Ten Years as a (Semi) Professional Writer

Exactly ten years ago, I enjoyed one of the greatest weeks of my life as a writer. At my very first book-signing event, held in my hometown of Hannibal, Missouri, during National Tom Sawyer Days, I sold fifty copies of my debut novel, Naked Snow Angels. I also made my debut as a newspaper columnist when my first piece appeared in the pages of the Boone County Journal. 

A few months later, a woman approached me at the Hartsburg Pumpkin Festival and asked, “Are you some kind of celebrity or something?” With tremendous effort, I resisted the urge to answer in the affirmative and offer her an autograph right then and there. Clearly, I was destined for a glamourous life of fame and fortune, late-night talk show appearances, and a priceless collection of classic automobiles.

 

Fast forward to ten years later. In addition to my novel, I’ve compiled most of the 500 or so columns I’ve written into three volumes: Love & Fried Chicken, 686 Words Per Week, and It’s All Chicken & Booze, (available at Amazon.com), bringing my total of (self) published books to four. Yet fame, fortune, Jay Leno, and a car collection that would make Jay Leno green with envy have eluded me.

Clearly, being a writer is not quite as glamourous as I had hoped.

Nevertheless, a writer I am. And as writing is an art form, some might assume that my lack of financial gain would qualify me for the romantic, yet slightly pathetic, title of Starving Artist. Quite the contrary. My inability to thus far strike it rich as a writer has been far outweighed by my ability to maintain a loving marriage to a woman who has both a great earning potential and an exceedingly large amount of patience.

No, I’m not starving. And I suppose I have gained a bit of local notoriety, if not fame. I haven’t appeared on any talk shows, but I have owned a few moderately-priced, moderately rusty, classic cars over the years. Although my life is far from glamourous, I have to admit that I wouldn’t trade it for anyone else’s.

Two weeks after that first book-signing and that first newspaper column, Bethany and I flew to China to adopt our daughter Tiana. We brought our sons Alex and Truman and Bethany’s mother Glee along for the adventure. Having blogged about our journey to China to adopt Truman two years earlier and receiving positive feedback from family and friends, I pitched the idea of writing a family-oriented newspaper column to then-publisher Bruce Wallace that would initially focus on Tiana’s adoption journey and then branch out to other aspects of my life as a stay-at-home dad. Over the years, I have written about all sorts of topics including parenting, marriage, RV misadventures, home-ownership, hotrods, life in Southern Boone County, education, addiction, sports, becoming a grandparent, and yes—politics. 

For the last decade, nearly every aspect of my life has been documented and shared with you, the reader, via this column. And what a life it’s been. For ten years, I’ve lived my life as an open book, or an open newspaper as it were, and yet you still haven’t tried to run me out of town with pitchforks and torches, bless you.

Based on your feedback, it seems that you have enjoyed more of what I have written than you have hated. You’ve cared enough to contact Bruce and/or Gene more than a few times when I touched a nerve or when I inspired you. You have thanked me for having the courage to speak my truth and you have scolded me for having the audacity to speak my mind. Please know that I truly do appreciate your taking the time to share how you feel.

I am humbled and honored that you keep turning to Page 4 and reading my column each week. Thank you.

I hope to still be writing this column ten years from now, and I hope you’ll still be reading it each week. I can’t promise that you won’t be offended from time to time, but if the last decade is any indication, I can promise that the adventures of this stay-at-home parent/ grandparent/ husband/ substitute teacher/ public address announcer/ wedding officiant/ cigar box guitar luthier/ classic car buff/ author/ newspaper columnist will continue to be well documented for your amusement/ entertainment/ enlightenment.

 

Book Review: The Hive

Seldom does one encounter a book set in the Midwest that depicts its people as anything more than the hackneyed stereotypes that live in the imaginations of residents of the east and west coasts. In her new novel, The Hive, Melissa Scholes Young paints an honest and stunningly beautiful portrait of life in rural America that readers from all walks of life will appreciate.

The Hive is a story about the Fehler family of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, ostensibly led by patriarch Robbie, owner of a fourth-generation, family-owned, pest control business, husband of doomsday-prepper Grace, and father of four daughters who must balance their desire for independence with their loyalty to their adoring, yet chauvinistic, dad.

 

As any beekeeper knows, a hive is not a patriarchy, and neither is the Fehler family. While Grace is the Queen Bee of The Hive, daughter Maggie yearns to prove to her father that she is ready to take over the family business, favoring innovation over the status quo that has landed the family in dire financial straits.

