When our 46-year-old son was visiting, he watched me go outside to get the morning paper and wondered who the heck has a newspaper delivered any more. “Lots of people,” I told him. “Any of them under sixty?” he asked.
That I don’t know, but every morning when I pick up the newspaper, I’m grateful. I’m first of all thankful for our carrier who, in the wee hours of the morning and no matter the weather, never fails to deposit a paper in our tube at the roadside.
Reading online is fine, but there’s something satisfying about holding an actual newspaper, the smell of the ink, the simple act of folding the pages back onto themselves, or working on a crossword puzzle that’s not on a screen. Print journalism may be becoming an endangered species, but a day doesn’t pass that I don’t feel thankful for the Spokesman-Review.