small town

After my first year of college, before I even understood what “journalism” really meant, my hometown newspaper editor trusted me enough to let me take on a big summer project. I wrote roughly 40 feature articles, finding my own stories and finding my way through journalistic writing. He was patient, forgiving and much better paying than I could have imagined for my first job.

That same summer, a man my dad knew let me paint the new Chamber of Commerce. Despite my fear of heights and my inexperience, I was left in a room with gallon buckets of purple paint and a scaffold. I tilted my head back, climbed the metal frame and used a four-inch roller to paint a tin ceiling the size of a basketball court. I love the work, because I felt respected and responsible. My work would be seen by the key players of the town, the small business owners.

This is what I love most about coming from a small town, this sense of trust and integrity in your work. It leads to such a feeling of reciprocity: they expect you to work hard; you work hard because they know you can. 

I thank my small town for the opportunities and the trust employers are willing to put in you: trust that your parents raised you with a strong work ethic and an honest face. Doors open for you, and then those that opened them leave you to do your work. They pop through the door, check your progress, offer you a snack or a paid break, then leave you again.

Today, I went back to the Wapakoneta Daily News and spoke to my editor. He told me I’d be a bit all over the place: writing senior profiles, stepping back into the series of features I did three years ago, typing up reality information and even stepping into the layout office.

When I was leaving the office, I found my mom talking to Mr. Graff, who was still raving about the painting I did for him at Chamber of Commerce. He turned to the newspaper editor and said that I was a great worker, that the newspaper would be lucky to have me. I get incredibly uncomfortable when I’m the center of attention, but it felt great to have someone other than my parents speak to my integrity.

Then I remembered how many of my dad's customers do this for me when I work with him, and for Dad on a daily basis. My dad started his own handyman business. Our biggest difference is our patience with and dedication to the elderly. I run away in fear. Dad started a business because he wanted to help them. They appreciate it so much that we often come home with gifts: homemade salsa, miscellaneous beer or wine, a sandwich grill, a juicer and most recently, a moon flower.

This is a guess at the species of flower Mom just planted outside the living room window. It's nestled between the deck and the windows so that the "fragrant blooms," as every gardening site calls them, will fill our evenings with calming floral tones. What better way to spend a night on the deck than watching these flowers open, enjoying their scent, sharing a bottle of wine and laughing with my family?