A final message from Mitch Wertlieb as local 'Morning Edition' host

After 20 years behind the microphone, Mitch Wertlieb has decided to move on from his role as Vermont Public's everyday Morning Edition host. Today is Mitch's last day, and he couldn't say goodbye to listeners without delivering one last message:

This is Morning Edition on Vermont Public. I'm Mitch Wertlieb. Good morning.

And after 20 years of saying "good morning," I'm saying my last one to you now — not permanently, I hope — unless you know something I don't, and if so, please relay that news to me gently.

I mean it's the last of the "good mornings" I'll be saying in my role as the everyday host of Morning Edition at Vermont Public.

I was informed recently that today marks 20 years to the exact day that I was officially hired for this dream job. A bit on the nose, you might say, but I promise, I'm not nearly organized or forward-thinking enough to have planned it this way. I guess it's just a pretty cool way of hitting a 20-year post before I head out the door.

But, of course, I'm not leaving Vermont Public entirely, so that puts this "goodbye" in the precarious position of being labeled somewhat anticlimactic. But for me, that is most certainly not the case, and I'll try to explain why.

Working here has meant interacting with and presenting stories told by the most talented, dedicated, passionate, and compassionate journalists in Vermont, or anywhere. That compassion, by the way, extends to an overall kindness and willingness to support one another. And as anyone who's ever worked in news can tell you, that is not a given.

If I had the time, I would mention every one of their names, but to say only one or two would do them all a disservice, given how vital their work is and will continue to be to the people of this state.

And of course, it's not just reporters. What you hear each morning is the cumulative result of stories put together on a daily basis by a dream team of producers, editors, engineers, digital web geniuses and IT experts — all of whom are buoyed by all the other teams of people in this building who do what they do because they believe passionately in the mission of public media.

When I introduced stories by these reporters over the past two decades, it was an honor to do so... every time. And I am very much including the outstanding journalists from earlier days at VPR who are no longer here, but whose legacy of excellence informs the equally amazing work of those who have followed in their footsteps.

It's like having the confidence that a tomato grown in your own garden will taste delicious, be nutritious and safe to eat because you tended to it... you watched it grow and kept the conditions just right until it ripened to perfection.

And of course, you have tended this audio garden. Your support has ensured that this collective tale of life from this little corner of our planet contains stories you can trust, crafted carefully and thoughtfully. Not always happy ones, but always shared.

And this is where I come to the part of the "goodbye" that really does feel more permanent than I'd like it to be.

Because there is something special about sharing even part of a morning with someone. Mornings are a time of vulnerability. What is this new day going to bring? Will it be better than the day before, or at least offer some hope that it might be?

Never mind two decades, we don't have to go back further than a week or two to know how difficult the news can be. I wish I wasn't talking about this very personal thing at a time when so many others can't afford to be thinking about anything other than how to piece their lives back together, following yet another onslaught from the forces of nature.

But through so many difficult times, you have somehow, through an act of graciousness I'll never fully understand, allowed my voice to be a part of your mornings, to talk sometimes about terrible things in that most vulnerable time of the day.

And you stood by me even when my emotions overrode the stoicism people who deliver the news are expected to display. I hope you can allow me that leeway again right now, because, obviously, I'm doing it again.

I know there is a scientific explanation for how radio works. But to me, it will always be magic. I say something here, alone in a studio, it floats through the air, and it comes out there, and you — miles away from where I sit now — you hear my voice.

I will never not find that astonishing, or fail to appreciate the power of that invisible connection.

And through 20 years of waking up well before dawn, through bitter cold mornings in winter, and some of the most spectacular sunrises climbing over the Green Mountains in summer, what always drove my desire to repeat the process again and again was the thought of speaking with you.

Can you imagine the comfort of knowing, when the workaday world can seem so indifferent to our cares and needs, that someone... is listening?

The simple truth is, I knew you would be there, so I wanted to be here.

For 20 years of your caring and listening, saying "thank you" feels like falling shy of a debt I can never fully repay. I know it's not enough for all you've given me.

But I also know that what we've shared together — laughter, music, sorrow, pain, uncertainty and anger, but also moments of great discovery and joy — those forever will be ours. Because those moments do not disappear. They ripple out over time, forever.

Thank you for allowing me to share them with you. And thank you always, for the endless gift of listening.

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