Learning that everyone has a story

This news thing that I have been doing started for me back in 1958.

I had a number of successful journalism classes behind me, and my professor, Helen Wilson, had talked Idaho Free Press managing editor Jack Scudder into interviewing me for an open position on the Nampa, Idaho five-day daily.

I arrived at the appointed time and found Scudder to have a soft and pleasant voice, a kind of man that you might be encouraged to buy a bridge or small island from, if it was offered.

We got along well, and he asked all about me, and I gave him honest answers.

There was a distraction, though. Scudder had very thick glasses, and when you looked directly into his eyes, they seemed large, as if he was looking into your soul. So I focused on his chin.

After a lengthy interview, I was offered the job.

I was to cover local sports and put together the sports section of the paper on a daily basis.

We directly covered one college, Northwest Nazarene College, where I attended, plus the College of Idaho, in nearby Caldwell, and Boise Junior College.

We also covered the Snake River Valley high-school league made up of teams from Nampa, Caldwell, Boise (2), Twin Falls, Pocatello and Idaho Falls, plus a few smaller schools.

After my first day, I asked to see Scudder in his office and told him that maybe I wasn’t ready for the job.

He explained, in his friendly way, that I was hired to write and he was hired to edit. He assured me that he wouldn’t allow me to be embarrassed.

That’s how it all started.

After a few weeks, it got to where I was looking forward to coming in. Most reporters will tell you that they don’t understand why you can be paid to have so much fun.

Scudder kept adding things. First, it was the obituaries and then vital statistics, such as wedding licenses, divorces and births.

One day he called me into his office and said he would like me to start doing feature stories.

He said that everyone had a good story to tell; you just had to get them to talk about it.

So on an afternoon that I didn’t have classes, I drove over west of Caldwell just looking around.

There was a farmer working on his tractor, so I pulled over and went through the fence and started a conversation. He looked at me at first like I was a green alien. Well, he had the color right.

I introduced myself and told him what I was trying to do, and he said no story there because nothing ever happened there.

I thought to myself, Scudder sure struck out here.

I was getting ready to return to my car and thanked the man. About when I got to the fence, he called me back.

Then I heard his story about how several years ago he had found an old cave along Succor Creek, where, as he looked through the dirt, he’d found a few arrowheads.

He gave me directions, which I followed, and it took me to this creek that eventually ran into the Snake River. I followed the trail, and sure enough there was the cave. It was high enough at the opening that you could stand up in it. It tapered back and was dark in the back.

I scraped around, found part of a scraper and some pieces of obsidian.

My plan was formed; I was going to return home and come back better prepared.

I made a two-foot by two-foot frame and nailed a quarter-inch screen to it. With that and my folding Army shovel, I returned to the site a few days later.

I started screening through the ash and loose dirt for a long time and got filthy dirty in the process.

About the time I was ready to leave, I found a small and perfectly shaped bird point in my screen.

After I returned, I put it all down on paper and submitted it for a story.

It was impressed upon me that truly everyone has a story; sometimes it is difficult to get them to talk about it.

I have often wondered how many stories I have found along the way, since some 60 years ago.