As we close the chapter on 2024, I find myself in an unusual position. With our editor sidelined by an unfortunate hand injury and emergency surgery, it falls to me to pen this year-in-review editorial. And let me tell you, I’m not in the cheeriest of moods. Maybe that’s fitting, given the state of things around here, where civility seems to be as endangered as the newspapers trying to cover them.
Let’s start with the elephant in the room: how we treat each other. Social media has turned into an arena for passive-aggressive scripture slinging and thinly veiled insults, all in the name of avoiding real, face-to-face conversations. People are quick to be rude from behind a keyboard but shy away from honest dialogue in person. It’s exhausting and, frankly, disheartening.
We see this every day as we cover your stories, your issues, your triumphs, and yes, your controversies. The truth is, we work hard to connect the dots for this community. But it’s a two-way street, folks. While many say they “love” their local newspaper, the reality is that small-town journalism is struggling.
Advertising revenue is what allows us to attend every meeting, dig into the tough questions, and hold politicians accountable, tell your stories and chronicle your history. Without your support, both financial and vocal, who will you turn to when it’s time to anonymously ask the hard questions you’re too nervous to raise yourself?
And speaking of accountability, let’s talk about politicians. From the White house to the statehouse, we’re surrounded by a sea of rhetoric.
For those unfamiliar, rhetoric is elaborate, often insincere language designed to influence rather than inform. It’s a tool that can be wielded for good or evil, but let’s face it: lately, it’s mostly used to dodge questions and avoid responsibility.
I’ve yet to meet a politician—state or national— who can give a straight answer or admit when they’re wrong. Instead, they dance around the question, spinning words until we forget what we asked in the first place. And locally? It’s no better. Our leaders here have a bad habit of getting defensive when asked questions, which only makes us wonder what they’re hiding.
Here’s some free advice: just answer the damn questions. If you don’t know the answer, say so and promise to find out. We’re not out to get you. We don’t misquote you or twist your words to push an agenda. In fact, we’ve done you the courtesy of leaving plenty of embarrassing moments out of print. Things you’ve said that we’ve recorded but chose not to publish. Integrity matters to us. Would a thank-you for our restraint kill you? Probably. Because acknowledging your missteps means admitting you made them.
Here’s the thing: most of the time, we’re not asking questions to catch you off guard or embarrass you. We ask because we want to understand, and because we know those are the same questions our readers will have. Our goal is to inform, to clarify, and to help bridge the gap between what happens in meetings and what the community wants to know. But when answers are vague, or worse, defensive, it only raises more questions.
This year marks our 10th in this business, and my patience has worn thin. My once-functioning “bullshit-o-meter” seems to have broken. I’m done silently smiling. That’s why I’m excited to announce a new podcast, “The Hurts – When Small Town Newspapers Pay Attention.”
This podcast will tackle the things we think or know but do not print. My favorite segment, “After Action Reviews,” will dissect what we saw and heard at local meetings— the good, the bad, and the outright frustrating. It’s time to shine a light on the lack of discussion, the avoidance of tough questions, and the fear of speaking up that plagues these gatherings. We know what you’re thinking because you tell us 'off the record'.
And then there’s the “elected effect.” Some (not all) of our officials seem to think their positions come with a crown and scepter. The moment they’re sworn in, their britches get too big, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. People see it. They tell us. It’s disheartening to witness the shift from servant leadership to self-importance.
Despite all this, I still believe in this community. I see so much potential in these towns and the people who call them home. That’s why I asked a simple question on social media recently: If you could have any superpower for 24 hours, what would it be?
My answer? I’d choose the ability to help everyone love each other the way God loves you.
Imagine what we could accomplish if we put aside our bitterness, chose kindness, and worked together instead of tearing each other down. Imagine a community where accountability isn’t a threat but a shared value, where disagreements lead to growth instead of grudges.
Let’s make 2025 the year we stop hiding behind screens and start having real conversations. Let’s exhale the bitter and inhale the better.
2024 was tough on all of us. But it’s also been a reminder of why small-town journalism is vital. We’re here to report the truth, hold people accountable, and celebrate the wins when they come. Let’s hope 2025 brings us all a renewed sense of purpose, courage, and, dare I say, humility.
Are we ready to make things better? Or will we keep walking the same bumpy road, ignoring the cracks until it’s too late like Rotan's city roads?
Here’s to a brighter, bolder, and better year ahead.