Page 69 of In a Word, Yes

He takes a swig from his if-the-health-department-ever-knew coffee mug. “Anyhoo, we have got ourselves an uphill battle. And I need a team of folks willing to go down fighting.” Sam explains his battle plan, highlights of which include transitioning to a four-day workweek and reshuffling personnel.

“Brad is out.”

“Oh?” I may not be a huge fan of Brad as a coworker, but I’m not one for celebrating somebody else’s downfall. “Brad wasn’t open to the changes?”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “With all due respect to that soft heart of yours, Montgomery, I think we can both agree that marketing to the local business community requires the human touch. And Brad Vickery is, well ... let’s be honest. Vickery is crown prince of the noodledom.”

I stifle a laugh.

Sam says, “Lorelai is willing to come aboard part-time and work for a song, to get experience. Our accounts are going to love her.”

I can’t argue that. Sam’s granddaughter is finishing up her marketing degree, and she’s got amazing people skills.

“But here’s what I need from you, Lucy, and you can give this some thought and get back to me, and by that I meanby Monday. I need to know how you feel about what it is we do here, the value of it. If we expect to remain indispensable to this community, we have to provide content that benefits them right where they are. Features that connect them to this town and each other. In short, we need them to not be able to imagine our town without theMessenger.” Another swig. “I plan to go down swinging.”

For a minute, I assume he means “swigging.”

“Because, doggone it, I still believe community journalism means something few other things do. More than ever, folks need to think for themselves. And, I ask you, how’re they going to do that without news they can trust? Everybody’s ears gettin’ tickled by everybody about everything. What we have, Lucy, is an information problem. You know, it’s possible to have so much information, we havenoinformation. That’s the reality of our current social experiment. We’ve got a truth problem. But you know what?”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you what. It’s still possible to sniff out what’s happening in our own backyard. Folks want truth, and they want to know their life counts for something. There’s one place it always will. Close to home. And that’s where we come in. A voice of reason and resolution. Stating the facts with fresh, unjaded voices. And, yes, voices of hope.”

“Hope sounds good to me.”

“But I need help. Lucy, I’d like to grow you into my editorial assistant. Not all at once, so don’t panic. Alls I’m suggesting for now is that you challenge yourself to the next stage in the process. Bottom line—I’d love to have you on our team for this foolhardy undertaking. Because it’s going to require a whole lotta faith.”

He leans back and nods as if silently saying “That’s about all I’ve got to say.”

I feel dismissed, but in a good way. I guess.

I have to force Sam’s sticky door open before I can leave.

“Hey, Montgomery,” he says.

I turn back.

“Whatever you decide, just ... don’t ever sell yourself short.”

I exit Sam’s office with plenty to process. But for some reason, only one word echoes through the halls of my mind.Spunk.

Take that, Wordle.

Twenty-Four

bumfuzzled(adj.): confused, perplexed, or flustered

Sure, every city benefits from a dedicated mayor and other titled public servants. But any town worth its weight in bronze historical markers also has that one man or woman known to all, a person who occupies their golden years by quietly showing up wherever need arises. You know the one—white hair, willing hands, dazzling mansion awaiting their arrival in eternity.

Funny how this is also the person least likely to care about mansions.

Anyway, in Charity Falls, this person is Rob Roberson. Rotary Rob, as most of us have taken to calling him. Two Saturdays a month, Chase and I volunteer here at the food bank. Rob greets us in his usual way, as if we’re his favorite people on the planet. We enter through a side door, and Rob stretches out a hand to ruffle Chase’s hair. Chase dodges it, which doesn’t seem to discourage Rob. “Great to see you, young man!”

Chase enters the stockroom with chin held high. He may not be the high-fiving type, but he knows he rocks his job here.

The Rotary Club’s food bank operates out of a cute little old blue bungalow on Elm. The interior walls have been removed so the original kitchen and dining spaces adjoin to offer one enormous room lined with shelves. A long stainless steel island runs down the middle of the space and serves as the staging area for new food donations.

At the moment, said island is littered with random overflowing bags and boxes awaiting the attention of someone excessively committed to organization. This would be my son.