Getting together with Old Repubs

The way it was

Tonight I joined about 25 Old Repubs at the Red Rose Pizzeria in Springfield for a festive evening of storytelling and reconnecting. Old Repubs is the name of the Facebook group of former employees of The Republican, a group also including some hardy current reporters and editors. One of my former colleagues calls us recovering reporters.

Newspaper people tell the best stories. We talked shop – covering what has become of the industry and what it once was – and we told jokes and talked about our lives and our families and the state of the news biz and other things. Many of us lingered long after the meal was done, wanting to stay longer. Many have been gone for a long time, but we didn't miss a beat. We talked about how we miss the camaraderie, which before things started to go downhill could not be beat. We had joked around a lot but worked hard, staying late if we had to make up the time.

I never went back after my relapse in 2007, but, having worked as a reporter at the Springfield paper for more than 25 years, I often still say "we" when referring to the paper.

That is not to say it was all rosy. I still have nightmares about work: I don't have a chair, the light is too dim to see, they want me to work but there are not enough computer terminals to go around, they want me to produce more stories on impossible deadlines. (There never were enough working chairs; someone from the night shift would often take a day shift person's chair when he or she had just gone to the bathroom, and I would often start my day hunting for my chair.)

Recently, I awoke from a nightmare in which it was the last day of work before the paper went out of business, and we were all crying and saying this could not possibly be so and we did not know how to do anything else. I told this to someone tonight and she said that given the rate at which people are taking buyouts, retiring, or being laid off, the dream might be prescient.

When we get together, we lament what has happened to the industry.

Still, sooner or later, someone will say, "We had a good run."

Creating a happy and productive workplace

I am really glad that I don't do my writing in a place where I am tied to my desk.

My workplace is my home, where I am my own boss and have the flexibility to get the most out of myself with the proper "incentives."

This morning when I was writing my Newsmax post, my eyes could not focus. The continued dry heat in my house was getting to me. Another cup of coffee would not do it, but a quick trip to Tailgate Picnic would. I think I just needed some air. I got a raisin scone and told Anna at the cash register that I was betting that magic elements in the scone would help me write.

It worked. I breezed through the Newsmax post (with help from an extra cup of coffee) and finished editing a piece that I am doing for another client.

Back in my early days at The Republican, the atmosphere allowed for taking revitalizing breaks. When there was actually a downtown in Springfield, I might walk alone or with a co-worker down to the bookstore. Later there was only the Dunkin' Donuts next door, but even a coffee run could do the trick.

Increasingly, the atmosphere there became one of watching everything you do, with time spent recharging viewed as time wasted. I am sure this attitude permeates other workplaces as well.

In another life I am going to work at Google, where, according to the company' website, "Our offices and cafes are designed to encourage interactions between Googlers within and across teams, and to spark conversation about work as well as play."

Its goal in offices and campuses is “to create the happiest, most productive workplace in the world.”

I am doing my best to create my own happy workplace. I am going to walk the dog now and when I come back, I will write the other story on my budget today, a faculty profile for Holyoke Community College's next Career Focus issue.

And if I need another scone, I just might get it.

In and out of the hospital

My long-awaited visit to the GI specialist in Boston was aborted when I ended up in the local emergency room instead.

Don't want to bury the lede, so I'll start by saying I am taking an antibiotic for treatment of an infection and am feeling better, though I was admitted for two days.

It started Monday, when, all dressed for yoga, I started feeling achy. I took my temperature and it was 101.2. I was getting chills and feeling worse and worse. From my position lying down on the couch, I called Dr. Alyea and asked if I could now be like a normal person and wait it out. He said no, go to the emergency room. Joe was in Boston, so I called Meryl. What a mensch. (I was going to write mensch-ela, but I looked the word up and found out that although the word is usually used for an honorable, just man, it is an equal opportunity word.)  I threw up in her car (successfully into a bag, unlike the time I threw up into a bag with holes in Joe's car), and, thankfully, she did not throw me out.

It was dark by now, and when we got to the Baystate Medical Center emergency room in Springfield, we encountered a scene from hell. Tons of people, some bleeding, some screaming, some fainting. When I used the words "bone marrow transplant," they put me higher on the list, below acute problems but above the routine. I put on a mask and we waited it out in a corner away from the crowd.

After a couple of hours, I got a bed in the emergency room, and Joe came to relieve Meryl. Another mensch. I can't even count the hospital trips he's made with me. The ER doctor called Alyea, who told her I was his "miracle patient" and should be admitted for observation. I got a room at 4 a.m.

