Born to be...

Most of the 49 years that I’ve lived on this cosmic rock have been spent searching for what I was born to do. My raison d'être. Lately, I have come to realize that it is preposterous to believe that there is a single thing, above all others, that I was put on this earth to do. Indeed, the world of possibilities is far too great to resign myself to having only one calling.

For example, I’ve been tempted to proclaim at times that I was born to be a stay-at-home dad, a primary school teacher, and a professional writer. In the last few months, I’ve felt strongly that my purpose in life is to be a grandparent. What if I was born to be all of those things? What if I was born to be none of them?

What if I was born to be much more?

Why do we human beings obsess over discovering our one true calling? We say to one another, “This is what I was born to do,” but can it possibly be true that each of us was born to fulfill just one predestined purpose?

 

Ever since my granddaughter Freya was born, I have spent as much time with her as possible. In that time, I have discovered that I want to be Freya’s “Pop” more than anything else in the world. Does that mean I was born to be a grandparent? Is that the elusive purpose I have been searching for all these years?

Last school year, before Freya was born, I was pretty convinced that I was born to be a music teacher. After accepting a temporary music teaching position, researching ways to obtain a permanent teaching certificate, creating my own curriculum from scratch, staging six musical performances, and teaching 475 primary school students everything I know about music, the best professional experience of my life was suddenly terminated by the Coronavirus pandemic. After a great deal of soul searching during the ensuing shutdown, I realized that as much as I loved the job, I was not mentally strong enough to do it for the rest of my working life. I was not born to be a full-time teacher.

Before I accepted the music teacher position, I was a substitute teacher. This is my ninth year of subbing at Southern Boone, and I have no problem telling you that I am pretty good at my job. And I have had so much fun doing it over the years. At times I have felt like substitute teaching was my calling. However, after the exhilaration of teaching music full-time last year and the realities of subbing during a pandemic this year, I realize that I do not love subbing as much as I used to. I was not born to be a substitute teacher.

Before I started subbing, I was beginning to find my voice as a writer. Back in 2003, I had a couple of pieces published in the Columbia Business Times as a freelance reporter, but I didn’t like being assigned stories by an editor, so decided to start a blog with the hope that it would lead to landing my own newspaper column someday. In 2011, that dream came true. 

That same year, I self-published my first book, Naked Snow Angels. Between my column in the Boone County Journal and a novel that sold a few hundred copies, I felt like I was on my way to becoming a full-time, professional writer. I felt like it was what I was born to do.

A funny thing happened on the way to becoming a best-selling author: I became a very busy substitute teacher. I started subbing in 2012 when all of my kids were finally old enough to be in school and I suddenly had extra free time on my hands. That time was supposed to be for writing, but after being a stay-at-home dad for several years, I wanted to have a job outside of the house. Subbing gradually took over my life. Ten years after Naked Snow Angels was published, I have yet to write a second novel, although I have compiled my weekly newspaper columns into three self-published volumes. 

Being a stay-at-home parent was a rewarding, exhausting, full-time job. I enjoyed it very much, and I was convinced that it was what I was born to do. I feel the same way about being a stay-at-home grandparent. While Freya and her parents have been living at our house, I have been lucky enough to watch Freya while Alex and Sarah do homework, write papers, take tests, and attend classes—when I’m not busy teaching school, that is. 

In order to be available to babysit whenever they have school or work obligations in the future, I have decided to stop accepting substitute teaching assignments after Spring Break.

I feel like I was born to be a parent, a grandparent, and a writer. It’s time to devote myself fully to my true callings.

Fear and Loathing at Dan’s Bake Sale

According to the first entry in the journal we kept, on Monday, May 17, 1993, at precisely 2:50pm, Bill Herrin and I embarked upon an epic cross-country road trip that has, over time, become the stuff of legends. Driving Bill’s 1984 Plymouth Horizon with over 135,000 miles showing on the odometer and a shift linkage that was literally held together with duct tape and rubber bands, our trip began in Columbia, Missouri and took us southwest through parts of Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada, then east from Las Vegas through Utah, Colorado, Kansas, and finally Missouri again. 

