Dean Shalhoup

Before this past Wednesday, I’d never heard or seen the name Marcia Warham. Why would I? She lived most, if not all (so far), of her life in central New York State, and I, of course, have inhabited Greater Nashua (with some south coastal Maine mixed in) since I decided to drop into the world that Monday morning in May some 67 plus years ago.

I’ve been to central New York State a handful of times over the years — family friends once lived in a tiny city called Sherrill, a suburb of Oneida, a larger city but still pretty small at about 12,000 population.

But back to Marcia. It turns out, I discovered by chance, that we have at least a couple of things in common.

For instance, Marcia, who became a career newspaper person (that’s one common thread), began that newspaper career at the Oneida Daily Dispatch on Sept. 29, 1972 (that’s two common threads) and her starting pay was $1.98 per hour (that’s two cents shy of three common threads).

Sept. 29, 1972 happened to be a Friday, and while Marcia was no doubt filling out paperwork, meeting co-workers and learning where the restrooms were, I was doing the same (although I did know where the restrooms were and already knew my co-workers) over at 60 Main St., the then-home of our predecessor in name, The Nashua Telegraph.

The “two cents” part? My starting pay — I still recall quite clearly my first boss, the late then-managing editor John Stylianos, scribbling something on a piece of paper and holding it up for me to read – was $2.00 per hour.

I like to joke that I had to take a cut in pay to join the Telegraph staff: I’d been hauling in $2.28 per hour mowing lawns, raking leaves, shoveling snow and, well, burying people up at Edgewood Cemetery.

One of the things Marcia and I do not have in common is our respective tenures: Marcia, according to a story a Daily Dispatch colleague wrote at the time, retired in 2012 after 39 years, seven months and four days.

I, meanwhile, continue to bang the keys on my dusty but dependable Dell, which also serves me well as a safe haven for crumbs shed from years worth of sandwiches and Fritos.

“So, when do you think … ” or “you must be ready to … ” are typical of the questions I seem to be fielding on a regular basis these days, especially when I answer the inevitable question, “so, how long you been at the Telegraph, anyway?”

For quite awhile now I’ve rather enjoyed being tossed that question, because my response is almost always met with wide eyes, fallen jaws and an involuntary “what?” or “really?”

The kinder respondents may suggest I must have started working here before I could walk, which of course conjures an amusing image of a mini-me strapped in my stroller reaching for the keys of the standard-issue Royal.

It’s true that I was quite young when I first started setting foot in the smoky, noisy grotto that passed for an editorial department, having accompanied Pop as he stopped in off-hours to check the teletypes, finish a story or process a couple sheets or rolls of film so he could print a few photos for the next day’s paper.

Some of these stop-ins were designed to “give mom a break,” I would later learn. But that was perfectly OK with little sister and I — it was more fun to run around the big building raising hell than doing so in the limited confines of home.

So if you’ve been paying attention to the aforementioned dates, you know that I just passed my 49th anniversary of the day I first walked into the newsroom as a bona-fide employee of my hometown newspaper.

Indeed, passing an anniversary of any type often ushers in a period of reflection, prompting us to review what’s been and, more importantly, ponder what can be, what could be, perhaps what should be.

For me, my first thought upon reflecting on my 49 years here in Telegraphland was something like “no, seriously, it really can’t be that many years,” but since the calendar (and the dates scratched onto my parchment employment application, now preserved under glass), say it is so, it must be true.

Which brings me to my own reflections of late. No, I haven’t answered the question I hear most often, the one about when I will retire.

Oddly, the question that’s asked far less often than “when will you retire?” is “will you retire?”

That one’s a lot easier to answer: “Yes, I will.”

“OK, when?” Ha. Good try.

Dean Shalhoup’s column appears weekly in The Sunday Telegraph. He may be reached at 594-1256 or dshalhoup@nashuatelegraph.com.