There were days when a smoky haze reached toward the ceiling. Reporters and editors yelled at each other across the room. There was the relentless, loud clickety-clack of the AP and UPI machines transmitting news from around the country and the world. Reporters pecked away at their Royal typewriters. On normal days, it was a wild scene.

I arrived at The Day on July 10, 1967, straight from Northeastern University. I quickly learned that the newsroom was filled with characters, but characters who enjoyed reporting to work every day.

There was the time a reporter who covered General Dynamics/Electric Boat wrote about a new General Dynamics fighter aircraft. It made some sense since Electric Boat is located in Groton. However, GD manufactured the airplanes elsewhere. The city editor was all about submarines. He took the typewritten story, folded it into the shape of an airplane and tossed it at the reporter, saying, “Here’s what I think about your fighter jet.”

Deane C. Avery, a Connecticut Yankee if there ever was one, was a publisher with a wry sense of humor. He was renowned for sending blunt but well-intentioned notes to the newsroom whenever a particular mistake caught his eye. One reporter had written that Lyme Disease was discovered near Lyme, Connecticut. He sent a typewritten note on the back of a well-worn piece of paper. It went something like this: “Near Lyme, near Lyme? If it was near Lyme they’d call it Old Saybrook Disease.” The reporter, Tom Farragher, now a columnist with the Boston Globe and a Pulitzer Prize winner, still cherishes that note. He keeps it in his top drawer at work in memory of the departed Avery.

A story passed along to me and veteran reporters had one writer, who was devoutly religious, writing about a near calamity that was averted at the last moment. The reporter wrote, “God intervened” to prevent a tragedy. When a supervising editor said he could not report that God had intervened in a straight news story, the reporter retorted, “Well, He did.”

Like ex-workers in other professions, when Day retirees get together, we eventually start talking about the old days. I spent 35 years working at the newspaper, retiring 12 years ago at the age of 58.

Much storied were the Christmas parties, a chance to blow off the stress of constant deadlines. Every year, a certain editor would throw the fake office Christmas tree out the back door of the fourth floor to a roof below. “Do it, do it, do it,” came the cry. He always did it, to the hearty cheers of all. Early the next morning a junior reporter would climb down and fetch what remained of the tree. If in good enough shape, it returned to use the next year.

At one especially raucous Christmas party, reporters, for no good reason, decided it would be a good idea to turn on the newsroom fire hose. After the deed was done, and the men’s room flooded, there came the sound of sirens. Little did we know that turning on the hose set off an alarm at fire headquarters. Within minutes, two fire trucks were on Eugene O’Neill Drive, formerly known as Main Street, in front of The Day. Several reporters scrambled to the front door to meet the firefighters.

“False alarm, false alarm,” they frantically assured the firefighters. After a cursory investigation, they drove away, probably laughing about the idiots at The Day.

The Day was an afternoon newspaper during my early years (it would transform to a morning newspaper in 1987). Reporters and editors checked in between 6:30 and 7 a.m., working at a lightning pace until the noon deadline.

On most days, it was then off to develop a story for the next day, or stop by town hall. At some point, during the lunch break or after work, reporters and editors would visit one of several watering holes in the downtown. Drinking was much more a part of the culture than it is today.

My personal journey found me working up the reporting ladder. I started in the towns — Waterford and Ledyard — and later covered police, the courts, politics and New London. By 1980, I found myself taking a shot at management. The next few years I worked as night city editor and then assistant managing editor for news.

I came in second in a two-way competition for managing editor, the top position in the newsroom. Looking back, it’s a good thing I lost that round. First, I had been missing getting out of the building and dealing with people. I also missed writing, which is why I got into the business in the first place. I jumped at a newly created position of special projects/investigative reporter, the job I held until retirement.

I believe the strongest and most aggressive staffs existed in the 1970s. They helped earn The Day a reputation as a superior small newspaper, a status it has worked hard to retain, even in difficult times.

When I arrived, the newsroom was largely a men’s domain. Evelyn Archer was a pioneer who helped change that. She was the first female reporter who didn’t write for the “women’s page.” She covered the military beat, primarily Electric Boat and the Submarine Base. She was crusty, tough, chain-smoking, and highly competent. Times have changed. By 1973, women comprised nearly half of the newsroom staff. Now they compromise the majority.

It’s well known that newspapers across the country are having a tough time, their traditional advertising-driven business model undercut by the Internet. Management, along with smaller staffs of reporters, editors and other employees, are working hard to provide what the Internet largely does not — local news.

I believe that many journalists today are as good — maybe better — than those of yesteryear. However, we had more fun.

Stan DeCoster is a former reporter and editor for The Day, now retired.