Mancos Day 1

Readers have been asking for more - I wondered why I had stopped writing for a spell, then realized; from the first morning in Mancos onward, it gets a little blurry. So much happened so quickly. Now I'm forced to tease apart memories and images and try to find a little linear order. Writing helps.

The first day in Mancos, after a cold and sleepless night at the Independent School Director's basement cave, I met Previous Editor at the Bakery, one of three breakfast spots in Mancos. The others are the Hamburger Haven; the greasy spoon, and the grocery store for coffee and donuts, open at 5 a.m. The rancher-types preferred the grocery store; the construction-types liked Hamburger Haven. The Bakery was for the creative, artsy types - good food with exotic ingredients like sun-dried tomatoes and avocados, good baked stuff, really good coffee and shelves of used books for sale. The Bakery was Previous Editor's meeting place and ad hoc office.

We met there, much earlier in the morning than than I would have liked, and I was informed that the "real" people were in the Bakery before 8:30 a.m. Anyone showing up after 9 a.m. was a lazy tourist. Former Editor said "tourist" with contempt; this statement described his entire attitude about locals vs. non-locals. "I don't like people," he added, and would repeat this statement regularly over the next two days. "Hmmm," I thought. "Newspaper Editor. Not a great line of work for someone who hates people."

Former editor's idea of bringing me up to speed was reciting the names of the old local families, their relationships, who was a second, third and fourth cousin, and religious affiliations. I was more interested in finding a place to live, getting the names and phone numbers of the main players like the mayor, town manager, marshall, etc. and finding out how the office computer system worked.

We were chatting away about whatever when a very tall, handsome woodsman-type approached our table to say hello. Turns out he was finishing a house with an upstairs apartment on his property - he was willing to rent upon completion. My new landlord added he was a Republican, but a "Lincoln Republican," explaining that he had little interest in a corporate-based GOP. He is the only Republican I've ever known with framed Grateful Dead posters and Mother Maybelle Carter's autograph.

Landlord said it would be ready in about two weeks and I could move then. Having little experience with contractors and house building, I thought he actually meant two weeks. I could fake it for two weeks, somehow, somewhere.

Former Editor was then off to something or another, and we arranged to meet in the main Cortez office later that day. I assumed this would be my opportunity to learn how the newspaper computer system worked, how to file stories, deadline days, layout prep, on and on. All the essentials.

It would have been nice go to a warm, dark spot to curl up and sleep, but I had to find one first. After casting about and talking to a pal in NYC who was busy googling Four Corner motels, I ended up in Cortez, 20 miles west of Mancos and seconds away from the Cortez Journal mothership office. I went to the motel my pal had found, unpacked parrot, dog, belongings, etc., and tried to sleep for a while.

A few hours later I was standing in front of the desk of my new boss, Suzi, a calm, humorous woman who was the publisher of all the papers based out of that office; The Mancos Times, The Cortez Journal and The Dolores Star. Suzi is an experienced newspaperwoman and rarely ruffled. She was kind, welcoming and very busy.

Former Editor was at his desk pounding away on the keyboard and clearly not available for questions or instruction. This desk, which would become mine, was stacked with piles of topo maps, old development plans, ancient pieces of lead type and other old ephemera. Everything was covered in gritty dust.

Former Editor, it turns out, was an employee of the Federal Park Service system most of his career. He had been superintendent, or Big Cheese, at a major Anasazi archeological  park site in New Mexico, and also had various personal/professional ties with the Mesa Verde National Park. He had an academic background in museum display, cataloging and education. He had retired from the park system some years earlier, and taken over as editor of the Mancos Times.

Before departing for the west from Florida, Suzi had sent me several copies of the paper so I could get up to speed on current events. I read Former Editor's work, and it was clear he had never received journalistic training. Not a slam, just fact. While he had a grasp on the sacred AP (Associated Press) style of writing, his own views and reactions, approval and disapproval bled through what should have been straight reporting. Of course, I'm making this all up and Former Editor doesn't exist.

The other thing this non-existant Former Editor did was to use at least seven words where he could have used one. Or none. I worked through the pile of papers, and did not feel enlightened on current Mancos issues, but when finished, I had a firm grasp on Former Editor's hatred of the Bush adminstration. Every editorial was either about the Bush administration or the dangerous and undetected presence of Mormon polygamists in the Mancos Valley. Eventually I would learn that dangerous, undetected Mormon polygamy involving very young women was of particular fascination to Former Editor, a completely fictional character, of course.

Former Editor, like all former editors of the Mancos Times, had his fans and his critics. Within my first two issues of the paper, these groups were clearly defined; those who hated me for not being him, and those who welcomed a new editor with open arms.

In defense of Former Editor, this love/hate relationship between editor and readers was a long tradition in Mancos. The Mancos Times was a main source of not just news, but entertainment and controversy as well as a lightning rod for reactive emotionality.

"They hate all their editors," said my boss. "The called me a radical lesbian," she reminded me.

Despite my anxiety about trying to stay up to speed while reality whizzed by, I was constantly forced to stop and look at my surroundings. The valley, with Mesa Verde to the west, and the snow-covered La Platas to the east, is overwhelmingly beautiful. When we're in a place like that, our subconscious believes we're on a road trip - a holiday - and the thinking brain wants to stretch out on a blanket under a pine tree and smell the virgin air and gaze at the double-blue sky. At 7,000 feet, there is also mild oxygen deprivation, adding to the dream-like feeling. I was working hard to actually comprehend and retain what people were saying to me, but at the same time, was deeply grateful to be in Colorado and NOT be in Palm Beach County, Florida. But there was no time to organize and assimilate all this incoming info. I needed rest and oxygen.

That night, I slept the sleep of the dead in a Cortez motel. So did Ivy and Celeste.

Next: Get To Work. Fast.