Gone to Green Read Online Free PDF

1970s style boardroom decorated with a couple of paintings of English foxhunts, a faded silk fern, and a huge conference table occupied by the two McCuller men who were to help me make the transition. Both men had thinning gray hair, but Chuck appeared to be the older of the two— somewhere in his early sixties. His portly stomach strained against his knit shirt and the waistband of his burgundy polyester pants, and his blotchy red face looked like he drank too much. Dub stopped short of being thin, but at least he wore up-to-date pressed jeans and a button-down blue oxford shirt. His smile came more frequently than his brother's.
     
    “Well, you’re a lot younger and prettier than that friend of yours,” Dub said as I approached. “Taller too.”
     
    While Dub was prone to chitchat, Chuck seemed to be in charge and plunged right in. His only advice amounted to telling me who in the community I needed to be extra nice to. “You want to treat your advertisers right. Let them know you’re part of the community. Don’t make waves.”
     
    “Treat them right,” Dub repeated.
     
    “Make sure they know the paper appreciates them,” Chuck continued. “Needs them. Major Wilson, Eva Hillburn, a handful of others—very important to the paper.”
     
    Dub pointed to two boxes on the big table and quickly walked me through a few files, telling me to let Iris Jo know if I had questions.
     
    At this point, I had nothing but questions—about my newspaper, my life, my sanity. I smiled and said “thanks” and headed out for a tour of the building with Iris Jo. Entering the cavernous pressroom, I squinted in the dim light and breathed the familiar smell of newsprint and ink. Pallets of sales flyers lined one end of the room, waiting to be inserted, a good sign for my bottom line.
     
    “This is our cranky old letter press,” Iris said. “It's called Bossy because it determines if the paper gets out. No press, no paper. And this is the mailroom where papers are prepared for delivery.”
     
    She walked me through a messy coffee station near what might be called the newsroom, tiny compared to Dayton's, with four desks and a small TV. “Our staff is no doubt smaller than you’re used to,” she said, “but you’ve got good, hardworking folks here.”
     
    The two former owners, who had pawed through a filing cabinet in the office while we were gone, had a few files in their hands when Iris handed me a big batch of keys, sorted in white envelopes labeled “front door,” “McCuller office,” and “miscellaneous.” Holding those keys, with no pomp and little circumstance, I truly became the owner of The Green News-Item . I shook hands with the unenthusiastic Hoss and Little Joe and agreed to meet them at eight the next morning for the announcement to the staff.
     
    “We’ve got you all set for the next few days at the Lakeside Motel and Marina,” Iris Jo said. “The owners are small advertisers and willing to do a trade with the paper for your room. I think you’ll like this better than the new chain motel on the other side of town. That one's more suited for out-of-towners here to attend a funeral or wedding.”
     
    She handed me directions. “It's easy to find. Call me tonight if you need me.”
     
    I nodded and walked out, anxiety washing over me.
     
    Not surprisingly, the Lakeside, on the banks of Bayou Lake, was old and slightly rundown. Its neon sign proclaimed, “Nice Rooms, Good View.” A note taped to the front door for “Ms. Barker, News-Item” told me Room Eight was unlocked and mine for the next five nights. By now it was nearly dark outside, and the parking lot lights appeared to be burned out or turned off for the evening.
     
    Sticking my head inside the room, I flipped on the light. To my surprise, the space was tidy and fairly modern. A small welcome basket with bottled water, cheese crackers, and an apple sat on the dresser. A note welcomed me in the same beautiful script as the one