7.01.2012
5.19.2009
The last day
Originally posted April 1, 2009
It didn't take long to empty out more than 30 years of memories at the office the other day.
Forty-five minutes, tops, for two file cabinets under my desk and one big one in the corner of the newsroom.
Three convenient garbage cans, two boxes and one plastic tube and viola!, my job was done.
Oh, I saved a few things. But by and large 90 per cent of it went into the garbage.
I must admit, though, going through the junk was like a 45-minute trip down memory lane, where both the good and the bad waited to leap out of the darkness of faded memory.
There was a clipping of a story I did about my son, seven at the time, visiting a new computer center at a kiddie playground I took him to one night. The picture showed him transfixed at the screen of a 1997 era computer, his eyes staring into the light while his hand maneuvered on a primitive touch pad. It was one one of my Friday night visitations not long after a divorce, as I recall, a time I was still getting accustomed to seeing the kids every other weekend and twice a month on Weds night.
There was another clipping, this one of a review I wrote of Jewish comedian Jackie Mason. The venue remains clouded in lost memory, but Mason was fabulous, quick witted, acid tongued yet kind in a strange way. I fancied myself an arts writer at that point, far from the business editor I ended up at the end of things.
There were lots of other clippings, stories about the latest in gadgets at the International Housewares Show, a review of an Alman Brothers concert, a story about Frank Lloyd Wright, and a string of columns about the outdoor concert season of 1997.
I piled the clippings, along with a few files, into a plastic tub that I had brought from home. Inside it already were trinkets from my desk, pictures, postcards, tape players that didn't work, old business cards and a five year old photo of my daughter that had gotten stuck way back in the desk drawer.
The ride to work that last day looked and felt as it had for most of my years at the paper. The Marathon station was selling gas for $2.16, oodles more than the first day I passed back in 1976. The sky was a typical Chicago winter grey, not unlike that cold February day I started at the paper, a raw 26-year- old rookie out of weekly newspaper land, more than a bit scared of working at a daily.
Off in the distance I thick black clouds rose over the horizon.
"No doubt a fire," I thought.
There was a time I would have called it in.
Not today.
The calendar at my desk was marked for me to be in Washington, D.C., today, where daughter Sarah lives with her mom. "See Sarah sing National Anthem at school," the calendar said.
Not today.
As the day meandered along, I had a conversation with a photographer about fixing a photo I needed for one of my pages.
"Nice to know you still care," he said.
Always have, always will.
Later in the day, an email popped into my account.
'"Is this the same Ernie Schweit who once lived at Carbondale Mobile Homes in 1972."
Yes it is, I thought,. Then I realized, OMG, it was from my college roommate, who I had not seen or heard from since that day I left campus.
Talk about timing. Of all the days to pop back into my life.
Near the end of the day, as I was putting the finishing touches on packing, a steady stream of people happened by my desk. We laughed as we talked about the old days. And we cried as we talked about the current ones. We all promised to stay in touch.
"Lets have lunch one day," was a familiar--and much appreciated--refrain. But to tell you the truth, it was starting to feel like a wake, except the body was still standing. And there was no coffin in sight.
I put on the top of the last box, put them all in empty office chairs and wheeled them towards the newsroom door.
I had held myself together pretty well throughout the day. Until now
Barbra and Renee, two of my dearest friends, offered to help. So the three of us pushed the office chairs topped with boxes through the newsroom door to the elevators, down to the first floor and out a side door.
I ran to get my car and pulled it around near the door where my two friends stood waiting, chairs and boxes in tow.
I took one look at Barbara and lost it.
Totally.
"You gave me my start. You never hung over me. You let me do it my way," the words came tumbling out through the tears.
Then Renee lost it.
"I've never worked a day at the Daily Herald when you weren't here."
The three of us hugged. And cried.
We must have been quite a sight.
We managed to load the car. We hugged again and then off I drove.
These are good people, I thought, great friends that I leave behind.
I'll stay in touch. And I know they'll stay in touch with me.
For more than 30 years they were a huge part of my life. Bigger than anything that could fit in a cardboard box.
