Apologies and Resolutions for the New Year

  

As you know, I have written about the Southern Boone County School District’s Board of Education and its handling of Covid-19 several times in the last few months both as a reporter and as an opinion columnist. Although I’ve tried to keep my personal opinions off of the Journal’s front page, I believe I failed in that regard in a news piece I wrote a couple of weeks ago.

In the story I wrote about Missouri Attorney General Eric Schmitt’s cease and desist letter to the District that threatened legal action if the District were to require masks or quarantines following a Cole County judge’s order that called for a halt to such safety measures, I did a reasonably good job of laying out the facts and documenting the Board’s handling of the tricky situation. However, I made a mistake when I added two paragraphs about the behavior of district parent and board candidate Brad Bartow.

Unlike my son Alex, I didn’t go to journalism school. If I had, I’m sure they would have taught me to wrap up a story when the facts have been thoroughly and accurately presented and not to add irrelevant material to the end of a piece that could have stood on its own without such an addition. That particular story was about the AG and the Board, not about parents or board candidates. Although I stand behind the facts of what I wrote, the superfluous material about Mr. Bartow’s behavior at board meetings and mask protests did nothing to improve my story.

Bartow himself had warned me this might happen. When I asked him for his opinions about masking requirements for an October news piece, Mr. Bartow said, “It’s always risky answering questions for a biased journalist. Media without biased opinions are something that appear to be quite rare nowadays. Southern Boone definitely deserves an unbiased media in times such as these.”

I wholeheartedly agree with Mr. Bartow. This community deserves unbiased journalism and nothing less. Therefore, I would like to apologize to Journal readers and Mr. Bartow for turning an unbiased news piece into an opportunity to publicly and unnecessarily shame one person. Although I disapprove of Mr. Bartow’s interruptions at board meetings and his decision to stage a rally against mask mandates on school property, my opinions on the matter should have been strictly confined to the opinion page.

As a former teacher and as a devoted friend to administrators and staff members trying their best to survive the stress of teaching during a pandemic, I take any threats (real or perceived) against their wellbeing extremely seriously. In my opinion, the Board’s decision to go against CDC and DESE masking recommendations threatened the safety of my teacher friends. I felt that Brad Bartow’s outspoken opposition to masking and quarantine mandates influenced the Board’sdecision, therefore he was also a threat to my friends’ safety, in my opinion. Had I chosen to share those sentiments only on the Journal’s opinion page, then I would have been fine in terms of journalistic ethics. Because I am so close to the situation, having personal relationships with so many people whose lives are affected by the Board’s and Brad’s actions, I should have refrained from allowing my personal biases to influence my reporting. I am sorry for failing to maintain a professional distance from the subjects of my reporting.

Finally, after reading Mr. Bartow’s account in last week’s paper about his time in the military, I realized that I have made no effort whatsoever to get to know the real Brad Bartow. I made the mistake of seeing him only as an adversary on one particular issue, when in truth, Mr. Bartow is a devoted husband and father, a well-loved member of this community, and a military veteran who served his country honorably during two tours of duty in the war in Iraq. 

This is a mistake I think many of us make. We become focused on identifying and attacking opinions we disagree with, and we forget that those opinions are held by living, breathing people with whom we have more in common than we realize. Mr. Bartow was born and raised in small-town Missouri. So was I. Mr. Bartow is a husband and father. So am I. Mr. Bartow volunteered for military service. So did I. Mr. Bartow is trying his best to serve his community. So am I. Mr. Bartow has made a few mistakes along the way. Lord knows, so have I.

Brad, if you’re reading this, I hope you will accept my sincere apologies. Although we won’t always see eye-to-eye on everything, we both want what’s best for the people we care about. I hope that one day we can meet face-to-face, shake hands, and perhaps even become friends. I mean that. And by the way; you, sir, are one hell of a writer. The piece you wrote about your military service that appeared in last week’s paper was beautifully written. I look forward to reading more in the future.

As we look forward to the new year and make our annual resolutions, let’s figure out a way to devote more energy in 2022 to finding common ground with one another. Let’s resolve to be better to each other. Let’s be better parents, friends, allies, and supporters. Let’s come together to affect positive change in our community and in our world. Along with being a better reporter, those are my New Year’s resolutions.

Happy New Year.

 

Freya Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

 I’ve always known that one day my son Alex, his girlfriend Sarah, and their beautiful baby girl Freya would move out of our house and into a place of their own. I half-jokingly told them they were free to stay with Mimi and Pop forever, but I knew they would eventually want to leave our nest someday. That day came last Wednesday. And I am not okay.

Freya was born during the height of the pandemic, and in order to minimize her chances of being exposed to the virus, she and her parents hunkered down at our house, tucked safely away from society in the woods of Southern Boone County. As a result, most of Freya’s first fifteen months of life have been lived at our home. After I quit teaching in order to be a stay-at-home grandparent while Alex and Sarah continued with their college education and returned to the workforce, Freya and I spent almost every day together. It’s safe to say that Freya has become my favorite human being in the entire history of human beings.

Before Freya was born, I loved my wife and three kids as much as I thought it was possible to love anyone or anything. Then this adorable, smart, funny, and ornery little person came into my life and absolutely rocked my world.

