WRITING – Chris Earl

CHRIS EARL is the author of three different novels, inspired by the always-intriguing moments in a television newsroom and from his nine years as a sports anchor.

His depth of writing extends far beyond novels. From 2009 to 2015, he was also a reporter for The Cedar Rapids Gazette, along with his reporting and anchoring duties at KCRG-TV.

Yet he really cultivated a following from his thoughtful and sincere social media posts about the news of the day. Often trying to make sense of the tragic moments but also highlights the sweet spots of life as a parent in Iowa.

Some of his resonating works have some out of tragedy and trying to make sense of the news he covered. Here are the stories that still hold a place, even years later. Take a look:

AUTHOR OF THREE NOVELS

TOSSING OUT THE ALARM CLOCK

March 6, 2020

People have been so positive, so incredibly kind to me out in the “world” over the last few weeks since the news came out that I’m moving to evenings next week.

I live in these odd little daily habits every day. Such is life when you wake up at 2 a.m. five days a week to go to work. Your hours are very different than the rest of civilized society.

I’ll grocery shop in bits and pieces — with two teenagers, it’s a never-ending quest to keep the meals coming.

I pick up my preferred 32-ounce beverage… “juicy peach” diet iced tea with a splash of Sunkist and a splash of Diet Dew. $1 slices of breakfast pizza on Wednesdays.

We all have our quirks.

“Congratulations,” I’ve heard from so many. Often as I am carrying $1 slices of pizza out.

People who are acquaintances have emerged as real friends in their encouragement.

Thank you. All of you have made this month an unforgettable one.

* * *

“How about me enjoying the moment for once?”

I’m really trying to do this.

The “business of news” can be an odd place for people who may work in other professions, whether manufacturing or in an office setting.

When you work in news, there is a sense that you’re always looking over your shoulder. To be accurate and first in coverage of a story. To make sure you’re not missing any big stories that impact our viewers or on social media. To make sure you’re “getting the words out”. To do what you can to keep the ratings up and people watching and engaging.

That can lead to anxiety for plenty of people. I’m fortunate in that I don’t get a lot of anxiety at work but it can happen. When I was a reporter here from 2009 to early 2016, that anxiety would kick in. You have to come up with a news story every day. Once I’d find one and get people agree to talk to be, on-camera, the stress would melt away like lemondrops.

However, I am trying to really enjoy this moment. After 24 years of working in television news — sports for nine years, news for the last 15, nearly every job it seems and, definitely every shift — we’ve been able to make it work. For family and career.

I love what I do — the writing, the gathering of news, even the messages we’ll get from time to time when we get something wrong… that quest for perfection can be a curse as well, I suppose.

I hope this joy comes across every day out here.

* * *

“How about that ever elusive kudo?”

There is something about our business that has been true since the era of the Camel News Caravan.

The moment you think that you’ve “got it all figured out” in TV news, you’ll get snapped back fast.

In the 12 years since we moved to Cedar Rapids, I’ve worked all sorts of jobs. All sorts of shifts.

Some of you may even remember when I got here in April 2008, to anchor mornings and the midday. Did this until late 2009 and then the journey *really* started.

Weekend mornings for eight months, reporting three days a week.

Weekend evenings from 2010 to early 2016, reporting at night.

Lead reporter on political coverage.

Occasional sports fill-in anchor.

Yet it was those years of daily reporting, from 2009 to 2016, that really made Eastern Iowa feel like home.

Early in all of those transitions, I decided to bet on myself. We decided to bet on Cedar Rapids.

Both paid off.

This city turned out to be an absolutely perfect city to raise our children. The little kids I used to take for ice cream at Parlor City are no longer little. One is off to college next year and another is working through high school.

Those years of calling on news stories solidified the bond. So many stories — some inspiring, far too many of them tragic.

It’s funny.

When you’re a news reporter, you think of cities and towns based on the stories you covered there.

On Tuesday, I was in Waverly for a massive high school track meet at Wartburg. I had a few hours to walk the city, so I did. I came across the name “Don Nichols” on a memorial. He died in 2011, serving in Afghanistan, only two years after graduating from Waverly-Shell Rock. Nine years before, I remember covering the news surrounding his passing.

It’s like this constantly whenever I’m driving around.

I-380 driving past Angels Park in Evansdale. I think of the summer of covering Lyric and Elizabeth.

When “Western Dubuque” is on the sports, my mind flashes to the four boys who passed in 2014 in a Gator crash. To the four families, thank you for your kindness amid your grief. I think of you often.

The Flood of 2008 and 2016 still color “our city” and, when I walk around, I think of the progress made but also the generations of families who no longer live in Czech Village or Time Check. Sandbagging in Palo in 2016 and, all of the emotions hit me as, this time, I was just another guy trying to help protect some of our friends from the flood.

So many people agreed to talk to me on what may have been their “worst day”. I hope you feel we represented you well in our reports.

Thank you.

* * *

“The moment I jumped off of it was the moment I touched down.”

There comes a time when you have to “embrace” getting up at 2 in the morning. Many people have asked how my core will adjust to a new shift, where I’ll work at about 1:30 p.m.

“Oh, I’ll probably adjust by about 5 a.m. on Monday,” I’ve said more than once.

In total, I have gotten up at about 2 a.m. for six years here. Both Nicole Agee KCRG and Kaj O’Mara KCRG have been on this shift for more than a decade. That’s dedication.

At some point in 2013 or 2014, Nicole and I happened to be in the newsroom at the same time. She mentioned that if we ever did a newscast together, it would be rather fun.

For a time, I never thought I’d get the honor of working mornings. But it happened. And we fit, like graham crackers and marshmallows.

Same sardonic humor. She’s quick with a sharp line. I’m slow to get the WeatherWise question correct.

The chemistry with the three of us was immediate. I’ve always respected Kaj’s weather context. That made for a team that wanted nothing more than to feel useful in helping all of you get started with your days.

THIS was a mission I treasured. To be on the lookout for people firing up their days.

* * *

There will be much that I’ll miss about this shift. Working mornings did allow me to experience so much of life outside of work. I have two kids in show choir… made it to all of those. All of their sports… made it to those and coached a few teams along the way.

I say this to others in the business. When your children are young, working mornings is THE best shift. You’re always around — admittedly “dog tired” as the “Thursday wall” is a very real thing on this shift — but these last four years were the most satisfying of the 24 years I’ve been at this.

But it’s time.

I worked evenings for the first twelve years of my career. Nine years of “running a circus” in sports, especially in Eau Claire and Duluth. Then three years back in Eau Claire as the evening anchor there.

The rhythms of writing and reporting the news are different at night but I’ve done it before. Time is much more at a premium to report the news. (I am on 3.5 hours a day right now, for example).

Thank you to Nicole and Kaj for making these years (and those 2 a.m. wakeups) so much easier.

Onward.

Thank you.

THE COMMENCEMENT WITH NO CROWD
April 6, 2020

Each spring, I like to write out a commencement address to offer up for anyone who wants it. Some of the themes fit for for high school. Some fit for college students. Some may just work for any young person… or someone who needs to see life from a different angle, perhaps.

This year, with my shift to evenings, I’ve had more requests to actually offer some of these addresses in the TV-9 viewing area.

That’s likely not going to happen.

But I can offer this.

A commencement address at a time when the Class of 2020 — high school and college — is seeing how life doesn’t always turn out to plan.

Here goes.

* * *

Thank you for having me here as I try to get this Zoom thingy to work.

(Clearing throat)

Can you hear me? Okay… good.

I don’t know what to tell you. Not this year.

When I’ve written these, the advice usually goes along the lines of “stay optimistic, have a confident handshake and write actual thank-you notes to people”. In recent years, I’ve evolved, somewhat, in my words. Celebrating some of the ethos I see from the younger generations. Traveling more. Living for the moment. Not chasing the material objects but remembering that tomorrow is promised to no one.

