Shortly before midnight Sunday, the giant blue printing press housed at 2317 S. Memorial Parkway powered up for its final run. I’ve struggled to write a version of this post several times, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, only tears, sadness and anger. Sunday night, the anger had subsided and I suppose, even the shock had somewhat worn off. But the sadness was still prevalent and in a mighty way.

Last month, when so many of my friends were told they would lose their jobs in September, I felt as if someone had died. Announcements began at 8 a.m. on that fateful day and continued until after 5 p.m. One by one, names leaked through the email and Facebook chains and with each one, I felt my heart crack. As I drove to the newspaper Sunday night, it felt as though I was en route to a funeral. Well, I guess I was. The funeral for a gigantic, large, dirty printing press.

Several years ago, I waited next to that same press to see my first A1 story. I remember every detail about that story, I remember the location on the page, and I remember driving back to the paper around midnight to get one of the first copies. I never told anyone that, but I waited in the wings until it printed. I was still an intern back then, and nothing could’ve tarnished the feeling of seeing my name on the front page. It was the reason I’d worked so hard to prove myself — for the coveted A1.

And now it is finished. At least in Huntsville. The newspaper will still be printed daily, but in Birmingham and trucked to Huntsville each day. In October, The Huntsville Times will publish three days a week.

As the press began moving paper through its rolls Sunday night, I fought back tears. I didn’t do a very good job of fighting. I cried for my friends who will lose their jobs in a few weeks. I cried for my friends who were offered a position to stay — a bittersweet option. I cried for my community, recognizing the great loss it is about to suffer. I cried for my own journalism career, cut short because of an economy I could nothing to change. I knew going in, journalism was changing. But I never imagined it would be such a fast-paced change. I imagine I wasn’t the only one with that thinking.

But my tears were also for a lost art, a lost profession. My tears were those of mourning as I said goodbye to journalism. My heart breaks for what is happening. For what my nephews may never know, may never see, may never understand.

Print journalists provide a detailed living history of a community. It’s a blueprint for the people of a town. With the loss of a daily paper, the community loses. They lose information about the schools where their children attend. They lose watchdog abilities over city councils and county commissions. They lose a breadth of knowledge dating back years before many can acknowledge. It’s a sad