One Minute ‘Til Deadline

     I always wanted to be a journalist when I grew up.  My fondest desire was to work in the newsroom, to be sent out by the editor to cover a late breaking story, and to follow up tips left by anonymous callers.  All my schooling prepared me for that eventuality, or so I thought.
    In grade school I excelled in English and loved diagramming sentences.  I occasionally entered writing contests and even more occasionally won.  In high school I was editor of our weekly newspaper, The Red and White which was actually printed by the local San Rafael Independent Journal.  I loved going into the ‘IJ’ building every Wednesday to read the galley proofs.  The clatter of the linotype machines and the heady odor of ink and oil and cigarette smoke created a magical atmosphere as far as I was concerned.
    In college I worked at the Stanford Daily as a copy reader and as a reporter.  I had a regular ‘beat’ which involved checking in with the Dean of Women and the Dean of Men periodically to see what news items they might have for me.  I remember hanging out at the Daily building on my assigned ‘duty night’ keeping an ear out for the teletype machine coming to life with a story we might use.
    But that was the 1950s.  The reality of it all was that once I graduated and began job-hunting, I found there were no places for women in the newsrooms of the Bay Area.  Editors urged me to hone my secretarial skills and take a job on the ‘business side’ of a newspaper.  Or wouldn’t I be interested in working for the society editor?  Or on a fashion magazine? 
    The short story, of course, is that in 1957 jobs in the newsroom were reserved for men.  A few of my female classmates did make it eventually, but I chose another path.  And besides, I never did like having to meet those deadlines.  Working against the clock was not a part of what I wanted to do when I grew up.