In 1985, having three hours between runs as a school bus driver, I undertook an empirical study of all the newspapers at our posh Cherry Creek (Denver) library, primarily for literate style and cultural coverage. It was a toss-up between the Manchester Guardian (daily) and Le Monde; sheer laziness in boning up my French decided it. I finally subscribed to the Weekly in 2001, chagrined by our domestic coverage post-9/11.
Raised parochial and apolitical in Siberian Bismarck, North Dakota, I was radicalised from my 20s on by a career teaching Latin and English: nine high schools in eight states, often in shambolic conditions.
Still a gearhead (old Benzes), I’ve done stints as newspaper proofer, barman (teetotal), oilfield roustabout, welder, night taxi driver, Mr Mom, hired hand (for dissertations), care-giver and bicycle repairman.
Besides the US, I’ve been only to Reykjavik and Montreal. If I had the wherewithal and could settle there, I would spend my last years in Shiraz. (I made some good Persian friends in Houston).
As far as my Weekly reading goes: first, it’s the Comment pages and Archive column. I of course anticipate Marina Hyde’s sharp tongue, the dyed-in-the-wool socialism of Polly Toynbee, and Gary Younge.
Several ladies here go for Oliver Burkeman’s column. I sorely miss Francis Wheen – bring him back.
If you would like to appear in this space, send a brief note to guardian.weekly@theguardian.com
Guardian Weekly readers leave their mark on the world. Click here to view our interactive community map.
