Shortly after noon on Friday, Josh’s phone rang. At least the bank hadn’t disconnected the phone, not yet anyway.
“This is Josh Wittmore.”
“This is Hector Cadwalader, over at the bank. Could you stop by my office this afternoon, say around 3:00?”
“Sure,” Josh said. He thought that Cadwalader wanted the inventory reports he been working on all week and probably wanted to hear how the former staff members had taken the news about losing their jobs. He hurried to finish the last of the equipment inventory, gathered up the lists, and put them in a folder. At 2:58, he was in the lobby of the Ames County Bank and Trust. The bank building, one of the prominent structures on Main Street, had housed the bank since 1912. It was built of quarried rock, built the way many banks of its era were: banks needed to show strength and power and let people know at first glance that if they put their money there, it would be safe. The bank’s lobby had been completely remodeled within the past year; it was as up to date as any new bank in the area. Josh stopped at the information desk, where a young woman worked at a computer.
“Can I help you?” She had a pleasant smile and a kind of welcome-to-our-living-room style of speaking.
“I’m Josh Wittmore. I have an appointment with Mr. Cadwalader.”
“Yes, he’s expecting you.” She motioned toward an open office door on the right side of the lobby.
Josh approached the door where he saw a man with thick, graying hair sitting behind a huge, wooden desk. When he saw Josh at the door, he stepped from behind his desk and thrust out his hand. He was several inches taller than Josh and as thin as a fence post.
“I’m Hector,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I remember working with your dad some years ago. How’s he doing?”
“Oh, Pa’s hanging in there,” Josh replied. “He and my mother are mostly retired now.” Josh glanced around the office and for the first time saw another man sitting off to the side of the desk. The man was smiling as he stood up.
“Meet Lawrence Lexington,” said Cadwalader.
Josh and Lexington shook hands. Josh noticed that Lexington’s hand-shake was firm, but his hands were soft. He stood maybe five feet ten, a little shorter than Josh. He was nearly bald; Josh took him to be about fifty years old. Josh was now puzzled. He thought his meeting with Cadwalader would be about inventories and such.
“Mr. Lexington lives in New York, but he plans on moving to Ames County, he tells me.”
“Ames County is a good place to live. I was born and raised here and moved back last year,” offered Josh.
“Well, let’s all sit down and see if we can figure something out,” said Cadwalader.
“Mr. Lexington was an investment banker, and he is now looking for new opportunities, new challenges.”
“That’s right,” said Lexington. “Besides, I’ve had it with New York City. Some people like that place. I’m not one of them. It’s time to leave, make a career change. And it looks to me like the Midwest is a place where money can be made.”
“Mr. Lexington—” began Cadwalader.
“Call me Lawrence; everybody calls me Lawrence.”
“Lawrence,” Cadwalader began again, “has expressed an interest in purchasing Farm Country News.”
“Really,” said Josh. He was a little skeptical.
“Lawrence, tell Josh a little bit about your plans—and I must say, we here at the bank are selling at a good price. A bank doesn’t want to be in the publishing business.”
“Thank you, Hector. Josh, here’s what I have in mind for Farm Country News, if I purchase it. First, we are going almost entirely electronic, with the exception of one monthly print edition during the transition time. We are doing away with deadlines and publishing dates. As news becomes available, we will put it up on the Farm Country News website. And there will be no advertising.”
“No advertising?” Josh interrupted. “Decline in advertising revenues is what killed the paper.”
“That’s right, Josh. No advertising. We will try an entirely new model— one that, to the best of my knowledge, has never been tried before. We’ll be trendsetters in the industry.”
Cadwalader sat listening intently. Josh, always the skeptic, wondered what possible new funding model this fast-talking fellow from New York had in mind.
“Lots of people want to be published these days. Lots of them. Some have their own blogs and their own websites. They e-mail their stuff to every person they’ve ever met. But what they lack is a legitimate publisher. People are skeptical of these unedited, never-fact-checked pieces of writings. When you read something in the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times, or the Atlantic Monthly, you believe it. You know the piece, at least most of the time, has been well researched and carefully edited.”
“So how do you make money with this model, if I could be so bold to ask?” said Josh.
“You charge writers to have their material printed in the paper. Doesn’t matter if it’s a letter to the editor, a story about a new agriculture business, a new idea on the farm—you charge to have it printed. They pay so much a word to see their stuff in print.”
“What about the editing, the fact-checking? Keeping our journalistic integrity? Somehow, it doesn’t seem right that people should pay to have a news story published. How is what you’re saying different from selling and printing ads?
“Josh, this is the new journalism. The paper’s staff will be responsible for making sure the material is accurate and well edited. It’s a new way of making certain we have an income stream sufficient to make a profit. It’s the future, Josh.”
Josh wasn’t quite sure he understood what he was hearing. He had many more questions.
“Something else,” Lexington continued. “At the end of each month, we’ll select the best pieces, the best stories we’ve run online, and put them in our print edition. We’ll distribute the print edition free at all the feed stores, all the implement dealers, the banks—everywhere farmers and agriculture people gather.”
“What about photographs?” asked Josh. “People expect photos these days.”
“Same plan. Anybody wants to submit a photo for publication, he’s welcome. The photographer will pay to have his or her photo published, of course.”
“I don’t know,” said Josh. “What about those stories that need to be told, the ones that require digging and careful writing, the ones like our stories about Nathan West Industries? What about those kinds of stories?”
“The staff will research and write them, but we won’t have as many of that kind of story. Journalism is changing, Josh. Changing as the world becomes electronic.”
Lexington went on describing his ideas for a “modern” Farm Country News. “We’ll have no bureaus,” he explained. “Everything will take place at headquarters here in Willow River. By eliminating the bureaus and all those employees, we will reduce our overhead by at least 75 percent— salaries cut into profits. We all know that. I’m thinking of a staff of about five or six at the office here in Willow River: a managing editor, an assistant editor, a fact checker, a copyeditor, and a couple computer geeks to make sure everything gets online when it should. Of course, I will also plan to work in the office.”
“Well and good,” said Josh, still quite skeptical of the plan. “But why are you telling me all this?”
“I want you to be our managing editor,” said Lexington. “I want you to run the paper. Make it work. Make it hum. And have it make money.”
Josh sat speechless; he’d thought Cadwalader had invited him to the meeting to discuss inventories. He had no idea he’d be offered a job.
“I’ll . . . I’ll have to think about it,” Josh finally said.
“Let me know by next week,” said Lexington. He handed Josh his business card with e-mail addresses and phone numbers. “I doubt I’d be interested in buying the paper without having you at the helm. We need somebody who knows both agriculture and journalism. And you’re the guy. No question about it. I read some of the stories you’ve written. You are definitely our guy.”
The three men shook hands all around. Josh got into his pickup and drove to his apartment. He didn’t notice that a warm southerly wind had moved into Ames County, bringing with it the rest of spring, which had been reluctant to show its face, for fear of another late snowstorm.