As we head toward Christmas and the end of 2018, I’m reminded of all that we have to be grateful for in this community. Mostly, I recognize how lucky I am to be a part of your lives each week, even if through just a few snapshots or words. The end of the year, for me, always signifies a reflection on the past, and hope for what the future might bring.

It is my hope that 2019 will be a year of greatness for many of us. Be it new things, or continuing on with whatever already brings us joy, I can’t wait to see what the next year holds. This past year has had it’s own ups and downs, just like any year, but I have focused on finding my own happiness in whatever life throws my way. I hope you have, too.

So, as we sit with family and friends over the next few weeks and reminisce, I personally will keep each of you in my thoughts. Our family is incredibly proud of the work that we do here at the Advocate, and we take our job seriously while not forgetting to have a little fun along the way.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, from our family, to yours. My parents and I hope that the season brings you joy, the cookies will be plentiful, the friends will be laughing and the family will be loving. Thank you for a successful and fun 2018.

When I was young, Christmas Eve always meant heading over to my grandparents’ house where my dad’s side of the family would gather. For many years, we’d head out to eat at a Chinese buffet or cafeteria. Then, we’d head back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, where we’d be in for a long night of gift exchanging.

Somewhere along the way, a “white elephant” of sorts was added to the mix. What began as a small bag of odd gifts quickly grew to an hours-long game of “what on earth IS this?” As our family grew over the years, so did Christmas Eve. It was something the children looked forward to, while the adults put a lot of money, thought and effort into making sure each child had their fair share of presents.

My grandparents are gone now, and sadly, so is this family tradition. Though, I can still hear my grandma telling my grandpa which present to give so-and-so.

“Schatz!” she’d yell, her term of endearment for my grandpa (it’s like saying “honey” or “dear” in German). “Why don’t you give Mary that gift. No, not that one. THAT one.” And, of course, my poor grandpa had no clue which one she was referring to. But, that didn’t matter to me, because I just loved to hear them bicker lovingly.

The two of them were a big part of my Christmas memories growing up. They gave and gave, and I was surely spoiled but grateful. It was my grandparents who got me my first CD player, some gorgeous porcelain dolls for my collection, the coolest clothes and the latest toys. But, it wasn’t the things I received that I remember most. It’s the memories we made of being together, celebrating Christmas and sharing our love for one another.

Though traditions have come and gone for our family, and the holidays just aren’t the same without them, my grandparents taught me what it means to give with love and generosity. Christmas Eve, for me, has been quiet the last few years, but the memories will always be a part of my new traditions.

From the time I was a little girl, probably before I could even speak, I knew I wanted to be a mom. I remember taking care of my baby dolls, feeding them, clothing them, cutting their hair (sorry mom), and imagining what kind of mother I’d be when I had children of my own. Like many little girls, I had their names picked out and loved them long before it was even possible for any children of mine to exist.

I became a mom 13 years ago this Friday. It’s hard to believe that my little five-pound baby boy will be a teenager now. Of course, he’s been looking forward to this day for the last 365, but his mom is a little reluctant to watch him grow up.

Not all that long ago, I remember laying on the couch with him in his baby swing next to me, completely exhausted and overwhelmed, but so full of pride and love as I looked at this perfect little human who refused to go to sleep. For 13 years, I’ve kissed hundreds of boo-boos, cleaned up more vomit than I ever thought could come out of such a small being, changed diapers, been spit on and bitten, felt my heart drop more times than I can count, but despite it all, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kids really make you grow up. Of course, when I was 21 and expecting Michael, I thought I knew everything there was to know about the world and I could handle anything that came my way. Boy was I wrong. 13 years into this whole parenthood thing, and I’m still figuring things out along the way.

I only had one kid, though my little-girl imagination would have loved to have a dozen or so. But, that one boy takes up all of my heart. The older he gets, the more I see the man he’ll be (soon, too, as it certainly goes by so fast like they say it does). He is witty, athletic, compassionate, handsome and smart. He makes me laugh all the time, and I am constantly thankful that I have the opportunity to be his mom.

So, happy 13th birthday to my Michael. I hope his year is full of happiness and love, and that he continues to view the world through his kind eyes and that the world is kind right back to him. He may be my only kid, but the love he receives from his mom is enough for those dozen or so siblings I once imagined.

My great-uncle Kenneth is the type of guy who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. I mean that literally. The last time I saw him at a family reunion down in Arkansas, we were out to eat at a restaurant and I had goosebumps on my arms because I had a seat under an air conditioning vent. Kenneth, being the type of person he is, started unbuttoning his shirt to give to me.

“I’ll be fine, Uncle Ken,” I told him, though I’m not sure I was completely convincing. I guess he’s not one to adhere to the “no shirt, no shoes, no service” rules of dining out. Of all of my extended Davis relatives, I always took a special liking to Kenneth. This could have something to do with the fact that his late wife, my aunt Barbara, and he let me call them Barbie and Ken (which, as a little girl, I thought it most fascinating to be related to a REAL LIFE Barbie and Ken).

After my grandpa, Ken’s oldest brother, passed away, I noticed how similar the two are. Soft spoken and kind men, they also look so very much alike. Family men who love with their whole hearts, these two Davis men were raised to work hard for what they have and to take care of those whom they care about.

