![]() I arrived in early January - it was 17 degrees below zero when I showed up at the airport, which resembled, I would write my parents, "an abandoned bus station." Passengers got off the plane, ran to their cars and were gone. It was where all the carless students went. That left one choice: the Green Bay Press Gazette in Green Bay Wisconsin, a town compact enough to cover on foot and by bus. And I did not, nor would my parents buy me one or let me use one of theirs. There were options across the country - some tantalizingly in Florida - but those all required the student to own an automobile. Junior year, an entire academic quarter, booted into the real world to sink or swim. ![]() No hazy theorizing, no mucking about in sandboxes and playpens. This was a central attraction of the place, if I recall. Participants in what used to be called, with antique specificity, Northwestern University's Medill School of Journalism, were expected to spend time working at a real newspaper. Yesterday's celebration of Manhole Cover Monday, plus the passage of nearly 40 years and a certain don't-give-a-damness that settles upon a man in his late 50s, permits me to tell this story, which I used to love to recount to friends.
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