Though the caregivers were fine,  the system was a little discombobulated. I had given my information – history and meds – in the emergency room, yet when I got into a room, I was questioned at length by a nurse and trainee who said they had nothing in their computer and would have to start from scratch. "So, you had a liver transplant?" the nurse asked. "No, bone marrow transplant!" I replied. Having to go through it again when you're feeling sick is not fun.

Also, you could get even sicker from the food there, or, forgive the exaggeration, maybe even starve. I guess I am spoiled by Brigham and Women's, but still, fix-it chef Robert Irvine of "Restaurant: Impossible" would have a field day in Springfield. You couldn't get a baked potato, but you could get inedible packaged mashed potatoes. Surely it's less expensive to buy potatoes than to use the packaged junk. I asked for pot roast and mashed potatoes without gravy plus a chocolate pudding; it came with gravy, and the pot roast tasted like I imagine cardboard would taste like. There was no chocolate pudding. My nurse said to ask for turkey with gravy on the side instead; when it came about an hour later, I got a double order of the same pot roast, two chocolate puddings and turkey with gravy.. You couldn't even eat the broccoli, which was a grayish color. The woman who brought the food seemed upset with me, insisting I had asked for a double order of the same bad pot roast. What a waste of food.

My roommate gave me a banana, and I had that with chocolate pudding. Obviously if I was going to be there longer, I would have asked the troops to come in with real food. As it was, Chip brought me a Coke because all they had was some flavored cola. A little bit of real Coke can go a long way.

Barry came and got me out yesterday. (Thanks, Barry and Chip.) It was a nice day, and I asked Barry if he wanted to go for a walk. He said only to the corner and don't call him if I take a longer walk and get into trouble. I told Joe later, and he approved.

Having had no MSNBC in the hospital, I really wanted my "Hardball" fix, but the three Boston teams were on all at once, so I watched with Joe as the Celtics, Red Sox and Bruins all won. Among Joe's many talents, he has mastered the art of the clicker, changing channels at the commercials so you get to see some of everything. Sometimes this can be annoying, but I was into it last night. I saw my three-pointers, my goals and my home runs. I often miss the goals in hockey ("Can't they make the puck florescent?" I asked) but I definitely saw two and saw the others in replay. Then we watched "Modern Family."

Very sweet.

Sampling a 'President Obama Grinder'

It's funny how a day can start out one way and end up on a totally different note.

First I decided that I wanted to try a run again. I approached this little run with the anticipation of someone preparing for a race. It meant something to me; after all, the name of my blog is Running for My Life.

I went a little over a mile, from my house to the lake and around. I felt OK, although my pace was only a little faster than a walk. I thought I'd just loop around the other lake, but all of a sudden I began to feel shaky. "Time to stop!" I said out loud. So I walked the rest of the way back to the house, zig-zagging unsteadily. I really want to get back to running and I'm frustrated that my body won't cooperate. I guess I'll keep doing my physical therapy strengthening exercises and try again some other time.

On the cusp of being late, as usual, I ate a quick lunch and made myself presentable for an interview   in Springfield for a story I'm writing. I rushed downtown and, driving past The Republican, felt a little nostalgic. (When I called upstairs later and asked a friend who's still in the trenches  if I should be sorry I'm not there anymore, I received an emphatic "No!")

Anyway, when I got to where I needed to be I had trouble parking, so I called the person I was going to interview and said it might take me a few minutes to find a spot.

Oooops. He had mistakenly thought we were getting together today. He was very apologetic, and we rescheduled for today in South Hadley. I don't want to embarrass anyone by naming names or for that matter, the publication for which I'm writing. Anyway, there I was on a damp day in what's left of the South End of Springfield.

The reasonable next step would have been to turn around, drive to the Chicopee Jiffy Lube (which gives a discount on Tuesday) and get the oil change I needed. But after a wobbly run and a no-show, I was in the mood for something else. I had pulled in across the street from La Fiorentina and went into the pastry shop.

A couple of older people sat at a table, speaking Italian. The cases filled with pastries were a thing of beauty. I got my favorite treat, a strawberry/peach cake with whipped cream layers. Then I got a cappuccino served in a white cup and saucer with a small spoon, and I sat down at a table with the book that I had brought in from the car.

After finishing, I walked next door to Mom and Rico's, a South End fixture, and saw that their menu included a President Obama Grinder. (Also, Divorce Soup instead of Wedding Soup....ha ha.) I went in to ask exactly what a President Obama Grinder was, and the owner pointed to the description under the president's photo.

He gave me a sample of the sandwich made of turkey, cheese, and sapostini (an Italian salami) on a grinder roll. It was so good that I bought some for lunch today. As a bonus, I took home a PLAYBOCCE bumper sticker that goes in everyone's bag.

I did eventually get to Jiffy Lube, memories of cake, cappuccino and sapostini dancing in my head.