In the middle of his junior year of high school, Uncle Ken was called to serve in the Korean War. At some point, he completed his GED. However, this week, at 86-years-old, Bryant High School in Bryant, Arkansas, recognized Kenneth, honoring him for his service and the sacrifices he made so many years ago, with his high school diploma.

I’m proud to be his niece, and I’m grateful for those who feel called to serve this country. Thank you, Uncle Ken, for being the humble, caring, kind man that you are, and thank you to all of the men and women who, on Veterans Day and every day, deserve to be recognized for what they have given us. Happy Veterans Day, and may God bless every one of you.

As parents, we worry about our kids in ways they don’t comprehend, at least until they become parents themselves. We do our best to prepare them and send them out into the world, hoping against all odds they make good decisions along the way, but knowing full well that they are going to hit a few bumps now and again.

This week, I encountered the biggest bump yet as a mom. I’m sure a lot of you have been there...your kid leaves the house, and, nowadays, has a cell phone with him that he is told to answer or respond to if you call them. Of course, the times he doesn’t answer, you picture the worst in your mind. You know deep down that your thoughts are likely irrational. And then, your worst fears are realized.

On Monday evening, Michael didn’t answer his phone when his dad called him. Being a parent, like any of us, his dad feared the worst. He hopped in the car, called a few more times with no answer, when he came across Michael on the ground with his friend standing over him. With no choice but to, he reacted. Michael was unresponsive, but then was talking. When his dad asked if he was okay, he responded with a weak and mumbled, “no.”

I met them at Belton Regional Medical Center, where Michael was thoroughly checked out, his head and neck scanned, and he was monitored closely for some time. A short while later, he and I took our first-ever ambulance ride over to Children’s Mercy, where they would do more tests and examinations.

It was a long night, and without a doubt one of the most terrifying of my life. But, despite a baseball-sized goose egg on the back of his head and an obvious concussion, Michael is okay. As I write this, he’s at home in his bed sleeping as the rain falls on yet another dreary morning. Despite the rain, there’s sunshine in my world today.

I’ve told Michael before that he’s got some of the greatest guardian angels looking after him. I am positive that they were there with him this week. His dad is a superhero. The nurses at BRMC, the medics from Belton, and the doctors at CMH were amazing and took good care of my boy. And, Michael is the strongest, bravest kid I know.

He’s okay. And I thank God for that, and I’ll continue to count my blessings for a long, long time to come.

Are you a runner? I’ve never really been much of one. When I was younger, and more fit, I used to run now and then, but I think I did it more for the social aspect than actual exercise.

While in junior high, I thought being on the track team sounded like fun, plus, all my friends were doing it, too. I remember the very first day of practice, we were told to just simply run until we couldn’t any longer. I’m not sure if the coaches were looking for the kids with the most endurance, or if they were really just trying to kill off the weak links (me). I thought I was going to die.

I’m not the most competitive person. In fact, I’d much rather prefer everyone cheer everybody on and we all be friends and go out for ice cream after the game. That’s just how I am; can’t we all just get along? But, for some reason, and a bit out of character, when I ran that day in seventh grade, I just had to not be the first one out. I ended up somewhere in the middle of the pack, plunking myself down with a water bottle in the grass after what felt like hours of running (it was probably 40 minutes tops).

I quickly realized track, and running, weren’t really my thing. Later on, I’d try my hand at cheerleading. But, again, I’d feel bad for the other team, so I wasn’t very good at that, either. I wanted so badly to be athletic, that I did a volleyball and basketball camp one summer. They were one or two weeks long, and basically taught basic drills. That was enough for me. I’m pretty sure I ended up injured in some fashion by the end of each camp. I did, however, make some new friends!

Shyness was never an issue, and I never really thought much about how ridiculous I must have looked as I tried my hand at various sports during the most awkward years of my life. My son is now at that age where he can consider what he’d like to do in middle and high school.

He’s thinking about doing track, though I’ve personally witnessed him running, and I know he’ll need to build up his stamina if he wants to do that. He’s played baseball since he was three, and that’s been his love ever since, but now that he’s in middle school, he’s noticing his friends playing other sports, and I’m sure he’ll become interested in soccer or football or tennis.

Luckily, Michael’s got a lot more athleticism that his mom does. I’m hopeful that he’ll have the same amount of guts to try new things too, and the smarts to realize where he doesn’t fit.

Sports weren’t ever my thing. Writing was. I’ll stick to what I’m good at and what I enjoy, and cheer for my boy in the stands as he tries to figure it all out himself.

I’m not really sure I can say that I believe completely in superstitions, but there are a few that cross my mind from time to time. A few years ago, I broke a hand-held mirror, dropping it into shattered pieces all over my bathroom floor. I remember convincing myself that the whole bad luck thing wasn’t real. I can’t really say my luck has been too awful since then, but I haven’t thought about it too much.

I’ve known people who throw salt over their shoulders, and others who will never walk under ladders. I remember telling Michael that opening an umbrella inside was bad luck, but, of course, he defiantly tried it out and he’s still pretty lucky, for the most part.

