The first few lines into any writer’s body of work and what is called “the lead” is often key to its readership. Much like the header on an advertisement, it’s the clincher that you hope invites the reader inside — long enough to get the message that follows.
Sometimes the lead writes itself. Other times it demands a belabored shaping, and reshaping.
For this journalist, the entire column you are now reading has been a tough one to write. Everything that I want to convey feels like the lead — and paradoxically, the ending — but also the main text because so much of what has defined my life in the last two decades has revolved around the newspaper world.
That world now runs through my mind like a movie — the kind you readily rewind to watch over and over, the kind that stays with you and forever influences the way you look at life.
Aside from the daily deadlines, I have never spent a day at this newspaper “watching the clock.” I can say without exception, even after so many years, that as minutes turned into hours turned into days turned into weeks and amazingly into years — each day has found me longing for a little more time, a little more space to do what has rewarded me immensely.
This day finds me no different. Even as I leave this post, I know there is so much more to express, so much more to learn, so many more stories I would like to write.
Publishers and newspaper people say it is an odd thing for an “advertising type” to turn to journalism as I did. Maybe so, but for me what has united those genres is undoubtedly this community. Many of you who own or work at the businesses which I represented in The Journal’s advertising department for many years, are also people I’ve written about on the front page as part of a human interest feature, or a board meeting or public event.
One of the comforting bonds of our quaint area is that we have so many opportunities to connect.
I am indebted to those of you who have shared your personal tragedies and triumphs with me — people such as Einar Sundin, the Rasmussens, Byrne Johnson, Gwen Street, Mary Casanova, the Hilkes, Luke Valentine, the Bokovoys, Joe Rahm, Margarete Kostiuk, the Kasichs, Violet Johnson, Mary Graves and others I shall always remember.
I have been fortunate to hear first-hand from our volunteers who give to others whether they be animals or neighbors. I have learned from the organizers and the leaders who have made things happen for this community. And so many of you, with just one voice, have made a real difference in the lives of others.
Thank you for letting me and the newspaper be a part of that.
Whether in the news or not, each of you — newcomer or old-timer — defines who we are collectively.
I would love to write each of your stories. I really mean that. My guess is that few writers have felt as warmly received as I have during my days in the newsroom.
I am grateful for the multiple opportunties afforded me here.
My newspaper comrades (co-workers) will always be in my heart. I hope to stay connected to your color and warmth. Some of you watched my children grow into adults and through the years shared the personal joys and heartaches of my family.
I expect I’ll have to argue with my vehicle next week because after all this time it practically drives itself to the place that smells like ink, where everyday I’ve opened a familiar door and walked inside.
But I’ll be just across town, and I will continue to celebrate the gifts of this community — and its rare brand of wonderful people.
See ya soon.
