{"id":1846,"date":"2019-04-30T15:24:35","date_gmt":"2019-04-30T15:24:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2019\/04\/30\/a-young-journalist-is-inspired-by-fickle-spring-weather-and-an-old-newspaper-story\/"},"modified":"2025-02-06T16:22:47","modified_gmt":"2025-02-06T16:22:47","slug":"a-young-journalist-is-inspired-by-fickle-spring-weather-and-an-old-newspaper-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2019\/04\/30\/a-young-journalist-is-inspired-by-fickle-spring-weather-and-an-old-newspaper-story\/","title":{"rendered":"A young journalist is inspired by fickle spring weather (and an old newspaper story)"},"content":{"rendered":" \n
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Walking onto campus one morning in early April, coffee in hand, I approached Indiana University<\/a>\u2019s iconic Sample Gates. It\u2019s always a spirit-lifting sight, especially with the statue of Ernie Pyle<\/a> on the periphery. The gates were backlit by the rising sun. Landscapers were shoveling mulch onto freshly-planted flower beds. The mulch must have been warmed, because steam was rising. The men were silhouetted with their pitchforks, black against the awakening campus. The flowers were lit just enough.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Indiana University journalism student Emily Miles<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n<\/div> \n
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I patted my pockets for a camera, then remembered that I had students to think about. So I texted two in my class who I thought might be nearby with cameras. They both caught up to the landscapers before the light shifted. One learned the story of a 35-year veteran of the landscaping crew who was retiring this summer. The other, a senior named Emily Miles with a dazzling talent for both writing and audio storytelling, had a previously scheduled conference in my office later that morning. She\u2019s first on my regular round of student story conferences, so often gets the idea on the top of my mind, for better or worse.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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\u201cI\u2019ve just been thinking about spring,\u201d I said. \u201cIs it spring or is it not spring?\u201d<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Midwestern weather is tricky, and I\u2019d put away and unpacked winter boots three times already. That morning, the landscapers had been going through the motions of spring, but winter was clinging by its witchy little fingernails.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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We\u2019d had an intense semester. Emily had done a\u00a03,000-word narrative<\/a>\u00a0on Drag Queen Story Hour, a national controversy playing out two hours away. Another student had\u00a0scooped the local paper<\/a>\u00a0and felled a mayoral candidate. A third was working on a touchy exclusive. They were prepping for finals and looking for internships and trying to keep the\u00a0best student newspaper in the country<\/a>\u00a0running smoothly. Two people would cry in my office that day.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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I\u2019ve tried to remind them, all semester, that every story doesn\u2019t have to win a prize or take four months or get someone fired. Joy is a news value, too. We\u2019d had beautiful stories about college hijink<\/a>s and interstellar love<\/a> and even an obit of a squirrel.<\/a> In our class GroupMe chat, I\u2019d told them, \u201cEvery story doesn\u2019t have to be a heart attack on a plate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Now I opened my laptop and called up Ken Fuson\u2019s famous, one-sentence piece about a warm spring day in Iowa<\/a>, lamenting that there\u2019s never enough time to teach all these classic works. I spun my screen around to show Emily.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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\u201cYou could do that with one walk through campus. Report it out. Make it specific to today. Three hundred words.\u201d<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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\u201cI can do that,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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She filed her piece 24 hours later. Here it is, unedited:<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Good morning, April.<\/strong> Good morning, hot oatmeal. Good morning, deceptive slate sky.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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It\u2019s Wednesday, and the menace of Hoosier winter is toddling into Hoosier spring. It\u2019s still growing into itself.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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Big rust-breasted birds hop erratically in search of worms. Soon their babies hatch. Walking, walking, shivering in a light jacket, on the sidewalk there\u2019s a lump. Lord God, don\u2019t let it be a bird. Don\u2019t let it be a bird. Don\u2019t let it be a bird. Don\u2019t let it be a bird. Don\u2019t let it be a bird. It\u2019s a robin, fallen, a little frosty. Damn.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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Rainbows of wilted flowers litter campus, looking a lot like the bird. Like they might spring up and glisten come 9 a.m. sun. Men with their pitchforks and shovels dump piles of steaming manure into the flower beds. A heated blanket to hold them over.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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Lawn mowers in the Old Crescent synchronize in an ambient hum reminiscent of a final exam focus playlist.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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Fingers tapping at a cell phone grow numb. Then, they\u2019re revitalized by the warmth of the coffee shop. In line are a clergyman in full garments and a college student in shorts and flip flops. The latter orders cold brew, already dripping condensation.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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Good afternoon, sun.<\/strong> Good afternoon, student throngs. Good afternoon, children hopping to point at a tree\u2019s first pink buds.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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Morning coats slung over forearms, at this point, are just annoying. Everyone gets pit stains where their backpacks rub.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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Puppies run their retractable leashes to their ends. Around them, the scooters have returned in droves. Even women with billowing grey hair and decorative scarves zoom down Indiana Avenue.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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The pavement gives off a hint of summer odor, shocking noses muted by colds for weeks or months or what felt like a lifetime.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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The Clash and Tom Petty spill out of cracked car windows and fraternity lawn speakers. Girls paint and chalk the steps of Acacia for Little 500.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n\n\n \n

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Here it comes, that spring evening when a police officer and his dog play fetch outside the cinema and winter\u2019s leftover soup is utterly unappealing and finally the chill returns.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Emily Miles\u2019s story was used as the opener of a \u201cspring shorts\u201d episode on American Student Radio at IU, where she is a producer.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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