Bringing The Bee to its knees

You could usually hear it before you would see it. The bright orange blob lumbering around the corner every afternoon about 3:00. Lurching down Valley View Avenue, it looked like some kind of a big box atop four big black tires. The driver barely slowed as he heaved two bulging stacks of freshly printed paper, each held together with a thick wire, onto the driveway of the house across the street. Its deed done here, the truck sped off to its next drop, the faded lettering on the back of the truck, "San Jose Mercury/San Jose Evening News," nearly invisible through the dirt and grime.

It wasn't at News10 in Sacramento. Nor was it at KHSL-TV in Chico, or KPCO in Quincy, or KCSB-FM in Santa Barbara or The Daily Comet at James Lick High School in San Jose where I first delivered the news. It was those summer afternoons as a kid, helping fellow-kid and neighbor Robbie Habernicht (whose route it was) deliver the The San Jose Evening News on our Schwinns.

Under the thin wire that banded each stack of papers which were still warm from coming off the presses, was a cover sheet. It contained routing information, making sure the driver dumped the right stack at the right spot. But clip the wire, remove that sheet, and there it was. One day it would scream "BLAST LEVELS JC PENNEY-3 DIE." Another day, "HOLLYWOOD STAR MANSFIELD DECAPITATED." Another, "BRINK OF SOVIET WAR," or "MAN ON THE MOON." We were the few privy to get a glimpse of the day's news hours before it would be unfurled on driveways and doorsteps. Only on the rarest of occasions did we actually sit and read an article (I think the Jayne Mansfield was one of those). Our job was to hurriedly secure each single paper with a rubber band, jam them into burlap sacks, then fling those sacks over the back of our bikes and be on our way to bring the news to our neighborhood . This was important stuff. And there was an important method in that delivery.

People who tipped would get their papers placed on the front porch. Those who didn't tip, but were nice enough anyway, had their papers thrown onto the driveway. Then there were the others ... those who never seemed to have money to pay you when you went around each month collecting; those (usually grumpy old men) who would yell at you and raise their canes as you cruised down their street on your Sting-Ray; those who would say "I don't know why you're delivering me this crap, it's the same damn thing everyday," then tell you they could pay you with a bag of walnuts (these are the same people who gave you a penny when you came trick or treating). For those people, their paper came "special delivery."

There was the "grand slam." Instead of gently tossing the paper, you'd do the best Sandy Koufax you could muster and zing the paper onto the driveway, preferable exposed aggregate. The result would be a badly deformed paper that would be difficult to open without ripping. Added points were given when the paper, after impacting the pavement, actually skidded a few yards, etching away the print.

There was also the "wet willie." In the days before automatic water systems, it was always a treat to see that old man Johnson had turned on his front lawn sprinklers to give his picture perfect yard that fresh evening look. With proper timing of our delivery, it also meant that instead of reading how the San Jose Bees were fairing, old man Johnson would be scooping up a soggy pile of pulp that just an hour earlier had been his newspaper.

There were some carriers who would throw the paper with such force into a screen door that it would dent it (hmmm, somehow my grandparent's delivery boy seemed to enjoy that bit of revenge). And there were those who loved to toss it onto the roof. We avoided both of those scenarios because fixing the door could get expensive and if some old man fell off a roof getting his paper he might get hurt. At that young age, we did have a conscience. Puny, but it was a conscience.

I am retelling this blissful childhood experience because of something I read today in The Sacramento Bee. The capital city's only major daily newspaper is offering buyouts to 55% of its full time staff, including many in the editorial department (that means reporters, editors, photographers). Two months ago, 86 Bee employees were given pink slips. By all accounts, after this next cost cutting move, the Bee will be decimated. Its news coverage, already suffering from previous layoffs, will deteriorate further. Colleagues I have talked with wonder whether or not at this point The Bee can survive.

Perhaps as disturbing as the prospect is that Sacramento could become a newspaperless town is the online reaction from readers, many of who are simply gushing at the demise of The Bee. State workers angered over the Bee's recent posting of state workers' salaries are among the most celebratory.

"Good riddance," writes robertcameron. "None of you will be missed. Welcome to (sic) unemployment line."

"This paper is such a rag," says Bordeau. "Good Bye and Good Riddance."

Another said it didn't matter to him. He nevers reads the Bee and gets all his news from FOX News (perhaps lost is the irony that he apparently did read the story on Sacbee.com and took the time to write about it).

Folks, there is nothing, absolutely nothing surrounding the serious problems at The Sacramento Bee that should bring joy to anyone.

Over the past three decades, I have worked alongside and with some of The Bee's journalists, and in fact for several years back in the 1970s was a Bee "Correspondent," writing stories from the hinterlands of California. Walt Wiley and Bill Carr in the early days. More recently, people like Sam Stanton, Mareva Brown, Ken Chavez, David Barton, Mark Glover, Andy Furillo, Rick Kushman, Cynthia Hubert, Art Campos, Bryan Patrick, Randy Pench, Jennifer Garza, Sam McManus, and many others. These are hard working journalists who yes, may step on some toes, may expose things that others don't want exposed, and may at times not share my or your viewpoint. But they have done their job and have done it well. And for 150 years, The Bee has served Sacramento and northern California with quality reporting, stimulating opinions, and a commitment to the truth.

When there was talk a while back that the Kings may leave Sacramento, the outcry was loud and widespread. How could they? Sacramento would be considered a hick town. The Capital City would lose its stature. I guess that shows the sorry state of society. There is such an uproar over a sports team leaving town, yet when the city's only major watchdog and source of information is threatened, there is barely a whimper. Sacramento should be up in arms.

For those of you taking pride in putting a stake through the heart of the region's largest daily newspaper, don't come crying down the road when your city council passes some inane ordinance and you didn't know about it. Don't whine when no one shows up to report on the efforts your church is making to improve the community. Don't yell foul when you can't find the box scores to last night's Kings game. Without The Bee, government becomes more powerful, the people become weaker (and don't try to say "Oh, but the government is the people." It simply doesn't work that way).

The days of old man Johnson grumbling about a newspaper that's all wet because the hoodlums that deliver it threw it into his sprinklers are long gone. But some semblance of the newspaper industry can hopefully survive. And to the fine residents of Sacramento who are about to throw a block party if and when The Bee folds ... don't expect FOX News to be there to cover it.