For as long as I can remember, every time I drive under a bridge with a train going over it, I have to “hold the train up” by raising my hands to the roof of the car. I don’t even know when or how this started (my dad can probably answer that question), but I do know it is something I have done and will always do. What if I don’t and the train comes down on top of my car? I know the odds of that happening are slim to none, but...what if?

Of course, this is something I have passed onto Michael. He added a piercing scream as we drive under the train bridges, but nonetheless, he participates. Every single time. Just the other day, we were heading to his grandparent’s house, and I spotted a train on a bridge a ways ahead of us.

Looking over at Michael in the passenger’s seat, I noticed he wasn’t paying attention as he was engrossed in whatever game or app he had loaded on his phone. As we got closer to the bridge, I nudged Michael and just got a grunt of a response in return. Finally, I said, “Michael, we’ve gotta hold the train up!”

Just in time, he put down his phone, lifted both arms, and held up the train with me. As soon as we were in the clear, he went back to his phone. I smiled, thinking that he, too, will probably teach this to his own kids someday.

I guess it just goes to show that we’re never really too old, or too “cool” to take part in silly superstitions. I’ll knock on wood and cross my fingers that he will always do this with his mom. You can bet your lucky penny that I’ll still be holding the trains up for the rest of my life.

My job is to keep the public informed. My job is to raise awareness when there are issues and to help shine light in dark corners. My job is to uncover things that may otherwise go unnoticed. And it’s a job that I take seriously.

A big decision was made in Grandview last week, and the conversations leading up to it took place behind closed doors, without any public input. That’s just not good government.

I get it, sometimes discussions need to happen privately, and information needs to be disseminated in an appropriate manner, before going public sometimes. But, I sincerely believe that had I not been approached by Judge Johnson prior to last week’s vote in time to write a story, that the vast majority of the citizens in Grandview wouldn’t have even known that the fate of our Municipal Court was in the hands of our six elected aldermen.

If we are truly “Building Tomorrow’s Community,” as the City of Grandview would like us to believe, then perhaps we need to come out from behind closed doors and from underneath our desks. Last week, city administration compared Grandview to Lake Tapawingo. With a population of right around 700, Lake Tapawingo is roughly the size of, as Alderman John Maloney put it, Grand Summit apartment complex. Our grand city of 25,000 residents deserves better. And our citizens deserve to have more say in what happens here.

We are better than this. I’m proud to say that our Board of Aldermen voted, in my opinion, the way they should have last week. Grandview’s Municipal Court will stay in Grandview, where it should be, where it has been since well before any of us have been calling the shots in this city.

Citizens have every right, and the responsibility, to speak their minds and to voice their concerns. Be it spoken, or through written word, it’s our job to let our opinions known and our thoughts heard. And, it’s the city’s job to ensure that this happens, regardless of mandates, funded or otherwise.

Election season is one of my favorite times of the year. It’s full of surprises, some good, some not as flattering, but overall, it’s about people who have the desire and the calling to serve the community.
I commend those who have the gall to throw their name into the circus that election cycles inevitably become. I truly believe that elected officials, no matter their political affiliation, the size of their campaign bank accounts or their thoughts on social and economic issues, are all in the game for similar reasons. There is nothing more satisfying, I’m sure, than knowing you made the right decisions for those you serve.

On Monday night, I had the privilege to serve as moderator for a candidate forum featuring those who have expressed interest in giving back to their community through public service. Jackson County, as we’ve seen on television and read in the papers, has some issues to deal with in the coming months. It is up to us, as voters in this great county of ours, to determine who should lead the charge of becoming fiscally responsible, mending issues with the county jail, and determining how our future should play out.

Without getting too much into politics here, I will say that I personally am impressed with the slate of candidates for each race that affects us in Grandview and South Kansas City. While I may not agree with all of them on every issue, I feel as though they all would be a good fit. They all seem to genuinely care about Jackson County now and into the future.

Later this week, as the paper is published, I’ll provide for you on our website (www.jcadvocate.com) a quick synopsis of each candidate who presented either at the Grandview or South Kansas City forums. County Executive, Sheriff, Legislator and State Representative races were all represented, and I’ll provide information, in their own words, to help you make an informed decision on Tuesday, August 7.

Whomever we choose to lead the charge and in whatever capacity those leaders serve, if their heart is in Jackson County and it’s people, I know that we’ll be well taken care of.

Several months ago, as 2017 came to a close and we were in the beginnings of 2018, my dad approached the family and stated that this year, he’d be turning 65, and he’d like to celebrate in a huge way.

He’s big on birthdays, and has always made a great deal of them, especially his own. He loves parties and the attention that a good birthday celebration brings. But, for his 65th, he decided to take things to a whole new level.

Last week, after a few months of planning (and renewing passports), our family boarded an airplane headed for beaches, sunshine, and all-you-care-to-drink strawberry daiquiris. With swimsuits, sunscreen and sandals in tow, we voyaged to Jamaica, a country none of us had explored before.
Michael and I climbed the Dunn’s River Falls together, an experience he and I will likely always remember, and I’m thinking my legs will still be sore from it for days to come. We swam with dolphins, watched as Michael checked out stingrays, tried jerk chicken, and learned to say “yeah mon” and “no problem” like we belonged there.

