Not just native Texans, hardened journalists, too

Dateline: Wednesday, March 13, 2019. Canadian, Texas.
It was just another newspaper deadline day in the Texas Panhandle. Started about 4 a.m. Another 14 or 15 hours, and it would be over. Enough joe from the coffee shop next door, and we’d be okay.
A couple of days earlier, Amarillo’s National Weather Service had begun issuing a series of increasingly dire warnings that the Texas and Oklahoma Panhandles would experience extremely high winds at midweek.  That was nothing new. Been there, done that. 
We aren’t just native Texans, mind you. We are inhabitants of the wind-swept Texas Panhandle – and hardened journalists, to boot. 
In retrospect, though – and how many of us have uttered those words before – the 70 mph gusts meteorologists were promising might have been our first sign that it was somewhat past time to develop a contingency plan.
Only a week earlier, we had grimly noted the second anniversary of the 2017 wildfires that claimed four lives and burned over 318,000 acres in Hemphill and three other neighboring counties. It consumed grassland by the section and fence rows by the mile, leaving blackened, bloated carcasses of livestock and wildlife in its wake.
The biggest difference: those fires had been propelled by sustained 25-35 mph winds, gusting to 55. Mere puffs, compared to this forecast. NWS was now warning of 50-60 mph wind speeds, gusting to 70 and 80 mph. Gale force winds with—as we later learned from our newspaper brethren at The Washington Post—“bomb cyclone” capacity.
By 10 a.m. on deadline day, it was clear we were in for a fight. The wind roared. The overhead lights in our office flickered. The wooden sign hanging from the front awning swung perilously to and fro. Our computers died, then bravely revived, only to die again. Battery backups beeped intermittently, warning of our fate.
We soldiered on, “Ctl-S! Ctl-S! Ctl-S!” our battle cry as we “control-saved” constantly. We were determined to meet our 7 p.m. upload time, which was still hours away.
Then the lights went out. The hum of electronic devices ceased. The file server surged and fell silent. The persistent tap of keyboards, churning out death-defying prose, halted.
In the suddenly quiet office, the wind’s howl was deafening, pierced moments later by the sound of sirens. Downed electric lines in nearby Roberts County had sparked a grassfire, and the wind was driving the flames toward Canadian. Gazing down the Main Street and to the southeast, across the Canadian River, we could see – keen observers that we were – thick clouds of smoke. It wasn’t long until the smell filled the air.
In what now seems delicious irony, Facebook and Twitter had also failed almost simultaneously – though more globally – rendering communication with the community beyond our walls impossible. Though unable to post emergency updates, we continued gathering information via cellphone from the city and sheriff’s offices and from Xcel Energy’s tireless press liaison. We scribbled our barely legible notes in crude but still effective reporter’s notebooks under the dim light of battery-operated lanterns.
And so it remained for most of the day—with brief ventures outside to capture hastily-framed photos of previously-fixed objects flying through the air – until around 7 p.m., when Xcel Energy crews completed repairs to a major transmission line here in Canadian and power was restored. We waited for what seemed like hours for the server and work stations to spool through Windows updates and return to life, while silently sending prayers to whatever god still cares about journalists. 
About an hour after the deadline the central printing plant issued the next day, we uploaded all 28 pages of the newspaper – including wind, fire and power outage reports. It was a masterpiece. Well, maybe not, but a miracle, certainly.
As is often the case, this publisher’s relief lasted about long enough to refuel with fresh coffee and blink the sleep out of my eyes. 
That is when, one-by-one, two of my employees – each unbeknownst to the other – made the reluctant trek to my desk to announce they had other job offers.
I’m not just a native Texan, mind you. I am a hardened journalist—one who learned those first, essential curse words at my father’s knee while he made last-minute press time repairs to the Linotype. Been there, done that, survived to write this column.
This is dedicated to all of my fellow journalists who have suffered through natural disasters and sickness and loss far graver than mine, who still managed to publish another damn newspaper.
You are my heroes – every one of you. Keep the faith.