My Career in journalism

I’m a newspaper man from way back. Think of the great journalism films—The Front Page, His Girl Friday, All the President’s Men, and the grandaddy of them all, Citizen Kane—and, of course, you’ll think of me, and my groundbreaking work as a Member Of The Press. Writer, reporter, copy editor, designer, ad man, and publisher. I did it all. I was a renaissance man. A whirlwind career that spanned the most creative period of my life: third grade to sixth grade.

You could look it up on Wikipedia, but why bother? I’m sure you remember how I hit the ground running in the summer of 1966 with my first issue of The Club Newspaper and never looked back.

The Club touted the important happenings of the world: vacations, football results, kite flying excursions, science experiments, announcements about books, exposés regarding hanging out at Herman’s Creek, and an excessive number of articles about Club meetings and presidential elections. The Club was hailed by my father and a selected-few cousins, to whom I distributed my Pulitzer-worthy exposés with the help of a 5¢ stamp and the United States Postal Service. 

The Club’s taught, expressive writing, often accompanied by detailed illustrations, were its hallmark—and looking back the paper’s growth over its short lifespan is nothing less than stunning.

Just read this excerpt from an early issue, and absorb the innocent determination in the prose—unconcerned with spelling errors …

… and then stand in awe at the magnificent transformation in journalistic technique in this story called “Funny News” …

I mean, just marvel at the who, what, why, where, and how in those opening paragraphs! And the linguistic audacity to leave out the final periods! And who wouldn’t want that boat?

The ever-evolving use of technology is evident when scouring through the archives of this noble, journalistic juggernaut. Early years reflected the cutting-edge of the time: the beloved deep-purple-inked mimeograph.

Sidebar: Anyone who grew up in the 60s and 70s knows the mimeograph, even if they might not know the name. It was what pop-quizzes and tests and handouts in school arrived on—the paper sliding across your just-cleared desk, handed out by the teacher as she walked down each aisle. For unsure students like me, the pop-quiz was a stress-inducing event along the lines of a Soviet nuclear attack … but the paper … the mimeographed paper … it smelled so good. I couldn’t help but bring it to my face and inhale its magic fragrance.

I can remember my father coming home from work with a folder of blank pages for the “ditto” machine—certainly pilfered from the stockpiles at his office at Lehigh University. (By the way, “ditto”? That’s what Dad called the mimeograph machine.) Those empty pages he bestowed up me were like gold, and they held the untold majesty of stories yet to be written. The only problem: Don’t make a mistake. Errors on mimeographs meant starting over. There were no undos. No backups. Errors on mimeographs were yet another Soviet attack—especially if you were at the end of the page. Luckily, the editors of The Club learned to embrace its errors, and made them part of its brand.

As you know from your history books, in its final years The Club shunned the mimeograph and graduated to the boundary-busting printing technology known as Xerox. I leapt into it head-first, bleeding-edge publishing magnate that I was. My dad wasn’t as enthusiastic—probably because it meant he would be the one making the copies at Lehigh on the brand new first-of-its-kind Xerox machine. I can hear Dad saying, “The Xerox is much more expensive than the ‘ditto’ machine.” (He probably had to account for every copy he made with some special project identification code … and what code was he going to use for my-son’s-dopey-newspaper?)

Second sidebar: I Googled mimeograph and it tells me the machine I’m really referring to is a “Spirit Duplicator.” You know what? I don’t care. It is … and always will be … a mimeograph machine to me.

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Now, maybe you’re too young to remember The Club … or you live in a cave … or you don’t believe my retelling of this incredibly creative phase in my early life. Fear not. There is ample proof of The Club’s existence, thanks to … again … Dad, who would sooner chop off his right hand than to toss his son’s brilliant work into the trash. He kept it all, way back when in the late 1960s, and then gave it to me when I was old enough to understand its importance. I was probably forty.

It was upon digging out these irreplaceable treasures and reading through them that I realized that I must have hoodwinked my brothers Jonathan and Edward to be involved in my publishing venture, as their fingerprints … and handwriting … are all over these precious artifacts. So maybe I wasn’t quite the one-man-band I thought I was.

Alright. Enough of that. Let’s not dilly-dally. Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you … The Club.

Let’s start with the issue that held the afore-mentioned “Boat on Sale” article, an issue that also contained a fascinating account of purchasing a new car.

The undeniable subtext of the “Beedle’s Get A New Car” article is this: We Beedle kids would no longer have to stay for the coffee hour after church.