Many of those themes still ring true for 2020. It’s just a different variety. Far different.

Each day here at KCRG-TV9, I go through the “data” of the COVID-19 cases in Iowa. Three more deaths today (April 6) as I write this.

Also, 78 more cases. Today.

However, I’m trying to cling to, what I see, as the positive. The curve on new cases is finally under 10% today for the first time since March 20. We are seeing the curve stay under 14% for the last six days.

This is encouraging. Cautiously.

I write as a parent who has some sorrow over the spring. For years, I’ve stressed to my children that – if you work hard and play by the rules of society – you’ll get your opportunity for the reward at the end.

Our son is a senior in high school. He did everything right. And I mean EVERYTHING. Those who know him know his accomplishments and character.

Tomorrow (April 7), his high school soccer team was to play its opener at Dubuque Senior. I was going to take the early newscasts off and make the drive up and huddle, in blankets, the nervous “goalie dad” on his final journey with this team.

No season (so far) as we all hold out hope there will be something for his team. Right now, I’d settle with a game in July against Wash that is unofficial. Just one more game. One more chance to get introduced before he goes off to college.

Plus… will there even be a college season? Will there even be… college… in the fall?

It’s the same with our daughter. Summer plans are already getting altered and we all have to shift and adjust.

This is the world we all live in.

This is my theme.

So many of you have planned out your lives to have the best experience for what should be the most enjoyable years of your lives. You did the work in classes you didn’t care about. You were nice and cordial during moments where you just wanted to get away from the world.

And now… this.

I don’t know what to tell you.

Except… it will get better. And you’ll be better from this.

I’m 45 and entering the phase of life where I’ll get cranky and think the younger generations are nothing but trouble and indifference.

I don’t feel this way at all about the teenagers and young adults I encounter.

You offer a level of kindness, on social media, when it’s not expected. You’ve made it a priority to stop bullying in schools.

You’ve grown up in a world where school shootings are far too common. Where we’ve had troops in Afghanistan all of your lives.

You didn’t come into a peaceful world, class of 2020. Now, at the apex of your youthful achievements, this.

You don’t get the victory laps.

For that… I am so sorry.

* * *

I cannot imagine the mental and emotional scarring that our young people will carry over this. It’ll be deep.

And that’s okay.

I’m often a “get over it / fight through it” parent. I’ll listen but try to re-direct the eyes to the end goal.

I sympathize with all of you over whatever the future brings.

People are losing their jobs. Some people are losing their lives.

People who planned, for decades, for their best life. Now this.

I’m thinking about the younger people reading this. This is the world that you’re going into. We’ll get through COVID-19 but we all know that the world won’t be the same.

The world that you grew up in will change. Will people want to go to be part of large crowds for concerts or sports events? Will retail stores that aren’t the most well-known brands even survive? Will the culture of eating out change forever?

Here is what I do hope comes out of this for all of you.

A renewed passion for whatever it is that “sparks” you.

It doesn’t have to be something that is overtly altruistic, either. It’s great if it does but it needs to be something that lights a fire within.

Whatever this is might not even be in your field of study. That’s okay, too. Better to consider shifting to something now at 18 or 19 — or 21 or 22 — then, say, when you’re 54.

Take your time. If you need to take a year (or two) and let the world stabilize before you resume your long-term path…that’s fine, too. This is a paradigm that none of us have ever lived through.

Live on your own terms. If nothing else, control what you can control. This much should be obvious from what we’ve all learned on 2020. If something in your life brings you unhappiness, cut it out of your life. The journey on this planet is too short to stay displeased, unsatisfied or, even worse, miserable or abused.

Set your own level of happiness. This also follows in with the previous call to “live on your own terms”. Only you know what pleases you. It’s okay to not do those push-ups every day. Moderation has its benefits, as well. It’s okay not to strive for perfection. I think of the perfectionists who did so much right… and the pandemic stopped so many plans.

Learn to live for YOURSELF. This is how your generation can “reverse-engineer” the helicopter parents that so many of us became. We tried to protect you from anything bad happening… and a pandemic hits.

How to counter this? If you’re going to take some time away from “the world”, strengthen your “life survival skills”. Master cooking — it’s never been easier with YouTube. Be proficient at laundry and ironing.

Be careful about what you wish for. There is often a “is this all that there is?” disappointment when achieving certain goals in in life. The first couple of times when it happens, it can lead to becoming disillusioned. Chase your dreams but also be ready for those dreams to shift after you work hard and attain them. They do. It happens. That’s how the world is.

It’s my hope that, in May 2021, I’ll be back to writing actual commencement addresses. A commentary that is full of hope as far as the mind can dream. We can still do that now.

Just live in the moment but also with an eye to the better moments.

Thank you as always – Chris

ALWAYS ‘FOREVER’S TEAM’ TO ME
April 19, 2020

We got the news today. Oh, no.

Just after 11 a.m. on this Friday, we all heard the news. Iowa’s K-12 students are not going back to school. Spring sports are cancelled.

This news wasn’t a tremendous shock to those of us in the middle of following this story, of course.

But it’s a kick to the teeth. Especially for those of us who have teenagers in the… Class of 2020.

(Disclaimer: Please know that I fully recognize the tragedies that will scar families forever from this. I’m covering these stories every night. People are losing their loved ones. People are losing their livelihoods. So much tragedy and uncertainty in less than two months. Every day, I’m grateful for what I haven’t lost. That’s for certain.)

This picture is of the 2019 Cedar Rapids Kennedy men’s soccer team in their greatest moment of triumph. Winning the Class 3A sub-state title at Prairie. An intense rivalry, albeit one-sided in recent years, as Kennedy finally got past the Hawks on an overcast Saturday morning.

There was so much tension that morning. A 9 a.m. start to accommodate Prairie’s graduation ceremonies that night.

By 11, the Cougars were champions and off to state for the first time in nearly a decade.

As the 8-seed (out of eight teams), Kennedy faced the top-seed, Waukee. They came in undefeated and showed us all exactly why. A 3-0 loss also revealed what my son’s team needed to work on for 2020.

For 2020.

That was always the goal.

Going back to seventh grade.

I watched many of the young men in this class grow up, from playing at middle school – sometimes as teammates, sometimes as opponents – but knowing that they would, eventually, have a senior year and have the opportunity to really dominate.

Our son’s team returned 97% of its scoring from last year plus its center back (the “captain” of the defense) and the goalkeeper. At least four players in the senior class already committed to play at the college level.

Absolutely loaded for 2020.

* * *

“I can’t wait for March 16.”

I cannot tell you how many times our son said those words over the winter. Got us through plenty of cold days. Those December days where you just want to pull the covers over your head and not go to school.

In this, his senior year, that date was going to be the magical moment for the three months that would follow. Three weeks of practice, seven weeks of playing games with the playoffs to follow.

For years, he worked – incredibly hard – to put himself into a position of success. In 2019, his junior year, the opportunity opened for him to finally start in goal for the varsity team.

He took it and never gave it up.

This March was shaping up to be an unforgettable season for us both.

I started the new shift on evenings on March 9.

Practice would start on March 16.

Only, it didn’t. By about March 11, it became apparent that we would be starting a spring that none of us would ever forget.

Now I long – I yearn, like so many of us – for the simpler days of January and February. When many of us whined and complained about things that really don’t matter, as we look back.

In February, my daughter and I were riding motorized scooters through downtown Dallas. Absolutely carefree. Excited for the spring and whatever was to follow.

“I can’t wait for March 16,” would ring through my head for months.

This attitude also filled the fall season as well. In Iowa, there are two distinct soccer seasons: club season (fall) and high school season (spring). This is the opposite of most other Midwest states.

