She was a beauty queen in her teens, and still has the carriage and the remains of the figure of a beauty queen. Her husband, Donald, was a bit of a simp, who inherited his money and bought the newspaper in the first place mainly so he would have something to do while a battalion of lawyers and accountants made him ever wealthier. When he departed this life, after a disagreement between his Cadillac and a freight train one liquid February night a few years ago, Sylvia dried her tears, if any, shucked her apron, if any, and took over. She has a natural instinct for what makes a small-town newspaper work, namely lots of flowery praise about the locals, no knocks on business, and no raises for the working stiffs. She is the one who bought our computers, over the objections of Tommy Macklin, and was thus able to dispense with most of the typesetting staff. She also dreamt up a lot of new features, such as my Ramblin’ John column and something called Personality Profile, which gives the old oil to some local advertiser every week and is widely read by that advertiser’s mother.
