Today marks a change in my life, one that might seem small and insignificant to some, but one that represents a sea change for me. To begin at the beginning, I’ve always loved newspapers. Some of my earliest memories revolve around newspapers, especially on Sunday morning. The rituals involved in reading a newspaper in my home have long been engrained, unconscious, and seemingly inextricably woven into how I see and define my life. As a young child, I delivered newspapers in the morning for the Minneapolis Tribune and in the afternoon for the Minneapolis Star (they’ve long since merged into the morning Minneapolis StarTribune). I can’t think of a time in my life (when I’ve lived in the US) that I haven’t had a newspaper delivered. Starting my morning means two things- a cup of coffee and today’s newspaper.
Sure, I can read newspapers online, and I frequently do. In an era when physical books are become increasingly obsolete, I still haven’t managed to wrap my head around the idea of not staggering into the living room, opening my front door, and being greeted by my morning paper…until now, that is.
As long as I’ve lived in Portland, I’ve had a subscription to The Oregonian. For the most part, delivery has been regular and reliable, and I haven’t given it a second thought. Portland’s daily newspaper may be the journalistic equivalent of light beer or decaffeinated coffee, but it does keep me up to date on what’s happening around here, which, after all, is the function of a newspaper. That is, it does when it’s delivered. For the past two weeks, I’ve awakened, staggered to my front door, and have been greeted by…nothing. For some reason, whoever it is that’s supposed to be delivering my newspaper hasn’t been.
The morning disappointment follows an increasingly familiar pattern: I call, a customer service representative apologizes, and within an hour or so someone shows up with a replacement newspaper. Today, I’ve finally decided that enough is enough, and that this just might be the universe’s way of telling me that it’s time to join the 21st century. A few minutes ago, I called and cancelled my subscription. This might not seem like a big deal, but for me it marks a significant break with my personal history. Yes, I’ll still be able to get my local news online (and, even better, for free), but it means that I’m going to have to come to grips with the reality of having to dissolve a tradition that goes back to childhood.
Yes, newspapers are dying. Dailies in Seattle and Denver, among other cities, have folded and/or switched to an online-only format. The days of having newsprint on my fingers are dwindling, and while I understand that and recognize it as “progress”, it’s still a sad thing for me. Of course, I did manage to get used to the reality that no longer does anyone check my oil and wash my windshield when I fill my car’s gas tank…and I seem to have survived that transition unscathed. I imagine much the same will be true now that I’m no longer going to be picking up a newspaper off my porch every morning.
The sad thing is that if The Oregonian could have gotten their act together and delivered the newspaper I was paying them to deliver, I would quite happily continued as if nothing was amiss…because nothing would have been.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to wash the newsprint off my….oh, wait…never mind…. ;-)