All throughout the fall, we’d see some of his Kennedy teammates as they played for other club teams. In Cedar Rapids. Des Moines. As parents, we would watch our sons congregate after games as they would “check in” and see how their teams were playing.

But always with an eye toward the spring.

“Can’t wait,” was the constant theme of their interactions. Keep working. Be ready for March 16.

The March 16 that we wanted never came.

* * *

I think of the moments of triumph, sure. This playoff game last year against Cedar Falls where it was 1-1 and our son’s team won, thanks to a late goal from a ricochet off the crossbar with four minutes left.

Sometimes, that’s the difference in an evenly-matched game.

We spent the game sitting next to the other goalkeeper’s parents, both of us laughing nervously at certain points in the game. (A little tip: if you ever raise a soccer goalkeeper, the best people you can sit with are the opponent’s goalkeeper’s parents. You’re the only ones who can understand the highs and lows and – truly – you’re appreciative of their successes because, well, you appreciate excellent goalkeeping.)

The struggles and battling through them, I believe, will always shape them as they become men.

Shaking off a devastating early-season overtime loss one year ago this week and then going on a strong run for the rest of the season.

Knowing that hard work and being ready for opportunity is never a bad look.

I also think of the leadership and the humanity that I saw.

There was a time, a year ago, that I’ll always remember. Tryouts take place during spring break at Kingston Stadium. That’s easy if you attend Jefferson. It’s also easy if you have a car… or a ride.

During one of the early days of tryouts, I learned that a handful of the students had walked – WALKED – from Robins to Kingston during spring break to get to the tryouts. They didn’t have a ride.

That’s about a seven-mile walk. One way. For tryouts. For the right to then go run for another two hours.

Two of the young men on this team heard about this and made the executive decision to give these other teammates a ride back home.

Team is family.

Our son told me more about these young men who walked. The U.S. wasn’t their first country. They came here for a better life and love to play soccer. They made sure that these young men had a ride for the rest of tryouts.

That’s a life lesson that I hope this team always takes with them.

It’s not where you start. It’s how you finish.

* * *

How will these young men finish?

We’ll never know if they were going to take their 11-4-1 season from 2019, with just about everyone coming back, to a 16-1 season in 2020 with a state title run in there.

We’ll never know.

I was a bit player on my high school basketball team, back in St. Louis, in 1992. We made the Sweet 16, for the first time ever, in Missouri.

At least I got to end my basketball “career” on the court. It became apparent that we wouldn’t win that game.

I got to be there at the final buzzer.

I got to hug my coach one final time and say “thank you”.

I got to go back and sit in the gym, quietly, until the bus got warmed up and was ready to take us back home.

This team – as well as all spring sports teams in Iowa – won’t get that finality.

Of “our” seniors, four are set to play at the college level and I’m thankful for that. I can’t wait to see what they do once they leave Cedar Rapids in a few months.

I ache for the young men who were going to “hang it up” after this 2020 season, their senior year.

For them, it’s done. Immediately. From player to former player in one day. All those years of training in the shadows, practicing when no one watches so that you’ll be at your best when people are watching.

To me, Cougars, you’re men “in full” for how you handled yourselves last spring during your historic season.

I enjoyed learning a little bit about each of you as the season wore on.

It seemed that, with every win and loss, someone new would pick the team up and make them a little better.

You will always be “Forever’s Team” to me.

Thank you for giving me the best 2019, as the father of the goalkeeper, that I could ever ask for.

IN PRAISE OF A CO-WORKER
July 31, 2020

It was a true pleasure.

Today is Meteorologist Justin Gehrts’s last day here at the Channel 9 World Headquarters. He and his family are off to Columbus, Ohio for a new adventure. Justin will still work in weather but on the digital side of it. He won’t be “on-air” in the traditional sense and that explains his fire sale of 90+ ties before his departure.

We met 11 years ago in a true crossroads of careers.

Justin came in from Rockford, where he worked for a couple of years in his “first job”. We all have that “first job” — mine was in Topeka for eight months. It’s the ultimate learning ground, a lab in your own mind whether you can actually do this or not.

He joins us at the weekend morning meteorologist, fresh from Rockford.

Right as I joined that shift, fresh off when I was anchoring the morning news here the first time, from 2008-09.

That was not an easy stretch for me here. One full of endless self-doubt as I had gone from the main anchor for a top-rated station in Eau Claire for three years to the top-rated morning newscast in Eastern Iowa to… moved to a shift that was very challenging.

My second week of working this shift, where I’m rolling into work at 4 a.m. on the weekends – at age 34 with 13 years of on-air experience by this point – I met Justin.

I could not have asked for a better co-worker at that stage of my career. As I tried to piece together this new assignment, I wanted to be careful to not be cynical or acerbic (love that word) around him. This was a new and exciting adventure for him, as an Iowa State grad and F.O.K. (friend of Kaj O’Mara).

We got along great from the start as we settled into our “on-air” personas — Justin the curious weather expert and I would play off of it as the boisterous know-it-all on WeatherWise.

The chemistry was excellent.

From there, both of our career paths swung into different directions and different shifts. He moved into the midday role years later and I returned to that AM/midday shift in early 2016. Our chemistry — in other words, me giving him trouble at the end of segments — kept those long, sleep-deprived morning shifts light and enjoyable.

We had a shtick at the end of the midday newscast for years and I’m sure some of you caught it.

I would always try to get the last word. (I really didn’t care, on the air, but it was part of keeping the end of the long workdays a little more interesting.)

Except that, sometimes, without warning, I would leave – maybe once a month – two seconds for Gehrts to say goodbye. And have the last word.

This image is from the one time he ran right past the red light and got the last word in. My face, complete with mock outrage, captures it all.

I watched him evolve from, really, a young guy just a couple of years out of Iowa State into a polished, confident and competent forecaster who could handle our tornadoes, thunderstorms and floods.

Thank you for a great run, Justin. Godspeed, brother.

DAY 5 OF THE DERECHO
August 14, 2020

Through Day 5. Still no power.

I’m with many of you. Spent from home. Spent from work.

I’ll never forget Monday’s storm. In the hour before, I was finishing up a run and I saw these awful clouds approaching. The radar confirmed it.

Hearing the voice of Joe Winters KCRG really confirmed it. At noon.

We all experienced a terrible Monday.

I smile as I hear of colleagues or friends where the power is on. We’re still in the dark here. Eating whatever comes our way that isn’t perishable — unless it’s the “here is a sandwich for you. Eat it in the next two hours.”

Even with this, we’re the lucky ones.

Lost the trees but the house appears untouched.

Cedar Rapids has 1,100 homes that are not safe to live in.

When was the last tornado any of us can remember that took out 1,100 homes?

My family is healthy but we’re all worn out.

My workplace has power (generator) so I can plug in phones and chargers and bring those back and the boss keeps buying us meals.

My company even has a fund set aside for workers in the midst of a disaster, such as this. We’re all thankful for that.

It’s been a horrible and heartbreaking week. I can’t sugarcoat it. We’re all trying to get the news out while still wondering when the power will come back.

The weekend is here during this week where we all lost track of days. We’ll be in to work Saturday and Sunday — this is your news but it is a journey for all of us.

We’re pushing for the hard answers on the recovery while also trying to show the grace and highlight the reports of people doing extraordinary deeds.

Thank you for catching our videos and stories. Thank you for advocating for Iowa. We need help.

THE END OF THESE TWELVE DAYS. I’M NOT SURE WHEN “IT” WILL END

August 22, 2020

Now that the power is just about back on for most people in Cedar Rapids and surrounding areas — and, if not, I’m thinking about you as we’re facing extreme heat early next week — I feel the urge within me to talk about what we all went through August 10.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

How many of you have said those exact words since August 10. This “derecho” (I’m just now spelling it properly) turned out to have the equivalent of Category 4 hurricane winds.

