Yesterday was my last day at the Chatham Record. I knew I’d be sad. What I didn’t know was how busy I’d be. Final stories, for instance. My last story was a touching one - about a local church that raised funds to send a young man and his family home to Mexico after the man nearly drowned in Jordan Lake several weeks ago, suffering severe brain damage. I spent some of the morning of my last day talking to the pastor of the church that had raised over $3,000 for the family. He invited me into his home, and I thought about what a wonderful job being a reporter is, getting to talk to all these amazing people.

My second to last story was about a new handicap ramp in town.

I also had to clean off my desk for my coworker, who will be taking my place in Pittsboro. Photos, notes, story ideas, business cards. Some I threw away, wondering why the hell I’d posted it on my bulletin board in the first place, but most I kept.

I ran up and down the main street in town, saying goodbye to friends, and made stops at local offices where’d I’d spent a lot of my time to tell everyone I hoped I’d run into them again soon.

Josephine, the woman I’ve shared an office with for the last three years, took my to lunch. Afterwards we hugged a few times and said how much we’d miss one another. On my drive over to Siler City one last time, to say goodbye to the rest of the crew, I felt sweaty and hurried and realized I hadn’t even had time to think all day and suddenly I felt very, oppressively sad - not that anything was wrong, really, just realizing in one huge moment how much I’d miss everyone - and had to try and stop myself from having a major breakdown, which I was pretty sure would necessitate pulling over on the side of the road. Luckily, once at the news office I felt better, and said goodbye to my friend and boss, Randall, and the rest of my coworkers without losing it. In fact, most of the paper got done early and we were able to spend a little while purely messing around, joking and laughing hysterically.

It’s not like I’m never going to see these people again, but working there has meant a lot to me. It’s not all something I can get down in words, at least not yet.

You can see some pictures of Chatham County and my experience working at the newspaper here.

The other emotion that I felt when I had time to think yesterday was, of course, excitement. We’re headed to Maine!

J and I went out for drinks and dinner to celebrate my last day but also my upcoming trip. We had amazing food and had interesting conversations and observed those around us. We ate at one of our favorite places. The lights were low and the conversations loud. Two tables down we watched an older couple, the woman appeared to be asleep, slumped against the bench. We noted that everyone seemed to have glasses of prosecco, a new item on the menu, and said that, obviously, we’d started that trend when we served it instead of champagne at our wedding. J whispered to me urgently at one point that Mac McCaughan, of the bands Superchunk and Portastatic, and co-founder of Merge Records, was sitting at a table nearby, talking to a friend. He then got really nervous, as he always does when he sees someone he sort of knows, or someone who is perhaps somewhat famous, especially if it’s a musical artist he respects. He starts talking loudly about something else all the while shooting me glances that tell me if I go over there and talk to That Person and in any way embarass him, well, there will be hell to pay.

After the crowd subsided and we were one of the only tables left in the place, J and I went home. I fell asleep quickly, exhausted, and now it is Wednesday morning, and time to go. Despite the fact that, yes, I’m travelling to a house in Maine with my best friend and a band, three dogs and God knows who else, I promise frequent updates on what’s going on. I mean, now that I’m not working I suppose I’d better keep some sort of schedule that involves some semblance of responsibility, as well as practicing and bettering my skills as a writer. Or maybe rock star. Blueberry farmer. I don’t know. These next few weeks, I’m sure, will be full of self-discovery. I’m looking forward to telling you all about it.

This morning I was driving J to work and we were listening to perfectly nice music and having a perfectly nice conversation when he started in on one of his hacking fits, in which he coughs so loud and hard that I ask him if he’d like me to drive him to the hospital.

It’s a mock-serious question. I’m saying to him, “Listen, do you want me to drive you to the hospital? Because that cough is really intense and sounds serious,” but also, “Justin. The ridiculous fashion in which you are coughing, that I believe to be a little bit over the top because there is no way in hell you need to make that much noise, makes me feel like I should do something equally ridiculous, like ask if you need emergency services.”

When he coughs like this it’s because he “has something in his throat” he tells me, and he, therefore, “needs to get it out,” and this requires that, after the violent, hacking, forced cough, he must follow up with a series of grunts and “ahem AHEM AHEM AHEM AHEMS” in order to clear his throat further. “It’s still in there!” he explains, when I look at him, exasperated, my sympathy clearly gone, and I just need him to stop making those noises, please, God, please stop.