 

Jules, the first Fehler to attend college, has no desire to inherit the family business. A fiercely independent feminist, Jules often finds herself politically at-odds with her parents who are faithful Rush Limbaugh listeners.

 

Younger sister Tammy, still in high school, wants nothing more than to read, spend time with her boyfriend, and win the Miss Cape Girardeau beauty pageant, but she soon finds that life has other plans for her.

Kate, the youngest member of the family, embraces her mother’s prepping obsession and her father’s appreciation of bees. She pays close attention to every little detail involving her family, while she herself is often overlooked by those she loves.

 

A sudden tragedy and several shocking secrets threaten to tear the Fehler family apart. To survive each crisis, the Fehler sisters must rely on themselves and on one another. This is where The Hive shines. Melissa Scholes Young has delivered a rich, moving story about female empowerment and validation that should be required reading for everyone—including misogynists who will perhaps have their perceptions changed and feminists who will feel affirmed and uplifted.

 

Young’s characters are authentic and relatable, and despite (or because of) their flaws, they are immensely likeable. Grace feels that she has to be strong for her family, yet she yearns for someone to take care of her. Maggie knows her dad wishes he had a son to pass the family business down to, but she persists in trying to win his favor anyway. Jules is fierce, yet she struggles with her mental well-being. Tammy knows that a simple life can become complicated in a hurry. Kate is a careful observer who gathers facts about everyone and everything but is confused by what she learns about herself. And Robbie, a white, gun-toting, conservative male, is the proud and devoted father of four strong-willed, politically-diverse young women.

 

Missourians will appreciate Young’s nuanced treatment of residents of the Show-Me State. Those of us who call Missouri home know it is not quite the purely Red State that the national media would have people believe. Dating back to the days of the Civil War, Missouri—a slave state that fought to preserve the Union—has always been at-odds with itself, just as the members of the Fehler family are, at times, with one another. Melissa Scholes Young, my dear friend and fellow native of Hannibal, Missouri, knows this as well as anyone. The Hive and Young’s debut novel Flood both take place on the banks of the Mississippi River, the same body of water that inspired another Hannibalian, Sam Clemens, to write his literary masterpieces.

Melissa Scholes Young is building a reputation both here in her home state and at her current home on the east coast as a supremely talented writer. Her work is genuine, understated, and sublime. The Hive is nothing short of a modern-day masterpiece, one that deserves to be at the top of your summer reading list.

Perfect Plan Falls in Place, Then Falls Apart

I didn’t get much sleep last Friday night. Like a child on Christmas Eve, I was too excited about a shiny new toy I was hoping to get the next morning. It’s been said that the difference between men and boys is the size of their toys, and I have found this to be absolutely true. Instead of Hot Wheels or Matchbox cars, the vehicles I play with nowadays are indeed much bigger, especially the gorgeous 1969 Chevrolet Impala I was looking forward to taking possession of last Saturday morning.

 

When I was a kid playing with diecast cars in the 1980s, The A-Team was a hugely popular television show. I even had an Ertl brand replica of the iconic A-Team van. In every episode, The A-Team’s leader, Hannibal Smith, could be counted on to say, “I love it when a plan comes together”. I am confident that Hannibal would have recited that very line had he witnessed how beautifully my plan for Saturday had come together.

 

The first part of my plan involved raising some funds and clearing a parking space in my garage. I decided to sell my 1965 Oldsmobile 442, despite only owning it for six short months. I realized that as much as I enjoyed driving it, I never developed an emotional attachment to the old muscle car. Late Thursday night, just before midnight, I listed it for sale on Facebook Marketplace. At approximately 2:00 the next afternoon, I waved goodbye to an old acquaintance as he drove away with the 442 on his flatbed trailer. In less than fifteen hours I was contacted by nine potential buyers and turned down two trade opportunities before accepting the cash offer that sent the 442 to its new home.

 

Having raised the exact amount of money I needed to purchase the Impala, the rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of activity. First, I made an appointment with the seller to meet at 11:00 Saturday morning in Independence, Missouri, to look the Impala over. If I was satisfied with the car, I would hand the man the money from the 442 and then drive north to nearby Liberty where Bethany’s sister Charla and her family live. Bethany, Truman, and Tiana would enjoy an afternoon with the cousins and in-laws while I made my new toy ready for the long drive back to Ashland.