My favorite part, though, was watching my dad and my son, my two Michaels, swim and play in the ocean together. You would have thought they were both about five (though one is 12 and the other now 65), the way they laughed and splashed at each other and looked for treasures.

As far as family vacations go, this one certainly tops my list. When I was a kid, we took mostly road trips, and I had to spend all day next to my brother fighting over temperature control. This trip, with my brother, my son and parents with me, we made memories of adventure, culture, togetherness and love that will last for at least my lifetime.

I believe in the profession of journalism. I believe that the public journal is a public trust; that all connected with it are, to the full measure of their responsibility, trustees for the public; that acceptance of a lesser service than the public service is a betrayal of this trust. I believe that clear thinking and clear statement, accuracy and fairness are fundamental to good journalism. I believe that a journalist should write only what he holds in his heart to be true. I believe that suppression of the news, for any consideration other than the welfare of society, is indefensible.

While Walter Williams, the first dean of the Missouri School of Journalism, penned the Journalist’s Creed more than a century ago, his words still ring true in newsrooms across the country. In fact, his words hang on my wall, directly in front of where I sit at my desk in my office, serving as a daily reminder of the importance and the duty that I have to the community I serve.

Not everyone always agrees with me. Sometimes those disagreements come in the form of letters, other times phone calls. Some are anonymous, some are brave enough to let me know who they are. Every once in a while, I’ll receive a visit from someone who wants to tell me face-to-face to let me know what they think.

I have felt unsafe a time or two. I’ve received threatening phone calls or emails, and I’ve been told not to write certain things certain ways. I have had to call the police and I have had to watch my back...I think every journalist who is doing his/her job has felt this way at least once.

Last week, though, when news of the tragedies in Annapolis, Maryland came across my desk, I couldn’t help but think how easily this could have been my own newsroom, or how much we take for granted every day. The irony that the same day, a front-page story regarding a recent active shooter training ran on my front page was not lost on me.

No one goes to work knowing whether or not they’ll make it home at the end of the day. My heart breaks for my cohorts at The Capital Gazette, for those who lost their lives to a monster, and for those who were left behind to write the stories. Their work continues, whether or not they are grieving. They put out a damn paper. And I’m pretty damn proud of them for doing so.

I’d like to give the rest of the space in my column to those five in Annapolis. There’s room here, just as they have taken up a part our hearts. Rest in peace, friends. You will be missed.
In memory of The Capital Gazette five:

Gerald FischmanRob HiaasenJohn McNamaraRebecca SmithWendi Winters

Grandparents are pretty special, and I had a special kind of relationship with each of mine. They all, in their own unique ways, offered me guidance and love, compassion and grace, understanding and pride. I learned from the best there was. My grandparents were hard-working, giving, honest and humble people.

I had them all in my lives for much longer than most, and my son also had a relationship with all but one who left us before Michael was born. Where there is life, there is also death. And unfortunately, my family, my brother and I, have lost our final grandparent.

Last week, after a long struggle with cancer and all that encompasses it, my grandpa Richard D. Ott took his last breath. His wife, Doris, whom he married when I was a teenager, was by his side, and told my mom that he left us quietly and peacefully. I’m thankful that he’s no longer hurting.

Grandpa Richard lived the farthest away. He had moved to North Dakota to become the director of the North Dakota School Board’s Association before I was born. But despite being a day’s drive away, he still made time to spoil me some.

When I was nine, I took a trip up there, by myself on the airplane, to see him. There’s an old video somewhere of this trip, but I don’t need to see it to remember the good times we had while I was there. He taught me how to use a steak knife, and he showed me how to use a walking stick to keep the bears in Glacier National Park at bay. With him by my side, I learned to love and appreciate horses for their beauty and strength, and I still wish I had continued riding.

He loved to tell jokes, though they were the kind that instead of laughing, I’d just roll my eyes. He was a teacher, and an encourager, and I knew he was always reading my words each week, as he was the first person to subscribe when my family took over this paper in 2012.

He was also a little stubborn, and even in death he made sure to get the last word in for his obituary. So, I’ll offer him that courtesy here. My grandpa, in his own words, left with dignity and grace, and we will surely miss him and his corny jokes.

Greetings:
When this is read, I will be wherever it has been determined that I should go following life in this world.
I was born September 14, 1933, in a suburb of St. Louis, Missouri, and ended up with the name Richard D. Ott after a series of adoption procedures.
Thanks to everyone for an exciting and satisfying life. Many people, even some I didn’t know, gave me so much. Thanks to all you kind folks.
To my cherished friends and family, I offer a huge bouquet of gratitude.
Special thanks to my oldest daughter, Becky, and her family, and to my youngest daughter, Joni, and her family. From the day each of you girls came along, you’ve been sheer delight.
Then there’s my wife, Doris. Words can never express my appreciation for all she has done for me, and for all she has meant to me. Living with her has been an ongoing courtship.
I’ve asked that there be very little commotion to mark my departure. (But I probably have little to say about that now.) However, rather than having folks take a lot of time away from work, travel a long distance, buy flowers, send cards, establish scholarships, etc., I’d prefer that you go out to a nice restaurant, enjoy a big meal, give me a positive thought and go about your lives.
If you feel compelled to do something beyond this, send a donation to an animal shelter of your choice. Many of my furry friends live there.
May your time on Earth be as happy and rewarding as mine was.
Richard D. Ott.