Before we hit the road, Bill and I wrote down some goals that we had hoped to accomplish during the trip. They were as follows: Visit our friend Rick in Arkansas. Leave the country(Go to Mexico). See an ocean. Gamble in Vegas. Tour Budweiser brewery and see Rush Limbaugh at Dan’s Bake Sale in Ft. Collins, Colorado. (Bill was a huge fan of Limbaugh’s. Me, not so much.)

The final goal we wrote down was perhaps the trickiest: Survive.

After repairing the car, procuring rations, driving for hours on end, and drinking an entire cooler full of beer at Rick’s northwest Arkansas home on Day One, Bill and I woke up on Day Two with massive hangovers and a stark realization that we would never survive a trip to Mexico. We quickly abandoned the idea of leaving the country, and after deciding Vegas was as far west as we could go before time constraints forced us to turn back toward home, the idea of seeing an ocean was scrapped as well.

Vegas, the Brewery, and Dan’s Bake Sale remained in our sights, and a few new additions were made to the list. Having discovered two cans of Coors Light that Rick had inexplicably deposited in our cooler, we decided to stop at the Coors brewery in Golden, Colorado and return the swill from whence it came. We also took a detour to see the Grand Canyon, the sight of which induced Bill to shout into the abyss, “I wonder how much beer it can hold!”

Naturally, we lost all of our money at the only casino we saw in Las Vegas, the Circus Circus, and we were forced to take out high-interest cash advances on our credit cards to fund the eastward leg of our trip. We would need every penny in order to make it home.

In western Colorado, Bill and I stopped at a tourist information center in the town of Rifle. When we told the friendly volunteer about our travels, she insisted that we meet the mayor, because he would be thrilled to meet people driving cross-country to attend Dan’s Bake Sale. (If you are a longtime listener of Rush Limbaugh’s, you may remember that a man named Dan wanted to subscribe to the conservative talk show host’s newsletter, but his wife wouldn’t allow him to spend the family’s money on anything that supported a man whose opinions she so strongly disagreed with. So, Rush jokingly suggested that Dan should hold a bake sale to raise the money.)

The Honorable David Ling, mayor of Rifle, Colorado, was a big fan of Rush Limbaugh. He told us so when Bill and I met him at his restaurant. Mayor Dave served us juicy bison burgers and ice-cold Rockies beer—compliments of the house. When we told him that we were originally from Hannibal, Mayor Dave announced to the entire restaurant that he was making “Tom and Huck” Rifle’s Goodwill Ambassadors to Dan’s Bake Sale. He gave Bill and I stickers that looked like Rifle sheriff’s badges and posed for photographs with us before sending us on our way.

We made a stop at the Coors Brewery before aiming the Plymouth northward, but our timing was off and we found the place closed. We left the two Coors Lights and a note explaining how offended two loyal Anheuser-Busch drinkers were to find the Coors products in our cooler. When we relayed the story to the tour guides at the Budweiser brewery in Ft. Collins the next day, they invited us to stay in the hospitality room after the rest of the tour was dismissed and drink as many complimentary beers as we wanted. We stumbled out the door an hour later and joined the miles-long traffic jam headed to the Bake Sale.

An estimated 60-70,000 people crowded into Old Town Square to buy baked goods and conservative merchandise at various booths and beer out of coolers being dragged around by countless unlicensed entrepreneurs. As a liberal in a sea of conservatives, I was smart enough to keep my big mouth shut, but I never saw any of the ugliness that one sees at modern right-wing MAGA rallies. Dan’s Bake Sale was a party. Everyone had a smile on their face and a cookie or a beer in their hand. 

These are my reflections of the day that I wrote in our journal: “It was an incredible experience. Conservative or not, it was more fun than a man should be allowed to have. Can’t describe the chaos in words.”

