The Tribune at 125: I could always tell it was time to go home when my co-workers started making sense

Noise and smoke.

Those were my first impressions that summer 45 years ago when I first walked into the newsroom of the Lewiston Morning Tribune.

The noise came from reporters and editors pounding on manual typewriters. A row of Associated Press teletypes sat on one end of the room, clattering away as they spat out stories on long, continuous strips of paper. Telephones rang and voices had to be loud enough to be heard over the din.

The smoke came from cigarettes, either dangling from lips or smoldering in ashtrays on nearly every desk. Many reporters seemed to need to start a smoke before they could roll paper into their typewriters.

I know now how fortunate I was to start my career at the Trib, surrounded by noise, smoke and a room full of talented, dedicated and caring journalists. I expected to be there two or three years. I walked out 38 years later.

Tribune management asked me to write this piece for the newspaper's 125th anniversary special edition, focusing on some of my more unique colleagues. Narrowing it down, I soon realized, would be difficult because each newsroom generation had its share of wonderful, but often quirky, journalists.

So I decided to single out some of the more memorable from my first decade at the Tribune.

I was a sports writer and editor those days but I leaned heavily on the news-side pros to fill in the gaps in my journalism education.

Much of the staff was from my parents' generation. Most of the men were World War II vets and some of the women started in newspapers during the war when there weren't enough men to fill what had until then been almost all-male newsrooms.

Sylvia Harrell was a reporter who immediately impressed me, and not because she was quirky. Just the opposite.

Perhaps her greatest talent was taking complicated subjects and then explaining them in terms readers could understand. During those days, Lower Granite Dam was under construction and she spent days with engineers so she could explain how slackwater would affect us.

I watched from the sports desk as she hurried back after covering an evening meeting. She literally let her hair down from the bun she usually kept it in, lit a cigarette and started churning out a concise, informative and accurate story. She, in my mind, epitomized a professional reporter.

Hal Hollister went at it from a different direction. He was a talented storyteller and, yes, quirky.

Newsroom legend, which I'm fairly certain was accurate, was that Hal had done hard time. He was a professional boxer and went to prison for manslaughter after killing a man in a bar fight.

He never talked about it, at least around me, and the only time I saw his temper was when he was filling in as a copy editor and found an error.

When that happened on the night shift, he would shout "Sweet mother of Jesus, don't these people own a dictionary!" He would slap the top of his desk and reach for his homemade wine, kept in a Mason jar in the top drawer. He would take a swig and go back to editing.

I sometimes wondered if there really was a mistake or if he just wanted a drink.

Hal was an outstanding feature writer and quite often his best quotes came from sources inside bars.

He showed me how that worked one time when he took me to a saloon to meet a bar owner who wanted to publicize a sporting event. It was early afternoon but the owner put two ice cubes in beer schooners, filled them with whiskey, and sat down to chat.

We spent an hour or so downing our drinks and went back to the newsroom. The "interview" resulted in only a three-paragraph brief, but Hal assured me that was just fine.

Tommy Campbell was also a fine writer and colorful reporter but what I remember most about Tommy were the stories he told about the old days at the Tribune. His father was a Trib reporter and editor and Tommy literally grew up around the newsroom.

His father knew everyone in town, including the prostitutes who worked on the top floor above what is now the Lewiston City Library.

Tommy talked about days when his father took care of him but had to leave to cover a breaking story. He took Tommy up the cathouse stairs and left him with the ladies, who assumed babysitting duties.

Here's a different Tommy story, related years later:

I don't remember how it happened, but a dead criminal was in a coffin at the old Vassar-Rawls funeral home in downtown Lewiston. Tommy and a photographer were having a drink and bemoaning that the Tribune didn't have a photo of the deceased. They decided to do something about that.

They crawled through a window at the funeral home. Tommy propped open the eyes of the dead man and the photographer took a photo. They rushed back to the Trib, developed the film, and managed to get the photo in that morning's paper.

Truth or exaggeration? Who knows, but it's still a great story.

Perry Swisher, Mel Snow and I shared the swing shift those days. We came in about 3 p.m. and left when the paper went to press, somewhere between 11:30 p.m. and 1 a.m., depending on the news flow.

About the same age, Perry and Mel both relied on nicotine and coffee to make it through the night. But there also were significant differences.

Swisher was flamboyant. A big man with a mop of gray hair, he walked with a limp, caused by the childhood polio that kept him out of the war.

He came to the Tribune as a veteran reporter and editor who had ventured into politics, serving in the Idaho Legislature and unsuccessfully running for governor. He was extremely intelligent, so much so that I often had trouble following his logic during a discussion. I knew that was more my problem than his.

Snow was at another extreme. A little guy, he was a lifelong bachelor. Usually disheveled, with a head of semi-combed hair, he was quiet and had a bit of a speech impediment.

He lived in a Normal Hill apartment and walked throughout downtown Lewiston and Clarkston, eating in restaurants and smoking unfiltered Pall Malls.

I soon learned not to underestimate Mel. He was both extremely bright and well read. He also, according to newsroom lore, had both inherited and invested well. I believe it was more than lore, because annually a couple of stockbrokers would show up wearing three-piece suits and they and Mel would head to the breakroom to go over his portfolio.

Some nights we three would end up at the Branding Iron tavern in Clarkston. Mel and Perry would debate and I would mostly listen. I always knew it was time to head home when I could clearly understand the two of them. But by then, it was also closing time.

I could go on and on. Thinking back, I keep remembering stories and the characters behind them. But I remember Tommy Campbell's warning about keeping stories short: "You better think carefully before rolling that third piece of paper into the typewriter. You don't want to put them to sleep."

I'm afraid I've already ignored that advice.

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Emerson retired as Tribune managing editor in 2010.