The funny thing about this habit is that my father does the same thing, in different ways - that is, play-up his natural bodily reflexes, sneezing, coughing, clearing his throat. How I remember the many times my family would be sitting in a restaurant when my father would sit up straight in his chair, raise up his hands, palms facing outwards as if to silence the room, and sneeze so loudly and violently that patrons at other tables had to turn see what had just happened. This, apparently, not being enough attention drawn to the simple act of sneezing, my father would then yell something to make sure people knew that that, man, that had been a big one! “Wow!” or “Woah!” he’d shout, or sometimes “Jesus Christ!” with a major emphasis on that first syllable, like “Jeeeeeee - sus Christ!”

Needless to say, this was fun for Vin and I as teenagers. We’d hide behind our menus, looking at our mother, imploringly, as if to ask, “Really? Him? Was this your best option?” Meanwhile the waiter stood by, patiently, a smile playing at the edge of his lips as my father happily announced, again, in case people didn’t hear, that that was a big sneeze, his eyes watering, his handkerchief out.

The handkerchief, one of my father’s must-haves-at-all-times, always placed in his back pants pocket, was, in my opinion, at odds with his loud sneezing and coughing habit. He had a penchant for manners, my father, and to this day, if I chew with my mouth open or sniffle too loudly when I’ve got a cold, I stop, quickly, remembering the hundreds, thousands of times he’d tell me, “Cara, that’s disgusting.” I learned, finally, what is and is not acceptable. It took growing up and observing other people to realize that not only were my father’s standards high, they were marked by a sort of obsession. Just a year or so ago I was at a pizza place with my parents, was getting over a cold, and in a moment of panic reached for one of the napkins - that are, I’ve been taught, strictly for use related to eating (the wiping of hands and mouth) - and placed one to my dripping nostril to stop a stream from landing on the table. There was an immediate uproar from my father’s side of the table, “CARA! WHAT ARE YOU…JESUS CHRIST! THAT’S DISGUSTING!”  

I’m just not sure how much more “disgusting” my slight wiping of the nose with a dinner napkin is than his brilliant display of sneezes and coughs, and the continual carrying around of a dirty, cloth handkercheif.

Car trips were marked by deep, guttural throat clearings, much like my husband displayed this morning. “EHHHHHHHHH. EEEEHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGG.” My brother and I would sit, mouths agape, wondering how my mother had become immune to this constant noise. Surely a person didn’t need to work so hard at getting his throat cleared or scratched or whatever he was doing. But apparently he did, and on it would go. If we were lucky, a sneeze. In Chinese restaurants my father would self-inflict, adding hot mustard to his dish, taking a bite, and then assuming the typical palms-up gesture as though he were about to make a speech. His eyes would water, he’d swallow, and announce, “Jesus! That’s HOT!” Is it? Is it hot, Dad? We couldn’t tell because you weren’t DRAWING ENOUGH ATTENTION TO THAT FACT.

So this morning I told J that I couldn’t believed I’d married right back into the madness I sought so hard to flee in my youth. I’ve married someone who feels the need to clear their throat and cough loudly and harshly enough that I sometimes want to pull over the car and ask that he maybe get out until he is finished. He still claims, over and over, that he just needs to “get it out” the “it” mysterious because I’m pretty sure I’ve never had anything of that magnitude stuck in my throat. And luckily for now it’s just this. But who knows how long it will be before he adopts other habits. Maybe one day I’ll sit, quiet and poised like my mother, my eyes closed, pretending to nap. Maybe one day I won’t even hear it anymore and at that point I’ll realize an even truer definition of love and acceptance.    

Our friends often talk about the good shows they watch, like “Lost” and “The Sopranos.” Since there are some excellent options out there, it worries me slightly that J and I, who never get addicted to any tv shows, who are never able to follow a series unless it is delivered to us, disc by disc through our Netflix account, have actually started following a couple shows enough that we know what’s going on, namely “Last Comic Standing” and “America’s Got Talent.”

What these shows are, basically, are shows for people who, if they were really good enough, would already be on the fast track to Hollywood, or Comedy Central, or in some cases the mental institution, but a nice one, with a weekly talent show.