Dan’s Bake Sale happened because of Rush Limbaugh, but because of Rush Limbaugh, there will never be another Dan’s Bake Sale. The bigoted, misogynistic, and racist rhetoric that Rush Limbaugh continued to spew in the years following that joyful spring day in 1993 helped contribute to the sad state of political divisiveness we have today.

I, for one, do not mourn the passing of Rush Limbaugh. I mourn the passing of the Conservative Party that existed in 1993—the one that Rush Limbaugh both created and destroyed.

Racing is a Family Affair

Watching Sunday’s Daytona 500, I couldn’t help but think about my mother Donna, the person most responsible for my lifelong obsession with automobiles and racing. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve watching racing with my mother and my brother Blake at dirt tracks in the 1970s and ’80s.

My earliest recollections of racing are from attending weekly races at Kirksville Raceway. Among my favorite drivers was a man named Larry “Pee Vine” Pipes, who was the uncle of a classmate of mine at La Plata Elementary School. Pee Vine had a long and successful career, but more often than not, a driver named Sonny Findling managed to take the checkered flag—often by putting his competitors in the fence—much to the chagrin of my dear old mother, who booed Sonny so vociferously that she could easily be heard over the sound of the roaring race engines.

To this very day, whenever I smell burning oil, I am reminded of sitting in the crowded grandstands with my family on those action-packed Saturday nights, cheering with my mom for anyone who was racing Sonny for the win while my little brother slept as if the sound of the screaming engines was a lullaby.

One night, the car dealership Mom worked for sponsored the feature race and offered her the chance to drive the pace car. Always thinking of her boys, she got permission to let us ride in the pace car with her. To this day, it is the only time I’ve ever been on a race track, despite my lifelong dream of being a race car driver.

When my family moved to Hannibal, we started attending races across the river at Quincy Raceways. Many of my favorite drivers from Kirksville raced there, and good ol’ Sonny Findling was also there to root against every week. Years later, we would find a new “home track” to watch races at; Capital Speedway in Holts Summit, where we watched a kid named Carl Edwards tear up the track.

Prior to Carl’s success in NASCAR, I was a fan of racing legends like Richard Petty, A.J. Foyt, Cale Yarborough, and Jeff Gordon. It took years before I warmed up to Dale Earnhardt because his driving style reminded me so much of Sonny Findling’s. The Intimidator was nothing but a bully in my opinion, and like Sonny, he was fun to root against. But when Dale won the 1998 Daytona 500, on his twentieth attempt, I had tears of joy in my eyes just like everybody else. 

Exactly twenty years ago this week, I called my mother on the phone after the thrilling and terrifying conclusion of the 2001 Daytona 500, broadcast live by Fox Sports. She and I agreed that it was one of the most exciting finishes to a race we had ever seen. 

Mom was not an Earnhardt fan, but she expressed her concern for his well-being after the seven-time Cup champion crashed hard on the final lap while blocking for the two cars he owned; one driven by his son Dale Jr. and the other by Michael Waltrip.

Michael’s older brother Darrell, a NASCAR legend himself, called the race from the broadcast booth as Mikey won his first race in 463 career starts. The Waltrips’ elation quickly changed to concern as the medical crew worked on Dale Sr. for a prolonged amount of time. When NASCAR president Mike Helton later made the announcement that we had lost Dale Earnhardt, I called my mom and choked back tears as I broke the news to her. Stunned and heartbroken, neither of us knew what to say, so we ended the call with “I love you” and hung up.

Watching Dale Earnhardt, Jr step out from his father’s bigger-than-life shadow and witnessing the rise of local favorite Carl Edwards kept Mom and I interested in NASCAR over the next few years. After Mom died of cancer in 2008, and as rules changes and driver retirements made NASCAR less appealing to me, my interest in racing gradually waned, but I still watch the Daytona 500 every February, even if I don’t watch another race all year. 

I was genuinely excited to watch last Sunday’s race because I had a new girl to watch it with—my granddaughter Freya. Sure, she’s just a baby, but at five months of age she loves cuddling with her Pop while watching TV and taking catnaps—a perfect way to enjoy a three-hour race.

