ArcaMax

For the first story I ever had published in a paper, I was almost run over by a mail truck. I'll tell you, the driver was none too pleased by a faux reporter jumping in front of his hood for a quote. I don't blame him. But here I am, more than 20 years later, writing for the same paper.

But I should back up. I spent my first year in college at a technical school, semi-enchanted by the idea of working with computers in some fashion. During that year, I only got onto the struggle bus of an 8 o'clock calculus class and desperately wanted off that ride. I decided to join the rest of my friends 150 miles south at the state school, realizing I should probably get an English degree.

Cue a semester of languishing over "official" writers' work while reveling in the blogging world outside of classes. Most of my favorite bloggers were, or had been, journalists. There I went, into an advisor's office to get enchanted by a journalism degree and promptly pulled aside by an incredibly enthusiastic professor who believed, rightly so, that every aspiring journalist should get out into the field as fast as possible.

Only a few weeks later, with Journalism 101 being stuffed under my belt, I was washing dishes in my first apartment in college when I got a strange call from the town where my parents lived. It was the local paper's editor; he had heard I wanted to write some stories during Christmas break. Did I want to? I gave a hesitant yes, which added to one of those yes moments where you just trust in the weirdness of the universe and go with it.

Since this was nearly two decades ago (insert a slight gasp from me), the memories of coordinating with the editor when I returned to town are fuzzy. I know I was to write about the weather during the year's first dusting of snow. I do remember asking the editor very green questions: Who do I talk to? What did you need in that article specifically? Both of us likely worried similarly about my abilities, but perhaps he did more because he went out on a limb with me, and I did less because of my age.

I called the sheriff's office to ask if any roads were closed, and a befuddled admin gave me curt, non-inspiring answers. I called the weather service. They asked me to read what they had already published about this. I got in my car and figured I needed a man-on-the-street quote. Man, woman, trained parrot, any would have worked, but there was nary a soul out, even in the pre-Christmas shopping season.

But there was a mail truck. And there was I, running out in front of it and flagging the driver down. The story ended up running on the front page, with a byline of my name and what should have been the name of the editor in bold, who probably had to rewrite the whole thing.

That same editor who called me about Christmas stories sent me a message on social media last week. He'd like to see if my column could run in the paper. Would I tell him more about my time in that town? I didn't hesitate on the yes this time and sent him an image of a brittle piece of newspaper I hung onto, a story about snow, and told him that if they'd have me back, I'd be honored.

Sure, sometimes in life, you say yes and get hit by that metaphorical truck. Sometimes, however, you say yes, and just have to count on the brakes from a mailman -- and a break from an editor -- to help you find your way.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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