Coulda, shoulda, woulda.

Yada, yada, yada.

I shoulda been a cowboy

Floris wanted me to be a piano player in a bordello. Or, was that Orlando who wanted that for his son?

I ended up writing newspapers of the weekly variety.

Sure, I’ve worked for dailies before, once with the Arizona Republic in Phoenix, the southwest’s strongest daily.

But that was a lifetime ago.

At my age, everything is a lifetime ago.

At my age, it’s a wonder I can remember my first job.

It was kitty-corner from the Banner’s location today; I cleared spent newsprint from the backshop and swept the floor when the newsprint was cleared away.

Challenging, exhilarating and gratifying, it wasn’t. It was a paycheck, I told myself.

But there was something mystical, almost, about the backshops of newspapers 50 years ago.

But kids looked at downtowns differently half a century ago.

You wondered what it would be like working on Main Street, somewhere. After school, in the summer, it mattered little. You wanted to work, you needed to work, your father told you it was time you worked.

Kids with dads associated with the town’s farm implement or new car dealership always had a job. They were lucky, you suspected. And the farm kids always had work waiting for them. Getting paid was another matter, they always complained.

A town kid could always get a job carrying out groceries at any of Hillsboro’s grocery stores, no shame in working there, you were instructed.

All the stores downtown were looking for after school help.

All you had to do was ask.

But you had to want to work.

Loafers need not apply.

I could easily have stayed at the Banner; instead, I journeyed around the state and elsewhere, not necessarily in search of utopia; towns like Saratoga, Wyoming, Hettinger, N.D. or Fosston, Minnesota aren’t exactly where a guy would want to spend his career. But they were interesting stopovers, you might say.

I had more than a few interesting stopovers, you could say.

“Little interesting about him,” those towns will likely say today.

But I wonder what might have been had I stayed at the Banner.

The stuff of daydreams.

Matters little. I ended up here.

No complaints, I should add.

Destiny, perhaps?

Dunno.

Still, I often kick myself for not choosing another profession.

Like I said, Floris wanted her son to be a piano player in a bordello. Or, did Orlando want that for his son?

I don’t remember.

“A bordello? Good Lord,” I can hear Floris screaming.

“Good work, if you can get it,” Orlando is remarking.

He should have been a singing cowboy: Floris.

He should have been a professional golfer: Orlando.

Mother: He should have never left Hillsboro.

We should have farmed him out earlier: Orlando.

Father: Best thing for him.

Then how do you explain his return? Floris.

Destiny’s road: Orlando.

What he needed was intervention early on: modern day psychologist.

What we needed was Planned Parenthood early on: sisters Sue and Jenny.

Former publisher Gene Carr: I saw a newspaperman in him, early on.

Neil O. Nelson: What Gene Carr saw was a kid who could sweep floors faster than most.

Not better than most, quicker that most.

Truth be told, no one else wanted the job.