If ever I felt as though what I have to say is like a broken record in my column, writing about violence definitely fits that bill. Each week for the past several months, it seems there has been a story in this community in this paper that makes my heart break a little more and my stomach clench while writing. And, not every story of violence has made it into print here, but there’s been even more each time we turn on the evening news.

A 22-year-old, a kid in my mind, was charged with carelessly pulling out a gun and killing an off-duty Lee’s Summit police officer in the middle of a crowded Westport hangout. A sixth suspect, 19-year-old Ketrail Collins (another kid) was charged in the beating of a Domino’s Pizza delivery man.

In Grandview, just on Monday of this week, two separate violent acts occurred. Outside an apartment in the 11900 block of Newton Ave., a disturbance resulted in a 33-year-old man being punched and taken to the ground by a 31-year-old man, and then he was stabbed by a 25-year-old woman. There was also a shooting in the 6100 block of 126 Street, where a 19-year-old man and a 39-year-old woman were injured and taken to an area hospital with non-life threatening injuries. Grandview detectives are in the process of investigating both crimes.

I could go on. There are plenty more, but I only have so much space to fill. A few weeks ago, I received a phone call from a reader who, it seemed, almost demanded a plan of action from me. “You report on the violence, but you don’t offer a solution. I’d like to see something done about this,” she said.

I’m not sure I’m the right person to come up with a solution. Sure, I have some ideas of things that could help, like better mentors for our young people, parents who step up and teach their children right from wrong, harsher punishments for violent crimes, mental health awareness and programs to help those suffering from mental disorders, funding for rehabilitation efforts, and so on, but I’m only one person. I can’t be the one responsible for an answer to the violence problem, and, as a member of the media, I’m certainly not at fault for reporting the news, as some would like to believe.

It’s going to take more than me. It’s going to have to be a community effort. Neighbors helping neighbors. Until we can work together, I’m afraid it will get worse before it gets any better.

I think that when all of us die, we’d like to be remembered for the good things we accomplished in life. We want people to fondly recall memories that include us. We want our loved ones to think of us, but we also want them to carry on with their lives without forgetting us. When our names are spoken, I think we’d all like for a smile to cross someone’s face, even if only briefly.

Each year, on September 11, I take a few moments to listen to the names. 2,977 names. Each one someone’s son or daughter, sister or brother, mother or father, or husband or wife. Each name with a story, a lifetime of accomplishments, heartaches, struggles, laughs and successes to tell. Every year, when I listen to the names, I can’t help but wonder who the person was behind the name. What did they look like? What made them unique? What difference did they make in the world? Who was their family and where did they come from? Their stories, I am sure, live on through their loved ones.

That fateful day back in 2001, I was in my freshman year of college in Maryville. I remember hearing a lot of commotion outside of my dorm room, and then my roommate, Melissa, turned on the television shortly before the second plane hit. It was as if I was watching a movie. It didn’t seem real.
Unfortunately, reality quickly set in, and I watched with the rest of the world in horror as the buildings collapsed. I began to see people jumping, people bleeding, people dying. And I was horrified.

I wanted to talk to my family, to know that I wasn’t alone in seeing what was unfolding before me. I tried calling my mom, who was in her classroom teaching back in Grandview. She wasn’t available. I tried calling my dad, who was already a few hours into his workday in Topeka. I left him a message. I then called my grandma Mary Ann, whom I knew would be home.

Grandma’s calm voice and optimistic spirit were exactly what I needed to hear. Far from home, she made me feel warm and sheltered. She assured me that, despite what was happening in the country around us, we were okay. Our family was going to be okay. My brother, who was in the Marines, would also be okay.

After 9/11, our country saw tremendous pride and brotherhood. It was humbling to see all of us come together. On September 11, 2001, it didn’t matter if you were black, white, purple or green, we all hurt together. And afterward, we forged on as one. United, in our differences and in our love for our country, we stood together.

My family was fortunate. I didn’t know anyone personally who lost their life on September 11, although the stories of those who did are not any less meaningful to me. 2,977 lives ended that day, but their stories are still being told. I eventually got ahold of my parents on September 11, after classes were canceled and I could do nothing besides watch the news. I will never forget where I was, how I felt and the way it changed me.

I think we all were impacted by September 11, whether directly or indirectly. We will always remember. We will never forget.

I’m not an educator, and never really had the desire to be one. But, sitting through Grandview’s district orientation last Monday sure made me realize that public schools are in my blood. There is something so motivating and encouraging about the start of a new school year. When you’re in school, it’s like a fresh slate, a new beginning, an opportunity to reinvent yourself.

