More than 50 years ago, in September 1949, I became a teletype puncher in the back shop of The Albert Lea Tribune.

Thursday, February 15, 2001

More than 50 years ago, in September 1949, I became a teletype puncher in the back shop of The Albert Lea Tribune. I can’t remember whether it was a year or two years later that I was transferred to the news room, to be a part of the editorial staff.

The transfer came as a surprise. It was not of my seeking. Whatever the reason for it, it was not for any journalistic skills I possessed. I had none. Didn’t know how to write a headline; had little or now knowledge of type faces; had never &uot;dummied up&uot; a page.

I had been happy in the back shop. The hours were short. People were kind to me. It was all enjoyable. The bright young J-school graduates in the editorial office couldn’t understand what I was doing there. To tell the truth I couldn’t understand it myself.

If I asked the editor a question about headlines, he heaved a sigh of phony patience and simply said that if he was going to have to explain everything to me it was quicker to do what had to be done himself.

The wire editor was a little more helpful. He told me how to write a 14 lite headline. It was a pale little headline and, as my friends in the back shop, admonished me looked over so strange when used over every story on the page.

Fortunately, by going over previous pages and learning from some helpful soul and uses of &uot;flit&uot; in writing headlines, I didn’t make that mistake twice. I was not happy, like one of Wodehouse’s characters, I wasn’t disgruntled, but I wasn’t exactly gruntled either. then came the two Jims, first McCluskey and shortly afterward, Carney.

We were in the old Tribune building then, on Broadway and College. Whether they sensed that like an unskilled swimmer I was going down for the third time, or whether both being on the brilliant side themselves they refused to have a colleague so unprofessional, they took me in hand.

Coming back to the office one noon I found that they had moved my big wooden desk from when it had been and placed it between their desks. This was followed by the announcement that they had decided to make a proper news hen of me.

From then on if they didn’t approve of something I had written they rose to their feet to give me a standing vote of no confidence. My headlines continued to be my bete noire. They were always getting a vote of no confidence.

It wasn’t just my headlines, though. There was so much copy to handle that when a piece of news came in typed, if it were fairly well written, I sent it out as it came in. Not bothering to retype it.

It was an obituary, I remember, that particularly aroused my mentors’ ire. It was beautifully typed, but it contained the information that the deceased had been improving, but had taken a turn for the worse and had died.

Made sense to me, but the Jims objected. &uot;Took a turn for the worse,&uot; they scoffed. &uot;What kind of writing is that?&uot;

&uot;Well, he did,&uot; I protested.

Carney gazed at me with deep loathing. &uot;Died,&uot; he said, &uot;the man died. So he sure in h-ll took a turn for the worse,&uot;

Their straight criticism didn’t bother me as much as their playfulness, when they had enough time on their hands to be playful. I remember taking a local item over the phone one afternoon. The caller was extremely soft-voiced and almost impossible to understand. She was reporting a visit from an out-of-town relative. When she spelled the relative’s name I couldn’t tell whether it began with an &uot;f&uot; or an &uot;s.&uot;

&uot;Is that an ‘f’ as in ‘Frank’ or an ‘s’ as in ‘Sam’? I asked.

I had to repeat my question a couple of times and before we got it worked out the two Jims had lowered a large pasteboard before my eyes on which they had printed, &uot;Ask if it’s ‘f’ as in ‘—-‘ or ‘s’ as in ‘—-‘?&uot; Their blanks, though, were not blanks. At which point I simply hung up. I knew the caller would call back and with any luck one of them would get the call.

We worked together for about six years before first one of them and then the other went on to greener pastures, but we remained friends throughout the years. Last week I was saddened by the news of Jim McCluskey’s passing, less than a month after the death of Alice McCluskey, his wife of 53 years.

They brought warmth and laughter into the world for all the friends who loved them.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.