Peace Out, Home Dawgs

Dear Besties,

Today is sort of a sad day for me. I woke up not being able to hear out of my right ear. It’s like half of my head is stuck in a bouncy ball you get from those big bins at the grocery store and every time I speak it sounds like two swords clashing together. (I’m  mixing my figures of speech, I know). I’m blaming it on allergies. I know by admitting that I have allergies, I’m admitting to a massive constitutional weakness, but I’m just going to have to own it. I am weak, and I have allergies.

Anyway, I’m also a little misty because today is my last day at the Free Press. I have worked here for three and a half years. I started on Dec. 5, 2005, after spending nearly two years in a dusty backwater known as Auburn, NY. The paper for which I wrote was affectionately known as The Shitizen by the town’s intelligentsia, which consisted of a mayor with wooden planks for teeth and the three old ladies who played pinochle at the senior center every day. There I wrote about quilting, farming, quilting, mud bog racing, quilting and cats getting stuck in trees.  It was a good learning experience.

When I decided it was time to move on, I had my choice of plum gigs- a newspaper in Shenectady that didn’t have the Internet and was still using those computers with black and green screens, circa 1984, and the Free Press. Naturally, I went with the newsroom that had access to the Internet, so I could do all the personal e-mailing I wanted. So bought a warmer coat, crossed the lake and landed at 191 College St.

Here at the Free Press, I have had the pleasure of writing about hunger in Vermont, imprisoned mothers, Dutch Indonesian prisoners of war reunited in Grand Isle and a whole slew of “human interest” stories that ranged from Vermont’s first IHOP to transgender artists to toy train collectors. I have tried to write about my subjects with empathy, authenticity, humor and an understanding that things are rarely as they seem.  I believe I have accomplished some of what I set out to do when I started this gig. But whether I really succeeded is your call, not mine.

Earlier today, I checked the Free Press archives to see how many stories I’ve written during my tenure here. Under the name Lauren Ober, 593 stories come up. That doesn’t include non-byline pieces or pieces written when our archiving system was in flux and stories that were never archived. That’s a lot of words. That’s also a lot of sources and people who have graciously told me their stories, despite the fact that sharing personal life details with a perfect stranger is often uncomfortable, if not downright painful. If I have written about you and you are reading this now, I hope that I honored your story, no matter how minor it might have seemed.

Of all those stories, here’s what I have to show for it. 169 notebooks, not counting the ones I lost or that were eaten by my dog:

This is what personal history looks like.

While I was cleaning all the bric-a-brac off my desk and from inside the drawers, I happened upon a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate. Who knows when I bought it, or if I even bought it. We reporters are widely known to steal. While I was perfectly capable of throwing away old business cards and stickers and pins people have given to me over the years, I couldn’t chuck out a piece of chocolate, no matter how old. Damn, it was tasty.

This is what eating your troubles away looks like.

I’m going to miss my corner “workstation.” I lucked out by being surrounded by two huge energy-inefficient windows and when it was nice out, my desk was bathed in sunlight and I had a chance to work on my tan. I’m also going to miss the Friday evening concerts from the Red Square alley, which my desk overlooks. I’ll miss egging on the drunks and complaining about how amateur-hour the music is. I’ll also miss kvetching with my coworker Jo-Jo, aka Joelle, aka JBSquared. He was an integral member of Man Corner- my “wing” of the office, comprised of three fellas and me.  I have never met anyone with a more inspiring attitude towards life than JBB. Is that cheesy? Well, it’s true. After my deskmate and Argentine voice of reason, Mariana, left, Joel gladly stepped in to fill her role as my personal confessor/therapist, free of charge. Joel has saved me from many a stupid mistake and has offered judgment-free counsel when I most needed it and I appreciate that so much. Plus, he cheerfully suffered my elementary attempts at speaking French. Bless his cotton socks.

In my time here at the Free Press, I’ve seen countless colleagues move on or get laid off. There are four empty desks just in my section. Those all used be filled with warm bodies. I stopped counting after we hemorrhaged 15 people in short order.  Only a few have continued to work in journalism. The others have taken PR jobs or have gone back to school or are stay-at-home moms.  It’s sad because many of those people were quite talented, or had great potential. But our industry is changing and at the moment, it doesn’t have room for everybody. Just like most other newsrooms around the country, we have fallen victim to the extreme growing pains of our industry. I don’t have any great ideas on the subject, except that it makes me unbearably sad. Where we are right now in this country- technologically, socially, psychologically- makes me agitated and insecure. I have faith that people smarter than me will come up with a eventual solution to the crisis of our 4th estate. If they don’t, I will noogie them until they figure it out, dammit.

So thanks to the three of you who read my work at the Free Press. I so very much appreciate your readership. If you’re desperate for your fill of Lauren Ober-bylined stories, never fear. I’m not going far. I’m heading down the road to Seven Days, the state’s alternative weekly. They offered me a huge six-figure salary, a company car with driver, a new wardrobe, a maid, a cook, my own professional sports team, a chain of Dunkin Donuts, a Derby-bound yearling, one of the presidential helicopters that Obama doesn’t want and Stowe Mountain Resort. Sort of hard to pass up. So if you’re interested, you can check me out across town at the little weekly that could. And you can always catch up with me here at oberandout.com, where it’s all Ober, all the time. Thank you. I love you.