Thursday, September 22, 2011 - Watertown Daily Times

C M Y KE12 Thursday, September 22, 2011WATERTOWN DAILY TIMESBy KEITH EPSTEINThe Huffington postMy first professional news jobwas in the Massena bureau in 1980-- I WAS the Massena bureau --and it was more than just a first job.It was boot camp, training groundfor all I’d encounter in journalismlater, and -- thanks largely to theJohnsons, the opportunities to diginto stories that mattered, and thenorth country I’d so soon be fondof -- a lasting inspiration.I was kept moving not only byambition or by news, but the relentlessdemands of a pre-Internetnewspaper devoted to missingnothing of significance for the45,000 people who depended onit. By day, between stories we hadto have, I’d diginto stories Iwas sure nobodyelse had-- yearning tomake the backpage, whichwas in thosedays equivalentto other Epsteinnewspapers’front pages. By night, I’d covermeetings and the occasional homicide.In the morning, a deadlineloomed - more stories, editing, updates.Today’s twenty-somethingbloggers think they’re part ofsomething thoroughly new. Butan afternoon newspaper in thosedays was like the Huffington Postin pace, quantity and importance-- and none of it could be aggregation.We had to beat the pants offThe Syracuse Post Standard and allthose pesky community weekliesscattered across the northern cornerof New York. And we had to doit, each of us, multiple times a day.I’d write three, five, six stories in atypical 16-hour day. Funny thingis, I wanted to. Ambition, opportunity,and the Johnsons made mewant to. My newlywed wife, missingme sometimes, would cometo the bureau at night, just to benearby, and fall asleep as I churnedout my copy or tried to track downa source or identify a victim.The Daily Times gave meRECOLLECTIONKeith Epstein: From WDT reporter to Washington, D.C. and beyondmore than my $126 weeklypaycheck. From the crampedbureau stacked with old newspapers,a room above a floristshop on Massena’s main streetthat often smelled of Easter liliesor other flowers of the seasons(most days, my biggest obstacleas a reporter was making myway through all the plants andwreaths in the hallway).I covered schools, courts,pollution, dairy subsidies, disastrousice and floods, cops-- and a few sordid crimes. I followedopenings, closings, lockcleanings and misdoings at theSt. Lawrence Seaway -- all fascinatingto a young kid from Californiawho’d studied politicalscience, but had never seen ironore ships or the bottom of a lockbefore.Long before pondering foreigncorrespondence or coveringwar, I got my first taste ofcovering armed conflict - duringa standoff between factions andState Police on the St. Regis Mohawkreservation. And my firsttaste (not counting the time thebird-loving elder Mrs. Johnsoncooked my goose for misidentifyingCanada geese as Canadiangeese) of reader anger.Once, after a big story theydidn’t consider fair, a group ofwomen took offense and surroundedme, armed with baseballbats. They must have likedthe stories that followed, becauseit never happened again.Between my other responsibilities,the paper more thantolerated my yearning to makea difference through investigativereporting, which I’ve spentmost of my career doing. Backthen, it was brucellosis andcattle smuggling across theborder, misspending by localschool districts, sexual harassmentby government officials,chemical contamination ofdrinking water -- and one ofmy first big breaks, disclosureof secret talks by local and stateofficials aimed at settling landclaims with the Mohawks.Of course, the north countryalso was the setting for oneof the biggest stories I’d evermissed: I’d met Abbie Hoffman,the ’60s fugitive radical,many times, without realizinghis true identity. My only solaceis that Sen. Daniel PatrickMoynihan, sipping a BloodyMary with us the morning beforea St Lawrence Universitycommencement address, alsohad no idea who the other manwith the curly hair really was.Still, reporters remember thestories that got away.Above all, the place and itspeople hugely influenced me.There was nothing like thenorth country before I arrived,and I’ve never experiencedanything like it. I’ll alwaysbe thankful for the people Imet - on dairy farms, RotaryClub lunches, on the reservation,in the zinc mines, on thecampaign trail with AlphonseD’Amato...but especially at thepaper and in its bureaus.Too many to mention, butI want to single out the Johnsons,who gave me my firstchance and believed in me, andAlan Emory, then the Washingtoncorrespondent and onetimeMassena correspondent,who took me under his wing inboth places, helping me get orientedto the land of Alcoa andthe small town borderlands,and to see the connection (orlack of connection) with ourleaders in Washington.My best memories of each ofthe Johnsons is telling. “JohnJunior,” with the enthusiasmof a man with ink in his veinsmore noticeably than a silverspoon in his mouth, was myfirst real editor -- sharp, funny,demanding, caring. A skeletoncrew would turn out the paperon Saturdays, often with Juniorat the helm, which meant histemporary position at a desknext to mine -- moving, alwaysmoving, excitedly askingquestions, assigning stories,wondering what we’d missed,always pushing to be first witha story, to envision the harderquestions we’d neglected toconsider. It should have beendreary hardship duty, thoseSaturday rotations, but theywere fun, fast-moving, satisfying,thanks to Junior.Then there was “John Senior.”Like the contemplative,spirited news people I’d meetlater, especially in Washington,he always had an opinion, andan eagerness to test it on you. Hecared about community, but Ican still see him, ensconced behindhis desk , puffing on a pipeas he’d ask me in and offered hisviews (and tested mine) on thebiggest issues of the day. Communityand nation and citizenalways seemed to connect inthat room -- another lessonfrom days at the WDT, and onethat has always stuck with me.We don’t just break stories andbeat the other guy -- we careabout them, and strive to showhow events, both unfolding orunnoticed and requiring disclosure,touch the lives of thepeople around us. Readers, citizensdepended on us, and wecouldn’t let them down.That’s something I learnedin Massena, Potsdam, Cantonand Watertown. But I’ve carriedit with me ever since, toVirginia, Florida and Washington,D.C., where too many reportersforget.