Cedar Rapids and many of the surrounding cities will never look the same.

I write this as we were some of the lucky ones.

Our neighborhood, close to Kennedy High School, got hit hard. We didn’t have power for 6+ days — and we were the lucky ones. My mother just got her power back on an hour ago.

The mornings have turned into a similar routine. I got out in the backyard and now there is no shade… unless I’m cutting the branches off our fallen trees from the west and early enough in the day to avoid the UV rays. The life of a pale ginger.

It’s a sweaty and unsatisfying pursuit. The branches will stab my head, shoulders, torso and legs. The stubs and thorns of the branches will stick in my gloves, tearing the fabric, as I try to put them into a pile. This is Cedar Rapids. August 2020.

We should be moving our son into college this month. This was to be a time of celebration and also to watch him play soccer at the “next level”. Instead, there’s no season for him and he now leaves a city that looks like a war zone.

Yet I recognize we’re the lucky ones. Why? A co-worker is very handy with the chainsaw and loves slicing up our fallen trees.

For the last 12 days, I’ve also had the opportunity to go throughout, let’s see, Cedar Rapids, Marion, Palo, Shellsburg, Atkins, Norway, Fairfax, Bertram and Springville with our drone.

I’ve seen unspeakable destruction mixed with desperation. The Cedar Terrace Apartments and Westdale Court reveals devastation with people who, literally, do not have a roof over their heads anymore.

The Flood of 2008 directly affected people who lived where the water rose up.

Is there a stretch of three, combined city blocks in Cedar Rapids that doesn’t have tree damage?

This cuts along so many lines in all of the quadrants, all of the neighborhoods. However, the storm, especially, is economically devastating for people who are struggling to pay bills each month. We’re still in a pandemic as people aren’t spending money like they did in 2019.

That means businesses have less revenue and, many times, less of a need for labor and workers. This impacts people who earn less money.

Now a derecho on top of this.

If you have made it through this without too much financial loss, – and let’s face it, none of us will be made whole from this – try and keep in mind the people who have lost everything.

Over the past twelve days, as I fly over neighborhoods, I’ve seen families without a place to live. All over the city. The innocent beauty of children who may not understand the financial stress of their families, drawing on sidewalks as debris fills their front yards.

I’ve also seen plenty of “good”.

The sweat under the sun in the mornings of chainsaw work. Hauling trees to the curb. Making a little progress each day.

The afternoons and evenings take on a different vibe. People on their front porches, sore in the core but with their feet up. Perhaps a “room temperature” beverage to wash away the stress of this unexpected disaster that we all must live with.

As I pull up, I’ll catch a smile and a “HEY, CHRIS!” from someone on the front steps, looking out at whatever their life now looks like.

Thank you for saying ‘hello’. Thank you for talking with us about whether you have power, food, necessities, fears.

Thank you, Beth Malicki. In the first days of the cleanup, she wrote, with puncturing emotion supported by facts, about what hit Eastern Iowa.

People tend to not look at the “unfamiliar”. What is a “derecho”, anyway? We all know what a hurricane looks like. We, especially, know what a tornado looks like. Or a blizzard.

Beth stepped up to advocate for Eastern Iowa and to try and let the world know, 2020-style, that we are in crisis. We need help.

A few days ago, I was talking with a radio station in Minneapolis (KFAN FM 100.3, thank you for having us). I noted that, “Cedar Rapids is never a poster on a wall at a travel agency to visit.” That’s why, I believe, the national attention just didn’t come right away. As Iowans, if we have the means to take vacations, we go to Florida, New York City, Minneapolis, Chicago, St. Louis, Las Vegas or the West Coast. When disasters hit there, we already have a point of reference.

How many people from these cities vacation in Eastern Iowa? We make corn and cereal. We do it really well, too. But we’re not a destination. People don’t have a point of reference for a city like Cedar Rapids.

This is why advocating is important. We live here, too. We’ve both covered the Floods of 2008 and 2016. Doing the morning news and then sandbagging in the afternoons. It’s what you do to help, whether with information or “dadbod muscle”.

Just know what we care. We’re far from perfect here but please know that we’re trying — to ask the difficult questions, to tell your stories of survival but also the struggles. People need to know the reality of life here now.

Also, thank you, Silas (I hope I’m spelling that correctly). He lives on the southwest side and came running out of his front yard as I was at the corner a few days ago, recording drone video of damage across the street from his house.

Young Silas was so curious about what I was doing. His mother said, “let him do his job.” I said, “no, it’s okay”. Silas and I worked together to land the drone — avoiding all of the wires and tree branches still standing — and, for a moment, it was such a delightful change to see the innocence of a child out playing.

I chose to grab a picture from “our” flight. Great smile, Silas.

Monday will be the full 14 days since our city changed forever.

“Our city changed forever”.

I wrote that back in 2008, when I had been a Cedar Rapidian for only six weeks and was still getting my streets and avenues mixed up.

Now I’ve seen the city in its darkest days. Literally. Darkest days.

I think of the pile in the backyard. I’ve told myself that, maybe in 30 days of working a few hours each morning, it’ll all be taken care of and hauled away.

We’ll keep reporting your stories, your experiences, your recovery from this.

What we should all learn from this month in Iowa.

Advocate for Iowa.

Tell people outside of Iowa what happened.

Keep doing a little bit more every day.

There is no “EASY” button for this. Billions of dollars and thousands of National Guard members (with chainsaws) don’t magically from the sky and we’re made whole by the following day.

This will take years to recover from.

But may of us can do a couple of things each day to keep moving in the right direction.

Have a safe weekend. Hydrate. Sunscreen. Don’t overdo it.

The pile will still be there tomorrow.

IT’S THE LITTLE VICTORIES

October 20, 2020

Like just about anyone else living here in Eastern Iowa, you find the small wins where you can.

We’re now 71 days past the derecho which means, for me, 20 days since the “first pass” of debris removal in our neighborhood.

To me, this picture is the little victory.

The grass seed sprouting.

I did post a picture two weeks ago of the grass growth in our backyard. We lost four trees — two of them gigantic — as they tumbled, from west to east off the August 10 storm.

For the following three weeks, we had these massive trees and logs all over our backyard.

My morning mission then became the same but with different tasks. For about 30 days, I’d get up at dawn and start hauling the branches to the front. We have a “pie-shaped yard” so the branches and the log would pile high. Stories high. Like Disco Inferno.

Then we paid for a Gator to haul away what was left. The backyard was all dirt, tire tracks, divots.

We never had the best-looking backyard, with the slope, the runoff and all of that shade. However, I mowed it for 11 years and knew the times it was vibrant and green. Now it was just Play-Doh when all of the colors get mixed together.

The mission changes. A trip to Menards for two bags of grass seed, renting a lawn roller for four hours and buying a new thatcher. I didn’t trust the process but I also knew I had nothing to lose with this.

Drop seed down.

Water… in eight different places.

Drop seed down.

Water… in eight different places.

This morning routine went on for about three weeks, first in the backyard and then, after Day 50 (the day the Big Claw showed up), the front yard.

Finally… it looked better.

The little victories. Now we’re just watching the straw as the growing season appears open with fall and winter setting in — a little more each day as we lose a little more sunlight with each day.

We do realize that we were also extremely fortunate. The trees didn’t fall on our roof. Or the siding. Or the garage.

Every day, when I’m out walking and running throughout the city, I see the lingering footprints of a “storm gone bad”. Like when a puppy steps on Lego houses. I see people, who have become friendly faces on my morning sojourns, with roofs stripped off like tree bark, with an empty slab where a garage once held a truck and a car.

As winter is approaching, it’s even more pronounced.

