Self

When the newspaper came out last week, I realized we’d left my name off an article. All those wonderful words written by Anon.

This year, through a series of (un)fortunate circumstances, I find myself back in the newspaper world. These days I’m writing and editing and checking and selling … and melting ice outside the front door. Such is the life of a small-town publisher.

This is how names get left off and advertisements forgotten.

When I first started the newspapers gig – as a scruffy student in the early 90s – I loved seeing my name in print. I would walk through campus on publication day and notice all these people with the paper tucked under their arms, my name waiting to be read. On the day I got the front page, I felt like I was on the red carpet, 10 feet tall.

Later, I kept a portfolio of bylined articles – sandwiched in plastic against sun and spilled coffee.

At that time, I was intent on making my mark; a respectable graffiti that proved I woz ‘ere. Simon wrote this – he deserves a place in this world.

Now, I don’t care so much. Maybe I feel I’ve made my mark and staked my claim.

Or maybe, I notice the chorus, the powers behind the throne, the cooks and the cleaners – all of whom make the big name look good.

These people, so often forgotten and yet so essential.

In the English county of Cumbria you can find Innominate Tarn. I always loved the irony of this little lake’s name.

But as the sheep that drink and the streams that gurgle would likely tell me, that little tarn was darn important.