the reporters.
"Gosh, you were cute!" the young lady exclaims. Something in her tone and expression gives me the idea that this is a novel concept to her. A possibility she had simply never considered before. I'm flattered and insulted at the same time. "Yeah I was cute." I think to myself, "Why is that so hard to believe?" Then they hand me the picture.
There are four people in the photo. Two of us are still here as fixtures at the Gazette.  One of the others has died, and the last one moved away years ago. The picture was taken to commemorate the completion of a special project. I was the graphic artist. Two of the other faces belong to editors and the final person was the lead reporter on the project.
The reporter is sitting in front of an old terminal. Back in those days, there were only four terminals that all of the reporters shared. They took notes longhand or on typewriters, but getting their story into the system meant waiting their turn for a terminal. The technology in the photo looks like something out of the dark ages. "How the heck did we ever get a paper out back then?" I wonder.
A flood of memories pours over me. I remember the project. We were justifiably proud of our effort. We were pushing the technological envelope with the use of coordinating graphics. It seems we bumped into hundreds of obstacles, but we always found a way around them.
We were tigers, too. The guy with his hand in the cookie jar always thinks reporters are just "out for a story," and should "mind their own business." The harder they tried to cover something up, the harder we dug. I still believe in the press, and that journalism is a higher calling. In a kill-the-messenger society, reporters are all too often the bearers of bad news. Too many people are willing to accept the easy answers. They forget that the first voice, in what became the American Revolution, was a nosey reporter who wouldn't "mind his own business."
Yep. Old Ben Franklin was quite a troublemaker. The legitimate government of the day, based on Christian principals and authority, didn't think much of old Ben or his friends. Remember, God appointed the king. Ben and his crew thought that people, "the people," should decide who led them.
We weren't Ben Franklin but I'd like to think we made a difference. I hope we did.
Over the years, things have changed. My focus has moved on to the mundane routine of keeping the equipment running. New people have come in and filled the chairs we left vacant. I had forgotten what it felt like to sit there.
There's no time for more reflection. My aged bladder demands relief. I head to the restroom with the image still in my mind. I see the familiar, fresh young faces staring out at me from the photo. They're all kids. They're nice kids. They're sharp kids but, jeepers, they look young.

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