1976 was a spectacular year in the United States, with fireworks, parades and a nationwide celebration to mark a momentous event in American history.

I refer, of course, to my unlikely start in journalism.

There was also, on a much smaller scale, the bicentennial, the 200th anniversary of our nation’s independence.

Now, 50 years after I got a job at my hometown paper, the Stamford Advocate in Connecticut, it is time to reflect on a career that has somehow failed to ruin the entire newspaper industry.

Of course, the business is in enough trouble as it is, but at least I can also say that I have not yet, for the alleged crime of being a journalist, been arrested.

It’s a good thing, too, because my lawyer is in jail.

I entered the Fourth Estate, which I still can’t afford, when I walked into the offices of the Stamford Advocate and, with absolutely no experience, announced that I wanted to work there.

Instead of throwing me out, the editor, Roland Blais, a kindly gentleman and a true newspaperman, gave me a test that included grammar, current events and history.

I did well enough because I was hired, but there were some questions to which I didn’t know the answers, so instead of leaving them blank or taking half-hearted guesses, I put down the dumbest, funniest, most outrageous stuff I could think of.

Later, in his office, Mr. Blais said, “That’s what got you the job. It showed signs of creativity.”

I was going to say that I didn’t think you were supposed to make stuff up in a newspaper, but for once in my life, I kept my mouth shut.

I started as a copyboy, but I was quickly promoted to police reporter and sat next to Tony Dolan, who smoked cigars in the newsroom and, in 1978, won the Pulitzer Prize for local investigative reporting.

I like to think my mere presence inspired his award and propelled him to become the chief speechwriter for President Ronald Reagan, but if I ever win a Pulitzer, it would indeed be the end of American journalism.

I failed spectacularly in a succession of other jobs — sportswriter, assistant metro editor, assistant features editor and feature writer — until there was nothing left to do but be a humor columnist.

I got that job in 1985 and have been writing stuff that has no redeeming social value ever since.

In 1997, I left the Advocate to work at Newsday, on Long Island, New York, as a copy editor. I was in charge of inserting typographical errors and libelous mistakes into feature stories, but I must not have done a very good job because I was never sued.

In 2019, I was offered a buyout, which was better than a get-out because it involved a generous lump sum, so I took the money and ran, nearly spraining an ankle that wouldn’t have been covered under my medical plan.

Since then, I have continued to write my nationally syndicated column for Tribune News Service about such important topics as taking my wife to the dump on our anniversary, having my fingernails painted by two of my granddaughters and buying an air horn to deter telephone scammers.

Much has changed in the newspaper industry since I started half a century ago. I have gone from writing on manual typewriters to sophisticated computers, which has made things easier, although no one ever ran through a newsroom shouting, “The typewriters are down!”

Journalists aren’t held in high regard by the public these days, even though the public, thanks to the First Amendment of the Constitution, benefits from our work. The guys whose work was celebrated in 1976 saw to that.

I’ll celebrate my 50th year in the newspaper business by raising a glass to Roland Blais, who gave me a chance when I bluffed my way into the profession I love.

I might even write a column about it.

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