I can’t imagine what some of the people who live in these houses will do next. A few homes near Kennedy High School are uninhabitable, the evidence of a tree crushing the roof, the living room and the kitchen.

The financial and emotional burden, for so many, is this underlying issue so many Iowans are facing. We’ll never be

made whole”, financially. Our neighborhoods won’t look the same, at least not in our lifetime.

This all comes amid this weird year. A pandemic took out so many of the milepost’s of a senior year in high school for the Class of 2020. Now they’re all wearing masks for freshman year of college.

Instead of taking someone to high school, now I hear the soft strain of a computerized voice at 7:50 a.m., with a teacher asking “is everyone here?”.

It’s a weird year.

We’ll get through this because we have to.

There are some days, especially for the three or four weeks after the derecho, where it’s easy to feel beaten down. Like we won’t swim our way back to the surface.

We’re getting there. We still have our leg kicks.

Hang in, friends. As we approach November, better days are ahead.

THE FIRST POKE

November 16, 2020

For the second straight Monday, we see news about a vaccine that is… promising. Moderna is reporting that its vaccine candidate appears to be effective. Pfizer offered a similar report last week.

This is extremely encouraging but, as always, keep cautious as we see all of this unpack itself.

If these two firms are successful with these vaccines, the challenge of getting millions of shots out will then take over.

These are dark times for many. Uncertainty. Fear. Not knowing when this is going to end.

Governor Reynolds has a news conference scheduled for 6 p.m. tonight (Monday, Nov. 16) where we expect that she will talk about more mitigation measures.

We are now on “Month 9” of this, since the second week of March changed the world as we know it.

As we report the hospitalizations, the cases, the deaths from COVID-19 each night, I wanted to take a look back.

Hospitalizations are a dire concern.

Labor Day weekend: 323 in Iowa

November 15: 1,392 in Iowa.

Back on April 28, Beth Malicki KCRG broke down the “white paper” that the University of Iowa sent to the Governor’s Office. (I included the link at the bottom here).

April 28 is almost seven months ago. Their projections definitely underscored the trend of cases and deaths that we’ve seen.

Her report on April 28 feels like seven years ago.

Iowa will surpass 200,000 positive cases by week’s end. We all know someone who has had it. Some of us know someone who has died from the virus.

The state will, likely, surpass 2,000 deaths from COVID-19 by tomorrow.

Our hospitals are getting full. Our health care workers, in the midst of this latest wave, are getting worn down. Most of them get into the medical field out of a sense of mission, duty and curiosity. I cannot imagine their day-to-day.

I have no magic words for this. I’m encouraged by the speed – but speed without control has no value – of which the vaccines may be reaching the brink. The science is getting there.

Just be kind to each other. I’ll try and be kind, as well.

Don’t expect perfection out of the people you encounter every day — when driving and you get cut off, when in a store and wondering why they don’t have the washer-and-dryer that the circular ad said, when they’re out of that delicious dipping sauce for your chicken.

For those of us working in the news business… THIS is the biggest story of our lives. I often joke, as the old man in the newsroom that “not much happened in the 80s”, when I was growing up and consuming a lot of news.

2020 is making up for that.

Check on each other. Make that phone call when a text would do. Nine months ago, I was getting all set for what was going to be the “juice of life”, as a parent. Graduations. The culmination of years of working towards a specific goal to see how it would play out. Moving into college.

We didn’t get much of it. We’ll always wonder “what if?” in some parts.

What we did get required face coverings, setting appointments inside of drop-ins.

Just wear the mask. All of us.

We’ll never forget the loss of 2020 — of life for far too many persons and the “way of life” for all of us.

Better days are ahead.

THE DARK, UNCERTAIN WINTER

January 14, 2021

I’ve been saying, for months now, that “better days are ahead”.

We’re in the darkness of winter as I type. I’m not going to sugarcoat: the last two weeks of this job – this existence – have been hard. Real, real difficult.

I feel like, as a nation, there are 330 million of us each living through a version of our own action movie. We wake up in the morning not really knowing what the world is about to give us for the upcoming six, eight, 12 hours. We have to be on alert for the unexpected, it seems. A circumstance that we didn’t see in advance or, perhaps, the predictable result of something that didn’t get enough care or attention for the previous year.

Don’t many of us just have this feeling of being… stuck?

Changing the calendar from “2020” to “2021” isn’t going to, magically, whisk away the struggles and the battles of the past year.

While 2021 is not a new decade, it harkens back to a line from an obscure George Michael song. More than thirty years ago. Listen Without Prejudice. (It still holds up, 30 years later).

“Now everybody’s talking about this new decade. Like you say the magic numbers, then just say goodbye to the stupid mistakes you made. Oh, my memory serves me far too well.”

Only these weren’t stupid mistakes any of us did. This is a collective stretch that we’re all having to work through.

We’re getting there. Slowly. But getting there.

More people are getting vaccinated. That’s welcome.

So far in Iowa – fingers-crossed, journalistically – we’re not seeing the post-holiday surge in new cases. Our hospitals are not at that dangerous place with COVID-19 patients that we all saw in mid-November. I hope we’re doing okay. That these trends will keep up.

Then the rioting at the U.S. Capitol shook so much to the core. Peaceful transfer of power. The true meaning of American democracy and discourse. The elements of a just society that we’ve all been told to believe going back to civics class and before.

Just know that we’re trying to get it right here. A pandemic. The derecho. Now coming off a most intense political season (I’ve been through plenty of these) but with the added element of what happened in Washington, D.C. on January 6.

We’re all watching to see “what’s next”. To be ready for whatever is to come. Like we’re all in our own little action movie – fighting off whatever just shows up at the door that day. An illness for a loved one or a relative. Perhaps a job loss or income loss. Ten months of the cumulative mental battering that many of us see or endure from a live that just “isn’t 2019”.

As I’m driving into work this afternoon, I’m bracing for the storm that’s coming. Hoping my family doesn’t find themselves out on roads in the dreaded wintry mix.

I like to listen to the Bob Marley or Margaritaville stations on my satellite radio on days like this. If I can’t be in the Florida Keys, Panama City Beach or St. Pete Beach, I can take myself there. Right now, all I want for an article of clothing in 2021 is Snoop Dogg’s robe from the beer commercials on the beach.

Only I wound up on “80s on 8”.

Possibly one of the greatest pop songs (and I use that term with sincere admiration) came on.

“If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me. Time after time.”

There is so much “loss” right now, as we’ve all seen from 2020. So many of us are “lost”, in varying degrees. The fatigue is real after nearly a year of this. Collectively, perhaps we all need that hero to find. Time after time.

“After my picture fades and darkness has turned to gray, watching through windows, you’re wondering if I’m okay.”

I think of the older people as I hear this who have ridden this out in relative isolation.

Thinking about that line. Those are chilling words if there is an older person if your life.

Unable to really stay active in life out of fear of getting COVID-19. Trying to thrive in long-term care facilities without seeing or really connecting with family. This lost year – where too many lives were lost – the unwritten chapters that all of us have, these blank pages of positive memories that we all wanted for 2020.

Two things.

First, I hope that Cyndi Lauper keeps getting a nice little check in the mail each month for this song. Four minutes that still resonate 36 years later.

Second, I know that “better days are ahead”. They have to be. However, we still have about 25 or 30 more minutes to fight through in this “little action movie”. A few more “bad guys” (the unexpected) to overcome, fires to put out somewhere that we’re all not anticipating and, eventually, the return to calm.

In a Grisham novel, the hero winds up in the Cayman Islands with $4 million in offshore cash in the sunset. I’ll just settle for that robe.

We’ll get there. Together.

See you at 4 pm, 6 pm, 10 pm tonight on KCRG-TV9.

EXPLAINING A TRAGEDY

February 26, 2021

Good evening and I hope all of you are enjoying your Friday night.

