Quick … name one thing that Randolph has that Boston doesn’t. A locally owned bank? Lucky guess. Name something else. An independent, locally-owned newspaper? Bingo.

Some people want to sail solo around the world, others to climb Mt. Everest. My dream is to be the editor of a small town paper. But not just any paper, not one that is just an excuse to print advertising. I want to edit a paper that reports the local news in its unvarnished glory—who’s bickering on the select board and how a ref’s bad call cost the high school girl’s basketball team a sure victory. I want a paper that stands for truth, justice, and the American way.

I had the opportunity when M. Dickey Drysdale of The Herald of Randolph and wife, Marjie, took off to visit their son in Wyoming for Christmas. I was invited to pinch hit for the editor, a position somewhere between cub reporter and emperor. No one was quite sure what to expect, but I would be able to set up shop at the worn and weathered roll top desk where two generations of Drysdales have covered all the news that is fit to print in central Vermont.

My assignments begin prior to my actual appearance in the office: Dateline: Ashley’s, 4:00 pm, Saturday. Event: Dick Monroe’s surprise 90th birthday party.

If this is what being a journalism is all about, I will be all right. I’m pretty good at hanging around in bars, watching guys play pool, and chewing the fat. Herald photographer Bob Eddy even stakes me to a free beer.

Next, I do some phone interviews from home on the emerging Mahjong scene at the Senior Center. Thanks to Wikipedia I now know enough about Mahjong (invented in the Ming dynasty, popularized in this country by Abercrombie & Fitch in the 1920s, sets made of bamboo and ivory) to hold my own on “Jeopardy.” What eludes me, however, is how to play. The rules are explained patiently by an 85-year-old regular from the Senior Center, but I still don’t get it. I’ll just leave that part out.

I file my stories on Sunday so that I can be ready to hit the floor running on Monday morning. This is the Christmas issue. With the holiday falling on a Thursday, there will be one less day than usual to put the paper together. The fur will be flying around the newsroom.

What should I wear? Will my co-workers accept me? How will I handle a BIG story?

First, I will need a rumpled shirt. All editors have rumpled shirts to show that they are interested in THE FACTS, not fashion. I find a button-down shirt with a frayed collar, wet it, wad it into a ball, put rubber bands around it, then let it dry next to the woodstove.

Next, I consider the appropriate affectation, essential for editors looking to be described as unforgettable characters. I consider an eye patch, but settle for leather elbow patches on an old corduroy sport coat. I don’t smoke, but I put a pipe in my jacket pocket. This makes me feel much smarter.

It is bright and shiny on Monday morning. The previous day has brought a dump of a foot and a half of fluffy snow. I clear a hole in the windshield and head into town, stopping briefly at the post office to mail last minute Christmas packages. On my way out Officer Tom Simpson approaches my car carrying a brush and scraper. He brushes off my taillights, smiles, and says “This way people won’t have to guess at your intentions.”

Now, that is the difference between a police office in a small Vermont town and anywhere else in the world. Can you imagine a New York City cop brushing off your tail lights? Maybe this could be a story for The Herald. (This is what is known in the biz as having a “nose for news.”)

I make my way into The Herald offices entering through the back door. Phrases such as “freedom of speech,” “the Second Amendment,” and “the Fourth Estate” ring in my ears. I am given a quick tour and introduction to the staff by Sandy Vondrasek Cooch (the real power behind the throne at The Herald.)

How to describe The Herald offices? Or more accurately, how to describe them without insulting everyone who works there? There are stacks of paper everywhere, lots of empty coffee cans, but no sign of fresh coffee. The furniture is haphazard, to be kind. The conference room is graced by a half-finished bottle of Diet Coke (probably still there). The floors are dirty from tracked-in snow. A small fortune in paper clips lies scattered about. Work spaces are cramped. The computes are nostalgic.

The offices of The Herald are, in a word … fantastic! The space reeks of journalistic integrity. There’s not even the tip of a hat to decor, vanity, privacy, or any of those other things that lead to petty office politics. The offices make a collective statement that the only thing that matters here is the news and it has been that way since the turn of the century. I fit right in with my rumpled shirt.

I am ushered into my work space, the Boss’s office. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Soon I am sitting at the ancient roll top, a piece of furniture destined for the Smithsonian. I think about the stories that have been written here, the slices of Americana that have been recorded. There are nicks and battle scars and character lines. It’s craggy as an old farmer; spare as a barn against the snow; warm as a full woodshed. I am humbled to think how much of Vermont’s history has been recorded at this very desk.

So what do I do? As soon as no one is looking, I rifle through all the drawers looking for liquor bottles, girlie magazines, love letters … anything that can be used for blackmail. The juiciest personal tidbits I come up with are that the Editor of The Herald uses Crest toothpaste, and he must have a pen fetish, judging from the number he has jammed in his drawers.

Oh well, maybe I’ll have better luck rummaging through his emails and seeing if he’s been surfing any naughty websites.

My first official job is to review the emails that have accumulated in The Editor’s inbox over the weekend. There are 143. I’m hoping at least one will contain the bombshell that will let me realize a lifelong dream of running through the newsroom shouting “Stop the Presses!!” The reality, however, is that the Editor of The Herald, just like the rest of us, receives a lot of junk email.

I sort through, deleting most and redirecting others to people of the staff who are actually capable of performing useful tasks such as entering classifieds, renewing subscriptions, setting type, and editing press releases.

Photographer Eddy shows me the result of Saturday’s shoot at Ashley’s and actually asks for my professional opinion on which shots to select. I respond with the phrase that will serve me well during the week:

“Whatever you think is best, (insert name of staffer).”

Mid-morning, Managing Editor Cooch gives me my first live reporting assignment, to interview Garry Crothers, Montague’s Golf Course Superintendent and the nation’s only 7-time re-certified Super, who has just been profiled in a national trade magazine. At age 75 he is my youngest interviewee yet. I contemplate a “Stop-p-p the presses!!” run, but decide to wait.

Over the next two days other assignments come. I find that I am required to do things like research and fact-check, activities I have avoided thus far in my writing career. It’s so much easier to make things up.

Cooch shows up at my door again, a perplexed look on her face. I can tell a big story is in the works. “We’ve decided the big news this week is really the snowstorm. Can you throw together a little something on the weather for page 1?”

“Whatever you think is best Insert Name of Staffer, er … Sandy.”

No wonder she came to me! This isn’t the kind of assignment you hand to an intern. This is page 1, this is the weather, this is Vermont. This is the Holy Grail of journalism with “Pulitzer” written all over it.

The following journey brings me into contact with town managers Dell Cloud (who gives me the immortal opening line, what we reporter-types call a “lead” … “It is a lot of snow.”) and Gary Champy who gives me the scoop that Randolph’s sidewalk plow is broken. Stop the presses? Kevin Doering, the “Weather Wiseguy” or more correctly the “Weatherwise” guy gives me all the factual information.

The rest is history, and you can read it in the newspaper. The Boss is now back from Wyoming and sitting at the roll top, adding to its patina. I hope he never finds where I carved my initials. I think he deserves more vacations. Me? I’m just waiting to see when the nominees for the Pulitzer are announced.

Stephen Morris is a rapper and conceptual artist who lives on a mountaintop overlooking … well, not really. He’s a writer and publisher who lives in Randolph. Reach him at stephen@GreenLivingJournal.com.