Originally posted April 1, 2009
It didn't take long to empty out more than 30 years of memories at the office the other day.
Forty-five minutes, tops, for two file cabinets under my desk and one big one in the corner of the newsroom.
Three convenient garbage cans, two boxes and one plastic tube and viola!, my job was done.
Oh, I saved a few things. But by and large 90 per cent of it went into the garbage.
I must admit, though, going through the junk was like a 45-minute trip down memory lane, where both the good and the bad waited to leap out of the darkness of faded memory.
There was a clipping of a story I did about my son, seven at the time, visiting a new computer center at a kiddie playground I took him to one night. The picture showed him transfixed at the screen of a 1997 era computer, his eyes staring into the light while his hand maneuvered on a primitive touch pad. It was one one of my Friday night visitations not long after a divorce, as I recall, a time I was still getting accustomed to seeing the kids every other weekend and twice a month on Weds night.
There was another clipping, this one of a review I wrote of Jewish comedian Jackie Mason. The venue remains clouded in lost memory, but Mason was fabulous, quick witted, acid tongued yet kind in a strange way. I fancied myself an arts writer at that point, far from the business editor I ended up at the end of things.
There were lots of other clippings, stories about the latest in gadgets at the International Housewares Show, a review of an Alman Brothers concert, a story about Frank Lloyd Wright, and a string of columns about the outdoor concert season of 1997.
I piled the clippings, along with a few files, into a plastic tub that I had brought from home. Inside it already were trinkets from my desk, pictures, postcards, tape players that didn't work, old business cards and a five year old photo of my daughter that had gotten stuck way back in the desk drawer.
The ride to work that last day looked and felt as it had for most of my years at the paper. The Marathon station was selling gas for $2.16, oodles more than the first day I passed back in 1976. The sky was a typical Chicago winter grey, not unlike that cold February day I started at the paper, a raw 26-year- old rookie out of weekly newspaper land, more than a bit scared of working at a daily.
Off in the distance I thick black clouds rose over the horizon.
"No doubt a fire," I thought.
There was a time I would have called it in.
Not today.
The calendar at my desk was marked for me to be in Washington, D.C., today, where daughter Sarah lives with her mom. "See Sarah sing National Anthem at school," the calendar said.
Not today.
As the day meandered along, I had a conversation with a photographer about fixing a photo I needed for one of my pages.
"Nice to know you still care," he said.
Always have, always will.
Later in the day, an email popped into my account.
'"Is this the same Ernie Schweit who once lived at Carbondale Mobile Homes in 1972."
Yes it is, I thought,. Then I realized, OMG, it was from my college roommate, who I had not seen or heard from since that day I left campus.
Talk about timing. Of all the days to pop back into my life.
Near the end of the day, as I was putting the finishing touches on packing, a steady stream of people happened by my desk. We laughed as we talked about the old days. And we cried as we talked about the current ones. We all promised to stay in touch.
"Lets have lunch one day," was a familiar--and much appreciated--refrain. But to tell you the truth, it was starting to feel like a wake, except the body was still standing. And there was no coffin in sight.
I put on the top of the last box, put them all in empty office chairs and wheeled them towards the newsroom door.
I had held myself together pretty well throughout the day. Until now
Barbra and Renee, two of my dearest friends, offered to help. So the three of us pushed the office chairs topped with boxes through the newsroom door to the elevators, down to the first floor and out a side door.
I ran to get my car and pulled it around near the door where my two friends stood waiting, chairs and boxes in tow.
I took one look at Barbara and lost it.
Totally.
"You gave me my start. You never hung over me. You let me do it my way," the words came tumbling out through the tears.
Then Renee lost it.
"I've never worked a day at the Daily Herald when you weren't here."
The three of us hugged. And cried.
We must have been quite a sight.
We managed to load the car. We hugged again and then off I drove.
These are good people, I thought, great friends that I leave behind.
I'll stay in touch. And I know they'll stay in touch with me.
For more than 30 years they were a huge part of my life. Bigger than anything that could fit in a cardboard box.
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