He made the right choice (09/10/2008)

The question has come up.

Did I make the right decision? Did I make the right decision 34 years ago last month to return to my hometown to take a job as a reporter for my family's newspaper?

Saturday may have provided an answer.

It helped that it was a beautiful day, one of those early autumn days when the sky is incredibly blue, the temperature has moderated, and the humidity that can make a summer in the Midwest miserable has disappeared.

I'd worked until about midnight Friday night, taking care of Saturday morning's paper, and had hit the sack about 1 a.m., so sleeping in until 9 felt both luxurious and sufficient.

Few weekend commitments were in front of me.

About 10:30 a.m., I picked up the company's mail at the post office, taking time to visit with Ron Cole and his wife Sharlette outside their fudge shop on Meridian Street. Jim Jenney and his grandson were parked at the curb, while Ron and Jim shot the breeze.

If there was an obligation or a responsibility in front of any of us, it had to be modest.

We were simply enjoying the moment.

The newspaper building was empty when I let myself in. It takes on a different feel when you're the only person there, full of smells and the echoes of sounds of work. It's been standing on the same spot on West Main Street for about 100 years now and looks good to stand for a hundred more.

I dumped the mail on my desk and sorted it a bit, taking time to look at the headlines of area newspapers with whom we exchange subscriptions, then I went out back to close the big overhead door on the garage that gives some people trouble and to close up the loading dock. When I glanced at the circulation answering machine, I noticed there was just one call. A zero would have been better, but one counts as something like a 99.99 perfect delivery rate, and a publisher can smile with that.

Opening the mail could wait. Maybe Sunday. Better yet, it could wait until Monday morning.

Back at home, I collected Connie and we went north to Bryant for the Loblolly Days parade.

Festivals are big in all of America's small towns and villages, and there's nothing Jay County likes better than a parade. In Bryant, that can be a challenge. The Marching Patriots have to squeeze down Main Street like spaghetti. I've shot pictures of the parade for as long as I can remember, though I've missed a couple along the way.

As expected, it was a delightful bit of Americana: Competing candidates for state representative Bill Davis and Andy Schemenaur in quick succession (Bill's a classmate, and I've known Andy since he was an undergraduate at Ball State), plenty of fire trucks, and the horses at the end so the band doesn't have to do the two-step to avoid deposits on the asphalt.

I also constituted a parade entry - the big guy in the red shirt and shorts who was walking backwards taking pictures - which caught the eye of Dave Lyons at the PA microphone. Officially, I was The Commercial Review's entry in the parade.

Afterwards, it was a matter of buying raffle tickets and talking with Gloria Simons, who was not only our youngest daughter's first grade teacher but also was in French class with me under the tutelage of Marguerite Van Dyke.

We wandered around a bit then, checking out the chili cook-off, which was a little short of entries, and the garden tractor pulls, which had attracted competitors from Muncie and Fort Wayne.

In one of the tents, we visited with June (Barger) Domingo, another classmate, who was turning 60 the next day. That was an occasion for a hug, but with June most occasions merit a hug.

While June and I visited, Gerald Kirby kept wanting to talk. Kirby's a former Jay County sheriff now running for county commissioner. But what was remarkable about the conversation is the fact that about 30 years ago I was giving Kirby hell about the job he was doing as sheriff. To say it got a little heated would be a gross understatement. Yet, on Saturday, there we were, friends, members of the same community, talking about the jail referendum and the consequences if it fails to pass.

Back home that afternoon, we walked down to the Farmers' Market at Arts Place, getting a real bargain on the last of the summer's sweet corn. Chester Cheeseman was there, hawking green gage plums, which I hadn't tasted since my folks had a place out in Jackson Township. Carl Funk, the county's master beekeeper, was there, and we talked about how tough it is to grow older. Carl knows better than I; he's in his 80s. We bought some pears that looked just like the pears my old buddy Don Starr and I used to liberate from a tree on our way home from Judge Haynes Elementary School. And we visited with Jack Alexander, who gave me the kind of feedback my big city brethren dream of. He'd liked my Saturday editorial.

I've rambled on too much at this point.

It was, simply, an idyllic day.

And it reaffirmed a decision 34 years ago to come home.

Have I encountered perfection here?

Of course not.

I could provide a long list of complaints: Narrowness of vision, casual bigotry, and a tendency to hold onto old grievances for starters. On a gloomy day in February, the list would grow longer.

But this is not February.

It's September, when there is simultaneously a sense that time is slipping away and that things have never been better. It's that moment when summer peaks and summer fades, with a hint of winter to come.

So I ask myself, did I make the right decision?

And, right now, the answer is clear. It's as simple as two words: No regrets.[[In-content Ad]]