I loved that when I was in school. Along with new pencils and crisp notebooks, the new year provided a chance to make new friends and discover passions I may not have even known I had or things I didn’t even know I was good at.

This year, my (not-so-little) boy begins middle school. Honestly, for me, middle school was my absolute least favorite time in school. Through hormones, social anxieties, more rigorous school work, braces, temptations and just general middle school awkwardness, I’m still surprised I made it out alive. As an adult, I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t just me: every kid struggles through those early teen years.

So, with the experiences I’ve had in the back of my mind, I’m naturally worried as my son enters the unknown. I’ve done my best to prepare him. I’ve answered all of his questions as honestly and openly as I can. He’s got cool shoes and new clothes to sport. We got his hair cut and all of the supplies are ready to go. I’ve done everything I can, but once he steps on that school bus, it’s out of my control.

Kids can be so cruel to one another. In the age of social media and information at their fingertips, our teenagers are living in a world that sure didn’t exist when I was their age. Every day I read stories of cyber bullying and other horrible things that can ultimately lead to every parent’s worst nightmare. The world can be a scary, scary place, and our kids are experiencing that at a much earlier age than I think we were prepared for.

So, as Michael walks through the front doors of his new middle school, I can only hope and pray that the things I have taught him, the morals I have demonstrated, have impacted the head he has on his shoulders. I’m hopeful that he holds that head high and that he stands up for what is right. I’m optimistic that with his compassionate personality he will make lots of friends, but I’m also aware of the reality that not everyone will like him, despite how amazing I think he is.

Middle school is tough. As a mom, I’m struggling with the realization that Michael will be experiencing new things, some of them unpleasant. This is the part where I take a backseat and let him deal with the punches and setbacks that will inevitably come his way. And when he’s ready for advice from his old mom, I’ll be there every single time with my hand on his shoulder guiding him in the right direction.  Through every bump in the road and every wrong turn, I’ll be there.

As journalists, it is our job to stick to the facts, remain unbiased and professional, and keep our emotions in check. For the most part, I’ve become a pro at this. I’ve covered tragedy. I’ve met people with extraordinary gifts and talents. I’ve written about death and healing. With this job comes the great responsibility of telling the stories of the people in this community. Every once in a while, some of those stories hit close to home.

A few weeks ago, I received an email from my contact at Belton Regional Medical Center inviting me to their next Great Save event. I’ve written about some great saves in the past, and they always make great stories, so immediately I was intrigued. Then, the story pitch listed the name of the patient, and I was speechless.

Kayli Welvaert, whose story is on the front page this week, was a name I knew, as I’ve known her mom, Noelle, for around 20 years. Kayli’s story was a story I knew. I remember seeing her mom’s pleas for prayers, for a miracle, on social media last December. I had seen pictures of Kayli while she was in intensive care, and I saw posts of Kayli as she recovered from her heart attack and coma. Kayli was alive, and she was okay. Mostly, I remember how familiar this all seemed to me at the time.

In 2011, my best friend Danielle suffered a major heart attack. After no oxygen made its way to her brain for roughly 45 minutes, despite revival of her heart, she was no longer with us. Several days later, her family made the tough decision to let her go.

Like Kayli, Danielle was a mom, a sister, a daughter and a friend. Both in their 20s, Kayli and Danielle had shown signs of heart issues in the past, but nothing that would amount to life or death situations at such young ages. Back in 2011, I hoped and prayed for a miracle, for a blessing, for Danielle to pull through. Last December, as memories of Danielle flooded my mind while watching Kayli’s story unfold, I knew that, more than ever, her family needed prayers and support.

Kayli got that miracle that day. As I watched her earlier this week hold her daughter and kiss her cheek, I was thankful for the miracles her medical team provided for her. This mom, this daughter, this friend to many now has a second chance at life. Kayli is a living, breathing, walking miracle, and I am grateful to be able to share her story, no matter how emotional I may have gotten while writing it.

How can you possibly do someone like Aggie Turnbaugh justice in just a few lines on some newsprint? Someone who, undoubtedly, still had ink running through her veins, someone whom I could call with a question like, “Hey, maybe twenty, or thirty, years ago, this thing happened, does that ring a bell?” And Aggie, of course, would not only remember the event, she’d remember what issue it was in and on what page. For many years, Aggie Turnbaugh lived and breathed this community, this newspaper. She was truly the backbone, the historian, the mouthpiece, for Grandview and South Kansas City.

Aggie was passionate about journalism and about telling the stories of those she came to know and love. She was quick to offer suggestions or point out things I could improve upon, but she always did so out of love and respect for this profession and this newspaper.

