Sept. 10, 1990. It was a crisp late-summer day, the morning full of sunshine and promise. My shoes had been polished, my tie tied (by my father) and my car borrowed (from my mother). I was ready and eager for my first day as a reporter for my hometown newspaper, The Evening Sun.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I’d graduated from college that May, intent on finding a job among my peers in the Syracuse area. After a few months of subsisting on hot dogs and rejection letters, I tucked my tail between my legs and headed home to Oxford. Shortly before I left Oswego, my mother had sent me a help wanted ad from this very newspaper, seeking a full-time reporter. She sent it to be funny, knowing full well I had no intention of settling anywhere near the Land of the Bullthistle. Trust me, the irony of my career having started as a joke is not lost on me.

Having done work on my college paper with some success (my weekly column was called “Infinite Wisdom,” humble as I was even then), I thought I knew what to expect from my life as a newspaper man. After all, if Peter Parker and Clark Kent could do it ...