On a snowy morning I parked in my usual parking lot and walked the usual block to the newspaper office where I've worked for better than 32 years. On this particular morning there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. Not enough to need boots, but enough to make tracks.

The next morning I followed my usual routine. But this time, as I started to step from my car onto the parking lot pavement, I noticed foot prints - my foot prints from yesterday.

It struck me as ironic that all we really want out of life is to make a lasting impression. There, right before my eyes, was my literal imprint on the town I've called home all of my life.

Some days the draw to my past tugs at me with a magnetic pull. You see, it is not just my imprint on the town that has my attention, but the pull of all of my family members who walked these same streets before me. A quick bit of mental calculation tells me that I'm at least the sixth generation of my family to call Hannibal - and the surrounding farm land - home.

It's sad for me to acknowledge that I'll probably be the last member of this generational chain to make their livelihood in Hannibal, as all of my children have moved away.

But while I'm here, I'm dogged determined to leave an imprint, just like my parents and grandparents did before me. And that's the symbolism attached to that footprint in the snow. My footprint.