The thing is, not only do we watch these shows, but we get into them, becoming angry when our favorite contestants are treated unfairly, and making commentary on the performances. We judge, and we judge harshly, and before too long we’re judging beyond necessity - we’re gawking at David Hasselhoff, and what appears to be his continually drunken behavior, and we’re wondering, as I asked tonight, what exactly the point is.

“You know, if these people really had talent, wouldn’t they already be famous?”

“Yeah, I mean, if you’re really great at something, someone will find you.”

“Right. Except for me, though, whose talent is yet to be discovered.”

Yesterday I read a blog post on This Is My Question which remarked on a CBS Sunday Morning story on blogging. I, sadly, failed to watch the show this past weekend, so I was happy to read about it, and even happier to read that, apparently, some people get offered jobs because of their blogs. 

This is exactly what I’m getting at, guys. The piece also pointed out that most bloggers write to keep in touch with friends and family. All well and good, and I couldn’t be happier that friends and family read this nonsense, except, of course, my own parents, who, no matter how much I plead and beg, will NOT read my blog. “Ohhhh,” they say. “Your blog!” And in the background, I swear, I can hear them rooting around for last week’s issue of the Sunday Washington Post. Something, anything, besides their daughter’s attempts to practice her love of writing, which can be viewed, oh, you know, with the simple click of a mouse.

(Sidenote: if my parents, by some far reach of the imagination, are reading - Dad, the mouse is what you call the “sensor.”)

Anyway, my point is, that, yeah - I like it when my friends and family get to catch up on the happenings of my life, but let’s not kid ourselves, I’m in this for potential fame. Or at least a recurring column in The New Yorker. So, if you’re a reader who’s got a job for me in mind, especially if it involves writing one really excellent piece a week but spending the majority of my time keeping myself updated on the latest social and political trends by spending many hours in coffee shops in hip, metropolitan areas - please, don’t be shy. I accept! We can discuss salary later over a glass of wine at some new popular place, ok? You buy the first round, and I’ll write about it.

I promise you that, now that I’ve decided to leave my job, my blog won’t become completely dedicated to a discussion of that matter. Nor will it become only a discussion of my lack of a job when I’m back from Maine, depressed, eating whole blocks of Havarti cheese on the sofa while watching “Starting Over.” 

I did, however, want to point out that tonight I’ll be covering my last Pittsboro Town Board meeting as a reporter for the Chatham Record. Notice that I phrased that carefully, because God knows sometime in the future I’ll be covering some town board meeting somewhere and some loon who wants to punish me will find me and explain, “Cara. I read your blog. Your “last” town board meeting ever, eh? You really did yourself in.” Because, let’s be honest. We gather skills as we work in different areas and I’m pretty sure I can list community-based journalism as a skill, so there’s a fair chance I may see a board meeting or two in my future.

Even if the fates decide I’m free of board meetings and board meeting agendas and minutes, though, I still might go to a few. Here’s why: everyone should. I know, I know, you don’t read this to get a lecture like you might from your seventh-grade social studies teacher, but town and county board meetings, although horrifically boring at times (I pity the poor boy scouts I see who sometimes attend, working towards one of those badges that requires one do 100 or so awful/really awful things like attend entire board meetings, not just ten minutes, which is really all you need to get the gist) offer the public a glimpse into just how many decisions lie between each little action that takes place where you live. New traffic light? Board members, I bet you, had at least a 40 minute throw down about that one. Another coffee shop on the main drag? Hour and a half discussion, minimum.

The education I’ve gained from attending who knows how many of these was illustrated recently as I was driving through downtown Carrboro and spotted a sign indicating that a public hearing was to be held regarding a particular plot of land at the corner of Weaver and Greensboro Streets. A rezoning request for a conditional use permit had been requested. I knew exactly what that sign meant and what it pertained to and could guess what might happen and drove on, very pleased with myself.

I realize that the weight of that moment may not gel with you who have not, for months, sought out some meaning in the many Monday nights spent pent up in a quaint little town hall building, but believe me, going to one of these meetings, just once, will completely bolster your respect for the representatives who serve on those boards.