Not many people in Grandview didn’t know who Aggie was. I asked a few of those to offer up some “talkin’” points about Aggie:

The day I was hired at the Jackson County Advocate, Aggie Turnbaugh was sitting at her famous desk just inside the front door of the office at 5th & Main, her trusty typewriter and canine companion at her side. No job had been posted for the newspaper, and I wasn’t sure why exactly I had felt compelled to walk in with my resume. Later, Aggie told me she felt Jim had sent me. The passing of her husband in 2003 had been incredibly hard on the family, as well as the entire community since the Turnbaugh family had run our hometown newspaper for 50+ years. Now, Aggie’s passing is hard as well – who didn’t know Aggie? Through her weekly column, through the decades, the entire community got to know this strong woman with her soft spot for animals. My heart goes out to Annette, who was always there by her mom’s side, and who continues as an Alderman in her family’s wonderful tradition of making a huge impact on the City of Grandview. - Andrea Wood, Jackson County Advocate former editor & owner

Stratford Estates Homes Association and the Southern Communities Coalition have truly lost a “dear friend”.  Going back to the late 70’s until Aggie sold the business I always looked forward to our Tuesday morning chats concerning both Grandview & So. K.C..
Aggie was a lady with a “wealth of knowledge” regarding the history of this area, as well as politics and other issues and the number of people she knew was over whelming,no  one was a stranger.
She was a “grand lady” and the community is missing her already. - Carol McClure, Stratford Estates

Aggie surely impacted many in the community. If you have thoughts you’d like to share, please email them to mwilson@jcadvocate.com, or stop by the Advocate office where we’re “just talkin’” about the legacy of Aggie.

I’ve never been much of a fan of storms. When I was a little girl, a family friend of ours lost his life after being struck by lightning while fishing with another friend, who was seriously injured. I remember attending Kyle’s funeral and seeing his family and friends, and my own family, suffer a
loss that would have an impact on me for the rest of my life.

I think I was around a first-grader at the time, but I remember clearly how angry I was that this had happened to someone who, probably fairly recently, I saw in my own home. This was the first experience I had with death I can remember, and it was because of the uncontrollable.

In the years that have passed, there’s not a storm that goes by that Kyle doesn’t come to my mind. With every roll of thunder and every lightning strike, I cringe. My heart races when I hear warning sirens, and I get goosebumps when I can feel a shift in the atmosphere. I remember Chuck, who was with Kyle at Lake Jacomo, describing getting struck by lightning like getting hit with a baseball bat across the back: words I have never forgotten and I hear echo in my ears when I see light shows overhead.

Living in this part of the country, we are certainly no strangers to the fury of the skies above us. As we approach the 60th anniversary of the devastating tornado that took many lives in our community, we all tend to be a little apprehensive when it comes to storms.

As we clean up tree limbs and get our power restored from Monday night’s weather, we are reminded of the pathway we call home. Mother Nature lets us know that, sometimes, we are not in control and our world; our lives, can be impacted and change in an instant.

When the clouds above me swirl, the sky brightens with electricity and the thunder claps around me, I am brought right back to that little girl who remembers being told someone she looked up to had died at the hands of the weather. It is powerful, it is mighty, it is uncontrollable and unpredictable. I am constantly in awe of it, but I will continue to keep my comfortable distance.

Forty years ago this coming Sunday, two young adults (one from St. Louis and one Air Force kid) got married amid a snowstorm in South Kansas City. The two met while working at Stix Baer and Fuller at Ward Parkway Mall, and though he asked her several times to go out with him before she finally caved, they were married a short time later.

My parents have been married forty years. Sure, they’ve had good times and bad, heartaches and happiness, successes and failures. But, the whole time, they’ve had each other. In this day and age, it seems that is a rarity.

According to various internet sources I checked, around 40-50% of marriages end in divorce. The American divorce rate is nearly twice what it was in 1960, though it has declined somewhat since hitting an all-time high in 1980, which suggests there is hope for stability after all.

Despite challenges and setbacks, my parents have continued to rely on their marriage, on each other, to get them through. They have set a standard for partnership, love, communication and trust, and they have set the bar high.

I’m proud of them. Forty years is an accomplishment that should be celebrated. I know it isn’t always easy, but I know the good times are worth it all. Happy Anniversary to my parents, Mike and Becky. I love you both and I’ll be ready to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary and then some. Thank you for finding each other all those years ago, and thank you for demonstrating what it means to commit your life to another person. Enjoy your day and your marriage...you deserve it.