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.