Sick, blind, or missing hearing aids -- we still put out a great paper

Newsrooms are supposed to be noisy places — phones ringing, keyboards clacking, editors hollering about deadlines. Last week, ours sounded more like a tomb at midnight. Silent. Deserted. Every desk empty.

Illness had ripped through the newsroom. Advertising was still upright. Lilly at the front was still smiling. But the editorial side? Wiped out. By Wednesday, reporters had started falling away like Panther fans. By Friday, it was just me. On the final, drop-dead deadline.

And trust me, you do not want your caffeinated, dyslexic, can’t-remember-anyone’s-name publisher editing copy in the final hours before presses roll.

On Thursday I was attending a family reunion of the Walnut Cove Fultons with two of my three brothers and a room full of cousins. It was planned as a full-day event in Winston-Salem.

The Fultons are a fun bunch. They were telling stories about our great-great-whoever and life back in the day when Walnut Cove was not much more than a train depot, a general store, a windmill, and an abundance of walnut trees.

One of the attendees reflected on a great-great nicknamed, Nanny.

“She got up every morning to fire up the wood cooking stove and baked up enough biscuits so that the extras were on top and you could run through the kitchen during the day and grab a hot one,” he said. “Baths were on Saturday in a tub in the room with heat. Water was heated on the stove, and bathing order was from oldest to youngest. Mother Anne was youngest. Last of 12.”

“Bridge games used the telephone operator as a babysitter,” he said. “Ladies going to the game left the phone off the hook and if the operator heard a baby cry, she called the game to let them know.”

Another Fulton told the story of the funeral of a second cousin somebody and that somebody’s widow wouldn’t allow liquor in the house after the service. Not to be deterred, first cousin Rusty, himself a champion partaker, set up a bar in the driveway. Hardly anyone made it inside to express sympathies.

During lunch, while these stories were being told I received the first Red Alert text from a newsroom staffer. It was a harbinger of things to follow. “I made it to a little after 11, vomited in the ladies room, and just arrived home. … I am NOT GOOD. Doctor thinks GI virus. I’m hoping that’s all it is. Don’t expect me tomorrow.”

Two newsroom staffers had been out since Wednesday. One for illness. Another for a family wedding. Now the count was three down, one to go.

I told the Fultons I had to leave. Our pages needed proofing, some content needed writing, and all reporters were heading to infirmaries.

Proofing is not my forte. The Paper’s editors Angela Copeland and Bill Poteat dissuade in the politest of terms my involvement in proofreading. That discouragement is usually accompanied with a suggestion, along the lines of, “Aren’t there some Publisher things that are more important?”

Maybe like attending a Fulton family reunion?

On the drive back to the newsroom I received another text from a reporter: “Bad news. Now I’m at home throwing up. Whatever it is might pass by morning, but I have no idea.”

Whatever it is (or was) didn’t pass by morning. That team member was out Friday, too. Four down. That takes care of the reporters.

Editor Emeritus Poteat works Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Not this week, I thought. I need his ass in the newsroom. Pronto.

I called him.

He answered. The background sounded like a daycare center.

“Where in the hell are you?” I said. “Everybody’s out sick. We have a paper to put out.”

“Can’t help you, brother,” he said.

“Waddya mean can’t help me?” I said. “Do you want ME editing these damn pages?”

“You’re the publisher, aren’t you?” he said.

“What the hell does THAT have anything to do with it?” I said.

“Nothing,” he said. “Except I am in Chapel Hill with the grandchildren. So, you are on your own, Mr. Publisher.”

Suddenly I received another text from a newsroom colleague: “After eating a bowl of mashed potatoes, I laid down and fell asleep. Just woke up. I dreamt I was blind in my right eye. Then the blindness switched to my left eye, and then both eyes… . (But) nausea meds are starting to help a little.”

Thank god for drugs. But you can’t be a proofer if you’re blind in both eyes. I’ve tried.

Friday morning rolled around. That was the final, double drop-dead, we’re-going-to-press deadline. I was in the newsroom bright and early. The place was a ghost town. All desks empty. Computer screens dark.

Jessica, our talented, award-winning page designer, is usually in the office during this critical now–or-never moment. Not this day. She was working from home while she was finishing production pages for the press. I called her. She said that she wasn’t feeling so hot either. In other words, the sooner we can put this edition to bed the better.

Hoping against hope, I called Poteat to verify that he was still out of pocket. He answered.

“What’s up brother?” he said. He sounded happy as a lark, not a care in the world. There was a lot of joyful commotion in the background. Grandchildren. I yelled a question about his intentions. He said it’d be easier if he texted me an answer. It was too noisy.

“Well, I would’ve been there at 8 this morning, but I got over to Highway 70 and realized I didn’t have my hearing aids in,” he texted moments later. “So, I will be arriving at about 8:05.”

He’s on the way? Way to go, chief!

I suddenly got another text from the editor emeritus. It was a correction. It read, “Whoops. Sorry. That text is weeks old. Poteats are in Chapel Hill. No stomach issues. Hopefully, everyone will be back to normal by Monday!”

Thanks, budro.

In the end, the paper did come out. Every comma may not have been in the right place. And if a photo caption accidentally identified the city manager’s Labrador as the mayor, well, these things happen when your newsroom is down with the plague, and the only guy left is a rattled caffeine-soaked publisher trying to remember how to spell “Burke.”

Because that’s what we do here: sick or blind or missing hearing aids, we still get a paper out. Messy, maybe. But still standing. Like cousin Rusty’s driveway bar — open for business even when the house is closed.