said a voice maybe an octave lower in pitch than Ellen's.
"Hello," I responded around my turkey sandwich.
"Is your roommate nice yet?" Ellen quipped.
"He's okay I guess," I said. "We've only talked a few minutes so far."
"Well," Ellen responded "Give him a chance. Nothing like a long, leisurely evening to get acquainted!" Both women seemed to think this was quite amusing.
"O--kay," I said. Then when the laughter continued, "What?"
"I saw you two at breakfast," Ellen said, getting control. "He's the person I'd seen in Haggett. Sure. He's a nice guy. Give him a chance!"
"No problem," I said.
"Before midterms start happening," Janice put in. "We're having a party. This weekend."
"In our cluster," Ellen added. "Do you think you and Duncan might be interested in coming?"
"Don't see why not," I told them. "Maybe come by and let me know when?"
"A deal," Ellen said. We killed the next 20 minutes with more small talk and I had plenty of time to make it back across the street, to the communications building where I had my afternoon news writing class.
I considered my primary major to be engineering but had determined early on carrying a second one in communications, editorial Journalism option. The university of Washington didn't recognize minors except in some special cases such as teaching. Had I been able to declare a minor I'd likely have done so, but as things stood, maintaining both majors was the only way to have something official to show for the fairly intense work that goes into coherent expression of information and ideas on paper.
There were maybe thirty of us in Communications 320 News writing I. Each desk had it's own typewriter each of which would log considerable mileage before end of quarter.
"I'm William J Johnston," announced our instructor, a venerable fixture in this department. He had the somewhat bluff manner of one used to talking with strangers and discovering things not always gladly rendered. Between paragraphs he breathed somewhat heavily with a slight wheeze. Johnston tended to sip coffee during lectures. He'd only speak about a third of any given class.
"Folks usually call me BJ," Johnston continued. "I worked for twenty-three years on The Seattle Times as a reporter. At some point I realized that clarity in reporting and journalistic excellence was flagging; is flagging. I left the work I loved to help new people learn to write as well as they possibly can. I challenge you to write as well as you are able and when you can write better than that, to do so!"
Professor Johnston paused for a moment to scan our group. As always I'd find, he appeared to center on me but I'm sure everyone else felt so as well.
"At some point," he resumed, "it won't happen today or tomorrow. It may not happen this quarter or even before you graduate, but some day you will get hold of the idea of excellence. You will make a commitment to yourself that everything you write will be the very best piece on that particular topic that you are currently able to write."
Not everyone will write in the same way nor should he. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John all covered the same story but each told his story differently. However each of us chooses to report a story, there are basic rules, basic principles according to which we work and by which we live as journalists. These will comprise the present course. Sometimes you'll dislike me. Sometimes you will be sick of me because I'll always be here looking over your shoulder and I'll always be available to help you get the most that you can out of this class."
Sipping noises and the waft of caffeine, because at this moment BJ was standing about four feet in front of my desk.
"There's a pile of yellow copy paper up here on the front table," Johnston informed. "We use that for in-class exercises. There is also a pile of white typing paper which you are free to take for final assignments and submissions to the Daily or other publications. With each article written out of class, you will use a carbon and make a copy on yellow copy paper. Now I see we have typewriters for everyone. Please write me an article on what I just said."
Praise God that I've taken notes, and I've been typing since third Grade! I quickly examine the machine in front of me see it's close enough to the typewriters I used in high school to answer. I roll in the sheet of paper from a stack being passed around and write.
(Matthew, Mark, Luke and John covered the same story, said BJ Johnston, instructor, in news writing 320 class on June 18, 1974 "but each told his story differently."
Professor Johnston said that after working 23 years at the Seattle times he had chosen to leave active reporting and instruct student writers in order to help them become the best writers they can be. Johnston stressed excellence in writing and informed students that though they might not always appreciate him, he will be constantly available to help everyone get the most possible from this class.)
I was feeling rather smug because quite a few typewriters were still clacking as I sat, my hands folded on my desk, my article squared with the left front desk corner. Finally Johnston said "Pass papers forward and to the right please." A pile materialized on my desk. Johnston grabbed the stack, riffling through it.
"The name is Johnston," he said, "Not Johnson. As reporters you need to learn to listen." A few moments later "Because someone teaches a course at an university," he said "doesn't mean he has a doctorate. I may be Professor Johnston but I'm also Mr. not Doctor Johnston."
Some more time went by. "You may have been taught in high school journalism class Junior year," he said "to use all five of the Ws and the Have in your story lead. (Certainly I had!) In professional news writing three of the Ws and H are sufficient!" (I began to feel a little less smug.)
More lecturing followed after which, "Please pair up with your nearest neighbor and between now and next class session you will each interview the other and each present an article in final draft form written from your interview."
"Hi?" said a voice at my left elbow. "My name's Irene Richmond?"
"Dave Price," I reached an hand across. "Nice meeting you."
"I think we've met before," Irene said. "But for the life of me I can't place where at the moment?"
"Do you have time to co-interview now?" Irene asked. "Would you like to go to the library or...?"
"My room's across the street," I told her. Neither of us thinking I believe that anyone would take any issue with this suggestion.
We crossed the street and rode the elevator up to the 3rd floor.
"Would you like to go first?" Irene asked. So I spoke of my high school experiences and my science and technology studies here at the university. I mentioned wanting to raise a family, perhaps have a farm to live on some day; while working as a consulting engineer, from home if possible.
Interjecting, Irene said "I wonder sometimes what's going to happen to me. I'm very unlikely to get married. I have very bad acne and I doubt anyone would choose to be with me."
"You probably just need to find the right person" I said, knowing my response was cliched as I uttered it.
Irene responded with "People are very judgemental about things like this." Sadness radiated off her yet there was acceptance in her voice.
It would seem trite to suggest that a blind husband might be what she needed. That sounded like a putdown but I suspected she might well benefit from the notion.
I'd said about what I needed to about my background and felt Irene could get a balanced story now. As we were about to switch to her story, or perhaps, continue with it, Duncan came in.
"Hi," he said and to Irene "I'm Duncan."
"Irene," said Irene. They exchanged nice-to-meet-yous.
"I'm going over to the bookstore in a little while Dave," Duncan told me. "Do you need to come?"
I acknowledged that I did. I'd learned by now that it's not a good idea to buy your books