Roger Morris died on a Thursday afternoon. I think he'd have a good laugh at the irony of that.
It always irked Roger when big news broke as The Western News was going to press with its Friday edition. It meant every daily newspaper in the country would have five days to report on the story before the next edition of the News came out. By the time the Wednesday paper was on the shelves, it would be old news.
Eleven years ago Roger took a chance and hired a kid from Pennsylvania who wanted to live and work in the Last Best Place. For that I'll always be grateful.
I could write a book about Roger, but how can I sum up his life and work in the few paragraphs? I think he'd have some thoughts on that as well.
One of the things he taught me was that when confronted by a seemingly impossible task, a writer should step back, take a deep breath and let the story tell itself. Maybe I can do that.
Roger Morris was a newspaper man. He enjoyed his work and took seriously his responsibilities as a journalist and as a community member.
He was born in the East, but his heart belonged to the West. Libby was his home.
He loved high places and wildflowers. He appreciated the beauty of a starry night or a sunrise over the mountains. — Brent Shrum