It slipped by me last month, and I didn’t even give it a passing thought. At least not until just recently.
It got lost, as many little milestones do, in the stir of life. In the rush to get the kids to school and in between all the meetings and dinners and deadlines. It’s not hard to whoosh right past a moment of personal reflection.
But it doesn’t make it any less meaningful, particularly when it is a moment for which you are appreciative.
Last month marked my 18th year writing for the Index-Journal, in some form or fashion. Eighteen years. That’s a lot of time we’ve spent together here, in these pages. Untold stories and columns, and thousands upon thousands of words. I’m sure I’ve made you mad a time or two (or 10). Lord knows I’ve gotten the emails.
But I also hope we’ve learned a few things about this little corner of the world, together, and that I’ve made you laugh sometimes, or at least given you a little chuckle as you’ve enjoyed your Frosted Flakes. I’ve had more than a few folks through the years tell me they’ve clipped out a column or story I’ve written, and stuck it on the refrigerator with a magnet. An old school gesture, for sure, but I can think of few higher honors.
I’ve worn a number of hats at this paper through nearly two decades. I was a full-time sports writer for several years, then a staff writer in the general newsroom. I covered the cops and the courts and the Greenwood mayor’s office and city council and county council. I wrote about the state legislative delegation and did stories with congressmen and senators. I’ve written of scandals and triumphs, births and deaths. I’ve seen and chronicled the best and worst examples of what mankind has to offer. I’ve been sent to bear witness to local history, and I never took it lightly.
And now for some many years there has been this column space on the weekends. For many years it was a Sunday column, now it comes out on Saturdays as part of the Weekender edition. I’ll admit I still haven’t quite gotten used to that one. There was something special about the rhythm of the Sunday column. Alas, things change. It is the very nature of the newspaper business that the ground is ever shifting under our feet, and that each day brings a new challenge and, indeed, a new story to tell.
I started here in August of 2004, and there was no magic sauce to it. I struck up a relationship with the Index-Journal the same way most people got a job two decades ago: I answered a want ad in the classifieds. The paper was looking for a sports clerk, which was a part-time employee who would work in the evenings, answering the telephones in the sports office to get the scores and statistics from local high school ballgames.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t initially get that job. Instead, then-sports editor Mike Stone asked me to be a “stringer,” basically a writer who works on a freelance basis, covering local games. (The first thing I ever covered for the paper was a semi-pro basketball game at old Southside Middle School on a Saturday afternoon.) Only later that fall — after the person who was initially hired, uh, didn’t work out — did I land that sports clerk gig.
And 18 years — and a lot of ink and internet bandwidth — later, here we are. Still sharing a piece of our mornings with each other.
Here’s the thing: I’ve never taken this for granted and I don’t take the responsibility of it lightly. The Index-Journal was the paper my family subscribed to when I was growing up. This newspaper and its people — from late publisher Judi Burns (miss you) to current publisher Mundy Price to vice president St. Claire Donaghy to longtime executive editor/rascal Richard Whiting and beyond — are precious and dear to me. Even as I have moved on to other newspapers, they have made space for me here.
So, we recently marked 18 years together. I hope to hang around for a few more. Tell a few more bad jokes, share some more tales about my life that, hopefully, resonate with your experiences. And if I ever make it onto your refrigerator, well, that’s just a bonus.
