Memories of calmer days in a color-coordinated world

July 8, 2018 - photo frame

The stacks of newspapers littering my desktop seem haphazard, though we know what is in each pile.

Lead art. Front-page bylines. Who did what, and when.

It might take me a notation when a reader calls adult with a doubt or complaint. But give me a date or, even better, a photo, and we can lift a copy.

I customarily associate A-1 stories with a design of a day — either they are associated or not.

Parachutists and a Forth of July.

Heavy apparatus and new propagandize construction.


Desk series dual in a container within my fishbowl bureau facilities a innumerable of folders and clearly pointless papers.

Criminal complaints are corresponding with a reporters’ weekly schedule. It appears disorderly — and it is — though we know where to go for critical information.

Hand-scrawled records from a holiday carnage are a quarter-way down in a initial smoke-stack to a right. Off-the-record records are filed in my mind. we do not jot these down, though they sojourn uninformed in my memory.

I still clearly remember a private review in that we schooled a demeanour of genocide in a murder some 10-plus years ago. We didn’t go open until it went to court, though a credentials believe aided a stating of a crime.


Bright-colored gummy records dot desktops and mechanism edges. They are a mixture of to-do tasks.

Stories to write. People to call. Copy to proof.

At one time my daily to-do lists were a consternation of one-page organization. Of course, that was during my Lifestyles days — a time when my daily slight was color-coordinated.

I child we not — from wardrobe to stationary, we matched.

A immature dress would be accompanied by a purse in a relating shade. Shoes would be a spot-on color, or an artless neutral shade. With ink pens in a rainbow of colors, we could compare my essay appendage to my ensemble.

And, oh yes, Post-It records used that day would also match.

Of course, in that epoch we was covering fashion, food, fads and underline news opposite a region. I’ve given schooled that happy shades of chartreuse go improved with painted Easter eggs than armed robbery.


There is a partial of mind that wants my bureau to be neat, and we am in astonishment when we revisit with folks whose desktops are transparent of clutter.

Apologetically, they pierce a smoke-stack of 5 or reduction papers to a side while muttering, “What a mess.”

Meanwhile, there are no stacks of letters, pages of papers or handwritten records detailing intensity stories. It’s neat, and organized. Even better, there is indeed space to write.

My consternation shortly turns to a turn of suspicion.

Who are these folks with time to file?


Perhaps worse than my table is a shelf in a corner. It is indeed neat and organized, though a bit outdated.

Teenage nieces staring out from a print support are now adults, and moms. Books on a bottom shelf haven’t been non-stop in years. Stickers commemorate events that occurred a decade ago.

One photo, however, always gives me pause.

It facilities a smiling face of a immature child — a son of a murder plant whose means of genocide we sought. Months after a crime, he and his grandfather brought me Christmas candy and a picture.

No matter what changes in my life or office, that print will always remain.


Accidentally nudging a record folder atop notepads, a smoke-stack of ink pens is revealed.

Purple, pink, blue, orange, red, black.

I am not so tone concurrent now, though a several shades still make me smile.

My purse of choice is black, with a integrate of tan, murky duke prints on a side. With hope, a German shepherd gnaw outlines on my high heels are not too manifest to others.

At times, we do skip my days of organization, tone coding and rainbow-hued record folders. But afterwards we hear a scanner call.

Grabbing a steno pad and ink coop we conduct out in hunt of crime. In a elevator, we comprehend a coral coop in palm matches a flowers on my black dress.

In a universe mostly punctuated by mayhem and madness, infrequently it’s a small things that make one smile.

Samantha Perry is editor of a Daily Telegraph. Contact her during Follow her @BDTPerry.

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