ON THE WRITE ROAD: No run of the mill story

It would take dozens of articles to capture the highlights and lowlights of my entire 10-year run at the Daily News so I’ve decided to focus on just a few memories, including some of my favorite stories that I covered, my video review column, and my time covering sports.

Without question, the most contentious and stressful story for me (and everyone in Prince Rupert at the time) was the pulp mill crisis of the late 90s. “Oh, baby!” as Bob Cole would have put it.

Skeena Cellulose was the single largest employer in Rupert and probably the Northwest, with operations in Carnaby, Terrace, and Smithers. Nearly 700 people worked at the pulp mill alone and they made very good money. Everyone in Rupert wanted the mill to survive, especially with the fishing industry starting its slow slide.

Our MLA, Dan Miller, was also deputy premier and had a very personal hand in efforts to save the mill. He also got very personal about it, handing me one of the most famous headlines of the time.

Negotiations weren’t going well between the province and the banks that essentially owned the mill. I don’t recall exactly what it was the bank reps said that set Miller off but, one morning, he stormed into the Daily News and demanded a private audience with me. I remember everyone glancing over as I led him into the collating room for our talk.

A fuming Miller told me, with a who do they think they are tone that the banks just didn’t get it. And then he uttered the phrase, which would become that day’s headline, not just in our paper but in most of the big papers across the province and the country.

“The banks don’t know money. I know money!”

Even as he continued to speak and I continued to scribble, I knew those words were going to be at the top of my story. I also knew that, when I called the bank reps for a comment, they would not be impressed.

After we were done and we came out of the collating room, staff did their best to pretend that they hadn’t been trying to hear what was being said and appear to have been going about their business. Miller strode out the back door, undoubtedly headed to tell others, likely the PPWC reps, his thoughts. Miller had worked at the mill before getting into politics and had not so long before been hailed as a hero for saving the mill at a huge party at the Civic Centre (not sure which incarnation of the mill being saved that was – there were a few).

Anyway, it turned out that the banks did know money, and they weren’t happy with Miller suggesting otherwise. At the end of it all, though, the mill survived another threat of closure. Life went on, although my coverage of it strained relations with some of the guys who worked there.

Like with any divisive story, anything other than complete pandering was considered betrayal. I received many calls each week telling me that I got parts of the story wrong. I got confidential documents that were mysteriously dropped through the mail slot, my very own “Deep Throat” trying to tip the scales of my articles in the union’s favor. Of course, both sides accused me of favoritism but, with both sides making those accusations, I figured that I was doing it right.

At the end of the day, there was plenty of blame to spread around. The local union was always up for a fight, going as far as to bring in lawyers from New York to represent them. The banks were, well, banks, and Miller’s words would haunt him to his final days in politics. Oh, and then there was the “Concerned Citizens of Prince Rupert,” who posted full-page anonymous ads in the paper urging the union to comply. Everyone knew it was a cartel of local businessmen, likely the same guys who got me fired from my brief CFTK radio show stint for not fawning over the latest savior in another chapter of the mill-needs-to-be-saved.

After the mill crisis was resolved and life carried on, I wrote a skit on it for a Harbour Theatre show at the Sons of Norway Hall. In it, I joked about the greed of the banks, Miller’s bluster, the union’s surliness, and its propensity to “borrow” things from work, which got big laughs, even from union die-hards.

In the final scene of my skit, the banks and union reps come out of a restaurant, looking satisfied. They are approached by contractors, businesses that supplied operations but got the shit end off the stick, a small percentage of what they were owed. The bank rep and union rep brush by the begging contractors and toss some coins onto the ground for them to scramble for. As the lights go down, the Rolling Stones’ “You can’t always get what you want” plays.

There was a table of mill union guys, friends of mine, at the show. After the show, they approached me and said the ending was an interesting surprise since the skit had mostly been played for laughs. They admitted that, after being so focused on the “us vs them” nature of the crisis, the scene gave them pause for thought on the smaller players involved that had little say.

I appreciated the praise, as much as any I have ever received. Because making people think, making them see a picture differently and reconsider their thoughts, is all any writer can ask for.

NEXT: Sports reporting like no other!

ON THE WRITE ROAD: The buzz of a newsroom

There is nothing quite like a newspaper office.

Unlike other office settings, a newspaper office never seems to settle. People are always moving about, in the reception area, the ads department, the newsroom, the back shop, the collating area – and between them. It’s a beehive.

At The Daily News, the reporters’ desks were smack dab in the middle of all the action, which was appropriate, I suppose. We got story ideas tossed at us from all areas, mostly from the editor, of course, whose wrap-around desk was situated perfectly so she could shout questions or orders to us, on her left, or to the composing folks across from her.

Reporter central was comprised of three desks pushed together, and a separate corner and desk for the sports reporter because, you know, they are a different breed. Against the wall just behind the reporter’s desk were a couple of Mac computers that we shared.

