A sad, yet thankful, goodbye to the Front Porch column

I don’t like goodbyes. The word depicts a touch of sadness, a spot of vulnerability and a whole lot of final. Yet that’s exactly what I’m saying today.

Twelve years ago I answered an ad to write a commentary column for the Valley Voice section of The Spokesman-Review. This concept was experimental and then-editor Mike Schmeltzer was anxious to elicit new voices that would effectively portray Spokane Valley life. I sent my letter full of middle-age eagerness at this chance of a lifetime. Imagine my surprise when Schmeltzer called and asked me to attend a meeting.

My beginning articles were rough, simplistic, too wordy, off focus – you name everything a writer shouldn’t do and my stories contained it. But the editor worked with me, chopped out sections here, mumbled “Oy vey!” there and asked questions … lots and lots of questions.

“What do you want to say?” was the question zinged at me repeatedly with pointed editor verbiage. But that edgy critiquing was what I needed because it taught me to narrow my scope, calm the fanatical rantings, focus on the subject, find the heart of the article. Heck, I even grew a handsome cloak of elephant hide to keep criticism from penetrating the delicate writer soul beneath.

I began writing as a member of the Council of Contributors for the Front Porch column and was thrilled when asked to take on feature articles as well as love stories that spurred special memories for those I interviewed. I enjoyed it, learned much and met great people. My favorite writing gig, however, was the Front Porch. It was here that I discovered people wanted to connect on a personal level and I hope, in some way, my articles did just that.

Over the years, Front Porch writers have kindled in our readers a mixed bag of laughter, tears, contemplation, anger, information and curiosity. Casting vulnerability a caustic eye, we opened up our lives into some dark situations so readers would know they’re not alone in this crazy thing called life. We shared our struggles, dreams and fears in hopes comfort, perhaps even camaraderie, could be found.

Twelve years. It’s been a good run. I was incredibly fortunate to have been chosen to write for the Voice section and I’m indebted to the editors and The Spokesman-Review for allowing me this opportunity. Most of all, I’m grateful to those who read my column and dropped me a line once in a while. You have no idea how much that means to a writer.

And so, with a touch of sadness, a spot of vulnerability and a whole lot of heartfelt thanks I say – not goodbye – but rather turn to some of the best classic farewell lines:

Here’s looking at you, kid.

May the force be with you.

Live long and prosper.

Thanks for the memories.