Dear Seattle Times,
I miss you.
My husband and I have been Seattle Times subscribers for as long as we have been adult enough to understand that the world really doesn't revolve around us. We have our favorite sections we always reach for first; my husband is a Sports guy, while I always peruse the front page before heading straight to the Local section.
I woke up this morning and opened the door to greet you on my doorstep and yet again you didn't show. I know it has only been six days since you so prudently warned us about a "very dangerous winter storm," but it feels like years since I have heard from you. My toaster waffle is toasted and topped with fresh berries, and there is a gaping hole to my left where the paper normally sits. After I finish the waffle, I will make a cappuccino and sit to enjoy my morning coffee with my friends and confidants, Danny Westneat, Nicole Brodeur, or Jerry Large. And yet again, I will be stood up for our coffee date.
I've been stumbling around in a slight fog this last week. Breakfast and coffee don't taste right when I don't have to eat and drink with my elbows off the table to avoid newsprint rubbing off on my clothes. My cold, silver impersonal notebook computer doesn't have the same tactile satisfaction and slightly toxic smell that is as essential to jump starting my day as caffeine. My children, who normally are relegated to a small pie wedge of the kitchen table while you and I take over the rest, look a little skittish with all the space surrounding their cereal bowls. They steal furtive glances around the table as they hunch over their cereal bowls looking a little like gazelles at a watering hole in the Serengeti.
As the days progress, I find myself recalling article after article sounding the death knell of print newspaper. As my thoughts continue down this horrific path, I can't help but wonder: What if every day were like this? What if you do indeed head off to the land where all good local papers go to rest? Will my family recover?
Let's think positive thoughts. Let's visualize a time in the distant future when I can sit down for a breakfast that will be a little higher in fiber and enjoy my coffee while reading you. A time when finding Ron Judd's column isn't a sport in itself. (Although, trying to figure out where his column is published week to week is like a puzzle, so maybe that will help my memory in the long term.) Whatever, we'll be together until the end.
I miss you, Seattle Times. Come back soon.