Somehow, my New York Times arrived in the driveway this morning.
I had to dig my way through more than a foot of snow to reach it, but there it was, wrapped in a translucent plastic bag and lying atop snow crystals that twinkled in the light from a nearby lamppost.
I silently thanked my paper carrier, Frank Kelly, and wondered how in the world he had made it through all the snow. Then I went back inside to read.
The Times had a story about the Midwestern snowstorm that shut down most things around here and forced me to dig my way to the end of the driveway. There was even a picture showing snarled traffic in someplace called Overland, Kan.
Interesting, considering there is no such place.
I know what it’s like to work on deadline at The Times. I understand the pressures and the harried atmosphere. I also know what it’s like to be a reader, to get my morning paper – the one that Frank probably risked his life to deliver this morning – and wonder why someone didn’t bother to look up the name of Overland Park, Kan.
It’s a small thing, of course. It’s disappointing all the same.