Friday. Just writing that, meaning that last Friday, February 27, 2009, was the last time I would find The Rocky on my driveway or, more commonly, on the breakfast table waiting for me, reminds me of another famous Friday: Black Friday.
A song, an “ear worm” they call it, began in my head that morning, and it hasn’t stopped since. ” . . . The day the muuuuu-sic died. So, bye, bye, Miss American Pie drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry.” That’s how I felt the day my newspaper died. Rocky was as American as apple pie; as Coloradan as our mountains, as much a part of me as my nose.
I like the Post’s clever and reassuring response to my ear worm, telling me that, “You’ll still get the News. It’ll just be in the Post now.” The Post gave that message the value of a full page and white space, and that’s true. The levy isn’t entirely dry. Perhaps my life isn’t quite over
However, it is also true that “iron sharpens iron,” and that the friendly, and sometimes not-so-friendly rivalry that I’ve read about over the years had, indeed, sharpened both newspapers to dig deeper, be more creative, fact-check one more time, and do it faster. In order to remain a great newspaper, The Denver Post must now function without that most basic of knife-sharpeners; competition.
When I went hunting for copies of The Rocky for my scattered daughters, I found I was too late, despite a second printing. I wanted copies of the Post, too, because I liked the way the Post had handled the loss of their competitors and comrades in journalism. The Post was sold out as well. Tell me again that people won’t support two newspapers?
On The Rocky’s last day, I met my neighbor outside in a mutual mailbox run, and we grieved between our houses, as the Chinook tried to blow us down the street. We shivered in that driving wind and talked of our mutual loss. Trying to keep our footing, dancing to stay warm, we nevertheless spent time talking. It was that important. It is that important.
I felt as if the west sky behind me was turning that eerie, quiet green that precedes a tornado. Even in the wind, I felt the absolute silence of the Monday to come without The Rocky. Despite the pounding wind, I felt a depth of community quiet that I had not heard in nearly ten years, when the world stopped and grieved our loss at Columbine. Friday, I felt like hiding, as from the green sky, from the impending unknown. One day, in my lifetime, will there be no more newspapers?
I had worried about where “my columnists” would go, and was reassured that they would still be there, at the Post, although I still haven’t found John Temple, whose column was always the highlight of my week. .
As the mother of a copy editor for another large newspaper about to follow that “Rocky Road” in a few months, I felt her impending loss as well. While I “found” my columnists, I never heard where the copy editors and journalists ended up. There seems to be nowhere for them, and I grieve for my daughter’s impending loss of her job, and for another city that will lose another old and faithful voice. It’s another city where I used to read two newspapers every day before I could leave the house.
I’m trying to find the good in it, but this is all I see: I’ll only be spending half the time reading the paper each day, so I could get an earlier (or later) start to the day. TV news or the radio is generally too shallow for me, and not worth my time. I could get news on the web, but it takes me so darn long to find it. And, personally, I am offended that much of what is offered as “news” on the web has – guess what? – no copy editor to assure accuracy.
I’ll manage; we all do after a death in the family. Bye, bye, Miss American Pie.
Vicki DeHoff is a former subscriber of the Rocky Mountain News. EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an online-only column and has not been edited.
