The Lowly Stringer

By Linda Jo Scott
Sun staff writer
Consider the lowly stringer (or, as they now say, “correspondent”). We’re the little guys who work in the rural trenches writing those small bits that glue a newspaper together.
Our work is minor, we realize. In fact, our superiors never even help us figure out what to write.

What’s more, the “bureau chiefs” don’t even seem to want to deal with us directly. We call in our story suggestions by phone and e-mail the stories themselves, so they sometimes don’t even meet us till we’ve worked there for a few months — or even years.
And we’re out here in the little boroughs, working alone. We don’t know each other and thus feel as though we’re involved in a “divide and conquer” game. We’re all afraid to do stories about other stringers’ territories, a little like waitresses not daring to take other waitress’s tables.
Being human, we would like to get a little recognition, a bit of glory. But they don’t even put our names on our stories unless they are long ones, with pictures.
What’s more, there’s no job security in this business. We feel a bit like W.H. Auden, who said that each time he finished a poem, he became convinced that he would never be able to write another one.
Ever sit down with a map of Michigan and try to figure out how many small towns there are? How many struggling little stringers out there suffering alone in the hinterlands, just so you can read those little bits of news: who poured punch for the ladies’ aid meeting in Maple City? Who read the treasurer’s report, who moved to accept it, and who seconded the motion in a Benzie County meeting?
But you know, working as a stringer — whoops, correspondent — has been just about the most enjoyable job I’ve ever had. Over the past four years, I have had the privilege of interviewing and writing feature stories about
— a 74 year-old lady who lost her memory at 54 and never got it back
— a man who had polio as a child and turned to horse breeding and training when he couldn’t compete in sports —- and won half a million dollars last year with one horse — six sisters born and then separated in the 40s and 50s who finally met each other after many years of searching
— a lady who sends notices of 50th anniversaries and special birthdays to the White House so that these people will get cards from the president, and never even tells the people that she did it
— a man who built and lives in an authentic 19th century log cabin without electricity, and who entertains like a rich landowner in a Jane Austen novel.
–a lady who had a double lung transplant
I’ve made new friends at my small-town city halls and in the local businesses and post offices. I have people come up to me regularly at the grocery or pharmacy or the bank or at church to compliment me on various stories I’ve written or to ask me to write about their grandchildren’s curious hobbies or their neighbors’ trophies.
It’s a whole new life for this people person, this incurable letter and e-mail writer, this retired English professor who doesn’t want to lose brain cells any faster than she has to.
Yes, by all means consider the lowly stringer. Consider her lucky.