I’m uncertain about the first newspaper story I ever covered. One of the first was a pre-season football game between the New York Giants and the New York Jets. They played the game at the Yale Bowl in New Haven, Conn. I don’t remember much about the game, but I do remember calling the story in from the press box so that it would get into the early morning Monday edition. That was pretty cool, I thought.

Years later my thoughts turned down a different path when I read that Doug Kotar, one of the stars of that game and a rookie running back for the Giants at the time, had died from cancer. He was still only in his 20s. Memories and time serve as both curse and perspective.

The last newspaper story I covered I remember quite vividly, however, and well I should since it occurred only a few days ago. My contact at the local newspaper in town said you’re probably not interested in covering planning and zoning meetings, and she was right about that. But there was a local event that she thought I would be interested in covering – the 124th consecutive monthly meeting of the Military Family Support Group here in town – and she offered me the assignment. I jumped at the chance.

The event itself was wonderful. Good, solid people telling stories about friends and family members and about what the group meant to them. There were shared stories about loss and connection, about grief and renewal, about hope and perseverance. They were all about people, and I felt fortunate to be a part of it, even if only as an observer, as a writer on deadline.

It brought me back to my early days as a journalist, back to the day when I thought I knew so much yet understood so little. And back also to a time when memories were not as important as they are now.