The last time we saw the Sentinel office before this week was just over a year ago on 11/5/23, when the office door was hinged on the right side of the doorframe. At least today they remembered to put Skipper’s name at the bottom of the door glass (they forgot yesterday). You may say these are meaningless quibbles, but I have a feeling this entire arc will be another meaningless “Oh, no, we’re losing a neglected piece of the past!” quibble.
Mr. Rawlings leaned back in his chair, the sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds of the Centerville Sentinel office. His voice was steady, measured, like the ticking of a clock that knew its time was almost up.
“There was a time,” he said, “when this place hummed with life. The newsroom was loud—typewriters clattering, phones ringing, people shouting over one another. Stories came in fast, sometimes too fast, and we chased them down like wild dogs. The urgency, the weight of it. Every word mattered.”
He paused, looking at the empty desks, their surfaces long cleared of the clutter that once defined them. “Now, it’s quiet. Too quiet. News doesn’t have to be chased anymore; it’s shoveled in front of you by an algorithm, regurgitated for clicks and outrage. And here we are, a handful of us still clinging to the old ways, thinking maybe there’s a place for paper in a world that’s moved on.”
Emily listened, notebook in hand, her eyes wide. He could see the questions she wanted to ask but didn’t, the hunger to understand.
“This business,” he continued, “used to be about digging deep, finding the truth, and printing it for the world to see. Not for clicks, not for ratings, but because it mattered. Now it feels like a relic, doesn’t it? A newspaper. Ink on paper. Words that don’t vanish with a swipe of your finger.”
Rawlings looked out the window, watching the slow drift of a few autumn leaves. “I guess we’re still here for the people who want to hold something real in their hands, who want to sit at their kitchen table with a cup of coffee and read something that doesn’t blink or scroll or refresh itself.”
He turned back to Emily. “I don’t know how much longer this place will last. But as long as it does, I’ll keep writing. Because there’s still a story to tell. And I think maybe you’re the one who’ll tell the next one.”
It was quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but full, heavy with meaning. Then Emily nodded, and Rawlings smiled.
I guess we’re supposed to feel some kind of sympathy for Skip. Is TB saying being a newspaper man is a thankless, lonely job? What happened to all the volunteers that were at the “Save the Sentinel” meeting a few years ago?
Yesterday we learned that the Stencherville Sentinel’s “news room” is located inside the Historical Society museum. This suggests it’s not an active news room at all, but an interactive exhibit for visitors. Any second now, Skippy will pull the tape out of the AP ticker and compose his front page story about Neil Armstrong walking on the moon.
Bill Thompson about 1 month ago
That would explain the cobwebs between the wall and his head. Are we sure this isn’t a ghost story?
J.J. O'Malley about 1 month ago
The last time we saw the Sentinel office before this week was just over a year ago on 11/5/23, when the office door was hinged on the right side of the doorframe. At least today they remembered to put Skipper’s name at the bottom of the door glass (they forgot yesterday). You may say these are meaningless quibbles, but I have a feeling this entire arc will be another meaningless “Oh, no, we’re losing a neglected piece of the past!” quibble.
Blu Bunny about 1 month ago
Just don’t do a lot of sighing because of nothing to do here.
Gent about 1 month ago
And not just shadows like lazybones when you there but give him a hand too.
Out of the Past about 1 month ago
Whew! I was afraid this might not be very good.
Irish53 about 1 month ago
No such thing as a slow news day when they’re all slow
WilliamVollmer about 1 month ago
The community newspaper biz isn’t like it used to be.
lemonbaskt about 1 month ago
ok first thing we do is check to see if anyone in over 90 softball league has kicked the bucket ., then we break for lunch pizza of course
rockyridge1977 about 1 month ago
Must be a historic destination!!!!!
ladykat about 1 month ago
He’ll enjoy the company.
Crandlemire about 1 month ago
Mr. Rawlings leaned back in his chair, the sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds of the Centerville Sentinel office. His voice was steady, measured, like the ticking of a clock that knew its time was almost up.
“There was a time,” he said, “when this place hummed with life. The newsroom was loud—typewriters clattering, phones ringing, people shouting over one another. Stories came in fast, sometimes too fast, and we chased them down like wild dogs. The urgency, the weight of it. Every word mattered.”
He paused, looking at the empty desks, their surfaces long cleared of the clutter that once defined them. “Now, it’s quiet. Too quiet. News doesn’t have to be chased anymore; it’s shoveled in front of you by an algorithm, regurgitated for clicks and outrage. And here we are, a handful of us still clinging to the old ways, thinking maybe there’s a place for paper in a world that’s moved on.”
Emily listened, notebook in hand, her eyes wide. He could see the questions she wanted to ask but didn’t, the hunger to understand.
“This business,” he continued, “used to be about digging deep, finding the truth, and printing it for the world to see. Not for clicks, not for ratings, but because it mattered. Now it feels like a relic, doesn’t it? A newspaper. Ink on paper. Words that don’t vanish with a swipe of your finger.”
Rawlings looked out the window, watching the slow drift of a few autumn leaves. “I guess we’re still here for the people who want to hold something real in their hands, who want to sit at their kitchen table with a cup of coffee and read something that doesn’t blink or scroll or refresh itself.”
He turned back to Emily. “I don’t know how much longer this place will last. But as long as it does, I’ll keep writing. Because there’s still a story to tell. And I think maybe you’re the one who’ll tell the next one.”
It was quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but full, heavy with meaning. Then Emily nodded, and Rawlings smiled.
tcayer about 1 month ago
“Newsroom” is a euphemism for the parlor of the retirement home he’s been put in.
be ware of eve hill about 1 month ago
I guess we’re supposed to feel some kind of sympathy for Skip. Is TB saying being a newspaper man is a thankless, lonely job? What happened to all the volunteers that were at the “Save the Sentinel” meeting a few years ago?
TB scoffs at the idea of continuity.
MuddyUSA Premium Member about 1 month ago
From the last panel the same can be said about Crankshaft!!
[Unnamed Reader - 14b4ce] about 1 month ago
She seems weird in Panel One—-
puddleglum1066 about 1 month ago
“There hasn’t been more than one person in the newsroom in quite a while.”
And once Emily gets over that case of Covid that took away her sense of smell, there soon won’t be more than one person in the newsroom again.
puddleglum1066 about 1 month ago
Yesterday we learned that the Stencherville Sentinel’s “news room” is located inside the Historical Society museum. This suggests it’s not an active news room at all, but an interactive exhibit for visitors. Any second now, Skippy will pull the tape out of the AP ticker and compose his front page story about Neil Armstrong walking on the moon.
olds_cool63 about 1 month ago
zzzzzz….zzzzzzz…..zzzzzzz……