July 28, 2011

Dear readers,

This is my final column for the Southeast Missourian. No mourning is called for. I'm just moving on to other interests. You will too.

This column began about 20 years ago, so more than 1,000 Letters from Home have appeared. My mother has clipped and saved every one. Other people occasionally have told me if a particular column made them think. A columnist hopes for no more.

In that span only one column didn't get into the newspaper, and that was due to a computer problem. If sick or traveling, I sent in a column. The advent of email made that easier, but earlier on my friend Renda at the newspaper sometimes had to decipher horrendously handwritten faxes sent from the road.

This faithfulness was a bond between writer and readers. If you opened the paper and looked for me, I promised to be there. Sorry to be breaking that bond.

Simply, my heart is elsewhere, and that is reason to end any endeavor.

The friends these letters were written to really do exist. They live in California and on the East Coast, and my intent has been to tell them about life here in Southeast Missouri, particularly in Cape Girardeau on South Lorimier Street.

Our dogs Hank, Lucy, Alvie, Buster and Dizzy provided lots of trials to write about. We miss our overwhelmed alpha male Hank and Alvie the wonder beagle every day. Our friends and family also starred in these stories. Some probably didn't like their portrayal, but none ever complained.

My wife DC has been a good sport about letting me chronicle her quirks for anyone to read about. Her gentle heart surely shone through, too.

The truth is I've lost contact with some of the friends I've been writing to, but our friendships still exist for me. They always will.

I became a journalist in part because writing was all I knew to do. I also saw that journalism had the power to do good in the world, that journalism can remind us that each life counts.

The power of journalism also can be abused. Intent is everything. My intent always has been to find some truth in my own life that perhaps translates to yours. The people and events in our lives are more alike than different.

For a third of my life, this column has been my way of stopping once a week to look for meaning in the everyday. I have loved writing it. Every word.

We come from the same source, and the way forward and the way back is simple. In the '60s, people put that simple word on psychedelic posters, and the Beatles devoted themselves to singing about it. Every one of these letters has signed off with it.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a former reporter for the Southeast Missourian.