Time was we all took the paper.

We couldn’t wait for it to come. Who could get it first? Who got which section? Who took it to the bathroom? Who cut out what article for a scrapbook? It was our link to the outside world. It came to us and when it didn’t come, we looked everywhere for it; the road bank, behind the forsythia bush, under the porch, on the roof, until somebody usually came up with it.

We had to have it; news did not really stand for North, East, West and South, but it came from around the world to us, thanks to rural carriers. It told us what we didn’t know.

The ink smelled funny and came off on your fingers, but it was the truth and we knew it, and it was ours to have and to hold, usually with both hands, and not share pages, pull apart or mess up or — worse — throw away before everyone had read it.

Then it became old news — good for kindling, fish wrapper, shelf liner or wrapping packages with the comics. You could put it down to soak up milk or paint or put it “under” almost anything. It was perfect for cleaning windows with a little vinegar. We collected it in paper drives for cash refunds.

Noisy newsroom

We couldn’t imagine not “taking” the paper, and not until our fourth-grade tour of the Post and all those linotype machines, typesetters and offices with men in neckties did we realize you could work “at the paper.” The newsroom was so noisy with typewriters, you couldn’t hear yourself think. Women’s news had their own room with Mrs. Helen Cheney, pencil in her hair bun, ready to take an item for “What They’re Doing.” Her predecessor, Mary Linn Collins, could glorify a simple fete like none has ever since —  “a large cut glass bowl filled to overflowing with Dorothy Perkins roses, artistically arranged graceful sprays of the same lovely flower were carried from the length of the table centerpiece down and at intervals were small cut crystal candlesticks holding pink candles and tied with pretty white tulle bows.”

What thrills reporters today and where have all of the proofreaders gone? It took a lot of deliberation and some libation to “put the paper to bed” on Saturday night in the old days. What’s an editor to do? God bless George Raynor.

Before the Post

There is no need to collect back issues or famous headlines just to stack around the walkways that are still left in your rooms. They keep them for you on microfilm in the Rowan Public Library. See Gretchen or use the N.C. Digitization Project to find any newsprint in Salisbury’s history, starting with the Federal-era Salisbury Advertiser and The Mercury established by Fancis Coupee in 1799. Stories of Napoleon, runaway slaves, and the sale of land beside the Market House were “au courant.”

The Western Carolinian and The Standard followed in the 1830s. The Salisbury Banner, The Daily Herald, The Sun and The Salisbury Truth published up to 1890. Go read them. They covered the stories like the installation of the fountain at the Square, making Salisbury known across the state as the “fountain city.”

But The Carolina Watchman, begun in 1832, was the one to read. The editor, J.J. Bruner, may well be the most talented self-made man that ever lived in town. At 9 years old, he began work at The Watchman off and on for over half a century and “waxed eloquently with unfeigned interest and raised his pen on sectional strife and discord.” When federal troops occupied The Watchman office in the spring of 1865, he “lit out the morning after the town was given up and only saw things from a hilltop on the South side of Town Creek.” Imagine being there to chronicle that time the presses went silent.

The Hurleys

What the Hurley boys continued from 1912 with the Salisbury Evening Post has survived to proudly spread its masthead far and wide to infiltrate the minds of all races and creeds of newsmongers, with even the most simple paper box out there thriving amongst loyal fans.

We always thought Rose Post’s family owned it. Garland Gaither, the ever-present newspaper carrier, made sure you got it hot off the press, along with a hot tip for the day. He invented one-stop shopping. It’s still an honor to be included “above the fold” on the front page unless it’s a tragedy or some hoodlum or ne’er-do-well that “the paper” has to respect his privacy or is unidentified in a hoodie and mask, or dead in the street.

Not so for those “online readers” who can’t wait to sign their names to a petition of “manufactured self-pity” and local opinions that are not earth-shattering, factual, well thought out, interesting or even newsworthy. Usually, it’s some demented Yankee’s criticism of our backward ways and thoughts only for their own self-aggrandizement and their search for fleeting fame which they can get from seeing their name in print. Cheap thrills, again provided by our local paper, made from God’s own innocent trees.

With gorgeous photography and, if it’s too long, stories that jump to page 2, hold on tight to your paper; it won’t break if you drop it. See you in the funnies.

Clyde is a Salisbury artist.