An update on Brian Tabick’s story from Wednesday night on the stabbing death of Katrina Brinson.

We had so many questions on Wednesday and, yes, we ran the report that night as her husband, Arnell States, had died the previous day from gunshot injuries. That made it timely.

We did reach out to Linn County Attorney Jerry Vander Sanden on Wednesday. He responded on Thursday.

Brian had some very specific questions as we put the facts of the case together from Friday to Saturday. (Those are in my previous post.)

Brian’s second story on the volume of domestic abuse calls that Waypoint Services receives airs tonight at 10 p.m.

I wanted to also pass along what Vander Sanden told Brian about the case and why certain steps in prosecuting or filing charges were or were not taken from the first police contact (Friday morning, 5 a.m.):

Vander Sanden: The police were initially called to the residence by Arnell States. He was the one who called for the police to come to the residence claiming his wife, Katrina Brinson, had assaulted him. According to him, he retreated into his children’s bedroom to get away from his wife thinking she wouldn’t follow him or assault him in front of the children.

Vander Sanden: States claimed he only grabbed his wife to stop her from clawing his face. She was angry at him because it was supposed to be her birthday weekend and he had gone out without her.

Vander Sanden: Police interviewed both and concluded in their reports that they couldn’t determine who was the initial physical aggressor or who was the primary physical aggressor. That is, the officers at the scene couldn’t determine who was being truthful. If officers at the scene couldn’t sort out who was the primary physical aggressor, how could we prove that in a court of law where the burden of proof is beyond a reasonable doubt?

Vander Sanden: Ms. Brinson initially told police this type of incident had not happened before. Later, she claimed it had but only wanted the situation to be diffused.

Vander Sanden: Either party could have gone to court on their own to obtain a civil domestic abuse no-contact order if they wished.

Again, THIS is related to the initial call, at 5 a.m. last Friday, February 19, at their home on Washington Street in southeast Cedar Rapids.

By 10 a.m., Brinson’s family told us both Brinson and States were released.

Fifteen hours later, they told TV-9 that Brinson and another woman were at the Rodeway Inn, five miles away, in southwest Cedar Rapids.

Police then got a call, at about 1:45 a.m. on Saturday, about the stabbing. Officers found found States at the scene and both women with stab wounds. Brinson (States’ wife) died from her injuries and the other woman survived.

States then try to leave the scene and, at some point (I’m still working on specific details on this and, perhaps, body camera video and audio will be released), police shot him. He died on Tuesday.

The answers that Vander Sanden gave Brian were more detailed than I was expecting and do offer a legal sense – from his perspective – on whether a conviction would be likely from an arrest and resulting charge.

Going from the comments that so many of you left (I’m honored that so many people had stories, experiences and perspective to offer on this), I wanted to leave you tonight with Vander Sanden’s full response to the questions we had on Wednesday.

What happened is a tragedy. Six children now do not have a parent. From what I understand, Brinson’s mother and other relatives now have to shift, amid unthinkable grief, to raising these young people — again, the youngest is only three.

THE KILLINGS IN ANAMOSA

March 26, 2021

I’m sitting here. It’s about 9 p.m. and we’re working to get a sense of the grief and sorrow in Anamosa. I don’t know what to think. There’s a lingering pain in my core as I comprehend what happened this morning.

The Department of Corrections said, eleven hours ago, that an inmate at the Anamosa State Penitentiary attacked and killed two prison workers. One correctional officer and a nurse who worked at the prison.

Think about this.

Two people got out of their beds, probably this morning.

Perhaps they poured a cup of coffee at 4 in the morning.

Perhaps scrambled some eggs and spread butter on their toast.

We all have a pre-work routine, right? In 26 years of working in television news, I’ve never gotten dressed for work, I’ve never driven in to work and thought…

“I might die today on the job”.

I’ve never thought that driving in and this includes hundreds of thousands of miles driven in news vehicles while reporting, driving in bad conditions. Blizzards getting back to Duluth from covering the Packers. Icy roads when trying to “make deadline” back in Eau Claire.

I’ve never thought that, while going to work, I would be entering my final hours.

Two people died today. On the job.

We’re in this unforgettable year where it seems that we’re constantly going through numbers from the pandemic. Cases, hospitalizations, deaths, vaccinations.

It takes focus to remember a face or a name with each story.

Two people died today. On the job. In Jones County.

Yes, our prime base of operations is in downtown Cedar Rapids but I always stress that we cover 22 counties all throughout Eastern Iowa.

In Anamosa, the penitentiary is the largest employer, with about 350 workers. The prison itself is right there in the city, two blocks north of Main Street. It’s next to the Sheriff’s Office and county building.

I imagine just about everyone in Anamosa knows someone who works at the prison. It is that broad of an impact within the city.

We have a lot of viewers along that stretch of Highway 151. From Anamosa to Monticello to the edge of Cascade. Amber. Scotch Grove. Center Junction. We appreciate all of you.

Jones County holds a special place for me.

It’s where I had to stop, in 1992 at the Casey’s in Monti (pre-bypass), and find a map to make sure me and my three freshman year dorm friends were getting closer to Highway 1 to turn left and get to Iowa City for the Badgers and Hawkeyes football game.

I never knew, that glorious Saturday morning when I was 17, that I would spend fifteen years of my adult life covering this part of Iowa and this rural county that always welcomed me. People in Jones County always say “hi” and smile when I’m there. Thank you.

I’ve covered school safety issues, bar fires, tragedies, the manufacturing base. #AustinStrong. The beauty of Wapsi State Park in the fall. Indoor baseball practice with my son’s youth teams up in Monticello. Lots of warm memories.

At this point, we don’t know exactly what happened inside of the penitentiary this morning. Now there is the journalistic balance between getting information about today but also respecting Anamosa and Jones County in this moment of grief.

I’m working to add more context to the deaths today at the prison, specifically for how rare this is. I searched deep into the Bureau of Labor Statistics (federal government site) this evening and found, from 2011-2019, a total of 36 reported cases of inmates killing correctional officers on the job.

That is an average of four correctional officers killed a year in the U.S. by inmates.

Today, we had one correctional officer and one prison nurse who died on the job.

This comes in a stretch where optimism is coming back. People are getting vaccinated. The data on the pandemic is still trending away from the dangerous days of November.

Now this grief.

Yesterday in Colorado, where ten people died in a shooting at a grocery store in Boulder. Now this in Anamosa.

People shouldn’t expect to die when they’re picking up ingredients to make dinner. People shouldn’t expect to die when they’re in the workplace, getting through another shift.

As we report what we learn from Jones County in the coming days and weeks, know that many, many people here in Eastern Iowa share your grief and your pain from the unthinkable that happened today.

THE DAY HAS ARRIVED. WE LOVE YOU, TATE

March 29. 2021

I first learned about DiPG six years ago on a Friday in the spring in Monticello. A day quite similar to today. The sun is blazing on my “sunburnable” face. That relentless Iowa wind in late March.

I never got to meet Austin Smith, the little boy who was diagnosed with DiPG when he was five. I met his grandparents. We cried outside of a grain bin on the edge of town. Pancake breakfasts followed to help raise money for Austin’s treatments.

At the time, I was still anchoring weekends here at KCRG-TV9. Whenever there was an event in 2015, I wanted to make sure we tried to get to it. I felt that, since I had this microphone that works across 22 counties, I should tell the world about DiPG.

Austin lived another year.

I see him in my mind, quite often. Sometimes, when I least expect it, I’ll see his smiling face on a TV commercial for a diner in Springville. Usually on the weekends when I’m watching sports. I chuckle and think of Austin.

Have you heard of Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma (DIPG) before?

It’s a death sentence. Forms in the back of the brain, usually when a child is 5 to 10 years old.

