My first wolf story.
Nothing complicated, mind you.
I knew the AP would have a wire copy piece about it soon enough but figured I had better work it up into a cut-and-copy, at least talking to the plaintiffs and defendants in the lawsuit. Printed out and read the entire lawsuit. Talked with one of the plaintiffs. Called up a spokesperson for one of the defendants, and she hadn't seen the lawsuit, so I emailed her a copy. She calls back and tells me what Fish and Wildlife's objectives are.
A little dialogue ensues. It's valuable. It's not the greatest wolf story ever, but it's a dialogue, and not a shouting match. There's something about wolves -- like abortion. Everyone has good intentions but there's some deeper passion that gets tapped whenever you *mention* the subject to *anyone* involved in it. All I can do is try to understand at least a few of the different pieces of the story from as many different perspectives as possible and put it "out there" for the listener. All this goes into the story, but of course, the story just keeps getting longer.
*Then* the day starts to get complicated.
Another group sues Fish and Wildlife the same day over panthers and the impact of the border fence on *their* habitat. On that one, I print out and read the wire copy, because even though I'd written up a short piece on it to follow the wolf piece, the wire copy is *better* because I've spent most of the day on the wolves. I don't even have time to edit the copy. But now I have a nice little bottom-of-the-hour package of headlines all relating to endangered species in the state. Nice and neat.
Then literally between taking the helm in CONTROL and doing my first newscast, out of nowhere, the wire, which has been thin all day starts feeding me important breaking stories that I wind up bumping my carefully prepared package for -- again, and again, and again. I read 'em all pretty much cold. Barely time to run through 'em once to see where I might trip up -- but I *have to*. If I start talking about 16,278 people drawing 142,846 dollars in February of 2008 in benefits as opposed to 16,164 people drawing 137,554 dollars in benefits in May of 2006 without reading through first I will *sink* my broadcast, and by now, I *know* it. So I *have to* read through it, first. I do. Find the trip-up points, then round off, and take my time as I read, reading ahead, making sure I *understand* what I'm actually *reading* before trying to convey the *meaning* of it to the listener. No one wants to have numbers *thrown* in their faces. If they want the exact numbers, they can call, or they can read the newspaper -- newspapers do things like that better -- with stuff like numbers stories, I can *only* give listeners a *taste* or a sense of the shape of a story. I'm a filter between the numbers and the listener who needs to understand what the numbers *signify*, and *why* it *matters*.
Between my first newscast and my first weather there are still *more* stories flooding in over the wires. Including this one -- the Trigo fire, which I visited last week, and which *was* 95% contained, got blown past containment lines to the North and is, yet again, burning in steep and rugged terrain, driven by high winds.
So, I push off the story I spent all day working on to tell people about the forest fire. At least I manage to sound fairly calm doing it.
Then shortly before the *next* broadcast there's a story about political ads geared toward fucking *November* airing in the state.
Push off the wolves again.
Finally get my little wolf story read at the bottom of hour two, which is, of course, hour one.
Ohhhh *man* you have got to be ready to adapt in this business. You've got to plan everything out and still turn on a dime. You've got to be ready for *anything*. And then you have to be the listener's *freind*. You know, the calm, unruffled one, who knows a lot, *and* all the latest, but who's not *seriously* shaken up by *anything*. "Oh -- the state is on fire, again. This morning it wasn't, now it is. But the winds should die down on Friday. It's 78 degrees. Have yourself a great evening."
It's fucking NUTS!
I LOVE IT!!!!
Finally I go off air.
Then lured by free pizza I head down to the conference room where the monthly general meeting's underway. Maybe a dozen volunteers and two staff people are talking about minutiæ at great length, and with tremendous passion. (Radio people seem, as a rule, to do that. OH MY GAWD I love radio people.) At first I poke my head in, kinda figuring "I better at least pretend to be interested if I'm going to be taking their food".
Somehow I start to soften up, just listening. Oh, wow, *that* may not matter *at all* to *me*, but yeah -- I can see how it *is* important. At the same time, things that are *tremendously* important to me matter not a whit to this or that person. I don't talk. I just listen. As Gore Vidal would say -- "Be like the eye of God. Don't judge. Don't miss a thing." It takes getting past some bluster, and just not being afraid to be in its presence, but heck -- the bluster winds up being *very* entertaining! And it's *not* about *nothing*. It dawns on me, slowly, as I listen -- that person's not "the enemy", and we're not on "opposite sides" of some great divide here. We're all just chipping away at this big old huge thing from so many different angles all at once we can't see what the other is doing.
Eventually I'm *hooked*. The politics of public radio are *intense*. Heartfelt. We're *all* fighting for something *vitally* important here. Sometimes the only thing we can do is show up and just listen to eachother. But it *matters*. Yes, even for the "music people". I'm not a "music person", but that doesn't mean their struggles don't affect my own. It's tempting to get into a mindset where the only thing that matters is "what I'm working on right now". But I can't let that happen. It might prove fatal.
And the stakes are *far* too high.




