Mourning the death of another community paper
Tom Henderson, president of SPJ's Snake River chapter and a columnist for
The Lewiston (Idaho) Morning Tribune, paid tribute to the recently shuttered
Springfield (Ore.) News.
His eulogy is presented here with permission:
By the time she died, she had few friends left.
She had gotten, shall we say, odd in recent years. People who knew her in her vigor still thought kindly of her, but when they passed her on the street, they hardly turned their heads.
For those who did still notice her, her death came almost as a relief. It was painful to see her linger so, bereft of the feisty spirit that once hoisted a hundred glasses in her honor.
There was no memorial service. No one would have attended anyway. A few would have wanted to come but for the demands of time, distance and more pressing concerns.
She just slipped away.
In a few years, no one will even remember The Springfield News.
I realize this is like eulogizing my cat. Only a few of you, if any, even knew she was alive. So her death means nothing. Eulogies for strangers, however, still serve a purpose.
They remind us to hold precious what we have in our lives. That includes people, cats and even newspapers.
For 102 years, the Springfield Newsprovided a diary of life in the community. It was like the old church bell, ringing out the births and deaths and rallying the community at times of impending danger.
The nearby Eugene (Ore.) Register-Guard also covered the news of Springfield. It, too, sent reporters to city council and school board meetings. Yet an item that got 10 inches in the Guard got 35 in the News.
The Guard comes out every day. The News only came out twice a week. Reporters for the News could rarely tell the story first. But if they were on top of their game, no one could tell it better.
And they were usually on top of their game.
During the 1980s, under editors such as Rob Romig, the paper could rightly boast of being the best nondaily newspaper in the state. It took home wheelbarrows full of awards from the Society of Professional Journalists. Its investigative reporting made many
powerful people sweat in December.
A slew of great editors, reporters and photographers passed through the newsroom. Countless University of Oregon students, myself included, filed their first major stories for the paper. (Why mine was buried behind the classified ads remains a mystery.)
The Guard will still be around to tag rogue politicians and greedy developers. What can't be replaced is the News' "refrigerator journalism" -- the stories and notes
people clip out and post on their refrigerators.
Community newspapers have a lower threshold for news. Kids painting a mural at Ridgeview Elementary probably wouldn't draw a reporter and photographer from a large daily, but it
was front page stuff for the News. Members of the Kiwanis Club are picking up garbage in the park? Stop the presses!
The News stumbled in recent years. Finn J. John, the last of the great editors, struggled valiantly against dwindling resources but couldn't prevent the inevitable.
Weak as it was, however, the paper still foretold of pie sales and quilt raffles. It printed honor rolls and senior lunch menus. It ran pictures of local chess champions and reported that Nola Womer -- God bless her soul -- was in the arms of Jesus. (Jesus Christ, that is, not Jesus Martinez. The paper didn't go in for gossip.)
The Springfield News was never mistaken for the Washington Post, but even in the worst of times, it gave the town a way to talk to itself. It gave Springfield a sense of identity, of community.
Springfield risks losing that sense of community, not just because of the death of the paper, but because its landscape is increasingly dominated by chain stores and strip malls.
There seems little need for a community newspaper in a town where people finish their shifts at Foot Locker and go home to their apartments to unwind with "Survivor."
A local newspaper is one the things that holds a community together, that reminds people they share more than a zip code. All those things are in danger as we continue to lose touch with one another.
A few people who knew the Springfield News say her passing is like a death in the family. For the people of Springfield, it's more like the death of a family. Their own.
Be careful. It could happen anywhere.