I was a third-year student majoring in psychology at Temple University, which was a catastrophic mistake in so many ways – not the least of which was a class in statistics, which spelled my doom as a future psychologist.

I knew I was headed in the wrong direction. I had no idea what was next, but the decision to change majors and set my sights on journalism eventually was made for me. And in a roundabout way, that has led me many years later to contribute stories and photos to the Chestnut Hill Local. I’ll tell you more about the newspaper in a minute, and why it’s so important to our community.

To support my high-priced higher education habit, I worked as a cashier in the Robert Hall clothing store in Willow Grove. I was also a drummer in a Jethro Tull cover band with the improbable name of Uncle Dirties, picking up gigs and a few dollars here and there.

There came a time when the Uncle Dirties were offered an incredible opportunity to become the house band at a club in New Hope for big bucks – if they liked us. (How could they not?)

I was earning $1.45 an hour at Robert Hall, which – believe it or not, kiddies – was the minimum wage at the time. A cushy job spending each Saturday night sitting behind the drums and banging out “Locomotive Breath” seemed a much more appealing prospect than ringing up cheap suits.

The problem? I was scheduled to work on the band’s opening Saturday night. My boss, Mr. Pekarski, wouldn’t give me that evening off. He told me, “If you walk out that door now, you’re never coming back.”

Which was OK by me. I was going to spend my Saturday nights performing deathless tunes like “Cross-Eyed Mary” and raking in the cash. Ha, ha, ha, Mr. Pekarski.

I quit Robert Hall on the spot and walked home feeling strangely freed.

The Uncle Dirties played their first Saturday night at the club. It was also our last night. The owners were not as enamored of Jethro Tull as we were. In retrospect, perhaps they would have preferred Grand Funk Railroad. In any event, I was out of a job.

Desperate for something else to help me pay tuition, I cruised the want ads and one day stumbled upon an ad that stopped me in my tracks. The Hatboro Public Spirit was looking for freelancers who mostly covered public meetings, everything from the Warminster Shade Tree Commission to the Upper Moreland-Hatboro Joint Sewer Authority. Ten cents a word.

I had taken a class in journalism at Montgomery County Community College and liked it. I also became news editor of the college newspaper, The Montgazette, in my second year. I figured, why not?

I interviewed with the Public Spirit’s editor, Tom Edmunds, one of the kindest humans I’ve ever come across, and he hired me. (The first of his many kindnesses.)

I immediately immersed myself in issues that had basically no meaning to a kid in school, covering disputes between neighbors over the size and location of their backyard decks, figuring out the meaning of esoteric zoning terms like impervious surface ratio, and trying to find ways to translate what the sewer authority folks referred to as “suspended solids” into more palatable terms for an audience less fluent in the ways of effluent. They were all great learning experiences.

Most of those meetings were at night. As soon as the meetings were over, I’d toddle off to the nearest phone booth, quickly scribble out the story in my notebook and phone it in on deadline, dictating to a harried night desk person. And then I’d stand in that cold phone booth and wait for the fireworks. Which were usually not long in coming, as the night editor would call back and scream at me about missing the point completely and burying the lead, liberally lacing his hellacious tirade with imaginative invective, urging me to consider another profession.

And I was hooked. I immediately swapped majors, soaking in everything I could learn about news writing and editing, columns and editorials, libel and invasion of privacy. I couldn’t get enough.

My writing and reporting gradually improved. My understanding of local issues deepened. I overcome the disabling shyness that had initially held me back and learned how to jolly crotchety police desk sergeants into divulging juicy tips. My instincts sharpened. Over time, the night desk editor screamed less.

After graduation, I walked out of Temple and into my first full-time job as a reporter for the weekly Jenkintown Times Chronicle. (Behind the scenes, we referred to it as the “Crimes Comical.”)

The Chronicle was an award-winning paper, with an intrepid four-person editorial staff led by a fierce, hard-driving editor. A chain smoker of unfiltered Camels, she even seemed fire-breathing. I loved her.

Over the years, I moved on and up from one job to another – two daily newspapers, four national magazines, a cable news outlet, a Webby Award-winning consumer health website, all capped off by 13 years as a web editor for the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. After what my friends laughingly referred to as my “retirement,” I took a web consulting job with Einstein Healthcare Network, launching their blog and writing for it.

After a few years, I took a breather and eventually found myself stringing for the Chestnut Hill Local. My career had come full circle. I’d returned to my roots, to the kind of writing and reporting that had seduced me in the first place.

I can distinctly recall thinking back at the Times Chronicle that there couldn’t be anything better than working for a weekly, where you get a chance to do everything – writing, reporting, editing, maybe a little photography, inventing headlines and photo captions, and laying out and proofing pages.

I entertained a fantasy that I would someday own an enterprising little weekly down at the Jersey Shore. Maybe I would even learn to like Camel straights. And one day they would find my lifeless body draped over my trusty Olivetti Underwood, with a final fire-breathing editorial jammed in the roller.

Of course, manual typewriters are long gone. So, thankfully, is my desire to expire on the job. But I’m here to tell you that I still adore this brilliant but beleaguered business.

At a time when up to 3,500 newspapers have gone out of business since the mid-2000s, the Local is still here and holding up a mirror to Chestnut Hill, Mt. Airy, Germantown, and southeastern Montgomery County. Trust me when I tell you that the people who work here are consumed by the same fire for small-l local journalism.

A good deal of the time, you might like and admire the quality of the journalism that takes place here, seen to by a small but mighty staff. If you know what they do from my perspective, it is nothing short of a miracle. And I daresay, this community could not do without it.

Moreover, the Local performs an essential public service in this democracy. Communities need local newspapers. It’s a basic necessity. You want to hold authority accountable? You need a local newspaper. You want to foster informed public debate? You need a local newspaper. You want to help build and sustain a community – which to my way of thinking is the most vital role – you desperately need a local newspaper.

But as you know if you’ve been following the commentaries on this page, the Local has run into a spot of financial trouble, which might be putting it mildly.

I’m here to plead with you to ensure that the Local continues well into the future, serving the community in its customary prize-winning fashion. Serving you.

Find that green “Donate” button on the newspaper’s website, chestnuthilllocal.com, or go to the website of the Chestnut Hill Community Association, chestnuthill.org, and click on “CH Local Emergency Appeal.” Give generously. Help this newspaper defy the odds. Give as if democracy depends on it.

Because it does.

Jeff Meade is a journalist and longtime Chestnut Hill resident.