By Patrick Robinson
Some of my earliest memories are of the smell of ink.
My father, Jerry Robinson worked for a newspaper and when I was just six months old he bought one.
Not because he was rich. He wasn’t. He had four boys and we lived in a modest home up by Top Hat east of White Center. He was smart though and incredibly hard working. He convinced the owner of the paper that he was trustworthy and John Muller made him an offer. He’d sell him the White Center News by letting him pay it off over time.
Thus the course of my life was set. Certainly it has been shaped by many things but the core themes of words, images, stories, the relationships found only in communities and yes the smell of ink are echoing for me now.