ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Thursday, November 28, 1996 TAG: 9611290072
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 5 EDITION: HOLIDAY
COLUMN: BETH MACY
SOURCE: BETH MACY
There are days in this job, as in any job, where I'd just as soon fill up ice-cube trays as face this computer - and I have an automatic ice maker. There are days when color-coding all my office files seems appealing, compared to facing a deadline.
Petting the dog, checking my e-mail for the 17th time, sculpting animals out of paper clips can you spell-check procrastination?
But here's the thing. On those days when I realize I don't have an original thought in my head, The Eyes come through for me.
They are the people out there who refuse to trudge through life with blinders on - and ear plugs inserted. They are not the people who, when making a new acquaintance, hog the entire conversation and then remark later: ``Wasn't she interesting?''
Where others see the world in terms of sound-byte snippets or gloom-and-doom headlines, they see stories of ordinary people who do extraordinary things. They listen, and they notice.
And when I am very lucky, they tell me what they see.
My buddy Ed Walker, a folk-art-dealer-turned-lawyer - and one of the most imaginative people I know - keeps a list in his desk drawer of column ideas for me. Over the years he's led me to home-cooking restaurants from Tazewell County to Lexington and to a host of colorful characters including, most recently, the irascible Lew Thurman, the 79-year-old retired banker who analyzes pool - and life - from a chair at Guys & Dolls Billiards. Daily.
Marketing copywriter Todd Marcum can also spot a good story when he sees one, even from underneath a dentist's drill. Thanks to Todd for tipping me off to the Vinton dentist named Dr. Kevorkian.
Todd also suggested the perfect way to approach the opening of baseball season: through the eyes of Jerry Overstreet, the Roanoke savant who has a computer-perfect memory for every baseball game ever played.
When a rat turned up uninvited at a women's bridge-club party this spring, and the hostess had to call her husband home from work, she immediately thought to call and tell me about it. I like that. (For reputation's sake, she shall remain nameless.)
I'm also grateful that Frosty Landon, the allegedly retired newspaper editor, can't seem to shake the habit of doling out assignments. He leaves a stack of ideas in my mailbox every week. Thanks to him and his plethora of hastily scribbled ``Macy column?'' notes, including such finds as Levert Jackson, the policeman who plays neighborhood football in Old Southwest; and Dr. Hayden Hollingsworth, the cardiologist who turned in his stethoscope because he saw little room left for ``care'' in managed care.
Shawsville's Rebecca Sears trusted me with the privilege of telling the story of her mother, Lula Conner Anderson, a 4-foot-10 Primitive Baptist with hands of steel and a heart of gold. A lifelong gardener, Anderson browsed the seed catalogs last winter, but didn't live to see her forsythia in bloom.
Court-Appointed Special Advocates director Carol Key directed me to the amazing Maggie Davies, a Mercedes-driving doctor's wife who got tired of being a Martha Stewart wannabe and set out to make herself indispensable - as a volunteer court liaison in child-abuse cases.
Susan Dixon, a Bell Atlantic worker, introduced me to one of the sweetest men I've ever met: William Faison, the 28-year-old who scrubs biscuit pans at the Hardee's on Peters Creek Road.
William arrives two hours before his shift and even on his days off - for the sole purpose of standing outside the restaurant and waving to passersby. Just to make their day. Dixon had a hunch that readers would feel the same way about William that she did, and she was right.
Realtor Jay Metcalfe told me about his client, Jim Merritt, the Colorado man who turned his midlife crisis into a four-month hike on the Appalachian Trail, and ended up relocating to Roanoke.
From my Hillsville bureau, letter-writer Todd Jennings never fails to make my day with his impractical, but hilarious, column ideas, such as: Whatever happened to the soft drink named Coolie (Todd claims they filmed a commercial for it on Mill Mountain during his youth, but I haven't been able to track it down); and whether or not it's possible to create cappuccino by dumping a bag of Milk Duds in a cup of coffee (my guess is no).
Todd aspires to be a columnist, ``something along the lines of Cody Lowe - on mescaline.''
And, finally, when I'm really stuck, I call upon my friend Regina Brett, a columnist in Akron, Ohio. Regina has nudged me toward a lifeguard's chair during the hottest week of July, to the Newport Fair during pickle-canning season and to Roanoke librarian Demetria Tucker, who captures kids' imaginations with her dramatic story-hour readings.
When I'm feeling overworked and unappreciated, Regina cheers me with reminders of why column-writing is such a great gig: ``We are not writing for editors or for fellow journalists,'' she says.
``We are writing for the waitress who has been on her feet all day at Denny's serving guys with no teeth who don't care about Bosnia and the budget but would love to hear about your foray into the world of chitterlings.''
And so to Regina - and all the rest of you past and future story beacons - thanks for lending me your eyes.
Keep seeing.
LENGTH: Medium: 93 linesby CNB