It takes a child – in the prime of their innocence – and turns their remaining time into a siege of hospitals, exams, surgeries and experimental treatments.

Instead of thinking about “what will I be when I grow up?”, it turns into the reality that the little girl or boy will never be able to break out of their broken body.

Death, generally, comes swift. Only 10% percent of DiPG patients survive two years. Only 1% make it five years.

Tate Schaefer died today at age 13. He made it 27 months. More than two years. Of course he did.

He’ll always be #TaterTough.

The Schaefers wrote: “On Monday, March 29, 2021 at 2:27 am Tate finished his course here on earth. He was surrounded by Teagan, Brad, and Darcy and we know that at his final breath he was ushered into Heaven’s gates by his Grandma Angel and so many others who have watched over him in his years here with us. He is shooting hoops, practicing his crossovers, hitting dingers, throwing heat off the mound and hitting bomb drives on the golf course. All pain free.”

* * *

I found out, back on Thursday, that Tate’s days were dwindling. Tate and his family were able to take a family trip to Florida recently. I can’t imagine how a parent pushes through the experience, knowing that this is “it”.

I also found hope in the family’s post. They sounded “ready” for the suffering to end. They said Tate was also ready as well.

Thursday morning, I was dog tired after a very intense week of news here in Eastern Iowa. Moping around the house, I read about Tate’s imminent final stage.

I threw on a hoodie and went running. Felt the tears hit me a couple times that first half-mile.

“This boy would probably want nothing more than to run free at this very moment,” I thought to myself. “Run to his future. Run to the next chapters of life where he makes all the choices. Does the fun stuff. Savors the juice of life. I’m in here whining to myself about being tired. This kid would give anything to do what I’m doing right now.”

So I ran. And thought of Tate.

* * *

Scott Saville tells me that he’s been crying all day. He, along with my dear friend, Mitch Fick over at Channel 2, have covered Tate’s journey so deeply and with so much love. They carried the torch.

I commend both of them for seeing Tate’s story through. To let the world know about this horrible disease that is rare but seems to be so painfully random in whom it strikes.

Coming up at 4 p.m., Scott and I will go in-depth on the impact Tate offered about Williamsburg. The city rallied around this young man. I doubt the two of us will “keep it together” on live television. I’m sighing as I think about this. We’ll get through it.

All I ask, friends.

If you come across DiPG anywhere, just learn a little more about it. We have so many awful diseases that demand our attention and I certainly understand that.

DiPG and ALS have touched me so much, from the patients I have met battling through it, that I hope to make more people aware.

To Tate’s family, thank you for sharing this young man with us for the last three years. Thank you for letting us shine a light on his journey.

As I wrote for Austin Smith in 2016…

Tate, may troubles melt like lemon drops.

With Love.

– So Many of Us Here in Eastern Iowa

FATHER-TO-FATHER

April 16, 2021

I reported for a lot of years in Eastern Iowa for KCRG-TV9.

Lots of Friday nights. Shifts where all of the plans for the day — whatever story I had set up and was working on — would suddenly stop and then move to whatever the breaking news story was.

Some of these moments are just popping into my mind as I type this, minutes after Beth Malicki and I put a “wrap” on the Friday 10 p.m. newscast.

A house fire outside Iowa City that I sat outside of for hours in the cold. A crash on a bridge by Coggon. The deadly shooting in June 2015 at Coral Ridge Mall.

All workdays where the day became longer.

Except I fully anticipated that I would come home that night. Probably later than the usual 10:50 p.m. but at least I’d get to come home.

* * *

In the last seven days, I’ve watched Eastern Iowa say goodbye to Sgt. Jim Smith of the Iowa State Patrol.

People lined up to say “goodbye” to a man that many people had probably never said “hello” to in his 51 years.

I think back a week. Friday night. Sgt. Smith, as the lead of a tactical team with the ISP, on scene at a standoff in Grundy Center. We have all learned about a remarkable life this man lived. More than 25 years with the State Patrol, working on this specialized unit.

He touched nearly all corners of our viewing area. Graduated from La Salle High School in Cedar Rapids. College at Kirkwood and Northern Iowa. Three years in Fairfield with the ISP before moving to Independence. He worked out of Oelwein. Worshipped in Jesup.

There is a dignity in being a father — an excellent father — and his colleagues and those close to him stress that Sgt. Jim Smith was exactly that. He worked in law enforcement but that did not define all of him.

Today, I heard the stories of the pride and marvel that he had in the achievements in his two children. I share that with him. It’s a bond that any father who is “present” craves.

I also learned of a continuous letter that he had been writing to them for years.

Perhaps this is a step those who work in calling with an inherent danger, such as police or law enforcement, take.

A letter for “just in case” the unthinkable and tragic happen. I can’t help but think of Sgt. Smith’s children as they reach these pivotal stages in life. For the big milestones (what I call the “juice of life”), Jim Smith won’t be there but it sounds like his legacy and his guidance will be.

His death probably strikes people in different ways.

I wrote, at some length, three weeks ago after the deaths of two prison workers in Anamosa. The comments that came back also revealed the constant worry or dread of kissing a loved one “goodbye” for their shift at work, with the unspoken sentiment of “please come home at the end of the day”.

There are so many of you with a spouse, a son or daughter, a sibling, a parent who works in law enforcement or corrections. I read that last month after Anamosa. You just want them to come home each day.

Sgt. Jim Smith didn’t get to come home to Independence.

Instead, hundreds of people came to him today in Independence.

Whether it’s the music, the salute, carrying the casket, the silence.

“10-42”, we all have our triggers.

Life matters.

Every day matters.

The action you take inside “your circle” matters.

One week ago probably shifted into another “late night”. No one in law enforcement knows, as they drive into work, that a standoff will them well past the normal hours of their shift.

None of us expect what happened to Sgt. Jim Smith on April 9, 2021 to happen to anyone. Any of us — regardless of what we do for a living.

* * *

It’s a shade past 11 p.m. as I’m plowing through the sentences. The newsroom is quiet. Just one other person here.

The words just are not flowing as I often find them. I’m at a loss in so many ways, even as so many people have helped to paint the color of this man’s life all week. They’ve given us the pattern of the tapestry of his life.

We’ve learned that Sgt. Jim Smith was a beacon of light — at work, for his family, for his faith family. A light that is an enduring legacy around Independence, Jesup and so many other places he touched.

Even as it feels like we’re all in this cloud, a funk that we keep trying to shove and tread our way out of.

It’s been a tough week in what we do. Each day, it feels like we’re getting hit with something new and awful, even if it’s a similar theme. Today, a shooting in Indianapolis at a FedEx facility and a homicide from Thursday in Cedar Rapids — right past where I often run.

I’ll still get the chance to put in my headphones tomorrow morning, lace up my well-worn New Balances, stretch these 46-year-old muscles and let myself go for an hour or two.

The Smith family doesn’t get this luxury. Eight days ago, I envision a family probably dreaming of some time away this summer as we all shake off a year-long pandemic. Perhaps a lake. Maybe waterskiing. The juice of life.

Now it’s forever changed for them. Forever.

This is not how the script is supposed to go.

“Father to father”, I ache terribly for his family and also for so many whom he touched.

After a week of listening to people talk about Sgt. Jim Smith — culminating with today’s service – it sounds like our corner of the world lost so much more than a man with distinguished service on the Iowa State Patrol.

A family lost a husband and father.

A faith family lost a leader.

Eastern Iowa lost one of the best of “us”.

Stay healthy this weekend. Take an extra minute to take in the juice of life. Talk Monday.

WELCOME TO SPRING 2021. ARE THE “BETTER DAYS” APPROACHING?

April 29, 2021

That April wind in Iowa is something I’ve learned to manage in this, Spring #14 for me in this state. It’s more than brisk, often relentless and, in some years, accented with minor flooding from the thaw.

