Happenings in Paradise – A Journalist is Born

Rain pelted down on the people of Paris as they entered the community hall to officially name their town. Water from the spring run-off flowed in rivulets across the street, producing a mixture of gravel and gumbo that stuck to their boots, adding a layer of mud to every step.  Norma grumbled as she struggled toward the yard light and into the hall. Her plastic rain cap flew off in the wind, and now her bangs were plastered to her forehead—she knew she looked a mess.

A quick glance around the hall assured her that no one that mattered was there, only a bunch of middle-aged business men and their wives. No one from school, thank God! Tonight she was just a high-school kid sitting at the back of the room, head lowered over a note-book. But by Friday! Different story. They’ll all know her, after reading the Paris Post. A ripple of excitement clamped her stomach, easing into the region of her bladder, and making her want to pee again. But no way was she going to get up and walk in front of everyone to the toilet, situated incomprehensibly behind the speaker.

She concentrated on the Mayor’s words, scribbling them on her yellow pad as his bad grammar spilled out of his mouth. This was easy, she thought, no different from being in class, taking notes. Only this time it was real life, not day-dreaming. She was going to be a real-life reporter by Friday.

She’d better get those words down and stop thinking about her bladder, she thought, as she listened to him drone on about all the things the council had done.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he was finally saying, “This here is a great honour, It’s my great honour to be the first person to put this town on the map. So without further ado, I hereby declare that the hall you are sitting in now, in this town, uh, this village, is now in Paris, Alberta. We are now called Paris, Alberta, Canada.”

He gazed benevolently at his audience as they rose and cheered and clapped. Norma was struck with the importance of the occasion. She looked around at the wooden chairs facing the lectern, the plain, unpainted walls and the mud encrusted floor, the two bare light bulbs hanging by their cords, lighting up the worn faces, the damp rumpled clothing. She pinned all of it into her memory, for later reference, like Mr. McCaskill told her to. For the visual background.

Norma wished she had someone here with her, to help her mark this occasion. Her mother, or Doreen. But Doreen was in her own town now, a much bigger one, more modern and important. In her last letter, she wrote all about her grade eleven class at the Peace River High School, the ‘with it’ kids, how they talked, how they dressed. She imagined Doreen being driven to school every day in her uncle’s blue sedan, stepping out of the car in her tight pencil skirt, her saddle shoes flashing white and swede brown, her sweater set color coordinated. She hoped she was still Doreen’s best friend—it was not possible that she wouldn’t be. Friends forever, that was what they always said.

Her mother, lost to her now, was never able to come into town to stay with her even for a day or two. Norma squared her shoulders—she couldn’t crumble now. She remembered her teacher’s words, from so long ago, “Norma is a responsible and hard-working girl,” she wrote,  “She always makes the right choices. She will go far.”

Not likely in this town, she muttered as she picked up her papers and buttoned her coat against the wind and rain. She did a quick assessment of her list, ‘Things that are good’ and ‘Things that are bad’. Things were fine, she decided. Or they will be by Friday, anyway.

Images of her first conversation with Mr. McCaskill flashed through her mind. How he looked over the note from her English teacher, then glanced quickly at her. Norma cringed as she remembered what he must have seen—the rawness of her hands, a coat that was a little too small, the run down shoes. But he gave her a chance, and here she was now, writing about something important, with her name under it, and everything.

“So you are ready to have a little column all your own,” he said last week, “What do you want to call it, Vignettes about Paris, or Highlight of the Week or maybe In and Around the Town?”

“No.” she had said, “Happenings. I want to call it Happenings. Happenings in Paradise.”

“Paradise? Why Paradise? That’s the God awful name they put on the water tower! It’s a joke, ‘Paris—the Paradise of the North’. What could be sillier? It was just a silly joke!””

She stood her ground. Serve her right if he fired her.

“Happenings in Paradise. I really like it, and I think I could write better if I could put everything under it. Sort of my trade-mark, you know.”

“Wow, you really are a determined little thing,” he said finally. “Sure, if you care about it so much, you can have the title. Just make sure your typing is correct, though, and you get the stories straight. Those are the important things. Who cares about the title?’

“I care,” Norma said under her breath, as she made her way home.

“I care, because it’s my idea. And it’s not called a title, just so you know, Mr. Important Editor of a one-horse town paper. It’s called a Byline. And that’s my Byline.”

She could hardly wait for Friday.

To be continued July 17, 2016