In 1989, my mother clipped a photograph from the local newspaper and placed it in my baby book for posterity. It's an image of me and three of my Rowan Elementary School peers tooting our own horns to promote the spring band recital.

Although the publication misspelled my last name (yet nailed a tongue-twister like "Bjalobok"), I cherish this tattered document.

It made me want to be a writer.

I was a timid child and usually shied away from the spotlight, but seeing my name and likeness in print for the first time was a pleasant shock to the system. Sure, it's not the most flattering picture -- I'm sporting feathered bangs and chipmunk cheeks -- but, at the time, it validated my 10-year-old existence.

"I'm in the newspaper," I thought, "therefore I am."

Last week, upon the request of teacher Jan Montgomery, I offered some journalistic advice to a group of budding reporters at Wexford Elementary. Staff members from the Rampage, Pine-Richland High School's student newspaper, were also on hand to put in their two cents.

For the record, I am a horrible public speaker; I break out in a cold sweat and sway back-and-forth like a giant pendulum. But I somehow managed to deliver a semi-coherent speech without falling on my face.

The kids, bless their hearts, were kind and attentive and brimming with questions. They too like seeing their bylines and pictures above an interesting article, especially one that they wrote.

One little girl asked me if I had a favorite story to tell; but I couldn't recall a single topic I'd ever covered. I think I mumbled something about airplanes.

Of course, after I left Mrs. Montgomery's class, the memories flooded my brain.

I wanted to go back and tell that little girl about the wonderful people I've met through this line of work, both here and at Ocean City Today, a weekly paper on the Maryland coast where I cut my teeth.

There were those two college students who spent the summer of 2004 driving cross-country in an Oscar Mayer Wienermobile; the artist who carved ornate wooden sculptures using only a chainsaw; and the lady dedicated to rehabilitating injured bats inside her home.

I'd share the uplifting story of the Reids, a New Zealand family who moved to Pittsburgh to await a multi-organ transplant for their bubbly, 7-year-old daughter, Matisse.

Perhaps Mrs. Montgomery's class would like to know about Renee Takacs' psychic connection to animals; or about Jo-Anne Travis, a woman so fed up with Corporate America that she ditched her high-paying human resources job to peddle antiques at the Wexford General Store.

Dan Hosek is another interesting character. He transformed an old West View car dealership into a repository for classic pinball machines and arcade games.

There are hundreds of folks I've interviewed over the years who make my job fun, including Jan Montgomery's students and the Rampage staffers. When those kids see their profile in the Journal this week, maybe they'll cut it out, slap it in their scrapbooks and experience the same thrill I felt when I saw my face in the paper 20 years ago.

Gee, I hope I spelled their names right.