This next article concerns a major kite flying event. The detail and imagery here is breathtaking … as is the foreshadowing of the parachutist whose name I would one day learn to be “Peewee.” (For more information on Peewee, you’ll have to talk to my brother Lynn, who seems to have a special bond with the parachute man who is able to climb a kite string then float off into the wild blue yonder.)

Illustrations were a trademark of this esteemed publication. As were constant reminders about who was running the operation.

Speaking of Presidencies and elections, there seemed to be a lot of them. Evidently it was a very big deal, especially the voting process—which is more confounding than the United States Electoral College. This issue, which for some reason is called Club … Returns, is completely devoted to the electoral process. It got so confusing that halfway through the issue, Jonathan decided to bow out of the race. As for my speech, I give myself full marks. (I must admit, reading Edward’s crack about “changing this club into a good club” still chafes.)

(By the way, “revising in midstream” was an ongoing feature of The Club. One issue contained the jaw-dropping announcement—above the fold!—that I was going to publish a book—a book!—about the United States—all fifty of them! … only to find—in a footnoted, boxed announcement buried at the bottom of the page—that my carefully researched historical tome would now be about South America and its countries.)

But let’s not get sidetracked.

The New York Times crossword puzzle had nothing on The Club.

And here is the landmark “Beedles go to Chicago” issue. Calling Mr. Pulitzer …

I also had an obsession with the “Volume” and “Number” designation at the top of each paper—to the point that I had to start from the beginning. Apparently, the “staff” had fallen behind in its duties, and I, as editor, had to apologize to my faithful readers (circulation: 7).

This next issue is remarkable for two reasons. 1) It was double sided—technology unheard of in the annals of mimeography. Sadly, it bears the unfortunate mark of double-sided-ditto printing: the dreaded “bleed through.” And 2) For some reason the paper’s name inexplicably changed to The SSC. I have no idea why, or what SSC means. Maybe it was just an excuse to have yet another issue labeled “Vol. 1 No. 1.”

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I’ve saved the next one for last.

Within a single page, this issue of The Club holds the encapsulation of my idyllic childhood. I look at it now and can’t help but be struck that, in January of 1969, when I was eleven, I had it all. I went bowling with my brothers and some friends. Took a trip to the Poconos, and was inspired to diagram the sledding hill. There is an untitled account of watching a football game. And the feature story: New Years Party. A masterful retelling of the evening of December 31, 1968.

I am sure that after writing this issue, the David Beedle of 1969 reread it in admiration—much like Ralphie Parker admired his theme on wanting a Red Ryder B-B Gun in A Christmas Story. Now, when the David Beedle of 2020 reads it, it kind of makes him want to cry. No, I’m not kidding. Because I see so much more in it now.

First of all, it is appropriate that some of the words have faded away and are hard to read; it is much like the memory of that time, some of it clear as if it happened yesterday, other bits gone … in need of filling in.

Second, I can’t help but think that The Club Newspaper is no different than this blog I do … and the stuff I write … and the books I want to publish. What is this compulsion to write something and put it out there thinking that anyone would be interested in what I have to say? Clearly I’ve had this sickness for fifty years now. And it’s one I share with countless other writers—or anyone in the creative world—who finally finish their work and for an instant think “hey that’s good,” and then look at it a day later and want to bury their head in their hands in self-doubt and misery—knowing their precious work will never meet the expectations of a public audience in search of perfection.

And finally, it’s the timing. I write this on December 20th. Christmas and New Year’s, and the traditions connected to the holidays, loom. But this year is different. It is the year of the coronavirus, and it is the year I lost my mom—a standard bearer of so many holiday traditions. To even lightly touch on the impact of my first Christmas without Mom would take thousands of words, and it is a story I do not yet know how to write. So let’s just say 2020 has flipped the holidays upside down, and tried to rip away the traditions that help to keep us sane … and connected.

In the midst of all this, just at the time I was looking for something to stabilize me, I read my eleven-year-old remembrance of our New Years Party through my very-much-older eyes. And I thought of Dad.

New Year’s Eve was Dad’s night—not that I think it was at the top of his list of fun things to do. By nine o’clock at night Dad was ready for bed, and I am sure that entertaining a bunch of little kids at the precise moment when he wanted to be asleep was not at the top of his list. But once he was called upon, Dad was completely involved—with a seemingly unending list of kid party games.

Poor Dad. I’m sure he thought his run of Game Master for the Little Ones would be over once his kids were too old, but soon enough there was a run of grandkids, and there was no escape: Dad would always answer the call of duty, ready to keep the kids occupied and happy until the bell tolled at midnight.

Don’t believe me? It’s all there in black and white, captured in the pages of The Club.