A Writer With a Rare Gift

At fifty years of age, I should know what I want to be when I grow up. When I was a boy, I dreamed about becoming a professional race car driver, a radio DJ, a jazz musician, or President of the United States someday. I was a disc jockey and a trombone player for a time while I attended the University of Missouri, but that was as close as I have come to making a career out of any of my four childhood dream jobs.

As a grownup, I’ve learned that if a job can be described as a dream, it can probably be more accurately described as a bad dream. The prospect of having to work for most of my adult life is a nightmare to me. Nevertheless, in the last few weeks four intriguing occupational opportunities have presented themselves to me, forcing me to decide once and for all what it is that I want to do with my life.

The first of these opportunities involves running for public office. Although it is a far cry from being POTUS, I was flattered by several Southern Boone County citizens when I was asked to consider a run for the SoBoCo Board of Education. 

I am passionate about education and our local schools, but I feel like I can raise more awareness and make a bigger impact on my community by writing about the issues that affect students, teachers, administrators, and board members than I could by entering politics. Also, if I ran for office, it would be a breech of ethics to continue writing for the newspaper and receiving free publicity that could improve my chances of being elected. I believe that even if I refrained from writing about the election, it would be improper for only one candidate’s thoughts to be published regularly in the paper.

At least half-a-dozen people asked me to run for school board, and close to that many have asked if I plan on buying the Boone County Journal now that it is officially for sale. As a writer and journalist, becoming the publisher of my own newspaper is the chance of a lifetime. I am confident that an opportunity like this will likely never present itself to me again. However, after careful consideration, I have decided not to make an offer at this time.

Our small community is incredibly fortunate to have a locally-owned and operated newspaper. Not many towns the size of Ashland still have a source of local news in today’s world of media conglomerates. I am proud to play a part in the Journal’s continued success, but at this point in my life I am not interested in making the commitment to do whatever it takes to produce a high-quality, economically-viable newspaper week after week, month after month, year after year. It’s a ton of work, and anyone who knows me knows that I’m allergic to work.

Nearly as many people who asked me to run for office or buy the paper have asked me to return to substitute teaching. I subbed in the Southern Boone School District for nine years, through March of 2021, before stepping away from teaching in order to be a stay-at-home grandparent to baby Freya. Although I subbed in the middle school quite a few times early in my career, most of my experience in education has been at the primary school, or as I call it, “The Happiest Place on Earth”. For eight of those years the Primary was my happy place, but I am here to tell you that teaching during a pandemic is more stressful than any non-educator could possibly imagine. Even though Freya’s parents don’t need me to babysit as much as they once did, I am hesitant to jump back into teaching.

There is a critical shortage of substitutes right now, and if you want a job where you can make a positive difference in the lives of children while coming to the aid of teachers and administrators who are in desperate need of help, then I encourage you to become a sub. Southern Boone recently raised sub pay to $100/day and to $135/day for long-term assignments. Contact Kelly Services Educational Staffing at (800) 791-5895 (option 2) or at EDSWRecruiting@kellyservices.com for more information. 

The last of the four occupational opportunities I have been presented with is the one that I have decided to pursue; being a professional writer. I’ve been a music teacher, a public address announcer, a minister, a meatcutter, a burger flipper, a chicken fryer, a groundskeeper, a dog treat baker, and a used car dealer, but at my core I am, and always will be, a writer.

My first news story was published in the Jefferson City Business Times back in 2003. I created a blog two years later that really got my creative juices flowing, and by 2011 I self-published my first book, a novelized collection of short stories and personal essays called “Naked Snow Angels”. I started writing for the Boone County Journal shortly thereafter, and I have compiled my best columns of the last ten years into three volumes of collected works (all available for purchase on amazon.com).

Yes, I am a writer. And I am a writer with a rare gift; the gift of free time. 

Because I married an ambitious, intelligent, hard-working woman who is happy to be the bread winner of the family, I am not compelled to seek outside employment in order to pay the bills. Thanks to Bethany, I am free to write, and I intend to take full advantage of that freedom from now on.

