Not long after that nice Mr. Benjamin Franklin retired from
newspapers, I got my first paying job in the business.
I was still going to journalism school when I landed a spot at a
desk at the Hollister Free Lance.
Not long after that nice Mr. Benjamin Franklin retired from newspapers, I got my first paying job in the business.
I was still going to journalism school when I landed a spot at a desk at the Hollister Free Lance.
I’d been selling stories (paid by the word) since high school and I had had an internship up the road, but this was it. The Big Time. And I had $120 a week on the paycheck to prove it.
In real time, it was not so long ago, but in the history of newspapers, it was another age.
My desk was one of the only ones that did not have an ashtray mounted on it permanently. About once a month, an errant butt would ignite a fire in a wastebasket, which was rushed to the sidewalk while work proceeded.
The editor sat in the middle of the room. A quiet, thoughtful bachelor, he had a soft spot for kids and dogs, and kept candy and doggie biscuits in his desk. At about 8 a.m., he lit the first in a string of cigars – the best available for a dime – and the air in the newsroom began to thicken.
Teletype machines clattered. Manual typewriters clattered. The sharp scent of rubber cement and the smell of ink on the press mixed with tobacco smoke to concoct a powerful perfume.
But what most clearly distinguished the Free Lance as a relic of another age was that it was locally owned. The man who hired me was Millard Hoyle, an athletic man with a shock of white hair. He was a character, and proud of it.
Hoyle took over at the paper not long after receiving a bachelor’s degree from Stanford University. His father, who had published the paper, died unexpectedly while vacationing in Cuba. So there was Hoyle, scarcely old enough to buy a drink in a bar, with a bunch of people looking to him for their livelihood and – not incidentally – some direction about what to do next.
Hoyle rose to the occasion.
By the time I got that job, Hoyle had been at it for a very long time, learning all the while.
He had a reputation for being careful with a dollar, and that reputation was warranted.
Once, when the paper had run out of photographic film, I committed the crime of paying retail for a whopping three rolls, and I was called on the carpet for my spendthrift ways.
But Hoyle’s strong points far outweighed his peccadilloes. He was a student of his community, one who took pains to understand all its subtleties and nuances. He was one of the most prudent, fair people I ever knew.
I, on the other hand, thought I understood the community dynamic. It was plain as the large Irish nose on my face. Black and white, good vs. evil. I was wrong.
Over time, I came to believe as Hoyle did that it’s seldom that clear. The lists of good guys and bad guys change depending on the issue at hand.
More important, I learned, is to remember always that it’s issues, not personalities, that should remain the focus of public discourse.
The Pinnacle has for the past several weeks published a string of letters alleging censorship, cover-ups and the abandonment of devotion to the truth.
Hogwash.
The fact that the staff tolerated publication of some pretty far-fetched speculation in letters without comment speaks volumes.
We all make mistakes, and it’s my practice to own up to my own. For example, I believe it places an unfair burden on a reporter to be asked to write a column of political satire drawn from the people on that reporter’s news beat. At best, it’s guaranteed to strain professional relationships.
Here’s a promise: this newspaper will continue to lead the way in pursuing the story of Los Valientes, the anonymous group that used legal bullying to target public figures in San Benito County. I am confident that we can continue to cover the strange saga without personal attacks against those on any side of the issue.
Nearly all those who have written on the subject recently appear to have made up their minds about the case, and they hint that they believe the paper has chosen the same side.
For the record, I have not. Like the friends and neighbors I have discussed it with, I fervently hope for a speedy resolution, but I have not picked a team.
It’s impossible to say whether any of the allegations of local corruption made by Los Valientes and their colorful attorney, Michael Pekin, will ever be found to have a shred of validity. But irrespective of outcomes, it will be covered here.
That said, I remain skeptical of the motives of anyone who distorts the legal system to find a comfortable place to hide while taking pot shots. It appears to be legal, but it certainly is not just and it’s exactly what Pekin and Los Valientes have done.
It may be naïve; it may be old-fashioned, but I believe anyone should have the right to face his or her accuser.
Back when Hoyle was still publishing newspapers, Barry Connell was superintendent of the Hollister School District. Connell was fond of telling people about his first teaching job, on a tiny coral atoll in the South Pacific.
All the adults on the island would gather from time to time to discuss a pressing issue in the village. People would disagree almost violently, shouting and waving their arms about.
At the end of the meeting – even if no agreement was reached – they would leave arm in arm, still friends. Connell observed that they did not have the luxury of vilifying one another, because they would still have to live together when the meeting ended.
The moral of Connell’s story was that our communities are much the same as that lump of coral in the middle of an ocean. We will still have to face one another after the strange case of Los Valientes has played itself out.
It is not – or it should not be – about the personalities. It’s about the issues.
