These are the first words of the first column I wrote in Cape Girardeau, on March 19, 1981:

"A basketball junkie is subject to most of the harrowing experiences of anyone who has an addiction."

These are the last words of the last column I will write here:

"Thanks, and goodbye."

Not coincidentally, those are the last words of this column.

After living 18 of my 38 years in Cape Girardeau, I will depart this community in the coming days. After 14 years as a newspaperman in Cape Girardeau, I leave to test my skills at another publication in another city.

In the tug-of-war that passes for my emotions these days, I say only that I'm excited by the opportunity but sorry to go.

Boxes occupy a good deal of my thinking. When I am not packing boxes with the desirable remnants of the life built here, I'm thinking of where to get more boxes.

Fortunately, memories are portable and not so space intensive. And I have a few.

I remember Darrell Porter, the St. Louis Cardinals catcher, going out of his way to make a couple of small-town newspaper reporters, lost among the big-city sportswriters, feel important prior to a game in 1982 World Series.

I remember Puxico farmer Wayne Cryts talking passively in a motel hallway about plans to liberate his soybeans from a bankrupt grain elevator near New Madrid, and hours later doing just that, with U.S. marshals standing by as a sort of Greek chorus.

I remember Mercury astronaut John Glenn, a genuine American hero, speaking at a political fund-raising breakfast in Sikeston, and me getting a private audience with him when we ended up at adjoining urinals. Only in America.

But those are newsmakers who enlivened my career for a short time. Cape Girardeau, like any community, is made special by its people, whose uniqueness and grace and values mark a city for the better.

There is Peter Hilty, the unproclaimed town laureate. Every community needs a person with a civic mind and a poet's eye.

There is Letty Patterson, whose life is a testament to the privilege of living in this nation. While most of us got citizenship as a birthright, she earned it, all the time haunted by the strife in her native El Salvador.

There is John Blue, a predecessor as editor of this newspaper and a guiding spirit in my efforts here. He resisted all opportunities to raise an eyebrow at the work of his successors. A good man with a good wife.

There is Barry Thornton, a man who knows a thousand funny stories, most of them in which he is the butt, a master of self-deprecation. He helps belie the axiom that nice guys finish last.

There are Jackie and Harold Siebert, who did far more than befriend me -- they embraced my children. The same can be said of Dr. James Kinder, one of the few medical professionals for whom the word "scalawag" is a workaday expression.

There are Jess and Mary Bolen, who rented me and my wife our first apartment; we didn't have much money and they had a lot of empathy, and I've been grateful to them nearly two decades.

There is Mark Harold, whose gifts have yet to be realized and who understands, as the song does, that the trick to being a dreamer is to never get the blues.

There is Paul Walker, who has fended off life's hardships without losing his artist's humanity.

There are Sam Blackwell and John Ramey, who prove you can be a hard-edged newspaperman and still a gentle soul.

One of the great fortunes I've had in Cape Girardeau is to work with so many capable news people, whose dedication to their jobs and this community will probably never be fully understood or appreciated.

I offer special thanks to three of these folks, Joni Adams, Jim Grebing and Sandy Riehn, who have been my colleagues every day I've been a newspaperman in this city. I remain overwhelmed by their comradeship. Add to this list Bill Heitland, who has been at my side almost as long. He succeeded me as sports editor, and it turned out he knew as much about Henrik Ibsen as Bob Gibson, subjects we reflected on too many times in an ambience of hops and barley and neon.

Professionally and personally, I owe an unpayable debt of gratitude to Gary Rust, who placed faith in me and, depending on the moment and circumstance, served as mentor and tormentor. He is a gentleman, and I will miss him and Wendy.

The personal support system I've developed living in one place a long time nears disruption, and I hate that.

I've been blessed with terrific neighbors, loyal and thoughtful. My wife's parents, Harold and Luella Kielhofner, have been a constant source of love and encouragement, as have my other in-laws.

Most importantly, I thank my immediate family, whose tolerance of long hours and holidays worked has allowed me to do this job over the years. My wife and three children were all born in Cape Girardeau, and uprooting them is the toughest part of this move. They respond, however, with a love that is more than I deserve.

Lastly, I thank the people who read my work over the years. Some corresponded or called, saying they were moved or agitated or compelled by something I wrote. But here's the dirty secret of this job: It was my privilege.

Thanks, and goodbye.

~Ken Newton began work as a Cape Girardeau newspaperman on June 2, 1980.