Michael Newman was more than the owner/publisher of the Oliver Chronicle. He understood his town, its needs and character, and he strove to be a conduit of news and relevant issues in his region. Whenever there were two sides to a story he expected his staff to cover them because his readership deserved to be kept informed.
I spent nine years as a reporter in Michael’s employ; under his tutelage this writer who had grown up on a daily diet of the Ottawa Citizen and later the Toronto Star and Winnipeg Free Press, came to understand the tensile strength of that unwritten bond between a community and its weekly newspaper. There was no Eureka moment for me, just a quiet assimilation of his local knowledge and pride in his surroundings as they became my own.
From Michael I learned the historical background of the agricultural industry, from Premier John Oliver’s Soldiers’ Settlement after the First World War to the present day. I experienced the thrill of interviewing real pioneers of the area but he also exposed me to the anguish of OIB survivors of the residential school system. He gave me the tools and the freedom to choose my assignments and then stepped back and let me do them.
Maybe the most important thing I learned from Michael came wrapped one summer afternoon in the guise of a braggart. This young man entered the office hoping to drop off a resume. Michael met him at the counter and introduced himself, whereupon the fellow proceeded to regale Michael about his writing skills, while peppering his dialogue with the nickname “Mike.” Michael corrected the man regarding his name three times and then said, “You’re no good to me; you don’t listen. Good day.”
For Michael, keeping faith with his community entailed listening as well as questioning and fact-checking; anything less was unacceptable.
