The Writer
I wanted to be a writer but found myself working at a newspaper office as the bookkeeper. A couple of times I handed little articles to the newspaper owner that he accepted to run in the editorial column. At that time, the newspaper office had a staff of three reporters. The boss kept asking them to write feature stories, which he felt were good fodder for entertaining our small town readers. In a throwback to the past, about that time a small boy started showing up in town with a little wooden shoe shine box. With tennis shoes and sandals the primary footwear of most people, he didn’t have many customers; but he made a colorful sight. The boss thought he would make a great story. Several times, I heard him, suggest, ask, and finally almost demand that one of the reporters write that feature. Finally, I went to his office and asked if he would mind if I took a stab at writing the story. Once I had his permission, I set up an interview with the little boy and his family. Armed with a stenographer’s pad for taking notes, I went out that evening to do my interview. The house where the family lived was exceedingly poor. There was hardly any furniture. The bare wood floors had no
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