 

The seller had told me that the car had not been driven much in recent years and would need some things done to it in order to be roadworthy again. So, I scheduled an appointment at a Liberty tire shop to swap out the old wheels and tires for a new set. Then I would drive just across the street and get the oil changed, the radiator flushed and filled, and other fluids topped-off at a quick lube place that my brother-in-law Doug recommended. 

 

It was a beautiful plan. Everything was falling into place perfectly. By the time my head hit the pillow Friday night, there was nothing left to think about except how happy I would be driving my new Impala home the next day.

 

After nearly two hours on the road, we were just fifteen minutes away from our prearranged meeting place on Saturday morning when the seller called to tell me he couldn’t make our rendezvous. He made several excuses and apologies and asked if I could just sit tight at my in-laws for a while until he could get away and meet us. I asked how long he thought he might be, and he said SEVEN HOURS.

 

You can imagine my dismay. I informed the gentleman that I could not wait that long. I gave him a very generous deadline of 3:00pm, hoping that would still give me enough time to get the new wheels and tires mounted and the fluids changed before those businesses closed for the rest of the weekend. The seller said he’d call me by 2:30 to let me know if he could make it or not. I never heard another word from him the rest of the day.

 

As it turned out, I had a wonderful time visiting with my in-laws and nieces and nephew that afternoon. We hadn’t all been together for quite some time, and it was great to catch-up. By the time we headed home, I wasn’t even mad about the car. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

 

I did receive a text message from the Impala’s owner with another feeble apology Sunday morning. He said to let him know if I was still interested in buying the car. I started to formulate several snarky replies, including “You can’t be serious” and “Are you on crack?”, but I decided that if I didn’t have anything nice to text, then I shouldn’t text anything at all.

 

Another classic car will come along. Maybe two. Half the fun of collecting old hot rods is the chase. In the meantime, I still have my rusty but trusty ’71 Chevy truck and my beautiful family to keep me occupied, and I’m grateful for both. 

A Naughton “Normal”

 As more and more Americans become vaccinated against the coronavirus, (or develop antibodies after being exposed to it), the United States is getting closer and closer to reaching herd immunity. Thankfully, this means that life in our great nation is finally beginning to return to normal. 

 

“Normal” for me is the return of car shows and classic car cruise-ins. Last weekend’s Anchorfest Car Show in Centralia, Missouri, was the first car-related event I have attended in over a year, and it was just what I needed.

 

Last Saturday’s car show took place in the town square of Centralia on a warm, sunny day that made me think that perhaps the monsoons that have soaked us over the last few weeks might actually be coming to an end, along with the pandemic. I even got a slight sunburn on my left arm, which anyone who’s driven an old car without air-conditioning on a hot day is familiar with.

 

It was the first road trip my family and I have taken in my 1965 Oldsmobile 442 since I bought it in December, and I’m happy to report that it performed flawlessly while ferrying Bethany, Truman, Tiana, and me from Ashland to Centralia and back again. Far from a show-quality car, my 442 is a “driver”, so I didn’t enter it in the competition. I did park it nearby though, just so the stray automotive aficionado might catch a glimpse of its patina goodness.

 

I was blown away by the quantity and quality of cars that were on display that day. From a 98-year-old Ford Model T to a brand-new, mid-engine Chevrolet Corvette, a wide variety of collector vehicles lined block after block. My favorite was a 1966 Mustang fastback that had been beautifully refinished in gorgeous black paint and a fitted with a five-speed manual transmission.

 

As nice as it was to see a bunch of cool cars in person, it was even nicer to see a bunch of cool people in person once again. Being outdoors and vaccinated meant that everyone could enjoy the car show without masks. It was refreshing to see so many smiling faces and to talk with folks like we used to do before the pandemic.

 

I know that not everyone who was at Anchorfest was vaccinated. I know there are still risks in gathering with large groups of people. I also know that if everyone who is holding out on getting their shots would just hurry up and get it over with, things will get back to normal in no time.

 

Covid-19 does not care about anyone’s political affiliation. It does not care about conspiracy theories. Covid-19 will continue to make people sick and it will continue to kill those who are vulnerable as long as folks refuse to get their shots. If we want to get fully back to normal and enjoy car shows, concerts, ball games, weddings, birthday parties, and indoor dining like we used to, then everyone needs do their part and get vaccinated. 

 

If we want to be able to visit our loved-ones in nursing homes or hospitals, if we want to surprise our kids at school with a Happy Meal for lunch, if we want to hold our newborn grandbabies without wearing a mask, then we all need to be immunized.

