My background in journalism is diverse, but there are plenty others who, for lack of better words, kick my butt in the journalism department, both in newspaper management and writing prowess. However, given my experience, it might surprise many Sun Day readers to learn that despite the hundreds of news stories Iâve written, I never wrote a column, such as what appears on page two of every edition, before starting the Sun Day.
And I have to say that of all the challenges owning the Sun Day throws at me, writing a column every week continually proves to be the most challenging. There is no real direction to them. No interviews or notes to refer to, because a column like this is simply life experience. And I donât know about you, but I donât carry around a notebook in my back pocket and jot down notes about my life like: never fail to tip the baggage porter at the airport, or your luggage might not get on the plane.
Writing a good column is nothing short of an art-form in itself, one whose sound of creation is long periods of silence with brief and explosive clicks of the keyboard. The son of E.B. White described E.B.âs writing of his column in The New Yorker the same way.
One thing many columns have is a name, a title. In Thin Air was the name of my previous editorâs column on account of his height (over 7 feet). Journal Life was the name of another of my editorâs columns. I always thought the column name was a little boring but that it was aptly named, as it was all about the staff on the newspaper whose name had, you guessed it, âjournalâ in its masthead.
Until now, I havenât been able to decide on a name for the columns I write on page 2 and have felt a little like I put a ship out to sea without a proper christening. I needed a name that could encompass both my stories about my life or news topics relevant to Sun City. And given my slightly dysfunctional nature, leave it up to me to finally find the name in a dare that was given me by a coworker when I was a server for the Claddagh Irish Pub (now Barley House) in Algonquin.
Dares and other tricks are part of the territory for restaurant staff, and were this a different kind of publication, I could regale you for pages about how we passed our downtime. But this one is brief and innocent enough.
As we were gearing up for a Friday night rush, another server challenged me to finish off serving my tables with the farewell âhappy trailsâ rather than your typical âgoodbye,â âhave a nice night,â etc…. It took a little convincing on my coworkerâs part for me to agree, nothing so big as a triple-dog dare, but she was approaching double-dare territory with a few chicken noises and arm flaps mixed in before I finally accepted. Saying happy trails initially was like trying to move a golf ball up and out of my throat. It just didnât sit right, and, of course, I was almost mortally embarrassed to veer so far away from my standard farewell of âThanks and good night.â
But as I became more comfortable with saying it, the phrase became more natural and slightly southern sounding with a mild twang in my voice. And before long, I found people actually enjoyed it. It was both shocking and comfortable and never failed to procure a smile, a real smile, and that was nice.
My use of happy trails never went beyond that evening, but Iâve always found it probably the most endearing of all farewells because it depicts a journey. Itâs not as direct as âsafe travelsâ or as serious as âGodspeed,â but it does the job for everyday life. And whether youâre talking about whoâs taken over the Walleye Grill or the trials of changing my kitchen sink, you can always finish with saying happy trails.
See: until next edition, Happy Trails.
