Words.

There have been many of them. Too many, some would say, and they’ve got a point. Too big, others would argue. Still others: too dull. But whatever you thought of them, there have been plenty of words since I started writing for the Smoky Mountain News almost three years ago.

It started innocently enough, with soft and chubby little pieces about swimming’ nekkid in Smoky Mountain streams and plumbing the metaphysical mysteries of the Gee Haw Whimmy Diddle. Not long after, I collared my son Eli and brought him along for the ride on the seedier side of such Appalachian attractions as parking-lot carnivals, Elvis in a truck, and chili festivals without chili. Soon I started rambling on about music, and those ramblings turned into Jamborees both slap-happy and serene. (Yes, Virginia, I am the Great Gordo.) Eighteen months ago, I threw in a second weekly column as a way to gather any spare adjectives I had lying around. To this day, I regret that I didn’t use gangrenous, pixilated, or boffo.

Any way you slice it, it’s been a lot of words, but these figure to be the last in my tenure as a Smoky Mountain News columnist. It’s time to put this horse in the barn, my friends. She’s tired. Her legs hurt. All she wants is a nice bag of oats and a fresh straw bed. It’s best I oblige her, lest she get ornery and give up on me mid-sentence, leaving a dependent clause just hanging there in the ... come on now, Trigger, just a little bit more ... wind.

Starting next issue, I’ll give this space back to the editorial poobahs at the Smoky Mountain News to do with as they choose. They haven’t told me just what’s in store, but if the rest of the rag is any indication, it will be something local, informative, and opinionated. Boffo, too.

As for me, I’m going to put the pen down for a bit, take a break from writing, and see if my twitching fingertips can resist the itch. After 10 years of splitting time between special education and free-lance writing, I’m moving into the field of social work, joining an Assertive Community Treatment team that serves clients with severe mental illness. I’m looking forward to it.

Before I go, though, I’d like to thank you for your indulgence over these past few years. I’ve rambled at times, I know, and waxed rosy at others, and spent too much time telling tales from Texas barrooms besides. I was often too self-referential for my own good, but in a pinch I knew who I could turn to for a pithy quote: me. And while I wanted my opinions to be strong like coffee, I know sometimes they were strong like vinegar. Please forgive the stink.

As a music columnist, I took a few shots from readers who found my scope to be too narrow. I’ll be the first to admit that my musical tastes run deeper than they do wide. To those of you who wished that I’d get my ass out of Asheville and my ears out of rhythm, blues, and Americana, I can’t say I’ll grant your wish. I’m too stubborn to change my ways, and I’ll still take my vittles over yours. But you won’t have to read about it any more.

I would also like to thank my editors, Scott McLeod and Sarah Kucharski. Not only did they give me the chance to write, but they ran just about anything I came up with, from off-color quotes to trombone jokes to a discourse on the names of Indonesian presidents Megawati Sukarnoputri and Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. (I’ll say it once again: Bambang, indeed.) A friend once complained that I could write about anything I wanted. My next column, he guessed, would be about Worcestershire Sauce. I was tempted to write one, just to fulfill his prophecy, but in this rare instance, I held my tongue. Still, had I written it, Scott and Sarah would have run it. You don’t find that long a leash very often, and I loved the opportunity to roam.

Free-lance writing ain’t the best paying gig in town, it’s true. I won’t miss the constant deadlines, the periodic writer’s block, and the psychic tilt-a-whirl of senseless procrastination. But when my days grow short and the time comes to tote things up, I won’t regret a minute of it. I spent 10 years getting paid to make things up and write them down. For the last three of those, I got to write about music, miscellany, and assorted hogwash for the Smoky Mountain News. That’s a blessing.

This may not be the last you’ll hear from me. I can’t imagine I’ll give up the writing habit entirely, and when I write things down, I’ll probably send them to Scott. But the pieces will be fewer and farther between. Who knows? Without a deadline to keep me honest, I may give it up altogether. If that’s the case, it’s been a helluva ride.

Words. Lots of ’em. Too many. Never enough. All done.