“I love the smell of newsprint in the morning” by Laurie O’Halloran

 

Six mornings a week it hits my front door with a familiar thud, usually around 6 a.m. That thud used to be a lot louder, but it still signals my morning newspaper has arrived. Time to get up.

I open the front door to grab what is now two newspapers – the Hamilton Spectator and the National Post – bound together with an elastic band. If it’s raining, they’ll be wrapped in a blue plastic bag.  Sadly, it’s a pretty light load these days but I still look forward to spreading them out on my kitchen island and scanning the day’s top headlines.

My fascination with newspapers began with my father. Watching him pore over the Globe and Mail – pipe in mouth and coffee in hand – was a comforting sight each morning. He would bitch about the government, cheer on his favourite sports teams and closely examine the stock index. For my part, I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to read a newspaper that didn’t have comics. Or Dear Abbey. The only useful part of the Globe were the horoscopes, but even they seemed written for ‘executives' and were of little value to a girl who simply wanted to know if that cute guy in biology class was going to ask her out.

As I matured, however, so did my reading preferences. By my teens, I was reading the feature articles and book reviews in the Saturday edition. It was also the beginning of my lifelong love affair with obituaries. I couldn’t resist reading every single one, still can’t. Some are beautiful, a few are funny, many make me cry, and all provide a fascinating look inside people’s lives.

Beloved journalist Christie Blatchford

By the end of high school, I had decided to study journalism and that was when I started reading the entire front section of the Globe. In college, I developed preferences for certain columnists and couldn’t wait to read their opinions. The late Christie Blatchford was my absolute favourite. With her sharp wit and insightful observations, she made me laugh … and think differently.

The one section that remained untouched until my 30s was the Report on Business (ROB). That changed when I made my first investment and I started following the stock market. Like reading obituaries, studying stock prices became an addiction. Before it all went online, I depended on ROB to feed my addiction.

In my 50s, I discovered crossword puzzles, and my dependency on newspapers deepened. Unlike the news or stock prices, however, the crossword could wait. I would often set it aside to savour late in the day, usually with a cocktail before dinner.

The Globe had become my daily fix when, suddenly, I was faced with a serious dilemma. Conrad Black launched the The National Post. As crazy as it sounds, I had always had a secret crush on Mr Black. I didn’t care for his politics but I was in awe of his writing ability and spectacular vocabulary. What to do? The Globe and I had been together for decades and we were comfortable in our relationship. But sometimes change can be good. Was it time to break up? Fortunately, the decision was made for me when Christie Blatchford jumped ship and joined The Post. I cancelled my Globe subscription, called the National Post, and never looked back.

Of course my kids think I’m terribly outdated. (To enhance my dinosaur status, I also insist on reading hard cover print books!) Their phones are their sole source of news and information. If it’s not on a screen, they’re not interested. But there is something so detached and impersonal about screens. And research shows more information is absorbed and retained after reading the printed word. Plus, newspapers have always provided a tactile record of our history. War and peace, births and deaths, everything is right there in black and white, ready to be clipped and saved for future generations. Those clippings are a catalogue of the milestones of our lives.

The Post and The Spectator are now shadows of their former selves. I fear the end is near and am already dreading the day I hold the last print newspaper in my ink-stained hands.

***

Laurie O’Halloran is the former publisher/owner of Home Style Magazine, a national trade magazine for kitchenware retailers. She retired two years ago and moved back to her hometown of Burlington, Ontario, where she indulges in her love of travel, golf, jazzercise, jigsaw puzzles and honing her writing skills so she can one day complete that book.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

 

“Bright memories of The Dark Side” by Laurie O’Halloran

One of the true joys of moving back to my hometown in retirement has been getting the local newspaper delivered every morning. Yes, I am one of those dinosaurs who still enjoys reading a real, print newspaper. When I returned to Burlington last year, the first thing I did was get a subscription to the Hamilton Spectator. I grew up with “The Spec.” I even delivered it for a couple of years as a preteen. Today, with my coffee in hand, I check the stock quotes, peruse my favourite columnists, and then set aside the crossword puzzle to complete with my lunch.

