My Two Cents

Meandering thoughts by Penny Nickels

C’est moi in Montmartre. Bemidji has become boring as all get out, and Paris is going to be a better spot from which to write after the November 5 political apocalypse, should it transpire. Besides, I can no longer do my reporting work in person as I now have to write under ten noms de plume for one publication. Not sure that is journalistically ethical, but the publication is now owned by evangelical Christians, so integrity means nothing. Hey - if you’ve got to hide out, why not choose somewhere with croissants instead of donuts? Maybe this is a good thing.

Hi Folks! Many of you don’t know me because you don’t live in the middle of nowhere in Minnesota, so let me give you a bit of background. Like so many of the women who write for Men On Pause, I have an axe to grind, and I’ve noticed many of my fellow authors also have an ex to grind. Speak your minds, and loudly, I say, since we may no longer have free speech in a couple of months thanks to those friggin’ MAGAs. If Trump wins in November, you can kiss journalism goodbye. As Steve Bannon recently said, they are “absolutely dead serious” about seeking revenge on journalists. I can only imagine how this is going to play out. More on that later.

So, back to me… who the hell am I, and why should you read my new column, “My Two Cents”? I’ll get right to the point before your attention span wanes: you’re bored, and my stories are action-packed if a bit rambling. Apparently, the optimum length for a TikTok video is 21 – 34 seconds. I’m asking you to ignore that stat when considering whether to read on. Plug in the Mr. Coffee on your House of Denmark credenza, grab a sharing-size bag of peanut M&Ms, and then settle into your Lazy Boy recliner for a good, old-fashioned, long read. And yes, those are my sponsors.

I am a small-town newspaper editor – have been since 1991, the year I divorced my starter husband, Nigel Olson, and had to find a way to earn a living with (count them) three degrees in art and no husband with whom to split the bills. The focus of my master’s degree had been the embroidery work done by the nuns at the Kloster Lüne during the Middle Ages. After three years of repeat trips to Lüneberg, Germany, where I stayed at the Abbey and endured their daily ritual of eating limpa bread with walnut paste washed down with boiled coffee, I discovered not a single person on the planet was interested in this subject, including myself. This translated into no job prospects in my field post-graduation, even though I’d been first in my class of seven. The only person who snagged a decent academic position was my classmate Ed Peterson, who had become an expert on Rod Stewart – yes, Sir Roderick David Stewart, pop singer, songwriter, and friend of the Queen.

Lüne Abbey, the epicenter of biblical needlepoint during the Middle Ages. In my research I discovered a statistical correlation between quantity of needlepoint art done at the abbey and sexual frustration among the postulants, as evidenced in their journals. I’ll leave you with this: the church had to buy three cargo storage containers for all of this “art.”

What became clear to me in retrospect was that the dean of students for the fine arts department, Dr. Jeffrey Putzmeister, who so enthusiastically encouraged me in my academic aspirations, was more interested in my smoking hot Scandinavian bikini body than in guiding me toward a viable academic career. Sadly (or not), he passed away during my degree program - while on a solo vacation to the Carnival of Venice at which he suffered a massive heart attack while enjoying the ministrations of a “courtesan” - this, according to the university’s faculty newsletter. Can’t believe they even published these details.

Desperate for work, I went over to the university’s placement office, and Pam Drisco, my guidance counselor, pulled out a huge binder with a list of current job openings. Did I mention this was 1985 - the year Raspberry Beret by Prince hit the top of the charts? Prince - the only cool person ever from Minnesota, besides Al Franken and Bob Dylan.

Pam and I did a quick assessment of my skills and what a short list that ended up being. All I excelled at, it turns out, was research, interviewing, and writing. Pam rummaged through all the listings one more time, then the position for staff reporter at the Bemidji Bugle popped out at both of us – it seemed ideal for someone with my set of talents. Pam made a quick call to her friend in HR at the Bugle, Andrea Cocinelli, and sight unseen, she hired me. “Please turn up at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow for the newsroom meeting,” she said, “And bring your own coffee.”

The next day marked the start of my lifelong career as a journalist and, a good life it has been. I am glad to have stayed in Bemidji and if I never wrote about nuns again, it would be too soon. And it was in the Bugle’s newsroom that I met Nigel, also a newbie. Since neither of us was going to be able to make rent on our meager salaries, we decided to get married and share an apartment, this before we’d even gone on a single date. In Bemidji, men and women didn’t live together unless they were married. You couldn’t even sign a lease without a copy of your marriage license in hand. Pretty sure landlords cannot legally discriminate based on marital status, but they did, at least back then.

Therein lies the romantic lead-up to marriage #1. Our first kiss? At the county registrar’s office where our civil service was held. That would be our last kiss, as well, since this was truly a marriage of convenience. We never did consummate the marriage and I’m pretty sure Nigel thought I was a dyke. Back in the day, most guys suspected that any woman who was assertive, strong and didn’t look like Michelle Pfeiffer was probably a lesbian.

Bemidji at its best.

A lot happened in the years that followed, and frankly, most of it was dull as rocks, minus the bit where young stud muffin, Schuyler Louvinski from Kenosha, Wisconsin, enters the picture – as the paper’s new sports columnist. Can you say, “Touch down!”? Marriage #1 ended shortly thereafter, and no one was sad.

Schuyler would go on to pollinate all the flowers in town, however, not just mine, and many included those in the cheerleading section at the local high school. Thanks to his promiscuity, for which he became renowned, Schuyler’s stint at the paper would be short-lived, though his blond hair and green-eyed progeny can be seen all over town to this day. Because of these extra-curricular activities, the sports desk position at the paper had to be eliminated altogether as the editor could no longer afford the security detail needed to discourage the growing posse of angry fathers, husbands and boyfriends, many of whom were also advertisers. Schuyler ended up having to leave both the paper and town.

The upside of my marriage and affair taking a nosedive was that I suddenly had a considerable amount of time on my hands – time for more writing assignments, which subsequently meant more money in the bank. Finally, I was financially independent and free from all that emotional drama.

And as it turned out, I was exceptionally good at covering small-town news. My well-written stories grew our readership, which in turn brought in more subscription revenue and advertisers. In 1991, when my boss took early retirement to have a late-in-life baby (by Nigel, I might add), I was immediately promoted to her position as editor. The owners knew I could handle just about anything – I was able to write on nearly any subject and was adept both at editing and selling ads. I also had no life whatsoever outside the newsroom, which meant no competition for my time. I was, in essence, a catless cat lady, all work and no play - i.e. the perfect employee and boss. Here’s to you JD Vance.

For the next thirty-three years, I would be the editor of the Bemidji Bugle, a respectable small-town newspaper. I have loved my job and my colleagues, and I will always love Bemidji and its people.

But this month, everything changed. The Bugle was sold to Eternal Word Publications, a media conglomerate out of Tennessee. I think the company name says it all. We were headed for the shitter.

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Enjoy some Rod Stewart before the Christian nationalists take over our once-free country and ban everything.