=== Passage A ===
Appleton, Wisconsin, or Cairo, Egypt, that I don’t get a pang of nostalgia for the old reporting days. I was once a newspaper man myself has come to be a fun phrase. But practically everyone seems to have been, or to have wanted to be, a newspaper reporter. Ink. The building smelled of ink, spilled and bled. The printing shop and pressroom were separated from the front office only by a doorway, and the door never was closed. There were the type forms and tables, the linotype machine (a new and fearsome invention to me), the small press, the big newspaper press, the boiler plate, the trays of type, all the paraphernalia that goes to make up the heart of a small-town newspaper. The smell of it. The front room is its head, but without the back room it could not function or even live. The linotype and the small press went all day, for there the advertising was set up and printed, as well as handbills, programs, all the odds and ends classified as job printing. Mac, who ruled this domain, was the perfect example of the fictional printer. He had come in years before, his brown hair curled over a mild brow, his limp shirt seemed perennial. But his eye was infallible, and few if any shrdlus and etaoins marred the fair sequence of Mac’s copy. His voice was soft, gentle, drawling, but he was boss of the print shop from the cat to the linotype operator. Mac seldom talked but sometimes—rarely—he appeared in the front office, a drooping figure, with a piece of news by which he had come in some devious way. Standing at the side of the city editor’s desk he would deliver himself of this information, looking mild and limply romantic. It always proved to be a bombshell. Pinned like a manifesto to a bulletin board in the center of this ink-perfumed building was a typewritten note from my new employer, announcing that on this day, October 17, 1983, I would begin working as a reporter for a daily newspaper. The note formalized my calling in life with a splash of perspective that would stay with me forever: Dan is a former intern at the Daily News in New York and a graduate assistant for the journalism department at New York University. His writing has appeared in the Daily News, the New York Times, and the Rocky Mountain News. Soon it will appear in trashcans throughout north-central Connecticut. Please make him feel relevant. Reading the note, I thought, I’m home. Finding my way had not been easy. The internship at the Daily News had ended, the graduate degree from NYU had been shoved in a drawer, and I had returned to living beside the sump pump in my parents’ basement. I spent my days splitting sod for a lawn and sprinkling company alongside Eddie, who had taken to calling me 'Professor,' and my nights typing out professional love letters to the New London Day, the Asbury Park Press, the Poughkeepsie Journal, the Stamford Advocate, the Anywhere Clarion-Bugle-Star-Record-Sentinel, and every other Northeastern newspaper that I had never read.
=== Mavis Staples and the Staples Singers ===
tive anonymity of Mavis Staples was puzzling. With an improbably deep voice bursting out of a diminutive five-foot frame, she projected the deepest commitment to whatever she was singing, losing herself in every word as though reliving a critical moment in her personal story...