Ernie Pyle, dog. And Ernie Pyle's dog.
On the recommendation of a co-worker, Indiana University professor Nancy Comiskey invited me to Ernie Pyle Hall in Bloomington to speak to her feature writing class about multimedia storytelling. I rarely feel like an adult but standing at the front of that class, dispensing career advice to men and women eight, nine, 10 years younger than me – well, I felt like a grown-ass man.
I have spent a large chunk of my life in front of crowds or in the public eye yet I found myself getting anxious in the last few days. I wasn’t sure what I would say, and who am I to give advice anyway? I always feel years behind where I should be professionally. The newspaper industry is tanking, to boot, so what am I supposed to say to these students?
Rather than parrot the doom and gloom line about newspapers and the economy in general I decided to talk about possibilities. Sure, the newspaper as we know it may not exist in a few years, but these students can start thinking about what’s next, hell, they can start becoming what’s next. I told them to pick up a minor in Telecommunications if they have the time, I told them to learn about technology and how we use it, I told them to learn about marketing and media ethics, to constantly question whether what they are doing is important or just contributing to noise. I asked question, I asked them to think about what decisions they would make in certain situations. My wife, a photo journalist by training, went with me, contributed to the conversation and displayed a willingness to call me on my shit, which one of the many reasons I love her.
An hour and fifteen minutes flew by and I probably enjoyed the experience more than Nancy’s class did. And if I wasn’t feeling sufficiently adult after my first stint as a guest lecturer, Amanda and I had an appointment with an accountant. I’ve always thought that having an accountant was a great idea but the whole paying for a service thing always deterred my broke ass. In our first year as a married, home-owning couple, the wife and I decided that the cost of not having professional tax help far outweighed whatever an accountant would charge, so we made an appointment with Paul Blankenship at T.A.C.S. The whole thing was going smoothly – Paul was assuaging our fears, answering our questions diligently and making a list of additional documents and information we needed to supply, all while estimating a healthy return that kept growing by the minute. Then Amanda started reading the short history of the company, printed on T.A.C.S. stationary and placed under the plexiglass sheet atop Paul’s desk. Turns out the accountant bought the business from a man named Jerry Pickle in 1979. Amanda giggled at the name and Paul said that Pickle was his uncle.
“He only had one arm,” Blankenship said. “Lost it in the war. Funny story, actually.
“It doesn’t sound funny,” Amanda said.
The accountant proceeded to tell us that Pickle offered to sell him the business on Dec. 3, 1979, introduced him to clients on the 4th, and signed the contract on the 5th. “And I never saw him or spoke to him again,” Blankenship said. Every check he sent to Pickle’s address in Florida was cashed but after the contract was satisfied, Pickle vanished. Shortly after hearing this story I noticed that Blankenship is a certified hypnotist and has a framed certificate to prove it. Best. Accountant. Ever.
