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DAZE WORK: Moving means never having to say you’re sorry
With apologies to real estate friends Bob Evans, Eric Wolfe, Sue McCune, Rita Goss and others, I have something confess: I hate to move.
Counting going away to college, I have moved eight times in my life. Not sure if that’s a lot or a little over a lifetime. But I’ve vowed to never move again. My humble little abode in the middle of Northwood Addition is it. I’m not going anywhere.
Except for work, where for the third time in my Banner Graphic tenure, we have a new home.
By now, most of you probably know the Banner Graphic has been sold to the Paxton group and now the building with its geometric-designed mural is changing hands as well.
All of which makes me feel old since I have outlasted the BG building that took the place of a barber shop, the original Radio Shack store and a doughnut shop that everyone seemed to lament in its passing yet never produced a single kruller or a long john from the time I arrive in Greencastle in September 1975.
The newspaper office was at 20 N. Jackson St. back then with the editorial and advertising offices on the ground floor and the production department in the basement, leading the a wildly misinterpreted message about production manager Wilbur Kendall’s group. Then owned by Sarkes Tarzian in Bloomington, its human relations person was told, “Wilbur’s got a girl pregnant in the basement,” and, of course, all the wrong assumptions ensued as he was just seeking a replacement for an employee about to have a baby.
Work began on the new building at 100 N. Jackson in 1976 and we moved into it with much fanfare and a public open house in 1977. I lost a great friend in general manager Jim Stitzle as construction took shape. While actively involved in the planning of the structure, he never got to see the finished product before a heart attack took him far too soon.
For the longest time I had the colorful wooden construction site sign for the project, turning it into a desk at home by balancing it upon some flue liners in a bedroom until my ex-wife absconded with it for some sewing project and I never saw it again — the sign or the ex.
Over the past few days we have moved into the northern portion of the old Feld’s building on Bloomington Street. And where I once embraced my commanding presence with a window on the world, high above the courthouse square from my desk in the corner, the newsroom and its four people are now tucked into a windowless room in the one-story building.
In going from the last new building constructed on the square in decades to accommodate about 40 total staff members (not counting carriers and motor route drivers), our new facilities house only eight.
Of course, one of the benefits for me and my bad knees and patched-up heart is that we have said goodbye to the 32 stairs necessary to reach the newsroom offices at the old site, where as the joke went, there was no elevator but we did get the shaft.
It was a sad day for us last month when the Goss press units were removed from the pressroom. I made the mistake of asking who bought them, figuring some paper was planning to add to its available press units or tuck away a replacement or two. But no, those legendary press units — for which people used to gather on the sidewalk out front to watch the press run — were being scrapped by our previous owners.
Schools kids on field trips and local Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts would schedule their visits around a press run to experience the Miracle on Jackson Street.
Likewise, people were always intrigued by the purple doors high above the loading dock off Franklin Street. Those were there to move large equipment in and out of the graphic arts area on the third floor.
Only occasionally would they be open, but at least one time it allowed one of the press guys to slide toward the open doors, throwing a football to another workman walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of Franklin Street.
I just happened to be there in time to grab his belt, yank him back and keep him from doing a swan dive out the purple doors to the asphalt below. I’ll take credit for an unofficial save if you’re scoring at home.
With more than 40 years of my own memories (and an equal number of years of dust accumulation in my corner) in that building, I’m reminded how many times we were witness to news or events unfolding right before our eyes from those windows above the square.
Not the least of those was the time Greencastle Police Officer Ed Wilson chased down an inmate who had escaped custody at the courthouse and tackled him near the mailbox at the corner of Franklin and Jackson streets. Jared Jernagan snapped action photos from our third-floor perch as the incident unfolded.
Just think of the vantage point we would have had if we were around when John Dillinger came running out of Central National Bank on the south side of the square in October 1933 with a Tommy gun and $75,000 in cash and negotiable bonds (Public Enemy No. 1’s largest haul ever).
To this day, I can remember standing in the newsroom on Jan. 28, 1978 when the police scanner screeched out a noise we’d never heard, followed by the once-in-a-lifetime stunning declaration, “Blizzard warning!”
Then there was the late morning when we watched the Opera House on the west side of the square burn, wondering if we were safe from fire and heat where we stood as Greencastle firefighters battled the blaze that broke out only minutes from deadline and ended up delaying the press run 90 minutes in order to capture that huge local event in that evening’s paper.
Or the day of the Downburst in August 1990 as we arrived to a building without power, without lights and without coffee and had to scramble to put together a newspaper for that afternoon, ending up driving to Crawfordsville to print on their press.
Or the morning we were learning of the 9-11 attacks when we trotted out the old 12-inch black-and-white Banner Graphic TV and sadly watched history unfold before our eyes.
While we moved out a myriad of memories to relocate on U.S. 231 South, I’m not sure what is happening to the large metal Banner Graphic lettering at the Franklin-Jackson street corner of the building. Editor Jared Jernagan wants the B and the G for souvenirs, while I’m kind of partial to sneaking off with the E and the B for obvious reasons.
So, yes, it’s been quite an adventure from where we sat, watching history take place before our eyes in a community I’ve grown to love and cherish.
I’m sure everything will all work out here, too, on the South Side. Journalists are a notoriously adaptable bunch after all.
I mean at some point Clark Kent had to figure out how to change clothes in that phone booth, right? This couldn’t be as tough as that and we really don’t have any villains to vanquish (that we know of).
Keep an eye on us as Jared, Codey, Trent and yours truly are still happy and proud to bring you the news — from wherever we may be.