There’s something about a good love song that I just adore. Whether it’s a song about falling in love, love coming to an end, or finding love again, I always find some way to relate to the lyrics. Known as one of the most popular and influential artists of all time, Frank Sinatra’s songs were about all kinds of love, and Sammy Cahn’s words were romantic and relatable.

For the next month (through July 8), Quality Hill Playhouse takes visitors back to a time when Sinatra’s voice and Cahn’s writing were the perfect match from Vegas to 87 hit recordings, which won Cahn four Academy Awards for Best Song (“Three Coins In The Fountain,” “High Hopes,” “Call Me Irresponsible,” “All The Way”.)

Shows at the Playhouse are entertaining, educational and full of surprises. I’ll be honest, heading into this particular revue, I really didn’t know much about Sinatra, and had never even heard of Cahn before. But, with the director’s bits of history throughout, and music that spoke to my soul, I left with a deep appreciation of both incredible musicians.

In this final installment of the Playhouse’s Singing the American Songbook series, Sinatra’s Songwriter: The Genius of Sammy Cahn celebrates the career of Frank Sinatra through the man who penned much of it in this stylish cabaret revue. The show features favorites from Sinatra’s early big band years in 1930s New York (“Until The Real Thing Comes Along,” “Please Be Kind,” “I Could Make You Care”) to hits from his Vegas acts of the 50s and 60s (“Teach Me Tonight,” “Only The Lonely”). Enjoy over two dozen Sammy Cahn-Frank Sinatra hits performed by vocalists Lauren Bradshaw, Lauren Braton, and Joseph Carr, led by pianist and emcee J. Kent Barnhart. Ken Remmert on drums and Ben Tervort on bass put the “swing” in this swinging tribute.

Quality Hill Playhouse, a nonprofit cabaret theatre, is known locally and nationally for entertaining, inspiring and educating diverse audiences from all generations. For more information, or to purchase tickets to see a show, visit qualityhillplayhouse.com.

Is it just me, or has the true meaning and significance of Memorial Day been overlooked over time? I’ve noticed, especially on social media the last few years, that a lot of people, even close family and friends, tend to confuse Memorial Day with Veteran’s Day or even Labor Day.

According to several history articles online, Memorial Day, or Decoration Day, is a US federal holiday for remembering the people who died while serving in the country’s armed forces. The holiday is currently observed every year on the last Monday of May, and has been for over 150 years.
Memorial Day is for those who paid the ultimate price to protect the freedoms that many of us take for granted every day in America. Every year, thousands visit the graves of their loved ones across the country to remember their veterans’ sacrifices and their love for our country.

I had the privilege to attend a ceremony on Monday morning on the gorgeous grounds of the Longview Cemetery. Among family members and friends of community members whose loved ones were buried there, we honored their lives and celebrated the memories of the lives each led.

In the week leading up to Memorial Day, area Boy Scouts adorned graves at Longview with flags and flowers. Marine Corps veteran Russell Scott on Monday provided an emotional testimony to his fellow service men and women who have died in combat.

“Today’s focus is really on the sacrifice of those folks who have died in the wars,” said Scott. “It is even more difficult for the families: parents, children, husbands, wives and siblings. They’re in our community. The pain doesn’t leave. So, remember them on this Memorial Day. We are forever grateful for the service and sacrifices of our heroes. Thank you for the sacrifices made to bring us peace and freedom.”

Memorial Day is a day set aside to remember and reflect. While I spent time with my family eating hamburgers and hot dogs outside as most every other American did Monday evening, Scott’s words echoed in my ear. It’s not a day of celebration; it is a day of recognition of our true American heroes. I will honor their bravery and their sacrifices, and I will never forget their love for our country and for us.

The transition into middle school has been tough for me this year. There’s been a lot more homework, studying for tests, hormones and drama, new friends coming and old friends going, and did I mention the drama? Sixth grade has been a roller coaster, and I for one am ready to see what seventh grade brings. Oh, and my kid survived sixth grade, too.

As a parent, the older, wiser parents try to warn you about the dread that is dealing with a child in middle school. They tell you what to expect, they offer advice and an ear, and then they walk away, shaking their heads with a knowing look on their face that simply reads, “I don’t envy you at all.”

It’s not all been bad. Fortunately, I was blessed with a kid who is incredibly passionate about others and has a heart of gold. Though, that is proving to be a little bit of a curse too, as he learns to deal with conflict and drama. Don’t even get me started on middle school drama.

I’ve learned to not press for information as he’ll eventually share with me everything I could ever possibly want to know about who likes whom, what so-and-so said about so-and-so on Snapchat, or the million other things that everyone else is doing. He’ll tell me on his own terms. I know more about these kids in my son’s school than I think I ever did about my own classmates when I was in sixth grade (and, believe me, I knew a lot).

