Confusion is increasing with age

“Did you ever have to yell, ‘Stop the presses?’”

It was a Tuesday morning and a few of us had gathered for what we refer to informally as “The Circle of Confusion.”

Actually, “circle of confusion” is a technical term in photography involving depth of field and things I’m not equipped to accurately explain.

But the term also fits for some guys having a third cup of coffee on a Tuesday morning and trying to figure out how we fit in this rapidly changing world.

“Sort of,” I responded.

And the story poured out.

It had been back in the second half of the 1970s, probably 1975 or 1976.

In those days, the daily paper’s Saturday edition came out in the afternoon rather than in the morning. A skeleton crew of newsroom staff came in at 7 a.m. Saturday and had the final page ready by 11 a.m. at the latest.

But one particular Saturday, things went a little haywire.

There were three of us in the newsroom: Sports editor Russ Carson, reporter/society editor (yes, that’s what the position was called in the 1970s) Anne Fennig Schemenaur and me.

We were almost wrapped up. The deadline had actually come and gone. The final page was ready for the copy camera. Then, somehow, Anne got a tip.

I can’t remember where it came from. The police scanner in the newsroom only worked intermittently, mostly just to squawk at us now and then.

But somehow, Anne learned that the bank in Pennville had been robbed.

I ran back into production and, while I didn’t get to yell “Stop the presses,” I did tell them to scrap page one and that we’d be re-making it.

The clock was ticking. Adrenaline was flowing.

Anne headed over to the sheriff’s office to find out what she could; she’d always wanted to be a police reporter, and she was good at it.

I jumped into my car and headed — where else? — to Pennville.

In an era before cell phones and a time when, I believe, it was still a long distance call from Pennville to Portland, a quick drive was the best solution.

And it was, indeed, a quick drive.

Fortunately, the statute of limitations has run out on any traffic tickets that should have come my way.

Within minutes, I was in Pennville, which was pretty much in an uproar.

Indiana State Police and the FBI were not yet at the scene, and many of the bank employees were outside the bank, talking with family and friends.

So I did my job. I started asking questions, grabbing details wherever I could.

The bank robbers were a couple of big guys, and there were already some indications that police knew who they were looking for. When they fled the bank, the senior person in charge had reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a revolver, and run out into the street to fire a couple of shots in the general direction of the escaping desperadoes.

But while I grabbed details, the police inside the bank noticed my presence. Instantly, it seemed, all the bank employees with all the colorful information were back inside and the door was locked.

Still, I had enough.

I had enough change for a pay phone. (Remember those?) And I called back to the office to dictate details to Anne so she could add them to the bones of the story that she’d been able to get from the sheriff’s office.

Then it was back to Portland, shattering the speed limit once more.

The two of us polished the story a bit and handed it off to the composing room, and the paper went to press with minimal delay.

As far as “The Circle of Confusion” goes, it was a pretty good tale.

But about an hour later, it hit me and it hit me hard.

All of those events — which seem like yesterday — took place more than 40 years ago. Forty years. Forty years.

No wonder there’s a certain amount of confusion when we get together for coffee.