Randy Ludlow

I wrote more than 5,000 stories, and hundreds of columns, for The Cincinnati Post.

I arrived on the city desk in 1983 as an eager, young reporter with fire in my eyes. I departed in 2002, an older, more-sensitive journalist, with tears in my eyes.

Over nearly two decades, I quickly pounded out many a big story under deadline pressure. This isn't hard; I've done it all my life.

What makes this so difficult? Staring at the screen, dozens of starts and stops, stabbing at the backspace key, the words slow to come and inadequate?

The reporter's veneer of objectivity fails me. This chore is too personal, too emotional. It's hard to write about something you love - and are about to lose.

A newspaper is more than some mass-produced widget. It's the collective intelligence of journalists with a commitment to truth and a passion to right wrongs. It's a mirror held up to a community to let it take an honest look at itself.

It's a source of information, entertainment, enlightenment and outrage - a citizen's road map to informed decision-making.

Greater Cincinnati will have one less guide when The Post ceases publication. "Give light and the people will find their own way," reads the motto of Cincinnati-based E.W. Scripps, owner of The Post. The glowing light that is The Post will be forever extinguished.

Cincinnati will be the poorer for the loss of an alternative voice. There will be one less light to illuminate what is going on in dark corners, a loss of a community's conscience.

It was an amazing trip, though, full of memories and co-workers I forever will treasure amid the privilege of chronicling bits and pieces of history during nine years in the Queen City and a decade at the Statehouse.

I remember Mike Kelly, one of the first reporters later killed during Operation Iraqi Freedom, clambering up a tree in a ravine so our walkie-talkie signal could reach the office from the scene of a fatal plane crash near Lunken Airport.

President Reagan was speaking at Procter & Gamble. I was handed the assignment and a huge, early cell phone in a briefcase. During Reagan's speech, the phone rang - loudly. I couldn't get the thing open. The Gipper stopped speaking while I fumbled with the latches. That, a stern Secret Service agent admonished me, had best not happen again.

While covering his evil, I remember being astonished the first time I saw the slight and unimpressive Donald Harvey. This meek guy was the "Angel of Death," responsible for killing dozens at Drake Hospital and elsewhere?

I recall when the Dowd Report came out late one day, laying out the evidence that Reds great Pete Rose had bet on baseball. The late Al Salvato and I worked through the night to fill more than three pages, finally leaving the office after more than 24 hours. We had it all while the Enquirer didn't amid its a.m. deadlines. It was a proud moment.

They're getting ready to blow the Central Bridge. I venture out onto the stripped bridge deck, in the rain, to interview the demolition crew. I slip, losing my balance. On either side of the remaining 4-foot-wide section of deck is nothingness - nothing but the Ohio River far below. A silly dance sways my weight back over the deck.

Hamilton County Auditor Joseph L. DeCourcy Jr. had illegally cut the property taxes of dozens of friends and the politically connected. Molly Kavanaugh and I found the tax-cut forms, initialed "FOJ" for "Friend of Joe." Our investigation led to DeCourcy's resignation, indictment and conviction, breaking the Republicans' hold on county offices with the election of Democrat Dusty Rhodes.

There are so many other tales of good times and stories shared with a band of reporters, editors, photographers, artists and others who are among the most talented and passionate people I ever will meet.

The Post admittedly lost resources as it lost readers, but it remained the little paper that could. We were the street fighters of Cincinnati journalism. We may have been outmanned by the Enquirer, but we seldom were outworked, popping out exclusives and exposes that defied our size.

We hope we leave a legacy of being the hard-working paper for the working class.

As we write -30 - (journalists' shorthand for the end) for The Post, we're proud as we go down. We hope you enjoyed the ride, as well.

Randy Ludlow now is a reporter for the Columbus Dispatch.