And as a reporter, I feel it’s my duty to tell people just how much work they do. And also as a reporter, because I’ve spent many a long night not only listening to but taking copious notes on the ongoing controversy regarding the potential rezoning to commercial use of a residential lot that backs up to a quiet neighborhood, when my friends were out having pizza and eating beer on the first beautiful night of the season, it is my right to feel smug when I pass a sign indicating a public hearing and know what’s up with that. Oh, and if you’re in the car don’t even think for a second you’re not going to hear all about it.

This morning, while driving for the 895 billionth time down Highway 15-501 into Pittsboro, I was struck by one of those extremely optimistic moods, like, you know, when you think to yourself, “Sure, I may have quit my job to, instead, make no money doing nothing, but what the hell!” I don’t know if everyone finds themselves feeling this way from time to time, or if I’m just particularly annoying and self-centered and, you know, peppy, but not in a good way. If it’s like that, I apologize.

Especially because I’m about to continue with this line of thought. Take the general routine of life, lately, for instance - specifically, our routine, me and my darling husband. Since Cecilia’s been away at rock-star camp, I’ve been arriving home to find tiny Mina ultra excited at my return. We go for leisurely walks around the neighborhood, something I could never do with both dogs tugging me relentlessly in two directions. Sometimes colorful birds, like bright red cardinals and yellow goldfinches fly swiftly from fragrant beds of wildflowers when we approach. I am not kidding you. This happens.

Despite a busy social calendar for the summer - weddings to go to and the constant desire to flock to the water, don a bathing suit and lay out - as well as patios and porches and bars with outside seating - J and I have accommodated a peaceful schedule regarding our sleeping and waking. Before bed we read or watch a movie on the television he so artfully set up in our bedroom (where I thought we could never have a tv due to the long, mirrored closet, and the fact that my bed is only a few inches smaller than the entire square-footage of our house). I’ve just started Infinite Jest, which I will need an encyclopedia and some mind enhancing drugs to finish, and he’s reached the last book of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. Sometimes when I’m done with reading for the night (this happens after about one half of a page with the current novel) J will read to me from his book. He reads ridiculous passages to me, about half badger/half daschund creatures that roam in multiple worlds…babies that can turn into spiders…people getting impregnated by demons. And I say, “That Stephen King, he’s really something,” by which I mean: “This nonsense just reinforces the fact that I’m never, ever reading anything by that man again after The Stand provided me with such delightful and warped nightmares for a week.”

After we get up for the morning and get ready for work, we decide on breakfast and coffee. If there isn’t any in the house, we go to a local favorite spot and pick some up and I drive J to work.

That brings me to Highway 15-501, for the 455,383 quadrillionth time, and my commute to the newspaper office, where, on a day like today, it’s fairly quiet, we’ve got the weekend ahead and the other details - the persistent details of a busy life, the bills and preparing for the future and the cat, who meows so loudly when he is hungry that I am kind of tempted to take his ID tag off, drive to the animal shelter and drop him quietly outside their front door, and who always wants to be outside, even though his hip is weak, and God knows he could get hit by a car and get killed if we don’t keep an eye on him - those details seem so far away and so humorous that worrying about any of it is irrelevant.

Our night Monday started innocently enough with us, a happy foursome out to celebrate the upcoming holiday, deciding that there wasn’t enough tequila in the margaritas we’d just ordered. Carissa, Chappy J and I were sitting around the table in a local Mexican place with just-poured drinks from the pitcher and upon taking those first long awaited sips we muttered, “Hmmmm. Not so strong. Do these even have tequila in them?”

It’s a problem, I suppose, rooted in the fact than when we, ourselves, make margaritas we put so much alcohol in that at first we proclaim, “Oh my GOD! I cannot drink this!” Three or so later we’ve proved that, oh yes, we can, indeed, “drink this.”

But the margaritas Monday night, we decided, needed a kick. After all, it was almost America’s birthday, so we very kindly asked our waitress, “Um, could we get some more tequila in these?” which sent her back to the kitchen for a while before she returned with a half-full pitcher of more margaritas that she added to ours and explained, “These, these have more tequila.” Excellent, we said.

It turns out, I’m pretty certain, that both sets of margaritas had plenty of tequila, because it was enough to send us into a discussion regarding how birds procreate. We figured J would know, what with his affection for birds and their habits and all, but he informed us that he just likes to identify birds. He’s not into how they make love or anything like that.

“Do they have sex like people?” we wondered. Do male birds…do they have a penis? Do they maybe have…a benis?