I was there to see Freya’s first smile, hear her first laugh, and feel her first hug. I was there for her first steps, her first words, and her first adorable temper tantrums. I’ve been so blessed, and I know that not every grandparent is able to be there for all of those firsts. 

In the days and weeks leading up to their move-out date, I focused on savoring every moment I had with Freya. Whether it was dancing in the living room, walking around outside, or playing with toys, our days were spent having fun and making memories. Our favorite activity has always been reading, and over the last few days at our house, Freya spent a lot of her time curled up in my lap following along to Goodnight Moon, I Believe in Bunnycorns, I Love You to the Moon and Back and other treasured books. The most deeply satisfying moments of my life have been spent reading and snuggling with my granddaughter—and all three of my children.

Last Wednesday was full of extreme highs and abysmal lows. Freya and I often walk to the bus stop at the end of our road to meet Truman and Tiana after school, and it occurred to me during Wednesday’s walk that it may be the last time we’d be able to do so. Until my dying day, I will always cherish the memory of the joy I saw on Freya’s face as she blissfully gazed at her Aunt T and Uncle Tru that day at the bus stop. I barely choked back the tears as we walked home together, while all three kids were happily oblivious to my breaking heart.

My heart was breaking, but it wasn’t broken yet.

It broke a little more that afternoon as I packed up Freya’s toys, clothes, and crib and loaded them into my truck. It broke even more on the drive to Columbia. More cracks developed as I carried Freya’s things into her new home. I had to pause for a moment and admit to Alex that I had been struggling to hold it together all day, and when he gave me a comforting hug, I finally lost it.

I lost it again the next day, my first day at home without Freya. I lost it again on Friday after telling Bethany how much I was hurting. I cried as hard that night as I have ever cried in my adult life. My breaking heart was officially a broken heart. I knew I would never be happy again. “She belongs here,” I told my wife between sobs, even though I knew that Freya belongs wherever her mom and dad are.

Bethany did her best to console me, but I was inconsolable. For fifteen months, I had a front row seat to the greatest show on earth—The Freya Show. Now the show has moved to a different town, and even though the rational part of me is happy for Alex and Sarah as they begin a new and exciting chapter of their lives, the emotional part of me is completely devastated. I know we’ll still get to see each other often, but life in the Naughton house will never be the same now that three of the seven people who have called this house “Home” have moved out all at once. 

The silver lining of this new arrangement is having more time to focus on Truman and Tiana. They sacrificed a lot when they were forced to share their parents with a new grandbaby. And it wasn’t the first time they put their own needs behind the needs of another child. Six years ago, they had to share their parents and home with two of their cousins who lived with us for a year due to a family crisis. In both situations, Tru and T were selfless, compassionate, and patient with their new housemates. Now, with my focus returning to my own children, I am falling in love with them all over again. They truly are amazing young people.

Maybe that’s the way it will be with Freya. Every time I get to see her, I’ll have an opportunity to fall in love with her all over again. The same goes for Alex and Sarah. Perhaps that is the only way to heal a broken heart; by seizing those chances to fall in love every time they present themselves.

Pirate Pride Forever

 My alma mater, Hannibal High School, competed in the Missouri Class 4 state football championship game last Friday against Smithville High School at Faurot Field in Columbia, and I was one of hundreds, (if not thousands), of Pirate fans and alumni who turned out to cheer for the Black and Red. Although the game did not turn out the way we had hoped it would, most Hannibal fans walked away from the stadium feeling nothing but Pirate Pride. I walked away feeling old.

In the week leading up to the game, my social media feeds were filled with posts that included the hashtag #onceapiratealwaysapirate. People posted throwback photos of themselves from when they were students and/or teachers at HHS as well as messages of support for the 2021 football team. I couldn’t help getting swept away in the tidal wave of nostalgia.

 

On game day, I donned a Hannibal Pirates baseball cap that my dad wore as an assistant girls’ softball coach at HHS in the mid-1980s, and I briefly considered wearing the letterman jacket that I earned as a member of the Pirates baseball team, but the unseasonably high temperature Friday caused me to leave the jacket at home. I saw a lot of other Pirates wearing theirs though, with numerals sewn on the sleeves representing graduation years ranging from 1988 through 2023. There were quite a few from 1990, my graduating class, which was great to see.

Our 30th anniversary high school reunion, scheduled for the summer of 2020, was cancelled due to the pandemic, but Friday’s football game became a belated reunion of sorts for the Class of ’90 (and ’89, ’91, ’92, etc.) A huge group of my friends got together in Lot J before the game for a tailgate party, and because friends from other graduating classes were there, too, it was even better than simply one class’s reunion. 

While I had run into most of these friends at one point or another over the years, there were a few there that I had not seen face-to-face in over three decades. There was Dustin, who I had not seen since the day we were scheduled to leave for Marine Corps boot camp in May of 1990, and my friend Matt, who tackled a drunken reveler who had attacked me at Mizzou’s completely out of control “Bid Day Bash” in August of 1990, whose path had not crossed mine in all these years since that night. It was great to see those guys again.