On Friday, as Michael and I head to our seventh-annual last day of school milkshake date at Winstead’s, I’ll sit back and wait patiently. The stories will come, and my advice will be heard through eyerolls and sighs. The whole time, I’ll be thinking how lucky I am to have these moments with my son. I hope the next six years go well for him, though maybe with a little less drama.

“If you weren’t the editor of the paper, and you could have done anything else with your life, what would you be doing?”

That’s the question that one little third-grade boy at Conn-West Elementary School in Grandview asked of me last week. I visited his class to talk about what I do and how I do it. I shared with third graders about covering the fire on Main Street a few years ago, and what it’s like to focus on the job I have in front of me and worry about my emotions later.

“How many of you have read a newspaper before?” I asked them. Nearly every hand in the room was raised. “How many of you have ever read the Jackson County Advocate before?” I asked. Only a handful of hands remained in the air. When I informed the students that would change that day, as I had brought a copy for each of them, you would have thought the pages were made of candy. “You mean we get to keep this?” one little girl asked me quietly. “Absolutely you do,” I answered as she beamed up at me with a toothless grin.

I can happily talk about my job with pretty much anyone, but when I have the opportunity to share my work with children, I get just as excited as they do. I love their questions. A lot of them asked me if I saw this car accident, or heard of this shooting. It amazed me how aware these third graders were of what goes on in their community, on their streets, and the impact events clearly have on their lives.

“Did you write about the kid who was killed while riding in the car with his dad a few months ago?” a small but obviously mighty boy asked me. “I sure did, and writing it broke my heart,” I answered him. “That was my cousin; we’re the same age,” he said. I squeezed this little boy and told him how sorry I was that that had happened to his family. It reminded me that news sometimes hits close to home, no matter how old you are.

I answered the first boy’s question. If I could be doing anything else, I’d still be writing. If money were no object, I’d travel the world and write other people’s stories. Having people open up to me about their passions, their heartaches, their families and their work, and then writing about it, is what I love doing. Everyone has a story to tell, no matter how old they are, where they come from, or what they thought they’d be doing with their lives.

Thank you, Conn-West third graders, for spending some time with me last week. And, thank you for your kind letters. To Savion, who says he wants to be a news writer just like me when he grows up, I hope you become one. And when you do, come see me and I’ll have a job waiting for you.

“Same question for you,” I asked that little boy. “If you could be anything at all when you grow up, what would you be?” I thought he’d say the President, or a teacher, or maybe even a firefighter. Suddenly, I was brought right back into the mind of a third grader with his response. “I think I’d be a wrestler,” he said.

I’ve always loved a good birthday party. One of my favorite parties when I was a kid was my eighth birthday at Skate Land. I think it was the first boy/girl party I had, and I remember feeling like a princess as all my friends came to celebrate me that day. We likely had a Barbie cake, I’m sure there were balloons and confetti, and I have no doubt I wore something befitting an eight-year-old starlet.

The Grandview Community has celebrated the birthday of Harry S Truman annually for as long as I’ve been around. Truman’s birthday is May 8. This year, he would be turning 134. For decades, Grandview has thrown the biggest birthday party for Truman.

The party has changed some over the years, but the reason remains the same. Truman’s legacy in Grandview lives on, and that’s enough of a reason to celebrate. His childhood home, the Truman Farm Home, will be open for tours on Saturday, May 5, following the parade that will take place at 10 a.m. in our historic downtown.

Harry’s Hay Days will begin on Friday night, May 4, though, with a free concert at the Grandview Amphitheater. The Stolen Winnebagos will take the stage at 7 p.m.

Like a lot of folks in Grandview who have been around a few years, I was disheartened to see the annual festival move to the east side of town. This year, it’s back on Main Street, though, right outside the front door of my office.

Along Main Street on Saturday, you’ll find vendors, entertainers, arts and crafts, food trucks, and I even heard there will be margaritas (it is Cinco de Mayo, after all).

This year, Harry’s Hay Days is a community event, with several different organizations helping with the planning and day-of work that goes into an event to honor and celebrate our former President.

If you’re able to make it down to Main Street on Saturday, stop by and say hi, I’ll be around, likely with a camera around my neck. Michael will be here, too. We’re excited to celebrate Truman’s birthday with all of our closest Grandview friends. I’m just curious if there will be a cake with 134 candles on it.

Several years ago, I remember sitting down with Mayor Jones and talking about our mutual desire for a locally-owned microbrewery (or something like that) in our city. Like any leader, the Mayor had dreams and vision for this community, and finally, that wishful thinking will be turned into reality.

The Chive, Simply Good and Transparent Brewing Company will soon begin to take shape along Grandview’s 150 Highway corridor, just north of Gail’s Harley Davidson. With hopes to open in the spring of 2019, restaurant owners Michelle and Mark Brown and their son, brewery owner Nolan Brown, have recently submitted building plans to the City of Grandview and Jackson County.

The Chive, Simply Good Cafe and Market will be a true farm-to-table concept, with 100% of their rustic-American dishes made from scratch using local ingredients. From soups, salads, sandwiches, pizza and homemade breads and desserts, the menu will offer a full-range of fresh, in-season elements made with love.

