MeetnTreat meeting for May 15

 

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Notes from the newsroom

When members of The Evening Sun’s whimsy committee come into the office with cupcakes, it can only mean one thing: It’s Meet n Treat time.

 

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Meet n Treat: The Evening Sun’s first public meeting

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Want to be a reporter? We need correspondents

The Evening Sun is looking for freelance writers and correspondents to help us better cover the communities we serve. If you think you have what it takes to be a reporter and storyteller, send a resume and writing sample to Kim Sterner, ksterner@eveningsun.com.

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Student Sun: ‘We all became Bostonians’

Editor’s note: Andy Robinson is a 20-year-old Hanover native now attending Northeastern University in Boston, majoring in journalism, and was in Boston at the time of the bombings and submitted this letter. He worked on the staff of The Student Sun from 2007 through 2010 and is majoring in journalism.

Boston Strong photo by Andy Robinson


Never have I seen the city of Boston so loud and so quiet at the same time.

When you’re a journalism major, you get the urge to jump on the scene. A reporter’s first obligation is to the truth, and the truth knows no limits. Fires. Murders. Bombings. But a friend of mine said to me on the day of the bombings, “You’re a human before you’re a journalist.” I like that. See, journalists can’t afford to be humans. They have to go out there and get the facts despite everything else. It’s a noble profession. But on Monday, I couldn’t go out to Copley Square. I couldn’t be a journalist.

I’ve never, in all my time in Boston, felt unsafe. Boston is one of the most accommodating, friendliest, optimistic places. It’s a big town. A small metropolis. Seeing the news of what was happening at the finish line of the Boston Marathon was, putting it lightly, devastating. Reading the suspicions of other explosives around the city put me in a state of fear I’d never experienced before. We’re told to stay away from trash cans, don’t travel in large groups and don’t leave home.

This IS my home, and your home isn’t supposed to be like this.

Now the city is locked down following the intense manhunt for those responsible. Schools are closed. Public transportation has stopped. In the midst of final exams and research paper deadlines quickly approaching, it’s hard to focus on anything else but the news.

I call Boston my home because it’s opened up the world to me. I’m from Hanover Penn., but Bostonians make you feel like a local. I cherish this city and intend to live here for a long long time. I love the opportunity it’s given me. I love its history. I love its pride. I love the spirit of people of who live here. So to be only a couple blocks away from the bombings that took place, and to hear the sirens, and to see the helicopters- crushes me. Like most here, I’ve been glued to the TV and my smartphone looking for answers. Who did this? How many are injured? How many are killed? What’s being done? And after every breaking news segment, it got worse.

But after each day this week and after each tragedy, from bombings to shootings to manhunt, the stories of heroism and good deeds came forth. The spirit of Boston that I fell in love with was broadcasted to the world, and now everyone has a connection with the “city upon a hill.” We all became Bostonians.

 

-Andy Robinson

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No dummy on bridge, Beetle Bailey

By MARC CHARISSE

In the venerable game of bridge, an especially weak hand is called a yarborough, after the second Earl of Yarborough, a 19th-century card player who is said to have bet 1,000 to one against getting such a hand.

That was a pretty good bet, really, because the odds of getting a yarborough, a hand without aces, 10s or face cards, is closer to 1,800 to one. Despite those odds, there’s no provision in the game for a re-deal, though when we played a friendly game at home when I was growing up, the house rule was that anyone getting a yarborough could ask for a reshuffle.

And I’ve asked for a re-deal on the bridge column in The Evening Sun, as well. By the time you read this, I hope — no, I pray — that the bridge column will be safely back in the pages of The Evening Sun.

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Out of the closet

A cool bit of The Evening Sun’s past turned up here this morning, sandwiched between the closet wall and the shelf on which it once rested. Community Sun Editor Kim Sterner found it as she was digging for Christmas decorations.

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Time to dump the TV listings?

Unless there’s an angry mob with pitchforks and torches outside my hospital room this week, I’m seriously thinking of getting rid of the TV grids in The Evening Sun.

I mentioned this to some fellow editors the other day and they looked at me as though I needed hospitalization for something other than knee replacement. Maybe I was having some sort of breakdown. But I also detected a hint of envy in their disbelieving looks.

Yes, I remember back a few years all the angry phone calls I fielded when our company eliminated the Sunday TV book. I remember learning the hard way that the quickest way to agitate a loyal print reader around here is to suggest they can get that information online. And I remember scrambling to find daily TV grids we could fit in the paper to keep the angry mob at bay.

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Plenty of opinions to go around

They’ll get Gene Lyons out of my newspaper when they pry his column from my cold dead fingers.
Well, OK, I’m not exactly sure I’d lay down my life for Lyons, and I’ve never thought of The Evening Sun as my newspaper. But the propriety of continuing to run Lyons in this newspaper despite some reader complaints is one of those metaphorical hills I’d die on in the name of free speech.
At the same time, however, I think I have a better idea why some might think this newspaper unfairly favors Lyons and other liberals.
But I get ahead of myself. Let me explain.
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Hanover, I thank you

I’ll share with you what the editor once told me, right after I tell you a little about the best job I ever had.

The job was in Hanover and there wasn’t much fanfare and sometimes you found yourself working at 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve. Actually, it involved all kinds of rough hours, and brought plenty of frustrations and telephone arguments. You got called lots of names, none fit for print.

This job was enough to make you so mad some days, you had to keep an old baseball on your desk as a makeshift stress-reliever. Some nights it caused you to wake at 3 a.m., to offer up a hurried prayer to some witching-hour god of grammar and spelling that please – please – it has to really be Laughman. Not Lauchman. Doesn’t it? Please. God.

You smiled a lot here.

And some days you cried.

And I don’t know today how to squeeze almost four fading years with The Evening Sun into a blog post. But the time has come—the time for me to go.

So if you like, I’ll try.

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