The night progressed and the subject matter was dropped for a while, but not forgotten. J and I made it home at about 2 a.m. while the others held a spirited after-hours affair at Chappy’s new place. He’s going to be starting business school at UNC shortly and found some classmates while out. We watched in awe as they greeted each other like old friends, a whole bevy of them, smartly dressed with cocktails in their hands. I have a feeling business school is going to be a lot of fun. Fun for me to observe, as well.

I got a call from those two Tuesday morning, after their party which had lasted until the early hours of the morning. But despite being groggy their curiosity was steadfast and they’d researched our quandary on the internet. “Birds,” they told me, “do not have a benis. Nor do they have a birdgina.” Instead, the male and female bird rub against one another in a delicate maneuver called “the cloacal kiss,” because it is during this glorious, sexual dance that the sperm are passed from the male to the female through her cloaca, which leads to the ovaries.

You can read more about the sex life of birds here and see a diagram of their reproductive organs here.

I like how the article includes a warning that says it’s “intended for mature audiences” as though you are about to score with some major porn. Bird porn, anyway.    

When I arrived at the Chatham Record as a new reporter in 2003 I was 25-years-old and seeing my name in print those first few times was astounding to me. Looking back on the early articles, I’m not exactly sure I knew what I was doing, but naturally, I learned.

Having worked at a radio station answering phones and scheduling commercials right after college and then at the animal shelter organizing summer camps for children and teaching volunteers how to walk the dogs, I finally felt like I was on a career path of sorts because, as I’d always explained to everyone, I wanted “to do something with writing.”

Thus I began covering the town board meetings and health board meetings and popping in at the sheriff’s department every now and then to gather the reports or snap a shot of a particularly large quantity of confiscated marijuana. I patronized the businesses of this small town. I drove by a great many hay bales and heard some racial slurs I didn’t think were allowed anymore, as well as made acquaintances with individuals who inspired me to try and write great stories because they were just so interesting.

I became, as I never believed I would, part of a small-town, semi-rural community just over 20 miles from where I lived in Chapel Hill. I spent more time at work than I did in that college-town and after a while I started wondering just what my next step would be.

I didn’t think I’d work here for three years but that’s exactly what it’s been. I thought I’d be one of the four reporters at the Chatham News and Record for a year before moving on to something else, either more news writing or perhaps contributing to a magazine. Maybe I’d get involved in some other kind of writing job altogether. Something big, like a book.

Whatever happened though I knew I’d always fondly remember the time I spent working at a small-town weekly newspaper - getting to know the mayor and touring local farms; waving at the guys in the barbershop on my way to pick up lunch and attending AARP meetings at the senior center.

So a few months ago, when my best friend Jennifer, a recent American Film Institute graduate, said that we should take a month this summer, take a roadtrip and write a screenplay, I thought, “That’s a good idea. Maybe I won’t be working at the newspaper anymore by summer, after all, it’s been three years.”

While I’m completely inexperienced at any sort of screenplay writing, Jennifer and I had always planned to do something noteworthy together. We were going to drive cross country. We were going to live in an apartment in New York City after college. None of these things happened and so this became it.

The vague plan, months before the reality hit home, was to spend our time in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, where my parents own a house and where my brother and his band would be practicing for the summer before they began an east coast tour in August. Jennifer would have time off after graduating, she said, and as I mentioned before, I thought maybe I’d be on to something else, maybe some sort of unimaginable job that allowed me a month off. When you’re discussing these things over email and quick phone calls they appear so bright and shining - and so do-able.   

Also important, extremely so (which Jennifer reminded me of from time to time, although she very wisely remarked that she, of course, had a somewhat biased interest in the matter) was that I complained - and often - about the fact that I still worked where I worked. While I couldn’t say enough good things about my experience I found I also got depressed at times when headed into work in the morning, down that long, beautiful country road. This…three years here, hadn’t been my plan.

I’m not disillusioned about the working world. At least not as much as I used to be. I know you don’t always get to do what you want, that, in fact, most of the time you don’t get to do what you want and that it’s normal to get tired of a job and even normal to think about leaving that job and then to want to leave with all your heart. I know that the protocol is to find another job before you leave your current one.

What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think I was dealing with any extreme circumstances. Nearly everyone (except some people, for instance top Microsoft Executives and, like, the New York Yankees) can say “I don’t make enough money” and nearly everyone can say “I’m so sick of my job I can’t take it anymore.” But believe me, there is always someone making less money who is more miserable.

