By Jim Hunt for the News and Journal
As a writer, one of the challenges of spending hours hunched over a keyboard is the enduring question: Is anyone out there reading this? You write your heart out, polish a piece to the best of your ability, and then release it into the world like a message in a bottle, hoping it washes up on the right shore.
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Every once in a while, someone reminds you that it does.
When someone comes up to me in a restaurant or at one of my grandchildren’s events and mentions something I wrote, I can’t help but smile. It means more than they probably realize.
Most writers don’t write for fame or fortune. We write to connect—with an idea, with a memory, with other people. After writing three books, over five hundred columns, and countless little musings along the way, I still wonder, Is it worth the time? Is anyone listening?
Well, recently I got a reminder that makes it all worthwhile.
I learned about one of my most faithful readers—someone who makes a point to stop by the Bridgeport Public Library each Thursday to read my column in the News and Journal.
His name is Bill Ruoff, and he’s the father of two dear friends of ours, Lori Joyce and her husband Pat.
Like many baby boomers today, Lori and Pat are balancing the role of caregiver with their other responsibilities, doing so with the kind of quiet dedication that doesn’t make headlines but certainly deserves recognition.
Bill lived for many years in Wilmington, North Carolina, where he and his wife Libby built a life together. When health issues made things more complicated, they made the decision to move back to West Virginia. Sadly, Libby passed away last year, and since then, Lori and Pat have wrapped their arms a little tighter around Bill.
What touches me most is how Bill continues to embrace life. A retired professor from Fairmont State College, he’s become a regular at the Bridge Sports Complex, walking the track nearly every day with Lori or Pat by his side. His stride may have slowed a bit, but his spirit hasn’t. He greets people with a smile, shares a laugh with the regulars, and according to Pat, thinks I’m a bit of a local celebrity— mainly because my mug shot runs each week next to my column.
To know that someone like Bill looks forward to reading my words each week is humbling. In a world filled with noise and distraction, it’s easy to feel like your voice is just another echo in the chamber. But then you hear a story like Bill’s, and you realize that what we do— what I do—matters to someone.
They used to say that today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s bird cage liner. And maybe most of what I write won’t survive the tidal wave of digital content we’re all swimming in. But if it brings a smile to Bill’s face, if it helps him recall a fond memory or simply brightens his Thursday, then I’ll keep writing.
Because yes, Bill, someone is out there. And I’m grateful it’s you.
