The summer of 1998 I left the glory of cutting grass to be a cub reporter for the local daily. There had been a strike in the newsroom so there were openings. A second-year J-school student, I was into getting clips and not worrying about what scab meant.

Sans vehicle, my beat was more or less the fax machine and anything in walking distance of the Standard (or at least a reasonable taxi chit). Lucky it was erected in the bustling downtown core of St. Catharines where crime, fires, accidents and the sheer energy of the populace would beg to be reported.

Truth is, I didn’t know what I was doing yet. Under the cover of my desk, I glanced around at seasoned reporters to gauge their actions. On the phone, reading, or rushing out the door with pad and pen. But story ideas are key for writing articles and I rarely possessed them. I’d often head hat in hand to the city editor.

One slow morning she instructed me to walk around and find a story. I waited to panic until I was outside on the sidewalk. I gazed one way down the street, then the other as if I were looking for something specific. I read a garage sale notice wrapped to a lamppost, thoroughly, before ascertaining it was of no news value. So I took to the pavement and kept watch for the nothing that I had in mind.

I walked in a bank, stood in line and then left the line right as it was my turn. Outside, I sketched thoughts about the experience on my notepad. In the bakery, I purchased a cheese Danish because I was hungry. I looked at all the shrubs and trees planted along St. Paul Street to see if they were being neglected. No – in fact, a city worker was out watering right around the corner. I counted seconds of traffic lights to see if the timing seemed fair.

In a shoe store I fondled laces, dreaming of a podiatric story. Didn’t occur to me that I could interview the owner who’d been there for 30 years. Ah, but the market was open today! Farmers and berries, thought me and my notebook. Men and women of the soil would make electric newsprint. Until I found out that farmers can be rather snarly when you’re asking random questions, not buying food. And holding up a line.

On a bench, I surveyed the action in Montebello Park before falling asleep for a few minutes. I asked someone on the street what time it was. I asked a construction worker what he was building. (A parking pad!) I stood in front of City Hall for 10 minutes, hoping something political would wash over me. Never occurred to me that the courthouse across the road would house dozens of story ideas.

There are two tall buildings downtown and I waited under one for a window-washer to rappel back to Earth so I could ask him about fear of heights and whatnot. But he kept going up. I walked by a woman whose fashion sense suggested an inexpensive hooker. I couldn’t raise the courage to interview her — particularly when several large men loomed in the window of a shop behind her.

I prayed a loose deer would gallop down the street in front of me. That a cyclist would be hit by a car (but not injured). That someone famous would appear. That some kind of protest would erupt. A parade even. That a burglar would leap from the currency exchange outlet with a bag marked $$ right in front of me.

But instead the breeze blew, cars drove past and newsworthiness did not show itself.  Nothing. I found my feet leading me back to the Standard to swallow my failed status as a reporter. Maybe I should just drop out of school. Just as I was about to enter, crime beat Jon was leaving and said he needed help covering a fire in Fort Erie.

I leapt in his car like a Dalmatian and we sped down the QEW. He did most of the interviewing, changed most of the material I wrote for the story, but the byline featured my name. After his, but who cares!

Next day I’d stick to the fax machine. Or see if I could squeeze details from hookers and farmers. But probably not.