SHREVEPORT, La. — The first National Public Radio broadcast I heard was in 1979, as a graduate student in journalism at the University of Missouri. I discovered a radio station like nothing I'd ever heard. Its news stories often went on for several minutes; the subject matters varied wildly. It featured columnists such as Gordon Baxter, a Southeast Texas writer with a gravelly voice and a down-home manner. Eclectic music rounded out the mix. I was hooked.
Finances forced me to flee Missouri and finish graduate school back home in Texas, at The University — home to KUT, a charter member of NPR. My radio rarely strayed from its 90.5 frequency. Upon returning to East Texas in 1982 to run a small weekly newspaper in San Augustine, I was bereft to learn no public radio station was within earshot.
Then, in 1984, KDAQ went on the air in Shreveport, the beginning of a network of NPR stations now called Red River Radio. It covers the largest contiguous geographic area in the country, including much of Louisiana, Southern Arkansas and East Texas. I bought an outdoor radio antenna from Radio Shack and hooked it to my roof to pull in the signal out there in the woods of the self-styled Cradle of Texas. I started sending an annual donation. Sixty percent of Red River Radio's funding comes from the folks listening. Only one in 10 who listen send money to keep the programs going.
This network of stations covering a huge swath of the South operates from a "temporary" sheet-metal building, from the early 1970s, on the campus of LSU-Shreveport. The building once served as the campus snack bar. The staff is ridiculously minimal, given the area it covers and the services it provides.
No money donated by listeners goes to interior decoration. The carpet is worn and in places patched together with duct tape. Mismatched chairs butt up against surplus office desks. Stained, sagging ceiling tiles speak of past leaks. Junked equipment is stacked about, while the walls are bedecked with shelves groaning under the weight of CDs and old LPs. Faded posters of past concerts suffice for artwork. One corner of the entryway is devoted to junk food for the volunteers; donuts, chips, and cookies abound.
Throughout the facility (that might be too polite a word), which in square footage is about the size of a Starbucks though not nearly as nice, notices taped on the walls remind phone bank volunteers and the staff that there's a difference between Natchitoches and Nacogdoches, the toll-free number, and other instructions. An erasable marker board in the studio keeps up with how much has been raised, what the next hour's goal is, and how many renewing and new members have pledged thus far. One volunteer, an architect, described the building's decor as "urban ghetto." The place is a dump, frankly.
But it's a happy dump. The folks who work here believe in the value of public radio. As do I. And that's why I'm here on a Wednesday afternoon, spending a few hours trying to persuade folks to part with their money to keep the network going and the bills paid.
Newspapers, of course, are my first media love, starting with the one I publish. I regularly read three daily papers beside my own each day. And I scan a dozen or so other news sites daily, and regularly read AP and New York Times stories on my IPhone. But I rely on NPR to start my day at 6 a.m. when the Bose Wave springs to life. My workday ends with "All Things Considered," the afternoon news segment. It's been years since I've regularly watched broadcast television. I tune in to cable occasionally, if something drastic has occurred, but day-to-day my non-print source for news is NPR. I can't tell you how many times I've had a driveway moment, stuck in the car at home, listening to yet another amazing story on "All Things Considered," unable to leave until the story is finished.
I consider NPR a cultural treasure that improves our quality of life here in East Texas and across the United States. For that reason, I've been on Red River Radio's advisory board for the past few years. That's why I was on the radio last week in a ratty studio, where the acoustic baffling had long fallen from the ceiling, leaving squiggles of dried glue that looked like dessicated snakes.
Nearly anywhere you live, there's a public radio station on the dial, and you can access many of them online. If you listen, then give what you can. It's an investment in good journalism, culture and improving the quality of life.
Gary Borders is publisher of the Longview News-Journal. His e-mail address is gborders AT coxlnj.com.
