MERIDIAN — Time is a funny thing. It moves faster than we’d like. It can’t be slowed. It can’t be stopped. And it changes things in the process. It changes people.  It changes memories. Moments that seem common in present time prove later to be defining moments. We don’t realize the impact at the moment. Or the change in course we’ve just created … at least not in that moment we don’t.  

    It seems like just yesterday — at age 16 —  I walked into The Meridian Star's downtown offices looking for something to do. Anything. I was an aspiring photographer. In my parent's home I had converted a bathroom and a closest into my makeshift darkroom. I picked up a book at the local library for step-by-step instructions to help me transform film photos from my Minolta into black-and-white prints. My dad suggested I look for work (probably to help defray the cost of all the stains I was creating on the carpet from spilling the darkroom chemicals). He introduced me to Sports Editor Austin Bishop at a Clarkdale softball game.

    Bishop asked me what I wanted to do. I told him I loved to write but that I aspired to become the next Paula Merritt, the Star's photographer, capturing action shots from local sporting events. I followed her every game I saw her at ... even some that I was actually playing in. One time during a high school basketball game at Clarkdale as I waited for the official to hand me the ball to throw it in,  I asked her what speed film she was using. Later, I asked what shutter speed she shot baseball games with. I pretty much annoyed the stew out of her.

    But I guess it worked. They eventually gave me a job — to work for free, that is. I was allowed to dry the film Merritt and photographer George Clark processed on Football Friday nights. To be fair, it was a small task. It was literally an oversized hairdryer with a clip for the film. My job was to dry it, cut the negatives, put them in sleeves and place them on the light table so the photographers could decide which shots to make prints of that would appear in the next day's edition.

    It was a chaotic process. I'd linger in the newsroom afterwards, listening closely to the sportswriters hammer out game stories on their computers on deadline as editors shouted for copy and page designers yelled at copy editors about deadlines.

    "How much space do I have for the header on B2," Sports Editor Austin Bishop would yell.

    "I need four words, I'm running it two columns," the page designer would shout back.

    "Don't get that score wrong; it was the biggest upset of the night," Bishop would shout back.

    "The score won't matter if we don't get the story. I need that story now before we miss deadline," the page designer would shout back.

    It was frantic. But for me, it was a beautiful chaos.

    On particularly busy nights, some of the pressmen would wander in from the pressroom to ask what was taking so long. They didn't have to say a word. Their presence and stares were enough to hurry the process. Outside in the back alley on 21st Avenue, dozens of carriers waited in parked cars for the editions to be finished so they could deliver them to homes and businesses on time. They'd pace the streets, occasionally stopping by the dock to peer into the mailroom from the dock to see if they'd started getting the editions yet so they could bind them for delivery.

    I was amazed by the whole process. If I was lucky, I'd get to watch that giant press roll. From a slow churn, the machine would build momentum. The sounds would get louder, similar to an airplane preparing for take-off. Soon, it was pumping out hundreds of copies every few minutes. I'll never forget the feeling of picking up those fresh, still damp editions of the newspaper fresh off the press.

    I'll never forget the smell of the ink. There were so many words, photos and stories — all recording history of the previous day from East Mississippi. It was a special thing to experience. It was a defining moment that would change my course for the following 16 years, for 10 years later I’d stand at the center of the chaos.

    At 26 years old, my mind was swimming with ideas as I drove back to my hometown after accepting the position of executive editor of The Meridian Star. I had spent two years working as a reporter in Florida. As I drove north on Highway 45 and the tall Mississippi pine trees filled my windshield, I couldn't contain the excitement of the task in front of me -- leading the newsroom of my hometown newspaper. It was a dream come true for me in many ways, not the least of which was due to the opportunity to help make this place I love better -- through telling stories, both good and bad; through exposing government and keeping it open to the taxpayers; even through recording history and happenings in this area that would have been easier to ignore. East Mississippi was a place full of good stories to tell, corruption to uncover ... and I wanted to help lead the effort to write that history. I wanted to lead the “Morning Miracle” as we often called it, having produced such a document each day from scratch. I was honored to orchestrate the team responsible for recording the daily life of my hometown. I have been honored to be executive editor for the past six years. 

    And now today, after spending exactly half my life in the newspaper industry, assuming it to be the only industry I would ever be a part of, I have decided to walk away and am now faced with the challenge of saying goodbye, feeling the weight of the moment, knowing it is sure to alter my course.

    A few months ago I was offered an opportunity I couldn't pass up and in May, I began work for the Mississippi Development Authority in the Global Division as a Regional Economic Development Manager in the East Central Office in Meridian. In my role, I hope to do something similar to what I set out to do in my role here: make East Mississippi a better place. And so while the jobs are different, my goals remain the same, and my mind is once again swimming with ideas. I relish the opportunity ahead of me. I look forward to watching this part of the state flourish. While I welcome the opportunity that I have been given, it's a bittersweet transition.

    The Star is my heart. These people are my family. I've been privileged to work alongside the most hard-working and dedicated people I've ever met. Each day, often under extreme circumstances, they generate a daily newspaper, a record of life for this community. They're often criticized and rarely praised. They work odd hours and spend time away from family on holidays and often late into the night. They are, in short, my heroes.

    Every day that newspaper hits my front doorstep, I marvel at the craftsmanship and the work that went into that single edition. Then I'm reminded that no sooner than I finish reading that edition, work is already being done to create the next one ... all from scratch.

    As I type the final lines of my last column as editor of my hometown newspaper, I challenge each of you to do more than just read and absorb the information. I challenge you to celebrate it. It's a daily record of life that you can't find anywhere else. And it should be at least appreciated and at best heralded. As communities across the country have lost their daily newspapers — or at least the production of 7 days a week — you are privileged to have a voice for this community that can't be duplicated.

    Read it, support it and promote it.



    E-mail Fredie Carmichael at editorcarmichael@gmail.com.