Unfortunately, with the lengthy rain delay, Freya didn’t get to watch much of her first car race. Pop did stay up to watch the 500 in its entirety, however. It was another thrilling finish, with a fiery crash on the last lap that looked much worse than the one that claimed Dale Sr.’s life, but after the flames were extinguished, everyone walked away and another driver named Michael emerged victorious after a long winless streak. After competing in 358 Cup races over a 13-year career, Michael McDowell notched his first career win at The Great American Race.

NASCAR, you have my attention once again. Freya and I will see you next week.

Southern Boone Superhero

Southern Boone County is home to all sorts of fine people including firefighters, EMS technicians, police officers, sheriff’s deputies, state troopers, active military personnel, decorated veterans, medical professionals, and dedicated teachers. Despite their many titles, there is but one word to accurately describe all of these selfless individuals: Hero.

For a community with a relatively small population, a significant portion of SoBoCo’s residents qualify as bona fide heroes in my estimation. It’s difficult to pinpoint one particular reason why so many real-life superheroes have chosen to call the Ashland-Hartsburg-Englewood-Claysville-Wilton area home, but it is an irrefutable fact that only the Super Friends’ Hall of Justice and the Avengers’ headquarters have higher concentrations of heroic figures.

The hero I would like to tell you about today would become very uncomfortable if you were to address her as such. She is a modest and selfless person who does whatever she can to help those in need while avoiding the spotlight and praise that her actions merit. Although she is one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I have ever known, I am quite certain she will kill me when she finds out what I wrote about her. This superhero is my wife Bethany.

Besides enduring a relationship with me for her entire adult life, Bethany has performed many other heroic deeds. After working as an occupational therapist in nursing homes, hospitals, and patients’ homes in mid-Missouri for over a decade, Bethany earned her Master’s degree in Health Administration and accepted a position as Director of Clinics for MU Healthcare. Responsible for the operation of over 20 clinics staffed by hundreds of employees, Bethany is an extremely busy person. It is common for her to put in 12-hour days at work and then spend several more hours returning emails at home each evening. (Somehow, she also manages to find the time to help our kids with their homework and keep her husband from becoming too bored and getting himself into trouble.)

It’s what she does outside of the immediate scope of her job that makes Bethany a true hero. In the early days of the pandemic, when temporary screeners were being hired to scan visitors’ temperatures and ask about Covid-19 symptoms at the entrance of every MU Healthcare facility, Bethany volunteered to spearhead the effort to provide staffing for every position. This new role took up hours of her time, which she gladly gave, with no additional financial compensation. In fact, Bethany took a voluntary pay cut for three months to ease the financial strain on her employer caused by pandemic-related losses in revenue.

Bethany has also volunteered at MU’s drive-thru Covid testing site, washed dishes and plated meals in the hospital’s understaffed kitchen, volunteered as a door-screener, and just last weekend registered patients at MU’s Covid vaccination clinic at Memorial Stadium. She has also taken steps to get re-certified in CPR just in case she is needed in patient treatment areas as the pandemic worsens. 

Away from the hospital, Bethany volunteers one evening every month at the Jefferson City Salvation Army, feeding those in need. She has a portion of her paycheck taken out for the Central Missouri Food Bank and the United Way each month as well. And each Christmas, she sponsors a family in need, making sure they have presents under their tree.

There are several meanings of the word “hero”. Webster’s defines a hero as a person admired for achievements and noble qualities, one who shows great courage, a figure endowed with great strength or ability. All of these can be fairly used to describe Bethany’s contributions to the people of central Missouri.

In terms of what Bethany means to me, Webster’s also says that a hero can be defined as the central figure in an event, period, or movement and an object of extreme admiration and devotion. There has never been anyone I admire more than my wife. I am devoted to her completely. She has been the central figure in my life for over 25 years, and if my luck holds out, she will remain as such for the rest of my days.

