The nation is saying goodbye today to Jimmy Carter, the 39th president of the United States who died Dec. 29.

Flags have been flying at half-mast, and the federal government will join the stock markets and U.S. Postal Service, shutting down to honor his memory.

Carter, a peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, was little known when he stunned his fellow Democrats, winning his party’s nomination to run against then-President Gerald Ford, who ran to keep his spot in the White House. Ford rose to national prominence when he assumed the vice-presidency upon the resignation of Spiro Agnew and eventual resignation of President Richard Nixon.

Carter battled issues aplenty during his administration. High energy prices, inflation and a more than 400-day hostage situation nagged his presidency. He did, though, broker a peace agreement between Egypt and Israel that’s still holding up.

But as the nation remembers Carter for all he’s done, for some in Northeast Pennsylvania something he didn’t do comes to mind.

In mid-July 1979, Carter was a no-show in the region.

It was a warm Thursday night just before 9 o’clock when the phone rang at my family’s home as I was getting ready for bed.

I was just 21 years old and learning the ropes of a reporter’s profession, working at an afternoon newspaper in Berwick. We started our day early, and I’d hit the road by 5 a.m. to begin the 35-mile commute to get the coffee on for the rest of the staff.

But four months out of journalism school, I was thrust into what became a national non-story at the time. It’s one that’ll stay with me forever.

“It’s your editor,” my mom said. “He needs to talk with you.”

My first thought was that my career was over. Maybe I screwed something up. Maybe we were getting sued.

“Hey, Ed, get your a** over to a place called the Capri Motel in Hazleton,” he said. “Jimmy Carter’s supposed to show up there.”

Carter at the Capri? No way.

Let’s just say the establishment wasn’t the Waldorf-Astoria of its day, but I went anyway.

When I arrived police had already set up barricades, steering rubbernecks away from one of the city’s smaller business districts.

About 300 people were gathered at the intersection of Second and Alter streets. The crowd grew as the news spread. There was no Facebook or Twitter at the time, but rumors flew like startled bats out of a cave into the night sky.

The three local television stations reported that Carter was on his way, adding to the Hazleton turnout and creating mini-chaos at the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International Airport, the only runway large enough to handle Air Force One, then a Boeing 707.

The announcement set off a media frenzy.

Outlets from all across the state flooded local and state police stations with calls looking for some details.

By now, the crowd swelled to about 1,000.

State police were rumored to be ready to escort a Carter motorcade from Avoca down Interstate 81 to the city.

An assistant district attorney at the time said the White House reportedly called Avoca, looking for information about refueling at the airport.

Even the local airport received telephone calls asking about aircraft amenities in Hazleton.

The city’s police chief said his department didn’t get any warnings that Carter was on his way, as was the case when Presidents John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon came to the area in 1960.

As the night wore on, it became clear that Carter wasn’t coming.

Media outlets learned that Carter, who was at the Camp David presidential retreat, traveled to Carnegie, outside Pittsburgh, to talk with “real people” before an upcoming address to the nation.

Midnight approaching, Hazleton police used loudspeakers on city cruisers, ordering the crowd to disperse or face arrest.

A young boy, up way past his bedtime and hoping to get a glimpse of the president, wasn’t buying any of it.

“He has to be coming,” the boy said as I walked to my car. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t be chasing everybody away.”

Either way, at that hour I didn’t care.

No matter what happened – or didn’t happen – I still had a story to write and a deadline to meet.

And as the nation says goodbye to its oldest-living former president, I’ll say hello to the memories of my first non-story story.

Thanks, Mr. President. Godspeed.

ED SOCHA | tneditor@tnonline.com

Ed Socha is a retired newspaper editor with more than 40 years’ experience in community journalism. Reach him at tneditor@tnonline.com.