When I started writing this newspaper column 20 years ago this month, I was certain one of two things would eventually happen. Either I would completely exhaust my supply of ideas, or my editor would gently suggest that the readers and I might benefit from some time apart.
Neither has occurred, which says something about the patience of editors and perhaps the low standards of the rest of us.
By my unofficial count — the kind done on a napkin and double-checked only once — this anniversary lands somewhere around 1,040 columns. That total excludes vacations, sick days, and those weeks when I sat at my desk convinced that I had lived a perfectly ordinary life and that none of it was worth 600 words by deadline.
Early on, I discovered the greatest gift a columnist can receive — dogs. If you own dogs, especially dogs with enthusiasm and poor judgment, you are never truly out of material. Glory and Milly, the springer spaniels who lived at my house, contributed more to my writing career than any writing seminar ever could. They specialized in mud, geese, squirrels, boundless optimism and a belief that personal space was a myth invented by cats.
I wrote about dogs because readers enjoy them, and because people are far more forgiving of bad behavior when it comes with floppy ears. That lesson alone could sustain a columnist indefinitely.
I also wrote — often — about the Georgia Bulldogs. This was inevitable. Loving the Bulldogs is not something you choose. It’s something that happens to you early and follows you for life. Over the years, that affection has involved joy, frustration, cautious optimism, and an unforgettable trip to the Rose Bowl that felt equal parts celebration and emotional endurance test.
College football is especially useful to columnists because it comes with a built-in reset button. Every season offers the same hopes and the same promises that this year will somehow be different. Bulldogs fans understand this cycle, which is why they keep reading, nodding knowingly, and occasionally checking their blood pressure.
Then there’s growing up in a small town, which is the gift that never stops giving. You may leave, but it never lets go of you.
Small-town memories improve dramatically with age. Stories get better, characters get bigger, and moments that seemed insignificant at the time slowly turn into legends. Eventually, you realize you can safely write about them because the statute of limitations has expired or most of the witnesses have moved.
Over 20 years, I’ve written about food, weather, television, holidays, bad drivers, good people, and the ongoing mystery of missing socks. I’ve learned that mild irritation is good for a column, and serious annoyance is even better.
I’ve also learned that readers never forget. They will quote something you wrote years ago and ask if you still believe it as though it were sworn testimony rather than something typed quickly before deadline. The best compliment remains when someone says, “I read your column every week.”
Twenty years is a long time to be invited into people’s routines. It’s surprising, humbling, and not something I take lightly. Writing a column means sitting alone and hoping what you’ve written feels familiar to someone else.
As for how many columns remain, I couldn’t say. But as long as there are dogs, football seasons, old memories, and everyday moments worth smiling at, I suspect I’ll keep finding the words. That’s how it’s worked so far — one column a week for 20 years.
My View From the cheap seats 