How hard could it be? Taking kids on a field trip to the
World Herald in Omaha shouldn’t have been much trouble. I only had twelve kids, I’d taken at least that many junior high kids to the
L.A. Times two or three times when I taught at
L.A. Lutheran.
When I was a kid I enjoyed Teen Gazette meetings every fall at the
Arizona Republic/Phoenix Gazette’s editorial offices. It was pretty well empty since we met on Saturdays, but it still had the look and feel of “Lou Grant” or “All The President’s Men.” They held a mock-press conference for us with then Congressman John McCain. Then in the spring they’d have us out to the “R&G Ranch” for our own miniature company picnic. One or two correspondents from each of the major high schools in the Phoenix area eating burnt hot dogs and talking about our plans for each of our schools’ yearbooks or newspapers.
I guess that’s when I caught the journalism bug. I fear that all the kids caught on our recent field trip were colds, maybe a flu or two.
Maybe the Republic and Gazette did take us on an actual tour, but I don’t remember it. The trip to the L.A. times was a blast. They took us inside the presses. Sure we didn’t get to climb all over it or anything, but we were actually inside the thing. It’s huge, it felt like being inside a ship, like the big cargo ships they use to haul iron on Lake Superior.
When they started it up, the ground shook like in an earthquake. Soy ink covered everything, you had to walk carefully to avoid slipping on it. Their editorial offices were bustling with activity on a weekday. Post it notes and clippings and posters hung all over cubicles and up the walls and electrical conduits. Paper was everywhere, it reminded you of foliage, it gave a unique meaning to the idea of an “urban jungle.”
Maybe I have ink in my veins the way circus people have sawdust in theirs, but I enjoyed it as much or more than any of my seventh and eighth grade Journalism students. The tour guide even had to scold me once for getting separated from the group because I was left behind when I was talking to one of the pressmen in the printing plant. Don’t worry, there were parent chaperones along too, I wasn’t completely irresponsible.
The World Herald trip just didn’t turn out quite as well.
Why is it that whenever you want to go on a big trip, you can never seem to leave on time. 10:30 and the substitute hadn’t shown up yet. Four kids were missing. How hard can it be to take 12 kids? One was in the bathroom, one had forgotten about the field trip, “Was that TODAY?” Another didn’t want to go along and almost threw a tantrum in order to be allowed to stay behind. If she’d been smart, she would’ve pretended to be sick and stay home that day altogether- that’s what the fourth missing kid had done. Finally all eleven students and two drivers piled into our vans and were on our way.
Since we had so few kids, the BV Transportation Director wanted us to take two vans instead of one bus. That meant I’d have to drive. I offered the bus driver a map, “I’ll just follow you,” he said. That wasn’t too much of a problem until I stepped on the gas as we passed the Dunlap golf course to head South on Highway 30.
“Say, Mr. Mallory,” one of my high school passengers informed me, “That part-time bus driver in the other van, is also a part time cop.”
Suddenly I reduce my speed from the 60 mph I prefer, down to the more prudent 55.
When we arrived in Omaha I noticed something. The only parking in front of the World Herald are meters. The last thing I had considered was bringing enough change for parking meters.
Now, in Los Angeles I took my classes down to historic
Olivera Street to get some authentic Mexican food for lunch. That’s the site of the original pueblo and home of a charming open-air market. We had talked about taking this group to the Old Market, but it’s several blocks away and between our late start and our conservative speeds, I thought we were way behind. So we circled around a few blocks until someone shouted “There’s a Subway!”
Problem. No free parking. A parking lot, our clumsy, hulking vans barely duck under the 6 foot clearance, the only spots left inside are compact. Somehow we manage to squeeze in. “I hope you have some business in this building” barked the attendant. I talked him into letting us park just for the hour. In fact, he only charged us for one van in the end. I wish he’d made that offer in the beginning. I only had $6 in my wallet, I had a vegetarian sandwich with no chips or drink, just so I’d have the $3 I’d need to pay for parking.
As we pulled out, he told me that the Herald had it’s own parking garage. That was a relief. The L.A. Times validated our parking so that it was free. I hoped against hope that the Herald would be as generous. We circled the block twice. Finally I pulled into the Herald’s garage, only to be stopped by the guard arm. There was no guard house, no attendant, and no speaker. Just a sensor for reading employee’s parking passes. We were stuck and a car lined up behind our two vans. Finally I motioned that we should back up, on a one-way street, I felt like a bumpkin.
We circled two more times till I tried the parking garage across from the Herald. Same problem. This time there was a guard house, but no attendant. It looked like it was still under construction. This time there was a button to press for assistance on a speaker. I pressed it several times but got no answer. I could feel my blood pressure rising as kids began to chuckle either at our predicament or perhaps at my incompetence. I grabbed my cell phone and the flyers from the Herald’s P.R. department and dialed our tour guide.
“We’re having trouble finding a place to park,” I told her, as the driver in the car behind our two vans this time gestured and cussed at us.
“Where are you?” she asked, oh good, I thought, she’ll send someone who’ll let us in or something.
“Uh, at the parking garage across the street,” I told her.
“There’s plenty of metered parking.” She offered.
“We’re just supposed to park by a meter?”
“That’s what most people do.”
Perturbed, I motion to back up again and we both made u-turns and pulled aside parking meters. I frantically searched my pockets for what little change I did have. Fortunately two students also volunteered to feed the meters.
I have to say that the World Herald’s lobby is immaculate and very informative. It’s a first-rate museum display. But it’s really just their lobby. Our tour took us past the presses. They’re impressive too. Three towers, thee-stories each, with six presses making up each tower. The presses can run the 700,000 or more copies a day at anywhere from 35-60 miles per hour. But we walked past it on a balcony, we didn’t actually get very close to it.
Of course, I was probably just in a lousy mood from fighting downtown traffic and failing to find decent parking, but it seemed like a fairly short, dull tour. The tour guide was pretty new, just out of college. She didn’t offer much history, much detail, or any exciting anecdotes. I had made a point of asking that she include the editorial offices on the tour, not just the presses. They were immaculate too. Almost too tidy, too clean and organized to have any flavor. They were almost dead too since the afternoon edition had been completed, it would be hours before it saw any real action.
Of course, high school kids are worlds apart from junior high kids too.
“Does anyone have any questions?”
Dead silence.
“Okay, I guess we should just get back to school in time for seventh hour.”
“Howmuchdiditcost? Howlongdidittaketobuild?Hasanyoneevergottenhurtononeofthosedohickys?”
Then there was the ride home. Kids were already laughing nostalgically about my inept driving and parking. This time the bus driver took the lead and darned if he wasn’t going 75 on I-29 where the limit’s 65 so that he lost me. My passengers wanted to stop at Arby’s in Missouri Valley to get some kind of iced coffee drinks. I was disappointed to be out of money myself at that point, but I stopped.
And this was ALMOST the crowning moment. After collecting all of their money and placing their order at the speaker, instead of driving forward to the first window, I leaned out my window and offered the money to the speaker.
What really topped it off was when I finally got home that evening and realized that I’d been walking around all day with a hole in the crotch of my pants.
Maybe next year I’ll take them on a field trip to the
Dunlap Reporter instead. That way we can just walk.