I invite you to follow along as I throw myself into my chosen profession, and I thank you—as always—for reading.

In Memory of my Young Friend Caleb Wheeler

The news reports said that a 24-year-old Columbia man was killed in a single car accident on Rock Quarry Road last week. While technically true, those news briefs failed to tell the real story about my young friend, Caleb Wheeler.

When my dear friends Buffy and Roy Lynn asked me to conduct the funeral service for their youngest son, I did not hesitate to say yes, despite having no idea how I would be able to properly honor Caleb while fighting to keep my composure during the service. I knew that as hard as it would be for me to hold it together, the emotional toll on Caleb’s parents would be much, much greater. Being there for them in their hour of need was the honor of my lifetime.

 

The following are excerpts from the remarks I made at Caleb’s funeral. May these words bring comfort to those who knew Caleb and to others who have faced the loss of a loved-one taken too soon.

“One of the first memories I have of Caleb was from around ten years ago, back when he was a young teenager tagging along with his older brother Cole and their parents Buffy and Roy Lynn who I became friends with through Roy’s brother Mike. We were gathered in the basement of Mike and Michelle’s old house on El Chaparral, telling stories and listening to music as we often did in those days.

“Unlike a lot of teenagers, Caleb and Cole seemed to actually enjoy hanging out with their parents and their parents’ friends. They did not strike me as the stereotypical moody, anti-social teens who would rather hide out in a dark corner of the room, away from all the boring grown-ups. 

“As young as he was, Caleb had already developed a deep appreciation of various genres of music, and I was impressed with his knowledge and familiarity with a vast array of artists and songs. From Outlaw Country to Bluegrass and from Classic Rock to Rock-a-billy, Caleb appreciated all sorts of music. And he was quite a musician himself.

“At that young age, Caleb was learning how to play the fiddle and mandolin, and on that particular evening, he handed me his mandolin and gave me a quick lesson on how to play it. I had no idea what I was doing, but with his help, I was somehow able to play a few chords that sounded halfway decent. Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered how it sounded because we were having way too much fun to care. Over the next few years, Caleb and I formed a strong bond through our love of music, and we became good friends.  

“Caleb and I sat next to each other at Columbia’s Roots ‘n’ Blues music festival a few years ago when Brandi Carlile was performing. After her hauntingly beautiful song “Turpentine” ended, tears were streaming down my face. I looked over at my young friend and saw that he, too, had tears in his eyes. We shared a warm embrace and I knew right then and there that I loved him and that he loved me, too.

“To know Caleb Wheeler is to love him. From his classmates at Battle High School to his friends in his pool league and of course his family, EVERYONE who knows Caleb Wheeler LOVES Caleb Wheeler. I intentionally use the present tense when I say that we love Caleb. Although we will never see him in his physical form again, he will always be with us in spirit, in our hearts, for as long as we live.

“Music was not the only thing Caleb enjoyed during his time here on Earth. He was an avid fisherman and pool player. He loved spending time with his brother, his sister-in-law, his cousins, and of course miniature schnauzers. He enjoyed playing video games and Dungeons and Dragons with his friends, and was a huge fan of the Missouri Tigers, the Kansas City Chiefs, the St. Louis Cardinals, and the Kentucky Wildcats. He loved playing golf with his dad and his grandparents at the world-famous Mark Twain Country Club. And as his mother reminded me, Caleb enjoyed sneaking beers out of his Uncle Mike’s and Uncle Tyler’s coolers and refrigerators, too.

“We are here today both to seek comfort and to give it. It is particularly painful to lose a loved one at such a young age. The temptation is to say, ‘What great things would Caleb have done had he not been taken so soon?’ Such a question is impossible to answer, and is not useful in bringing comfort to those of us who are hurting.

 

“Instead, I think it would be more appropriate to acknowledge all the wonderful things Caleb did accomplish in his 24 years. Graduating from high school, playing musical instruments, attending college, becoming a formidable competitor in pool, and having the disciple to become a sushi chef are all things that required hard work and dedication to accomplish.

