By Mrs. Gladys T. Roll
Greetings, dear reader,
Do you recall the time when the thud of the daily newspaper on the porch (or, depending on the aim of the delivery boy, the rustle in the roses that made one wince) was as dependable as the sunrise? It would arrive neatly folded, smelling faintly of ink, and carrying with it the news of the world—or at least as much of the world as one cared to know about before a second cup of coffee.
I certainly remember that sound fondly, and the way it would launch so many daily routines. Frank, assuming he could beat the dog to it, would yank out the sports section from the Detroit Free Press, toss the rest on the kitchen table, and head for the “office.” My attention always went first to Action Line, a wonderful advice column that reflected a time when newspapers cared as much about the lives of their readers as they did about profiting from their subscriptions. If your blender broke or you could not get a straight answer from city hall, you knew Action Line would cut through the nonsense and get results. They once helped someone get a refund for a defective toaster! It was the kind of practical, problem-solving journalism that made you feel like part of a community, where even the smallest frustrations mattered enough to be addressed. Alas, the Free Press, like so many other newspapers, has been the victim of digital disruption. No modern equivalent to Action Line has ever truly developed, though heaven knows the world could use one.
Although not quite as endangered a species as the newspaper, glossy magazines also continue to decline. When I was raising my family, issues of McCall’s and Family Circle would arrive like clockwork each month, offering guidance and aspiration for the American housewife as she navigated the worlds of fashion, cooking, and homemaking. Frank was a life-long reader of the magnificent National Geographic—one magazine, at least, that has survived.
Today’s digital media is a relentless stream of questionably reliable content. Stories no longer need to earn their place as they once did when publishing had a cost. Every word that was published mattered, and editors had to be protective about how they spent their precious print real estate. These days, even the most trivial nonsense—like “13 Grocery Shopping Taboos to Avoid”—finds its way onto celebrity-branded webpages, churned out by paid lifestyle bloggers hired to write clickbait. Whether these “content creators” consider themselves journalists or influencers, I cannot say, but I invite you to refer to my Essay No. 2: On Social Media for some candid opinions and frank observations about the latter.
I have to say, I find the loss of print media’s structure and organization as profoundly impactful as the loss in quality. Periodicals used to be more than just sources of information—they were artifacts of order, carefully curated and numbered, with each issue building toward a complete volume. Magazines followed themes, offering readers a polished, finite experience. The internet, by comparison, is like a gossipy neighbor who never pauses to breathe, spilling half-truths and trivia in an endless loop.
Although I cannot afford to publish my essays in print, I pledge to number and archive them like the fastidious librarian at my old school. In a world of digital clutter, I assure you, dear reader, that I will be the sturdy filing cabinet keeping this minor collection of columns tidy.
Sadly, the shift away from printed newspapers, like the decline in books, has also come at the expense of the feel, touch, and visual quality of paper that has yet to be replicated by a digital device, no matter how advanced our technology has become.
Take coupons, for example. What is a serious coupon clipper to do without a true Sunday newspaper? (None shall convince me that the stacks of advertisements the post office hides my water and electricity bills in count.) What fun my friend Bertha and I had back in Michigan, spending weekend afternoons cutting and sorting and planning our weekly menus to maximize our savings. And oh, how Bertha would complain about the “lazy, unkempt” women who would inevitably hold up the checkout line fumbling with their mess of coupons. Goodness knows no one could ever accuse Bertha of causing such a delay—her coupons were cleanly cut and tidily sorted by aisle, color, food group, recipe…probably even by caloric intake!
What would dear old Bertha think if she could see today’s shopper? If the women of years past, fumbling with their paper coupons, infuriated her, just imagine her contempt at witnessing a young mother holding up the line while desperately trying to log into her online grocery account—complete with password reset—to add a digital coupon. All the while, she is holding a baby with the other arm and yelling at her toddler to stay near the cart and not open the fruit snacks yet.
Bertha’s fury at this needless, inconsiderate delay would surely have reached its zenith when, after the shopper’s fifth attempt at resetting the password finally succeeded, she discovered that her hard-earned 25-cents-off-every-2-liter-of-pop does not apply because she only grabbed four bottles and needs five to meet the terms. Ten minutes lost, nerves frayed, and she quite literally did not save a buck. I reckon, had the poor hapless mother been in Michigan rather than Kansas, she would have abandoned the cart—and the children—and made a beeline for the liquor aisle.
Speaking of chaos and the physical newspaper, another amusing tidbit from just the other day comes to mind. Next door to the west of me lives a family of five. They are lovely people, but a bit emblematic of today’s style of parenting. With three kids under 10, their lives are a whirlwind of sports practices, music lessons, and Amazon delivery trucks. Just last week, Courtney came over in a full-blown panic, searching for a misplaced package.
When we could not locate it, I asked her what it was, thinking I might have a substitute on hand. “Gift wrap,” she said, “made of fabric. It was not cheap, but it is reusable… it teaches the children sustainability.” I swallowed a laugh and offered her the recycled, reused wrapping product I have been using all my life: the funny pages!
I might as well have suggested wrapping the presents in tinfoil. “You still subscribe to printed newspapers?” she asked, aghast. “We live a paperless lifestyle in our home as part of our commitment to the environment.” I momentarily considered asking her about the carbon footprint of her digital usage but decided it might not help neighborly relations.
Now, I am not one who presumes to know it all, and I am also quite aware that only a fool hitches his wagon to a falling star. One must evolve, lest he be left behind. Take TV Guide, for instance. It once provided a neat little map that Frank would use to plan our evenings watching television. How it helped us keep track of our favorite personalities over the years—the Bunkers and the Jeffersons, Alex Trebek and Diane Sawyer.
Today, it would need to be 500 pages long to cover all the streaming options Alex has me signed up for—and which I do not use. He keeps suggesting I try a show called The Traitors. I told him I have no need to watch people deceive and betray each other for money as part of a game show. Here in Hutchinson, I observe plenty of real-life deceit and villainy on the Facebook GOSSIP page.
Still, as much as I accept the change, I will forever mourn the loss of print. Newspapers and magazines were rituals, markers of time, and reflections of community. We clipped stories about our family and friends, recipes, and obituaries and saved them in scrapbooks and shoeboxes alongside photographs and keepsakes. That our loved ones lived on the printed page was also proof that they lived, period. That tangible and permanent element is something the internet will never be able to replace.
But who is to say print is entirely gone? After all, there is still one place where it thrives—doctor’s offices! The magazines may be five years old, missing half their pages, and inexplicably sticky, but there is a certain comfort in leafing through a copy of Better Homes and Gardens while waiting for your flu shot. And while I cannot promise my essays will ever grace a waiting room table, at least by being online, you can make the font as large as you need! Progress may march on, but I will still keep my ducks in a row, one column at a time.
Take care now,
G. T. Roll