Bethany Naughton is a hero in every sense of the word. Though she does need my help opening the occasional pickle jar, her superpowers—a desire and a capacity to selflessly help others—are unrivaled by anyone else I’ve ever met. 

While many people admire their heroes from afar, I somehow managed to marry mine. A writer for a newspaper in love with a modest superhero who grew up on a Midwestern farm. Now why does that sound familiar?

An Ashland Boy’s Remarkable Achievement

 

It is a well-established fact that the name Naughton is synonymous with Excellence. Case in point: I have held two official Guinness Book World Records and may have qualified for two more had I bothered to have them certified. In the 1980s, my mother, my brother Blake, and I were a part of the world’s longest conga line at a Miami Sound Machine concert in Burlington, Iowa. In the 1990s, I participated in the world’s largest blood drive at Mizzou’s Homecoming. In the 2000s, I ate an entire box of Thin Mints in less than eight minutes (at an astonishing clip of four cookies per minute). And in the 2010s, I was the first person known to have eaten 12 Doritos Locos Tacos in one sitting. (I would advise against trying to top that mark. Eating the last three tacos felt exactly like swallowing handfuls of Dorito-flavored sand).

Actual entry from Webster’s Dictionary: “Naughton, (see also, excellence).”

I have not yet, to my knowledge, broken any world records in the current decade. Nevertheless, just last weekend anothermember of the Naughton household accomplished something so incredible that history may judge the feat as more significant than all of my records combined.

While playing the video game Subway Surfers on his smartphone Saturday night, my son Truman Naughton, aged 14 years, posted a higher score than any other human being in the United States of America last week. With a mark of 2,411,122 points, Truman beat the next highest score by over one million points.

Before you judge the significance of this achievement for yourself, it is important to understand some facts about the game Subway Surfers. Since it was released in 2012, Subway Surfers has been downloaded over three billion times and was the most downloaded game on Earth from 2012-2019. It is a safe bet that in any given week, tens of millions of individual games or “runs” are played in the U.S. My son posted the highest score out of all of them—blowing the second highest score completely out of the water.

It is also worth noting how the game is played. Players control a character who has been busted tagging subway cars with graffiti. He or she then runs from the train inspector and his dog on and around subway cars and other obstacles. All the while, the player collects coins for points. As the game progresses, the speed of the trains and the characters gets faster and faster. If at any time the character gets hit by a train or makes contact with an obstacle, the game ends immediately. Unlike most video games, a player only gets one life, which makes achieving a score as high as Truman’s all the more impressive.

 

Truman’s incredible run lasted for over an hour before his character was suddenly and unceremoniously flattened by a speeding train.

Does Truman’s accomplishment rank as high as Wilt Chamberlain’s 100-points in an NBA game or Don Larsen’s perfect game in the 1956 World Series? Of course it does. Does it eclipse the magnitude of my collection of World Records? Possibly.

 

When I asked Truman how he would like to memorialize his earth-shattering achievement, he flatly rejected the idea of the city of Ashland throwing a parade in his honor. He’s far too modest for that. After some convincing, he did reluctantly agree to allow a statue of himself to be erected in the city park, however. Until funds can be secured and an artist commissioned to complete the project, Truman will have to settle for a clipping from today’s paper framed with a screenshot of the Subway Surfers leaderboard showing his name on the top.

I think I speak for everyone in Southern Boone County as I offer you, Truman, our sincere congratulations on your remarkable accomplishment. We’re all so very proud of you. Clearly, you are the most successful and beloved person to ever hail from Ashland, Missouri—and perhaps Missouri in general. Nothing you or anyone else will do from now until the end of time can ever eclipse the glory of this moment. In other words, it’s all downhill from here, son.

 

Yes, it is true that you peaked entirely too early and that the rest of your life will be filled with one bitter disappointment after another, but at least you will always have your high score to harken back to when the ever-darkening days of your hopeless future threaten to engulf you in the inky blackness of unending despair.

Cheers!