 

For me, a return to normal also means a return to searching far and wide for my next classic car. Yes, I already own a small fleet of vehicles, and no, I don’t NEED another car, but I can’t think of anything that feels more normal to me than pursuing my passion for collecting old cars and trucks. At this moment, there’s a 1969 Chevy Impala near Kansas City that needs a new home, and I’m pretty sure I can find at least one more parking space at the Naughton homestead.

 

There’s another car show this Saturday in Fulton. Maybe I’ll enter a car or two (and maybe an old truck, too) just for fun. Maybe you’ll see me there or at another car show or cruise soon. I’ll be easy to spot. Just look for the guy with the great big smile on his face.

Teachers, We Appreciate You

 Teachers, on behalf of parents of school age children everywhere, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the extraordinary job you did to guide your students through the most challenging school year in memory. 

 

Actually, with most schools “going virtual” last March, you spent closer to one and a half school years navigating the unknown as the Covid-19 pandemic wreaked havoc across the globe. Nothing you were taught in college could have prepared you for the sudden switch to virtual instruction, yet somehow you managed to figure it out anyway. You had no choice. Failure was not an option.

 

You didn’t learn about preventing the spread of a deadly and highly contagious virus when you were in college either, yet when in-seat instruction resumed you wore your mask at school all day, every day, you sanitized hard surfaces and classroom materials regularly, and you did your level best to maintain a six-foot distance between your students (even kindergarteners!). Through your diligence, Covid transmission in our schools was almost nonexistent. You not only taught our children, but you kept them safe, too. Without a doubt, by helping prevent the spread of the virus in our schools, you saved lives.

 

You saved lives while putting your own at risk. That’s what we call heroism, my friends. You went to school each day knowing that there was a very real chance that you could contract the virus or accidentally bring it home to your own families. You knew the danger, but you faced it head-on, and with a smile on your face (albeit a smile hidden behind a mask.)

 

That smile was important. You smiled with your eyes and your voice, and miraculously, you made this school year a positive experience for your students.

 

You did all of this, of course, without receiving extra compensation or hazard pay. One of the most notoriously underpaid and underappreciated professions prior to the pandemic became the most criminally underfunded profession in this country during the pandemic. Underfunded, but perhaps no longer underappreciated. 

 

When parents were forced to stay at home to help their children with virtual learning, Americans suddenly gained a new level of respect for professional educators. Parents quickly learned that if it is stressful to teach one or two kids at home, then it must be unimaginably difficult to teach twenty or thirty (or more) at school. 

 

You teachers have always had my respect, especially since I started substitute teaching nearly a decade ago. But this year, you truly outdid yourselves. Having subbed for most of the academic year at Southern Boone Primary School, I had the pleasure of watching some of the most talented and dedicated human beings I have ever known not merely survive, but thrive during this unprecedented year. It was a privilege to work alongside you, learn from you, and draw inspiration from you.

 

Your commitment to your students has never been in doubt, and the 2020-2021 school year has proven once and for all that there is not a more dedicated, compassionate, and talented group of professionals than the teachers, administrators, and staff employed here in Southern Boone. Teachers everywhere should be given tremendous raises, and I say we start with the teachers working right here in Ashland, Missouri.

 

Our district is growing quickly, and you, the teachers of SoBoCo Schools, have always exceeded the lofty expectations of this community. Many of us moved to the area for the express purpose of ensuring that our children receive the best education in Central Missouri. You teachers are the heartbeat of Southern Boone, and we owe you a huge debt of gratitude for what you have done for our children and our community. And we owe you competitive wages, too.

 

I would like to challenge the good people of Southern Boone County to work with the school board and administrators, and with our representatives in state and local government, to find a way to pay our educators what they are worth. With the influx of new housing, businesses, and residents, there is more money floating around Southern Boone County than ever before. It is time we recognize the tremendous job our teachers are doing by compensating them appropriately.

 

While we’re at it, let’s pay substitute teachers better as well. With teachers having to be quarantined frequently this school year, it became more obvious than ever how important it is to have dependable subs available. At $80 per day, or roughly $10 per hour, subs earn less than most new hires at fast food restaurants. For a job that requires two years of college and the ability to effectively teach large groups of children, ten bucks an hour is woefully insufficient. 

 

Teachers and substitutes, cooks and custodians, secretaries and support staff, paraprofessionals and principals—we appreciate you. Congratulations on making it to the end of the most unusual and difficult school year any of us can recall. And thank you for everything you have done to make our corner of the world a little bit better. 

 

Now go have yourselves the best summer ever!