Columns

Last Saturday morning, I spent three hours watching two men trap for beavers off the banks of the Kentucky River.
Never thought I’d write that sentence.
I also never imagined that I’d eat barbecued squirrel. Or taste test burgoo. Or finally learn how not to panic while driving on narrow country roads in western Anderson County.
I may be a day late in celebrating Valentine’s Day, but I figured it’s never too late to confess a secret love: my unabashed admiration for country life.  

A couple of years ago, some friends of mine reported this experience on Valentine’s Day.
The husband forgot to make dinner reservations. The couple tried several nice restaurants but found that they were booked. Then they went to a family restaurant of a national chain. They enjoyed their dinner, had fun talking, laughing about experiences they had and celebrated being together for 23 years.  

Newspapers are easy to hate.
Believe me, I did.
Once upon a time, I viewed the newspaper as an old, cantankerous uncle with foul breath, whispering unwanted horror stories right before I fell asleep.
But despite what I once thought or what disapproving finger pointers say, that’s not the newspaper’s fault.
Blame human nature.  
Every week I meet, interview and write about those who strive to make the community a better place to live and work.
I like these people, and I enjoy telling their stories.

The writing process often looks like Russian nestling dolls.
You may have seen them. One hollow doll fits inside another, smaller hollowed doll until you find yourself holding the smallest one in the palm of your hand.
When it comes to framing a feature story, like the one on Mardi Gras Donuts, there are just some subplots that will never fit inside the larger scope of the story being told.
This kills me every time.
Journalism established itself on the cornerstone of word economy.
Find the story.
Establish the facts.