OPINION: John

One year ago, I didn’t know where I was going. I had graduated from the University of Iowa in December 2023, but I didn’t start searching for a job until halfway through January. I was lying to my parents about my job search because I was going through what can only be described as a nervous hesitation. This transformed into a snarling beast of pre-mortem guilt at having spent so much time and money going through college to still feel like a child.

On a whim, and because the options of what I could do felt so limited, I applied for a news reporter position in a little town I’d heard of but never seen: Creston. I didn’t know what to expect, but as I got a call a few days later from a stern-voiced man who was asking what time and day would work best for a job interview, I wondered what I was getting myself into.

I had driven to Creston for the first time the day of my job interview. I was an hour early, and I drove around the town, partially to see the lovely murals and mostly to try to calm myself down. When I eventually stopped into the office for the interview, I was sweaty, internally panicking and felt about as fit for the job as a whimpering chihuahua is fit to be a Marine.

After an interview which felt like I was paddling water to stay afloat, I left Creston in a daze. The stern-voiced man was John Van Nostrand, the type of model journalist who fit every bill. He was so incredibly kind to me, and he drove me around Creston just to introduce me to the city. I got a crash course in the local parks, schools, even where I could buy a guitar.

I drove home in the dark, realizing how, if I were to get this job, my life would change. At that point, I didn’t think anything I wrote was worth getting published. The few articles of previous work I had to show was all for my college classes. I was some kid who had big dreams but so little to pretend to be.

I got the call in the middle of February. I don’t remember any of it. I heard John say something which sounded like an offer, and said yes immediately. I was moving out of my parent’s basement and going to be working at a dream job.

I couldn’t find a place to live. I checked apartment listings, called places and put myself on waitlists, even at one point considered living as far away as Osceola. John called me to ask how I was, and I told him my difficulties. He gave me a phone number for a landlord in Afton, and the first visit to the apartment was enough to convince me it’d be the one. I was in basically the basement of the building, but it was going to be my new home.

My first week was a combination of nerves and thrills. I got a photo published on my first day, an article halfway through the week. I attended my first few public meetings, including East Union’s well-attended hearing on the four-day school week which I was able to write two lead stories about by the next week. By the end of the month, I had carved my name into a real, published paper.

Three months after I first started, John took me to lunch. He asked how I was feeling. I was still pretty green, but I was slowly getting the hang of it. He told me how he would know if I wouldn’t be up to the standards, how I would melt if I didn’t have the mentality for it. That conversation stuck with me.

In September, I was melting. My apartment had water damage, and I had driven to Des Moines to wait out the maintenance with my parents and then back to Creston to take pictures in a hot air balloon for Balloon Days. I didn’t know where to go, who to find, and I was texting my coworkers in a panic. I looked up from my phone to see John pointing toward a van with an obvious “Creston News Advertiser” sign. I felt so dumb, but so grateful that John drove all the way from Orient to help me.

My car broke down in the middle of January, stuck in the lot outside the CNA office. John was leaving when he spotted me staring at the engine like it was an alien mechanism. He walked across the street to Creston Automotive, to the BP and Autoparts and even took out a spare battery in his own car to try to jumpstart me. He eventually drove me home.

A week ago, at the Iowa Newspaper Association Awards, I had my last professional conversation with John. I told him my anxieties about being there, how I still felt like a kid in a suit standing next to all these professional journalists. His answer was simple. “Don’t think that. You deserve to be here.”

I found out John would no longer work for the paper on Monday. His position was eliminated after a restructuring. He would not write another article for us again.

As I pick up some of John’s previous beats, like writing about county board, it’s difficult to really think about how I could live up to what he’s done. From my first day here, he was one of the people I could turn to for advice, who made me feel welcome in an unfamiliar world and believed my writing was worthy of publication.

It’s hard not to feel like I’m writing a eulogy, John isn’t that old. But, this workplace is a world where I feel like I belong, and it’s clear it’s not going to be the same without him. His stern voice which scared me originally on the phone was a frequent optimistic boost, with an iconic laugh to boot. This past year has changed my life, and I don’t know who I would be without John.