4. The Variety
One of the best parts about the magazine was that new reporters weren't asked to write soft non-news stories about kids selling crafts to raise money for charity or the guy who taught his dog sign language. Don't get me wrong: I respect kids who raise funds for others. And I would very much like to meet a dog that signs.
Instead, we were immediately given more challenging tasks. (That said, I wasn't expecting, six weeks in, to write a cover story that was due the day the judgment I was to write on was made in court. I don't work well under tight deadlines.)
What I loved, though, was the adventure of discussing a wide variety of topics with all walks of life.
Typically the conversation went like this:
"Hello, this is Carmen Wittmeier from the Alberta Report Newsmagazine. I was just hoping to . . . "
[profanity]
"Um . . . I was just hoping to ask you a few . . . um . . . "
[slam]
However, other interviews were more lively and engaging. I met with good folks who were collecting donations--including a thong bikini--to give to Kosovar refugees. I tried to persuade a lovely woman who was too frightened to read The Lord of the Rings trilogy (because of the dangers inherent in fantasy) that literature had the power to reveal truth, even if hobbits didn't really exist (though I do think that my brother is one, based on the amount of hair on his feet). I talked to professors, and radio show hosts, and a man so afraid of chemical contamination that he wouldn't leave his house without a mask. I talked to a little boy who had survived the experience of having his head clamped in the jaws of a grizzly bear. Everyone (who didn't hang up on me) had a story to tell.
Some of the work was challenging indeed. I spoke to the judge residing over the case of Rebecca Bluff, a beautiful three-year-old brutally tortured and murdered by her own mother and her mother's boyfriend. I met with a family devastated when a pedophile (whose history was unknown to them) moved into their basement suite, abused their eldest son, and then left shortly before all three children were removed from the home. I went to the trial of a petrified, baby-faced thirteen-year-old boy who had fatally shot his eleven-year-old friend in a home filled with guns. I hoped that my words might make a difference.
Sometimes I left the office feeling very low.
Then there were the uplifting interviews. Perhaps my favourite interview ever was with Lucien Needham, the former conductor of the Lethbridge Symphony Orchestra. The very first thing he did was critique my interviewing skills.
"Honestly, Ms. Wittmeier!" he said with utmost contempt. "You have a great deal to learn about elocution." At that moment, I loved him. I loved his English accent and his disdain for me. I wanted him for a mentor and a father figure. I was filled with gratitude for all the wisdom he would undoubtedly impart.
And he was generous with his views on everything that was wrong with the music of today, and the youth of today, and the entire world in general. Strangely enough, his passion, though laced with disgust, was inspiring. He was a wonderful interview, and I think that, over the course of that phone call, he was able to tolerate (and perhaps even like) me. I was sad to learn that he passed away two years ago.
3. A False Positive
One dear editor (let's call him "Mark" Byfield) worked out of the office and was very curious about my physical appearance. Some of his comments made me uncomfortable.
So I decided that the very best thing to do would be to feign a crisis pregnancy to make this man equally uncomfortable. Perhaps my physical traits would be less pronounced in his mind if I were with child.
Kevin Steel was on board, and he made comments to Mark about how odd I was behaving--always rushing off to the bathroom, and sitting at my desk trying to look like I wasn't crying. Mark grew suspicious and Kevin, David, and I grew increasingly amused.
Then things began to get uncomfortable. Mark behaved in a fatherly, chivalrous manner, saying that he knew I was going through a difficult time and that I would get through it. My pregnancy lasted, I believe, for a couple of weeks, with Mark getting increasingly concerned for my wellbeing. I didn't know how to end a false pregnancy--I was truly in denial and kept up with the charade. That is, until Mark drove to the office with his daughter in tow to meet with me. I'm glad I wasn't there that day.
When Mark discovered the truth, he was livid. In a loud phone conversation he compared me to a female water bug called a strider. He gave me a more severe tongue lashing than Lucien Needham ever had. He said (and this was good) that he would never again made awkward remarks about a woman's exterior.
And I was just fine with that. Mission accomplished.
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