“Your dad’s newspaper is going to go out of business,” Butch said during class one day.

What? Did I hear that right? Could it be true? What would it mean to me, my mom and dad and my little sister?

“My dad says it’s not even worth wrapping up the garbage in,” Butch said the next time the first grade teacher’s back was turned.

The teacher, Mrs. Seabough, heard him this time and turned around.

“Butch, why don’t you share what you said with the class?”

“No,” I wanted to yell. “I don’t want anyone to know.”

But I said nothing and Butch said, “I was just saying, her dad’s newspaper isn’t worth wrapping up the garbage in.”

Butch to the Board, Me to the Restroom

“Up here, Butch,” Mrs. Seabough said. “Write, I won’t talk in class 100 times on the board during recess.” As for the rest of you, time for recess, as the bell rang. As for me, my eyes were welling with tears. I didn’t feel like playing outside.

Mrs. Seabough, whose husband was the local Baptist minister, called me to her desk. “Kathy, when you own a newspaper and you cover all the news and sometimes write opinion columns like your father does, people may not agree with what is written. Do you understand that?”

I shook my head in agreement, though I didn’t understand at all.

“Do you want to join the other children outside?” she asked.

I nodded my mop of brown waves “yes” and headed toward the door, while Butch stood angrily at the blackboard. I went to the restroom and bolted myself into a stall where I cried for a few minutes, then managed to sniffle myself under control before the 15-minute recess bell rang again.

This was the first time—though hardly the last—that my father’s newspaper played a role in my life growing up in Gallatin, Missouri, a hamlet of 1600 fine souls, and a few not so fine. But as far as a place to grow up, I could ask for nothing better. My friends and I had the run of the town on bicycles, on foot, on scooters (the foot operated kind, not motorized), and we went everywhere without worry.

But worry was what I was doing the rest of that particular day in my First Grade classroom. I made my way to the newspaper office four blocks away as soon as school ended that day and found my father.

“Butch’s dad says your newspaper isn’t good enough to wrap the garbage in, Dad,” I repeated. Dad laughed for a minute. Then, I added, “He said the newspaper would be out of business soon.”

Dad smiled and pulled me onto his lap behind the massive rolltop desk in his office. “Oh, Kabbie,” Dad said with a grin and using my family nickname. “Butch’s dad is welcome to his opinion. He may be upset with something we’ve written about or maybe over my activities as a supporter of Democratic politicians. Or maybe it is my support for a mayoral candidate or for the flood control project on the river.”

I couldn’t quite follow all of that on that particular day, but it became part of the fabric of my young existence as we settled in to what would be a rich life in Gallatin and at The Gallatin North Missourian and The Gallatin Democrat, where my dad served as editor, reporter, sometimes typesetter, ad salesman and publisher. And, of course, he also swept up before leaving the office at night.

Butch actually lived just a few doors down from the newspaper office in a massive old house that in later years would become the county library. But in those early years it was still a private home, and my best friend, Jan, lived nearby in a tiny apartment with her mother, Hazel. And we rented the lower story of a big old 1920s era house just a block behind the newspaper office, so Butch, Jan and several others in the neighborhood were in a constant play group.

That Night at Dinner

The incident with Butch came up again that evening over dinner. “Mom,” I said, “Butch said today the newspaper is going out of business and isn’t good enough to wrap the garbage in.” Mom winced a little as she cut up her portion of the chuck roast. Then she looked at Dad, and said, “Well, you know. Sometimes people don’t agree with what is written in the newspaper.”

“What will happen to us if the newspaper shuts down?” I asked.

“The newspaper isn’t shutting down,” Mom replied.

“It’s been serving Gallatin and Daviess County in one form or another since 1853,” Dad said. “I don’t think a few disgruntled readers in 1952 are going to change things for us.”

“Besides, Virginia McDonald would never let that happen,” Mom said with a smile.

“Who’s that?” I asked.