Dina Von Hahn was the editor and, while not a taskmaster, she was not a pushover either and was very capable (contrary to how she described her early days to me over dinner recently). She didn’t have the arrogance or bluster that most editors have, choosing to lead through the odd concept of mutual respect. Sadly, she would only last four months, moving onto the greener pastures of CBC radio.

The other reporters were Surj Rattan, a terrific writer and great guy, and Brenda Halak, a sweet but insecure woman who dressed like she should be working on a fishing boat – eventually having to endure the mortifying experience of being ordered to go shopping with the publisher, Iris Kristensen, for clothes suitable for a “young lady” and the job.

Kristensen was the publisher for decades, an old-school one, brassy and straightforward. I remember her generously leaving the tab open at a Christmas dinner we had at the restaurant by Co-op cannery. The following Monday, she stormed into the office waving the hefty bill and vowing that the paper would never pay for drinks again. I vaguely remember a bunch of us spending a great deal of time standing at the bar that night, like seagulls on a dumpster, ordering rounds of shooters.

Dina’s replacement as editor was Shelly Brown, who immediately informed us with her iron handshake that she was gonna take no guff and could be as hard-ass as any man. In the early months, she gave assignments and orders with a stern glare as if saying “you got a problem with that” even though I did nothing to suggest that I did. Eventually, she relaxed (a little anyway) and our working relationship was fairly amicable.

I got along well with Brenda and student reporter, Anna D’Angelo, and Surj and I became great friends on and off work. Most of the other reporters and editors that followed became good friends. John Farrell made a home and set up businesses in Rupert, and I see Jeremy Hainsworth almost every time I visit Vancouver and frequently get annoying calls from him.

I considered myself a good reporter but not as good as Surj or Jeremy who had that certain quality, oh, what was it … oh yeah, commitment and perseverance. I was a writer first, a reporter second. A reporter first is someone who is committed to getting the best story he can, who looks at it from all angles, who does extensive research, and seeks good, multiple sources. A writer? We want the story to be colorful, to be talked about, clickbait before there was clicking.

Oh, I did try to get at least both sides of the story but I wasn’t dogged about it unless it was a big story and, thus, had a large audience. The pulp mill crisis, for instance. That was some of my best reporting – much helped by me not having to chase anyone. Both sides (the company/bank vs the union) were eager to have their voice heard and they called me every morning. My stories were picked up on the CP (Canadian Press) wire daily by many other papers across the country.

The mill story was a big deal, with big players. It divided the community and strained my friendships with guys who worked there. I think there’s a book there but, for now, it’ll be my next post.

NEXT: Not your run-of-the-mill story

At age 60, the show will, indeed, go on

Yesterday, I turned 60 years old.

Wait. What??

I’ve always thought that, in our minds, we really don’t age much beyond our late teens/early 20s. Oh, sure, the memory starts to weaken … What was I writing about again? Oh, right. Our mind not aging much.

I still laugh at a lot at the dumb shit I laughed at when I was 20. When I play sports, my mind still tells my body that it can move with cat-like speed, at which my body tells my mind to go F___ itself.

It was depressing to be playing goal in my final year of floor hockey and have my leg not kick out for what used to be a save, or to boot ground balls in slo-pitch that I used to pick up with ease. It was hard to walk away, to know that I had lost it.

I still occasionally play slo-pitch albeit at a slower pace (I’m not pulling anymore hammies!), and I accept my declined ability although it is still disappointing when I make a bad play or have a terrible at-bat. Every now and then, I will make a great play and get a cheer from my mates and opponents, which makes me smile and reminds me that some of it is still there, inside me, but only enough to make guest appearances.

Even though the sports skills have declined, I keep myself in decent shape and am currently working on getting back to my fighting weight as it can be a slippery slope. I’m trying to eat better, knowing that physical health boosts not only life, but mental health and I have a lot of creative projects that I want to get done before my next life decade begins. In fact, I have an exciting project in the queue, that will involve telling North Coast Indigenous stories, that I will be announcing soon!

I plan to write as long as I live, but I want to make serious hay in my 60s because I know that the chance of significant decline grows with each decade that passes thereafter. Feeling strong and vital now, I want to work on more books, on a screenplay and, yes, even direct a movie, in the next few years. Is this all possible? It’s going to take some luck, I know that, but I have always believed we make our own luck by working hard and being ready for positive possibilities.

It's not all just hard work and taking advantage of opportunities, though. The community of Prince Rupert, my many creative and performing arts associates, good friends and, of course, my partner and loving family, have all been integral with their amazing support.

I often think of that line from the movie, The Waterboy, where Rob Schneiber shouts “You can do it!” Whenever a project idea comes up that excites me but I’m not sure I should take it on, I hear that line from others, and then I say it to myself.

You can do it. You can do it.

YOU CAN DO IT!

Yes, I can. And it starts now. Always.