I know this especially because I chose to get a job in the newspaper business. I sent my resume to all the publications in the area until one would hire me and when one did, as I said, I was happy because I felt I was on a path to doing something I wanted to do. In fact, I was doing something I wanted to do, at least for the meantime, in writing for a newspaper. I was writing. And I’d always wanted to do something with writing. Even better, because of the particular paper’s setup, I was writing columns and feature stories and personality pieces, much more than I’d be doing at a bigger, daily paper.

So I was lucky. Luckier than a lot of people. But I wasn’t really happy that I was still working at the Chatham News after three years. I wasn’t enjoying the small town or working in a small office anymore with only a 70-year-old for company most days, and I started to wonder where all the great experience was getting me if I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue on in newspaper journalism. I started thinking about things like doing another Christmas edition and my reaction to that thought was - well - less than excited.

It wasn’t that I thought I’d become better than this, either. The people I’ve worked with are some of the best at what they do that I’ve ever met. I still have a lot to learn, even though I’ve learned a lot since those first articles in 2003.

I just wanted to move on. I wanted to move on so incredibly badly and it took a lot of talking to people about the situation and a few vodka cocktails to realize that was totally ok.

Jennifer and our friend Max came to visit in mid-May. We spent our time exploring the best of North Carolina, including eating delicious food and discussing the world and our lives over drinks.

One night, as we waited for a table at one of my favorite restaurants, Jennifer and I sat together in the bar and talked about Maine while I finished a very good Absolut Mandarin and soda. It had never seemed like a very reasonable idea, but it started to seem like an absolutely great idea. An unbelievably great idea.

Of course in the morning light, and after Jennifer and Max had left, both of whom claimed they were “in,” no question, I was faced with a kind of scary prospect: Leaving my job to do some crazy thing and then have nothing to come home to.

While I’ve done a little freelance and part time work on the side, could that really go anywhere? Wouldn’t it be best to just stick it out until that time, probably in the next year or so, when we move somewhere else anyway, as planned?

It was the most centered one of all, my husband, a successful grad school student on a track to have a lab of his own someday, who convinced me that, yes, I should leave my job and go to Maine for a few weeks. And I should do it because you only live once and I wasn’t happy and nothing bad would happen. Other people I trust had similar thoughts, including my brother who sent me many inspiring emails on the matter. So what? If I couldn’t find a job when I got back I’d find something. Doing something slightly unpractical wouldn’t kill me.

I realized, then, that J, and Jennifer and Max and Vinnie, and everyone else who commented positively on the idea, were right. I’ve always urged people to take a chance, whether in the romance department (using my own story as an example) or in their careers. Obviously things like people’s feelings and finances are concerns in both categories, but you do what you need to do to stay afloat, emotionally and money-wise, and you move forward.

J also promised he’d visit us, which was of utmost importance because, as I told Max over beers one afternoon on our porch, my number one concern, even more than what people would say about my up and leaving my job, was that I’d be away from Justin for a few weeks, and I’d miss him so much.

Thus, after weeks of discussion and weighing options and formulating plans and talking dates I gathered my courage and told my boss, a good month and a half in advance, that I’d be leaving the newspaper. I explained my reasons why as best I could and he was totally supportive and encouraging. I had turned my totally impractical move into something that I’d thought about for what seemed like forever. It almost appeared strategic. It almost started to make sense. I guess in all fairness I had been thinking about leaving “someday” for about two years - two years more than I thought I’d spend working here.

Since then I’ve realized how much I’ll miss it, when people are sad upon hearing the news or when we’re having a particularly good time at work, of which there are many.

I haven’t, however, regretted it even for the most fleeting of moments.

I could go on and on forever, like people tend to do when they are rationalizing something they’re unsure of. Or I could just say, with self-acceptance (something I’m gaining more of every year of my life), that I am leaving my job to go write a screenplay in Maine with my best friend. I don’t know what will happen after that, but I have every sincerest hope that it will work out for the best.

My last day is Tuesday, July 18 and I’ll be on the road Wednesday morning, almost exactly three years after coming to Chatham County, NC, a new reporter at the weekly paper, ready to start that new, exciting stage of my life.