We’ve been through so much together: I just wanted to say thanks

                        
To quote the Beatles ... it was 20 years ago today. That’s right, faithful readers. On March 3, 1990, I began writing this weekly column. And now, thanks to you, it’s time to celebrate. So many of you have been with me from the beginning and for that, I’m eternally grateful. Many more have joined the parade and you, too, are deserving of my thanks. Week after week, the momentum has grown and now we stand, together, looking forward as we remember all that’s gone before and hope that we’re still here, sharing all the moments that matter, two decades down the road. I hardly ever quote myself. It seems a bit arrogant, but for the purposes of perspective, allow me to indulge in a sliver of self-referential hubris. These are among the words with which I introduced myself, back when gas was $1.16 a gallon and “Twin Peaks,” “The Simpsons” and “Seinfeld” were only just beginning to make their mark. Here’s how it all started: “A year from now, when I’ve written maybe 50 of these columns, perhaps I’ll know what I’m trying to do. Right now, I just want to keep it simple and see what happens ... All I have in mind is that, once a week, I’ll sit down at my typewriter and write ... This column, for as long as it lasts, is aimed at nothing in particular and everything in general. It’s like the attic, filled with all sorts of useless stuff that might come in handy someday.” OK. So it’s not exactly “Call me Ishmael” or “I was born in a cross-fire hurricane,” let alone, “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.” But it’s not a bad example of opening a door and inviting others to share the ride. In fact, I think it’s pretty fine. Hundreds of thousands of words later, I don’t think that I could improve on it much, except to replace the word “simple” with the word “honest.” And that’s why I wouldn’t change the word “typewriter” for anything. Journalism, when I jumped into it, was a writer’s game. The better you were, the higher you’d fly. Alas, that’s no longer the case. Today, it’s shock and shtick and Facebook and Twitter and endless hyperbole with no more to count on than tomorrow’s equally bleak outlook. But that’s not me. I’m still a kid who refuses to grow up. I believe in family and friends and faith. I think it’s perfectly acceptable to spend a few minutes in this space pondering the greatest 40 guitar riffs of all time or the way an old girlfriend crippled your emotions by the callous way she left, not even saying goodbye. And then how, after all that, I could stand on the shore in Kitty Hawk and pledge my undying love to a woman I’d called my fiancee for many years and now, was lucky enough to be known as her husband. I believe in sunsets on the beach and moonrises in the mountains, the way Neil Young can startle you with his electric candor and how it never gets old watching “The Breakfast Club” or reading “Ball Four.” It’s fun for me to share with you the details of my travels to places like Birmingham or Frankenmuth or Siesta Key, not to mention having been a student at the University of Notre Dame. I like telling you about games on campus, back when the Fighting Irish snapped UCLA’s 88-game winning streak. I think it’s always a good idea to tell you where to get the best oysters on the Outer Banks or how to make a Mikey Burger. Nothing stops you from skipping this space on a weekly basis. Lord knows I would understand it if you did. But enough of you have stayed true, since the time Dan Quayle was vice president and the Yankees hadn’t won a World Series since 1978 to allow me the luxury of believing that I’m doing something right. When you write and say that my musical references -- say “Talk Talk,” by the Music Machine or “Cowboys to Girls,” by the Intruders -- often leave you by the side of the road, I’m always encouraged when you say something like, “Even with all that, I enjoy what it is you have to say.” Which brings us to those of you who don’t like my work ... and there are many. But if you’ve gotten to this point in this piece, I’d tell the judge, “Well, if they’ve come this far, they must not hate me too much.” And then I’d agree with you. You have hundreds of choices, better ways to spend your well-earned leisure time than to follow my weekly ramblings. But if you choose to, I’m ever so happy. Because it’s all about you. When it comes right down to the marrow, the actual moment when you train your eyes on my words, it’s all up to you. You decide if what I say matters. You let me know when I make a mistake or two ... or three. You give me the chance to share my stories. You rock. You roll. You tell me when I’ve written something that matters. You’ll forget me when I fail. So. Math was never my best subject, but if I’ve been doing this once a week for 20 years, that means you might have read a thousand of these columns. Wow. I’d like to be able to close out this celebratory piece with a grand announcement that very soon every single solitary piece of writing I’ve done for you will be available in a handsome, leather-bound, coffee-table-book sized collector’s edition, personally autographed by the author. Titled, “Two Decades to Think: Mike Dewey -- 1990-2010,” I’d be back home to kick off the publicity campaign and spend a lot of time back in Wayne and Ashland and Holmes counties, just hanging out with those of you who have made the last 20 years the best time of my life. However, that’s not what I was after when I started. And that’s not what I’m after now. All I want to do is offer my sincere gratitude for reading this column and for looking forward to my next one. I think I closed out that March 3, 1990, piece with precisely the proper words. “Watch this space.” Mike Dewey can be e-mailed at Caroli namikeD@aol.com. or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.


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