The Spec is a constant reminder of my teenage history. So it was no surprise last week to open up the newspaper and find a story about the infamous Pink Floyd concert held at Ivor Wynne Stadium in June of 1975 - infamous because of the booze and the drugs and the mess. I was there. I was only 15 at the time but I will never forget it. I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night, but I can remember every detail of that concert like it was yesterday.

As the Spec writer pointed out, “it was huge, loud and messy, with more than 55,000 drug-addled fans descending on Hamilton”, each paying a whopping $8.50 per ticket. For a teen who thought Dark Side of the Moon was a musical masterpiece, it was a dream come true.

Dressed in long demin skirts and peasant blouses, three friends and I took the bus from Burlington into Hamilton the day before the much anticipated concert. We were fortunate my grandmother lived just around the corner from the stadium. Since the tickets were open seating - first ones in the door got the best seats - we decided to sleep over at my grandmother’s and get up around 4 a.m. to camp out on the sidewalk. This way we could grab a good spot when the doors opened later that afternoon.

By sunrise on the Saturday of the concert, we had taken up our position on the sidewalk along with dozens of other eager fans. It was a warm June morning, promising to be a very hot day. The scent of marijuana was in the air, and the beer was flowing even at that early hour. We felt so hip, so grown up. 

But by noon, we were feeling nothing but the scorching heat. We each had a bottle of Pepsi and a wineskin filled Baby Duck sparkling rosé (don’t ask). By noon, it was over 80° (this was before metric) and we discovered that cheap, warm wine is not exactly thirst quenching. 

We were considering leaving our precious spots in line when suddenly, through a haze of hashish, I saw my grandmother walking down the sidewalk. She was carrying a big platter of sliced watermelon! It seemed unreal, but there she was, looking for us and calling my name. Nothing has ever tasted as sweet as that cold watermelon. My fellow concert goers swarmed my poor little grandma and she was a hero for a day.

Thanks to Facebook, I am still in touch with many of my high school friends who were at that concert. They all remember my grandmother and her watermelon.

When we finally entered the stadium, we had been waiting for over 12 hours but it was everything we imagined. There was a huge round screen behind the massive stage and the entire ground turf was covered with a plastic tarp. We found a good spot to sit at about the 30 yard line and laid our blanket on the ground. It disappeared within an hour. So did the tarp, which was soon covered with slimy concoction of vomit, beer and urine. 

We lost our shoes. Pills were being popped, pipes were being passed around and more than a few people were already passed out. But there was no violence at all. No fights. No arguments. We were all just so damn happy to be there.

The music was like nothing we had ever heard before. Dark Side of the Moon really is the soundtrack to my generation. The entire night was a euphoric drink and drug-infused musical blur - and we didn’t want it to end. Sadly, it eventually did, so we all straggled out and proceeded to hitchhike home. In our bare feet. It was 1975, remember. Different times.

I’ll be 63 years old next month and I’ve seen a fair share of A-list concerts in my life. Nothing will ever compare to Pink Floyd. My 25-year-old daughter has reinforced my conviction. She has Dark Side of the Moon in her vinyl record collection and it’s one of her favourites. Like my memory of that night, it has stood the test of time. (Of course I would kill her if I ever found her hitchhiking!)

The Spec article mentioned that one of columnists is writing a feature story on the concert and he invited anyone who had attended to contact him. At first I was hesitant. Did I really want the world to know the concert-going sins of my youth? Then I thought, my parents have both passed away, what did it matter? Well, my children matter of course. But then I realized my comments would be in a Hamilton Spectator article and neither of my kids would ever read a newspaper.

I think I’ll give him a call.

***

Laurie O’Halloran is the former publisher/owner of Home Style Magazine, a national trade magazine for kitchenware retailers. She retired two years ago and moved back to her hometown of Burlington, Ontario, where she indulges in her love of travel, golf, jazzercise, jigsaw puzzles and honing her writing skills so she can one day complete that book.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.