One of the biggest surprises of the day was seeing my dear friend Jessica, a woman who has supported my efforts to be a better writer, family man, and human being over the years. Jessica drove to Columbia all the way from Sioux City, Iowa, to watch the game and spend some quality time with her friends. She gave me one of the best hugs I’ve had in a long, long time. In fact, she gave me three.

The game was a blowout. Hannibal lost 31-0, but that didn’t do much to dampen the positive vibes that everyone in Pirate Nation felt that afternoon. It doesn’t get much better than enjoying a 72-degree day in December while catching up with life-long friends and cheering on a group of young men who put together a 13-1 record and one of the greatest football seasons in school history.

One of the things that stood out to me that day were the grey beards growing on the faces of many of my classmates. The men of 1990 are turning 50 this year, and it seems that 50-year-old men from Hannibal are good at two things: drinking beer and growing facial hair. I don’t drink anymore, but I did arrive at the tailgate party with a full, greying beard. Pondering the grey on our faces, I was suddenly struck with the realization that my friends and I are not kids anymore. We are middle-aged. Not necessarily old, but definitely not young. Many of us are in fact grandparents now. 

My god, the last thirty years have gone by in a hurry.

After the game ended, I said goodbye to my friends and drove back to Ashland, replaying the day’s conversations in my mind as I traveled down Highway 63. The warm feeling of nostalgia gradually gave way to a sense of melancholy and a realization that the glory days of high school ended a lifetime ago. 

When I got home, I immediately walked into the bathroom and looked at my reflection in the mirror. There should have been a fresh-faced, care-free, high school letterman smiling back at me, but the greying, wrinkled, and bespectacled face of an aging grandpa met my gaze instead.

I shaved off my beard right then and there, and I gave myself a fresh haircut. Then I took a long, hot shower, got dressed, and took another look in the mirror. This time, I didn’t mind what I saw. In fact, if it weren’t for the glasses, I could have sworn that I was looking at Travis Naughton from Hannibal High School. Then I heard my granddaughter laughing in the other room, and the grey hair, the wrinkles, and the bifocals instantly ceased to matter.

‘Tis the Season to be Jolly—or Else

Be it known to all who reside within this realm that Father Christmas, (a.k.a. Santa Claus, a.k.a. Kris Kringle, a.k.a. St. Nicolas), the benevolent elf-king and reindeer breeder from Earth’s northern polar region, has, by this decree, recognized today, December 1st, as the official beginning of the Holiday Season. Let the merriment commence!

His Excellency Mr. Claus has issued the following directives to those who wish to remain on the “Nice List” this year:

Each citizen is hereby ordered to have his or herself a merry little Christmas. (Alternatively, citizens may opt to have a holly jolly Christmas instead.)

All citizens must say hello to friends you know, and everyone you meet. They must also deck the halls with boughs of hollyand/or troll the ancient yuletide carol.

Failure to obey Santa’s commandments (Claus’s Clauses) may result in severe consequences including, but not limited to, being placed on the “Naughty List”, receiving a single lump of coal in your stocking, or being forced to listen to “The Christmas Shoes” song on a never-ending loop from now until next December.

The generosity of Sinterklaas, The Magnificent Package Expediter of the Frozen Tundra, has no equal. He shall bring all who profess their belief in Him a bounty of riches beyond measure. Aftershave, socks, Olive Garden gift certificates—treasures all.

Citizens of all ages are encouraged to write letters to Santa. In addition to the requisite holiday wish list, Mr. Claus will also expect a list of examples documenting that the petitioner has been a good boy or good girl this year, despite the indisputable and perhaps unnerving fact that he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, and he knows if you’ve been bad or good.

In order to facilitate getting into the Christmas spirit, St. Nicolas has issued a memorandum directing all persons to watch the following Christmas movies:

“It’s a Wonderful Life”

“Elf”

“Christmas Vacation”

“Die Hard”*

“A Christmas Story”

“Scrooged”

“The Polar Express”

*Failure to acknowledge that “Die Hard” is indeed a Christmas film will result in automatic placement on the “Naughty List”.

Citizens are required to listen to holiday music exclusively until December 26. If, during a listening session, “The Christmas Shoes” starts to play, citizens have the option to temporarily change the station. If that is not possible, the annihilation of the electronic device responsible for disseminating the offending noise is permitted. Baseball bats, cinder blocks, or other blunt objects are acceptable tools of destruction.

By order of the Jolly Old Elf, “Candy Cane Lane” by Sia is hereby the official song of Christmas and shall remain so until such time that Mr. Kringle, (after consulting with Travis Naughton), decides otherwise. Be it also known that Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas” shall henceforth be classified as a schedule one drug due to its highly addictive nature.

His Majesty, the Exalted Connoisseur of Milk and Cookies, also demands that Chocolate Chip shall be recognized as the Official Cookie of Christmas. All citizens who leave inferior cookies such as oatmeal raisin, sugar, snickerdoodle, or Oreos for Santa to eat on Christmas Eve will receive a stocking full of disappointment and three-year ban from the “Nice List”.

The Great Santa has spoken. His word is law. Long live Father Christmas!

Happy Holidays!