Much of the fresh ingredients will come from Michelle’s own garden, while she will make every effort to source as many ingredients as possible from local natural farmers and producers. She refers to her menu as “inconspicuously healthy.”

“We will be focused on sustainability in all aspects of The Chive, from our choice of building materials to hand dryers in the bathrooms, to native plants in our landscaping, to using reusable plastic tubs for supplier deliveries to an electronic menu board to returnable market containers and to-go containers,” she said.

The restaurant will be counter-serve, but with a nicer feel. Guests can expect to eat using real silverware and stoneware.

In the same building, right next door, son Nolan will lead Transparent Brewing Company. With several years of home-brewing and working in breweries large and small, Nolan will focus on sessionable, balanced beers. Knowing of the popularity of brewing at home, Nolan will take an educational approach to serving guests in his brewery.

“We believe in being completely open with our patrons and would love to sit down and chat about our processes and techniques,” he said. “We hope that every customer will leave our establishment having learned something new and gaining a deeper passion for beer.”

My son and I recently attended a tasting at the Browns’ home in Oak Grove. We tried an item from the under 18 menu, had incredible French onion soup, homemade soda and a broccoli chicken panini. I even tried a few of Nolan’s brews. Everything we had was fresh and delicious, and made us both eager for the side-by-side establishments to open next year.

Hours for the cafe will likely be daily until around 7 p.m., with the brewery to remain open later (except on Sundays). To follow their building and opening plans, both companies can be found on Facebook.

I have always loved old family photographs. My parents have a collection of my ancestors lining their staircase walls, and over the years, I have asked Mom to tell me the stories of the people in the pictures. Some she knows, others she doesn’t, but it’s always fascinated me to see myself or my son in those great-great-great relatives.

Even other people’s distant memories through photos pique my interest. When I visit friends’ houses, I love to see frames with grandparents long passed, or black and white images showing lineage from generations ago.

Recently, a friend who works for the Grandview Police Department sent me an email. Three years ago or so, she came across a photo in the parking lot at City Hall. Knowing it must belong to someone who might miss it, she picked it up. Asking around the police station, other city departments, and the Grandview Historical Society, she came up short.

Bob’s photo belongs to someone. The inscription, May the best of luck always come your way, indicates that whomever was in possession of this portrait from 1932 might be missing this charm. Bob is handsome, dressed and styled in a dapper way, and appears to have his whole life ahead of him.

Whatever happened to Bob? Did he join the military? Did he fight in any wars? Did he end up getting married, and having a family? Bob has likely passed away by now, but I’m certain someone out there misses him and his kind eyes and slight smirk of a smile.

Bob has a home somewhere, and I’m not convinced it’s on the desk of my friend who works at the police station. This is what I love about my job: telling the stories of our community, even the stories that I may know nothing about other than a short inscription in the bottom corner of a photograph from 1932. I do hope that Bob received some of that luck that he wished upon whomever he gave this photo to. And I hope we can find who he belongs to.

If you know anything about Bob, please email me at mwilson@jcadvocate.com, or call 816-761-6200. I’d love to be able to tell his story of luck, life and love.

A few weeks ago, my son Michael and I talked about what he would do if an active shooter entered his school. He’s practiced this, they’ve had drills and he seems to know what he’s supposed to do and how he’s supposed to react.

I pray to God that he never has to experience that, but I’m also not naive enough to believe it could never happen here. Tragedy can strike anywhere, at anytime, and as parents, we can only hope that our children will know how to best respond when faced with danger. Where will he go, will he try and fight, what happens if his teacher is injured?

These are the conversations that I, as a parent of an incredibly smart, handsome, compassionate kid, must have with my 12-year-old. Every day, he gets on the bus, and I almost have to hold my breath until he steps off of it at the end of the day. Every day, I have to worry whether or not he finished his homework, or if someone says something mean to him that sets him over the edge, or, God forbid, a gunman enters his school.

We don’t want to think about these awful tragedies happening in our own communities; yet time and again, we are forced to. I am forced to talk to my pre-teen son about things that I’m not even sure I fully comprehend.

I’m hopeful that something like what happened in Florida won’t happen in our community. When I watched the news coverage on television directly following the events on Valentine’s Day, I pictured my son, I pictured his friends, and I pictured his school.

My son is my whole world. Every day that he has been in it has been an indescribable blessing. I can’t imagine a world where he does not grow up, where he does not become someone who truly makes a difference in the lives of everyone around him. He used to always say he wanted to be a police officer who fights bad guys, but now he’s not so sure that’s what he wants to do. I can’t say I blame him.

The news stories haunt me as a parent. How easily that could have been here is in the back of my mind each and every day. Parkland may be in Florida, and I may be in Missouri, but that is our community, that’s our school, those are our kids. And I’m not okay with it.

January has been a rough one for me. Each week, I read police reports and officer accounts of some horrifying things that have happened in our community. The latest, last week, was about a little boy who was riding in the car with his dad and was shot and killed by a stray bullet. That little boy was 9-year-old Dominic Young, Jr., a third grader at Ingels Elementary School in the Hickman Mills School District.

