As I was leaving an event at the Open Space for Arts & Com-munity recently, a woman I didn’t know smiled at me and said, “Aren’t you our editor?” She then thanked me for my years of work.

I was struck by her warmth and goodwill, of course, but also by her choice of words. She didn’t say “the editor.” She said “our editor.”

And so it has felt for the past six and a half years, my tenure as editor of The Beachcomber.

Community journalism — helming a small weekly in a small community — is profoundly different from that in a big city. For years, I worked for The News Tribune, but I doubt few people in Tacoma recall my name. Indeed, most journalists of a certain age likely remember the Doonsbury strip when Rick Redfern meets his daughter’s preschool teacher and says he works for The Washington Post; when he tells the teacher his name, she looks at him blankly and says, “Are you on sabbatical?”

It’s a different story on Vashon.

At best, I have felt deeply supported by this community. People routinely thank me for stories we’ve covered, let me know they appreciate the paper, praise the quality of our work. It’s a sport to criticize the press. On Vashon, it’s often felt just the opposite.

And yes, sometimes I have felt owned, as well. Why didn’t something get in the paper? Why wasn’t anyone from The Beachcomber at a certain event? And, most difficult of all, how dare we ask certain questions, probe certain issues or challenge certain people.

There’s been much handwringing in recent years over the state of major metropolitan dailies and whether they’re still relevant in people’s lives. We at The Beachcomber rarely suffer from that existential angst. Nearly every week, we’re reminded — by friendly calls and the occasional angry one, news tips and questions, helpful reminders and odd requests — that the paper matters to this community.

But of course, it’s not always been easy. How does one write real news stories and still continue to shop at the grocery store? There’s a documentary about a famous foreign correspondent called “Tell the Truth and Run.” How does one tell the truth and stay?

I’ve tried to tell the truth. Sometimes I’ve pushed hard. Occasionally, I’ve shown restraint one wouldn’t see in a major metropolitan daily. Such is the tricky terrain of community journalism, where anonymity is never an option.

As I end my tenure, I leave the newspaper in good hands. The small staff is excellent. The people who work at The Beachcomber are among the most conscientious and diligent people I know. But there’s no fat at the paper, and my departure leaves a hole.

I hope the community will be patient and understanding, supportive and helpful, as the staff makes it through this transition. Submit photos. Write letters. And see the newspaper for what it is — a reflection and celebration of this remarkable, quirky and thoughtful community.

Meanwhile, I’ll see you around — at the grocery store, at arts events, at public meetings — wearing a different hat but still caring deeply about this wonderful island, a place I call home.