Jonathan Meyer.

Being one of the trusted few to document our community doesn’t come lightly to me. I never set out on this career path, but I’m honored that I get to serve a place that helped shape the young man I’ve become. After a long night of reporting and writing, that thought sat with me as I drove back home — the weight of the work, the privilege of it.

When I visited the Tama County Historical Society this summer, I felt an odd sense of reverence. It was like stepping into the past with new eyes. Seeing photos of familiar places — the ones we all pass by all the time — captured in their earlier forms, stayed with me after I left. It changed something in how I take photos and how I write. I started to see the job as a chance to preserve what we have right now, so that someday someone else can look back and understand who we were.

I’ve always been that way: reflective, curious, trying to place myself somewhere on the timeline. In high school, I remember pestering a certain band director about who the best trumpet player he’d ever taught was. It wasn’t my most humble moment, but even then I was truly fascinated with what came before me and who walked the halls before I did.

I’m a bit obsessive about chronology, too — I know I was in sixth grade during 2016, I can tell you what I did in most months of 2020, and I remember the important dates in my life. If you make the mistake of asking what I did in a day, I’ll give you times, places, and a full run down. Small-talk answers have never satisfied me for that question.

When I started working with Mike, I remember sitting in his Elwood having the conversation that set the tone for everything we’ve built. Someone needs to tell our story. Powerful people must be held accountable. And this community deserves newspeople who care. From day one, that mission was clear. But I’ll be honest — in small towns, it’s easy to slip into “that’s just how we do things” and forget the responsibility that comes with the job.

What really solidified it for me was looking at the old newspaper clippings in the basement of the museum. Seeing those old photos of the Iowa Juvenile Home — the history people before me took time to preserve — made something click. Now it was my turn to tell the next chapter. Maybe in 50 years, when someone else is writing about a new school being built, they’ll stumble upon my coverage and understand their own moment because of the work we’re doing now. That’s the obligation I feel: that what I write today can help someone make sense of tomorrow.

I’m so grateful for this amazing position I stumbled into. I may not be the most polished or formally trained journalist out there, but passion for the people you serve goes a long, long way. And if I can be even a small piece of the historical trail this community leaves behind, that’s more than enough for me.

Humbly, I’m Just Jonathan.