“But there is one more thing that Caleb achieved in life that is perhaps the greatest feat of all. Do me a favor if you will, and take a moment to look around the room. Look at the faces of all the people who are gathered here today. As you do so, understand that each and every person you see is here because of one thing. All of us, regardless of where we’re from, regardless of who we voted for, regardless of our religious backgrounds, are here because we love Caleb. It is Love that brings us together, and I find it a great comfort to know that Caleb, in his eternal life, loves us just as much as we love him.

“Buffy, Roy Lynn, and Cole, may the love of your friends and family give you peace as you navigate this difficult moment in your lives. And to you Caleb, I will not say ‘goodbye’ because if there is a God in Heaven, then surely he will reunite us someday. Until then, my friend…”

Betty White Wishes Us a Happy New Year

 As much as we were all looking forward to celebrating Betty White’s 100th birthday on January 17, (and as sad as we all were to see her go,) it turns out that the legendary Hollywood actress and pop culture icon did us a tremendous favor by passing away on New Year’s Eve. Betty, a comedic genius, always had an uncanny sense of timing, and she knew exactly what she was doing we she left us on December 31.

Let’s face it; 2021 was rough. Over 400,000 Americans died of Covid-19, thousands of treasonous criminals mounted an insurrection at the U.S. capitol, dozens of tornadoes and hurricanes ravaged entire communities, and devastating wildfires scorched tremendous swaths of the American West. I think it’s safe to say that most of us were ready to close the book on 2021. 

Betty White’s passing was a terrible loss for humanity, and because it happened on December 31, it came as the final punctuation mark at the end of the sad, tragic, and spiritually draining story that was 2021. By timing her death perfectly, Betty ensured that 2022 would not begin with yet another loss. Instead, 2022 has begun, as it should, with optimism and the opportunity for a fresh start.

It always surprises me when people say they don’t celebrate the start of a new year. These folks see January 1 as just another day on the calendar. “The Earth completed another orbit of its nearest star? Big deal,” they say joylessly. I think the fact that most of us survived another cosmic lap around the solar system is actually a really big deal, and I think we deserve to celebrate.(I also marked five years of sobriety on New Year’s Day, and I think that’s worth celebrating, too.)

As we look ahead at the 2022 calendar, we don’t see days marred by tragedy after tragedy like we do when we look back at the 2021 calendar. Instead, the pages of the new calendar are refreshingly blank and utterly full of possibilities. 

Perhaps 2022 will be the year you finally embark upon the adventure of a lifetime. You might become the publisher of your local newspaper or write the Great American Novel. Maybe you’ll join a rock band, set a Guinness World Record, or find your soulmate. Anything can happen in 2022. Anything EXCEPT the death of Betty White, that is.

When we look back at the 2022 calendar, 360 days from now, we will not see the words “Betty White died today” written anywhere on it. Betty was known as a thoughtful and generous person, and perhaps her greatest act of compassion was allowing us to celebrate her life on New Year’s Eve rather than letting her death cast a dark shadow over the new year.

Betty White lived for 99 years. Some of us, despite our official age, never really live at all. We find ourselves trapped in dead-end jobs or loveless marriages. We become addicted to the false reality of social media or the pain-numbing relief of drugs and alcohol. We let fear influence our actions—and our inaction. Instead of living life to the fullest, we merely exist, and this wasting of our fleeting and precious time on Earth is the most tragic loss of all.

Betty White seemed to understand this. She made the most of her 99 years, and when her time here came to an end, she left us wanting more. We should all live in such an impactful and meaningful way that our passing—even after 99 years of life—will leave people wishing they had more time with us.

I don’t know about you, but I intend to live my life to the fullest in 2022. I will treasure each moment I get to spend with my family. I will travel to new places and meet new people. I will read and write more. I will help others, and I will do what I can to make my community a better place. I will root for the Cardinals. I will buy another hotrod. I will spoil my grandbaby rotten. I will laugh and I will cry and I will live—really live—each day as if it might be my last. 

Betty White lived that way for 99 years, and if I live to be 99, then that means my next 49 years will be the best years of my life. 

Happy New Year. I hope that 2022 will be your best year ever.

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.