Thank you, Salem. With love, Kelly
This is actually the fifth draft of this column.
First, I tried to just submit the lyrics of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide,” which my editor sent back, citing copyright infringement. Next, it was something super overwrought about moving a lot as a child and feelings and blah blah blah. No one cares.
Then, I tried to write my own version of “Goodnight Moon,” and that definitely didn’t work:
Goodbye, Salem,
Goodbye, column,
Goodbye, capitol; blocky and solemn!
Goodbye Statesman Journal,
Goodbye, ad department,
Goodbye train that goes by my apartment!
… hard to sustain for 24 inches, let me tell you.
Then, it was a Q and A.
Q: Did you get fired? Or what?
A: No, amazingly enough.
Q: So what are you doing?
A: Moving up north to, um, another city that shares an area code with us, where I plan to freelance and work on promoting The Book.
Again, not so great. But finally, I ran to that shelter from the writer’s block storm, the thing that comes naturally to every southern girl (once her mother’s years of brainwashing finally take root): The thank-you note.
Dear Salem,
There is a saying from Henry R. Luce that every college journalism major has among their “Favorite Quotes” on Facebook. It’s a cliché, but it’s my favorite one: I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world.
Salem, thank you for telling me so, so many interesting stories. Thank you for letting me get so close to your heart.
Thank you for the feeling of walking around downtown and spotting so many people you know and like and seeing beyond just the buildings to know the people who work there, the backstories, the squabbles, the passion and, of course, the gossip.
Thank you for ducklings that wobble after their mothers, while six or seven concerned Salemites flank at a distance, stopping traffic and blocking storm drains.
Thank you for the North Salem High School marching band that I can hear from anywhere in my house, their two-a-days signalling the near-end of summer. Thank you especially for their vaguely verbally abusive but hilarious coach (“No. That sucked. No. Is that your left foot? Start with your left. Everyone go back to one.”)
Thank you for the view driving down Summer Street toward the Capitol, the Gold Man framed by the overhanging trees and shining no matter what the weather.
Thank you for Bush’s Pasture Park and long walks on drizzly fall mornings.
Thank you for all that gorgeous farmland that surrounds you. Anytime I feel sad, restless, anxious or just in need of a patriotic boost, driving around what my father accurately calls “God’s Country” does me just right.
Thank you for people coming up and saying some variant of the following: “Hey! You’re the … you do the … the article in the paper.” This happened a fair amount and never, ever, ever got old. I was always way more excited than the other person about this exchange.
Thank you for containing the funnest newsroom I can imagine, chock full of smart, funny people who care about this town ... but who also can be completely derailed by game-changing baby goat videos.
Thank you for a job that let me listen to the crackle of the police scanner and feeling privy to all these secrets that float through the air on waves most radios don’t pick up. Thank you for a job that included reporter’s notebooks that fit just right in the hand. Thank you for a job that lended legitimacy to my curiousness.
Thank you especially for all the wonderful letters — the get-well ones I got after the seizure, the congratulatory ones after the book. These mean so, so much to me — I’ve kept every one and can’t imagine ever throwing them out. Yes. Even the ones from inmates and crazy people.
Thank you for cherry blossoms. Thank you for wind that blows them and fills the air with pale pink snow.
Thank you for the Capitol and the way it vibrates the whole town almost imperceptibly when it is in session. Thank you for the sense that, just down the street, real and important things are happening.
Thank you for the mysterious, grubby but so lovable YMCA. Thank you for IKE Box.
And thank you, most of all, for being so good to a 23-year-old who came here knowing no one, and leaves at 28, attached to everything.
Kelly Williams Brown is now just another writer living in Oregon.
First, I tried to just submit the lyrics of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide,” which my editor sent back, citing copyright infringement. Next, it was something super overwrought about moving a lot as a child and feelings and blah blah blah. No one cares.
Then, I tried to write my own version of “Goodnight Moon,” and that definitely didn’t work:
Goodbye, Salem,
Goodbye, column,
Goodbye, capitol; blocky and solemn!
Goodbye Statesman Journal,
Goodbye, ad department,
Goodbye train that goes by my apartment!
… hard to sustain for 24 inches, let me tell you.
Then, it was a Q and A.
Q: Did you get fired? Or what?
A: No, amazingly enough.
Q: So what are you doing?
A: Moving up north to, um, another city that shares an area code with us, where I plan to freelance and work on promoting The Book.
Again, not so great. But finally, I ran to that shelter from the writer’s block storm, the thing that comes naturally to every southern girl (once her mother’s years of brainwashing finally take root): The thank-you note.
Dear Salem,
There is a saying from Henry R. Luce that every college journalism major has among their “Favorite Quotes” on Facebook. It’s a cliché, but it’s my favorite one: I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world.
Salem, thank you for telling me so, so many interesting stories. Thank you for letting me get so close to your heart.
Thank you for the feeling of walking around downtown and spotting so many people you know and like and seeing beyond just the buildings to know the people who work there, the backstories, the squabbles, the passion and, of course, the gossip.
Thank you for ducklings that wobble after their mothers, while six or seven concerned Salemites flank at a distance, stopping traffic and blocking storm drains.
Thank you for the North Salem High School marching band that I can hear from anywhere in my house, their two-a-days signalling the near-end of summer. Thank you especially for their vaguely verbally abusive but hilarious coach (“No. That sucked. No. Is that your left foot? Start with your left. Everyone go back to one.”)
Thank you for the view driving down Summer Street toward the Capitol, the Gold Man framed by the overhanging trees and shining no matter what the weather.
Thank you for Bush’s Pasture Park and long walks on drizzly fall mornings.
Thank you for all that gorgeous farmland that surrounds you. Anytime I feel sad, restless, anxious or just in need of a patriotic boost, driving around what my father accurately calls “God’s Country” does me just right.
Thank you for people coming up and saying some variant of the following: “Hey! You’re the … you do the … the article in the paper.” This happened a fair amount and never, ever, ever got old. I was always way more excited than the other person about this exchange.
Thank you for containing the funnest newsroom I can imagine, chock full of smart, funny people who care about this town ... but who also can be completely derailed by game-changing baby goat videos.
Thank you for a job that let me listen to the crackle of the police scanner and feeling privy to all these secrets that float through the air on waves most radios don’t pick up. Thank you for a job that included reporter’s notebooks that fit just right in the hand. Thank you for a job that lended legitimacy to my curiousness.
Thank you especially for all the wonderful letters — the get-well ones I got after the seizure, the congratulatory ones after the book. These mean so, so much to me — I’ve kept every one and can’t imagine ever throwing them out. Yes. Even the ones from inmates and crazy people.
Thank you for cherry blossoms. Thank you for wind that blows them and fills the air with pale pink snow.
Thank you for the Capitol and the way it vibrates the whole town almost imperceptibly when it is in session. Thank you for the sense that, just down the street, real and important things are happening.
Thank you for the mysterious, grubby but so lovable YMCA. Thank you for IKE Box.
And thank you, most of all, for being so good to a 23-year-old who came here knowing no one, and leaves at 28, attached to everything.
Kelly Williams Brown is now just another writer living in Oregon.