At nine, Dominic would have still been playing with his new Christmas toys; he would have been picking out Valentines to give to his classmates in a few weeks. He would have been concerned about which kickball team he’d be on during recess or whether or not he got the answers right on the multiplication quiz the other day. At nine, we think our parents are superheroes, but we also become a little suspicious that maybe they’re just people, too.

Nine-year-olds should be able to ride in the car with their dads without getting killed. No third-grade kid should have to go to school on a Monday to find out the news that a friend has died due to an act of violence.

It’s stories like Dominic’s that keep me awake at night. They’re worse than nightmares, because they’re true. Every horrid detail, every bone-chilling testimony, every innocent face crosses my mind, and I can’t help but wish I could do more.

I love my job. I’m passionate about writing the stories of this community, and it is a job that I don’t take lightly. I thoroughly enjoy writing about the good news, and the amazing people I come across; but I wouldn’t be doing my job well if I didn’t talk about the things our community struggles with.

I believe there is a greater good to what I do each week. I believe that community journalism is a powerful tool that keeps our elected officials in check, puts our neighbors in a positive light, focuses on the things and people that truly matter. If I didn’t believe those things, then I’d be in the wrong field.

As I lay my head down each night, I remain hopeful that things will be better, that the next paper I put out will be full of uplifting stories. I have faith in our community, I have faith in our leaders, and I have faith in the press. As a journalist, it is my job to become somewhat of an expert on the topics I write about, and as a reader, you become one, too. A bit of a know it all, if you will.

Whether the news is good or bad, whether it makes me angry or glad, I will keep on writing it as long as you keep on reading it. Become an expert with me on our community. Make a change, starting at home. Know it. All. Read the newspaper.

There are many talents I wish I had. I would love to be artistic, to be able to paint or draw what I see and have it actually turn out like what I’m envisioning in my mind. I have always wanted to be a little more athletic, showing up others on the basketball court or running past all my peers. Most of all, I have always wanted to sing, and sing well. I can’t really do any of those things, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

On any given day, I can be caught singing along to the radio in my car, or humming a tune that got stuck in my head. But, I admit, I’m just not very good. Some people have the singing talent, others don’t. And I’m definitely part of the club that doesn’t.

However, just because I don’t possess it, doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate real talent when I hear it. On Monday night, I had the opportunity to hear some gorgeous singing talent at Quality Hill Playhouse in Kansas City. If you’ve never been to the Playhouse, their performances are musical reviews, typically focusing on a genre or era of music. Producing Artistic Director J. Kent Barnhart sits at the piano and introduces each set with background on the composers, writers and performers of the original scores. It is always both informative and entertaining.

This season, Quality Hill Playhouse’s theme has been Singing the American Songbook, and on Monday, I saw their performance entitled “That Old Black Magic,” which focused on American composer Harold Arlen’s impact on music from the late 1920s on. The Playhouse’s intimate setting provides for a show that puts you right back in time to when Judy Garland sang Arlen’s Over the Rainbow.

One set even included a series of songs that Arlen collaborated on with Truman Capote, who happens to be my favorite author of all time. Arlen was known for a bluesy inspiration in his composing, and a lot of the songs in the show were about love, or, more so, love lost.

The performance features, along with Barnhart, the Kansas City voices of Lauren Braton, LeShea Wright, and Grandview High School alum Christina Burton, along with Ken Remmert on drums, Kevin Payton on bass and Matt Baldwin on clarinet/saxophone. That Old Black Magic runs through February 18. Visit qualityhillplayhouse.com for ticket information. 

For some, the new year signifies a new beginning. With the page turned on 2017, the new chapter of 2018 begins. A new year means resolutions, usually to make our lives a little better in one way or another. Of course, there are those resolutions that don’t stick, like the same diet and exercise one so many of us commit to at the beginning of the year, and then forget about by the end of January.

I came across this quote from Judy Garland over the holiday weekend that made me think. In it, she suggests that with a new year ahead of us, we could all stand to be a little gentler with one another, a little more loving, and have a little more empathy. The goal is, by the end of the year, maybe we’d like each other a little more.

I’m not the type of person to make resolutions. If I have in the past, I’ve never talked about them out loud, because then, of course, I’d have to be held accountable to stop drinking soda, or starting a workout routine, or finally finishing that novel I’ve been working on for years.

But, after reading Judy’s quote, I’m convinced that this is the type of resolution I can commit to. I can focus on being a kinder human. Sometimes, I get so caught up in the busy day-to-day of my life, that I forget to pause and appreciate the people around me. I know I can fail to say thank you, or offer help when I know it’s needed, or even just offer a compliment when it is deserved.

So, this year, I resolve to take the time to be nicer. To empathize and to be gentle, even when my world seems quite like the opposite of that. I commit to offering help when I can, and to making the time for what is really important in this life: the relationships I have with those I care about most.

Happy New Year to each of you. Whatever it is you have resolved to do, or be, or complete this year, know that you have my support and encouragement. And, if I can offer you a caring word or a gentle hug to help with your motivation, know that my door is always open. 2018 will be a chapter of kindness in my book, and I hope it is in yours, too.