As a member of the union, I had no choice: I was suddenly, and for the first time in my life,
out of a job, out of a paycheck, and pitted against my employers.
Union leaders called my home and warned me against any contact with my former editors, many of whom were my friends,
telling me to hang up if they tried to call and plead their case.
“We’re going to fight until we win!” the union leaders swore, sounding like soldiers.
I felt confused and depressed. Although the TV and radio work were nice supplements,
the newspaper had been my lifeline, my oxygen; when I saw my stories in print in each morning,
I knew that, in at least one way, I was alive. Now it was gone.
And as the strike continued—the first day, the second day, the third day—there were worried phone calls
and rumors that this could go on for months. Everything I had known was upside down.
There were sporting events each night that I would have gone to cover. Instead, I stayed home, watched them on TV.
I had grown used to thinking readers somehow needed my column. I was stunned at how easily things went on without me.
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