The saga of milo sorghum: Part 1
Milo Sorghum was born in a sugar beet field south of Brawley in 1961. In the shadow of the white, steamy smoke of the Holly Sugar mill, he took shape when a fledgling farm reporter sought him out.
The newsman's boss, eager for a photograph to illustrate the coming harvest had called the reporter over and suggested he go out and take a picture of milo.
"Milo who?'' the reporter asked.
"Milo Sorghum,'' the editor replied, careful not to break a smile.
"Where can I find him?" the reporter countered.
"Probably in a field near the Holly Sugar plant,'' his boss answered.
Armed with that information and a 120-millimeter Japanese copy of a Rolleiflex camera, the reporter set out in search of Milo Sorghum.
He drove his little blue French sedan up and down the roads south of town until he spotted it -- a weathered trailer on blocks in the middle of a field of green cornlike plants. He trudged across the field, knocked on the trailer's door and was greeted by a grizzled old man holding a coffee cup.
"Is this where Milo lives?'' the newsman inquired.
"What?" the old man asked.
"Well, my boss told me to get a picture of Milo and that he lived in a field out here by Holly Sugar," the reporter explained.
A grin spread across the old man's face and he said:
"Well, in a manner of speaking, I guess Milo does live here."
"Then are you Milo?'' the perplexed reporter asked.
"Naw, but you found him,'' the old man replied with a chuckle. "Milo's all around you right now. That's what this here grain plant is called milo sorghum. It's a hybrid feed grain."
So the reporter talked the old man into standing beside the trailer door, backed up a ways and shot a photograph of the man and milo sorghum.
A second crop of Milo
Years passed and the razzing the reporter had taken in the newsroom was forgotten. During his time in the Valley, the reporter learned a bit about farming and its ins and outs. He spent time with braceros, the contract workers from Mexico; the migrating farmworkers who moved up the coast harvesting crop after crop; the foremen; farm owners and farm scientists from the universities and state and federal government.
So it was natural some years later when he had moved along to a big daily newspaper on the coast that he be tapped to put together the paper's weekly farm page.
At the time, his main job involved four days on the road, digging up features for the paper's county pages and filling in when reporters went on vacation. One day a week he worked on the paper's county desk and for part of that day, he assumed the de facto farm editor's mantle.
It was a snap of a job. The main farm writer was a man who had been hired by the paper after selling a small chain of weeklies. Most of the week he served as a publisher's representative at one of the county offices. But one day a week, he used the expertise he had gained through a career of writing about farming. There were pictures taken by the staff photographers and stories and photos from various news and feature services.
The editor's job was to put it all together in the two or three pages that were provided for farm news.
The only problem was that the advertising dummies -- miniature page layouts showing where advertisements were to be run, thereby indicating what space the editor had for his news and features -- were always coming in late.
Since the farm page duties were among the editor's last of the day, this put him in a crunch for time and cut into the time he could spend at the Press Room bar with his fellow newsies.
Knowing the dummie came from the advertising department, the editor decided he should call someone and ask if the layouts of the farm pages could be provided a bit earlier each week.
So without counsel of his superiors, the editor took it upon himself to call the advertising department and see if he could straighten things out.
Figuring his best chance of success was to employ the brusque, imperious tone of someone used to getting his way, our hero started out:
"I'm calling about the ad dummies for the farm pages. They're late again and this is just not acceptable. Can't someone do something about this? We're really tired of them being late every week."
His approach and the technique of leaving almost no time for response seemed to be working as he received a series of "uhs" and "ers."
Then the person asked the editor to wait a moment; that someone who could help would be with him in a moment.
The second person, a deep-voiced man of some apparent authority, was understanding and said he was sure something could be done. Then the man asked who was calling.
Caught in the headlights, the editor managed not to stammer before replying: "The farm editor."
The ad man explained that he was the advertising manager for the newspaper and that he would see that the dummies were there on time every week.
"That's great,'' the editor said. "I'll send a copy clerk over to get them.''
"Not necessary," the advertising manager said. "I'll send them up with an advertising salesman."
The editor, bubbling with victory, said that would be great.
That is when things went dark for him.
"Who should I tell him to ask for?" the ad man asked.
There was a pause as the editor tried to regain his composure; caught in his own trap he couldn't give his real name, lowly peon he was. Then in a moment of inspired idiocy, he blurted:
"Milo. Milo Sorghum."
When the big day came the following week, our hero had arranged to work in the office so he could see if the farm page dummies truly arrived on time. Sure enough, shortly after lunch, several hours before they were due, an advertising salesman in a natty suit arrived and handed them to someone on the copy desk.
Smug in victory, the editor relaxed and began working on a story he was writing.
That's when someone on the copy desk stood up, holding a hand over the telephone receiver and shouted:
"Anyone here named Milo? Milo Sorghum?"
Deciding he could not fit under the desk, our hero shouted out that although Milo was out, he would be glad to take the call.
It was the ad manager.
"Just wanted to touch base with you, Milo, and make sure everything worked out well," he said.
"If you have any trouble in the future, just give me a call.''
But Milo never had to call again.
(Next: Milo returns to the Valley.)
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