I’ve found a strong connection between a fresh gust of wind approaching me and my hand strafing grass seed into our derecho-scratched yard, usually missing the “bombing target” by a foot.

Yet on the calm nights – like this one – the April evening is a magical place to be in. An absolutely ideal atmosphere.

I’ve been saying, for way too long, that “better days are ahead”. We’re getting there.

Made it through both Pfizer shots after I booked appointments a few weeks back in Vinton. (Also, thanks to the people I spoke with in Vinton at the Market Fresh as I tried to wait the full 15 minutes. Perhaps I was short a minute or two.) No real side effects on the second one but I did have some on the first shot.

My family is now fully vaccinated and I’m beyond appreciative for this.

I’ve said that medicine’s “finest hour” just may be the process of going from a global pandemic that put shackles on how we live our everyday lives in March 2020 to having a vaccine ready to roll out nine months later.

I recognize the process definitely hasn’t been perfect but I’m also encouraged to see us all approach what we’d like to think normal will be.

Of course, normal won’t be what it was back in 2019. We’re not going back to those days. Perhaps that may be good… at least in some ways.

Over the last 14 months, we’ve all lost the “easy” button — if we ever really had it at all.

Precautions are everywhere.

So is caution.

I’m excited to hear about the adventures of people as they approach the summer.

Yet I can feel this split into two separate – and very valid – viewpoints for the months ahead.

In my house, we’ve been extremely fortunate. No one lost their jobs. The work of raising teenagers has marched on, even with a senior year that will always have a feel of being graded as “incomplete” on the report card of life.

For people in Eastern Iowa who kept their jobs and that level of income, this summer may be one to really indulge. I keep reading the stories of travel and vacation planning. So much for so many to look forward to.

Do you own a home? If you want something to open your eyes, go to Trulia and type in your address. “Who would pay THAT for my house?” you may ask. But some are.

We’re also in a time of struggle for so many. Think of the industries where business, truly, shut down. Hotels and restaurants come to mind right away.

I’ve looked through some of the large-scale layoffs throughout our viewing area. So many sectors. Furniture manufacturing. Machining and factories. Financial services.

Plenty of people are in this time of uncertainty. Today in Iowa City, the Johnson County Fairgrounds held a food drive and a vaccination clinic. All drive-thru. A reminder that people are still in the battle.

Take in the joy of the simple pleasures. Over the last few weekends, I have a teenager in my house who actually wants to spend time with Dad (that’s me). To me, this is incredible.

When I was 16, I had wheels and 97-cent-a-gallon gas to burn as we cruised all over St. Louis. I never said, “hey, Mom, let’s go skateboarding”.

There is a certain appreciation I hold in these days. In about two years, I’ve have no more teenagers in high school. While I’ll always be their dad, I also want them to aim for the world and reach the goals.

Hopefully, by 2023, that world will be far better than this collective dusting off our dungarees that we’re all doing after 2020 and, so far, in 2021.

Onward.

THE WORLD RETURNS. BETTER DAYS? MAYBE WE’RE ABOUT “THERE”

May 25, 2021

The last two weeks led to getting back out into the world.

The presence of my first “buffet” in 14 months from a speaking engagement last night for the Cedar Rapids Freedom Festival.

Yes. A speaking engagement. Masks optional.

I actually had one of those ten days ago in Fayette for Northeast Iowa Community College’s graduation from the Peosta campus. Masks mandatory.

About 500 people inside of the gymnasium at Upper Iowa University to mark this day of achievement.

What does one offer up for a commencement address after the last year that we’ve all endured?

I tried. Best of all, I kept it short. About eight minutes. Everyone there isn’t there to hear me.

Well, maybe, only me to hear my own voice. (It’s perfectly okay to write this as long one admits it.)

They’re there for the graduates.

I can’t help but think of their futures. The world is different. Work is different. The everyday social interactions are altered forever.

* * *

I also find myself wondering how young children — from toddlers to, say, kindergarten-age — will look back on this time where they had to wear masks everywhere.

Perhaps it’ll be a footnote to their young lives. Like attempting to learn Metric in 1980 when I was five. It’s something people my age remember doing in school for about a month and then, poof, we’re back to inches and feet.

I’d see toddlers (or even younger children) with a face covering and wonder when they would get back to the normal wonder of interaction and discovery. Of the power of gravity on a playground. Of the feeling of pushing your limits on exactly how high one can jump off a swing set vs. not getting all scuffed up. We all had knew our thresholds back in the day.

I wonder how the teenagers will handle “the new learning” after a year of, mostly, trying to learn virtually. I contend this experience can be a visit for students who are looking at college after high school as it requires a higher level of self-motivation and discipline. I just worry about the overall mastery of the subject for the classes that follow.

* * *

Was finding a COVID-19 vaccine the medical field’s “finest hour”?

While not as dramatic as Apollo 11 landing on the moon in 1969, I’d also contend that the eight months from March 2020 to December 2020 — with the first vaccines going to health care workers as exactly this.

Think about this for a moment. We were at a point in society with fear and uncertainty for the future. My teenagers were overjoyed to get their vaccines. Driving my mother to Walgreens in March to get hers turned out to be a highlight of the winter.

The daily vaccination rates here in Iowa are down a little bit more each week and we all welcome this — as deaths are down and positive cases have also declined.

We’re just about “there”.

At more than 14 months since March 2020, it took longer than most of us planned to drive this bus, collectively, through the fog. Long time.

* * *

As we all take a look around at the summer, keep an open mind.

Some of us kept our jobs and spent most of 2020 in a holding pattern. Going to work — whether “at” work or from home — and not spending any money. Not traveling. No summer vacation. No beach.

This means quite a few families here in Iowa are all set to bust out.

Some of us are struggling from a pandemic that slowed so many sectors. Restaurants. Leisure. Tourism. Some manufacturing.

Some of us have new jobs for less money as the old ones faded away. I’ve taken a pay cut before with young kids. It’s incredibly stressful. If this is you, I’ve “been there”. You, especially, have my sympathy.

Our society may be more efficient in so many ways. (One example is that, perhaps, it’s time to consider online grocery shopping. More time to run.) I know that’s come at a cost for some.

In times of adversity, we often find ourselves looking for a hand to help.

For any of us who got through 2020, considering opening up to be “in service” to others a smidge more than right now. It could be simply listening — really listening — when someone reaches out. It could be, if you spot someone who looks like the world has been kicking them around — opening the door and offering a smile.

People deserve their dignity.

We’re all dusting ourselves off from the pandemic.

Stay kind. Keep smiling.

If you “made it through”, just be ten percent more generous in whatever is your currency.

ONE YEAR.

August 10, 2021

I’ve insisted for the better part of a year that, when we’re doing stories on people still dealing with the derecho, we refer to them as “derecho survivors”. Not “victims”.

We all got through August 10, 2020.

I didn’t even know when I would get to work that day. No power. Trees all over the streets. I took more than two hours to get to the station on a day where none of us really knew the magnitude until we saw the entire city and what happened.

For the next few weeks, we told the stories of survival, confusion, desperation, giving, questioning and, in many circles, generosity. We saw people sleeping in tents because their the wind knocked off the roofs of their apartments.

People who came to our country – who came to Cedar Rapids – for a better life were now adapting and sleeping in tents. No power. No food.

Then we all had to try and tell our children to “go learn virtually” weeks later.

Let that sink in.

That’s why I call us all “survivors”.

We see the damage throughout the city every day. I don’t run as much as I used to (thank you, combination of being 46 and fragile knees) but I do rack up a lot of miles walking.

If you drive through Cedar Rapids, you probably only see the tree stumps between the sidewalks and the streets.

If you walk or bike through Cedar Rapids, you have a little more time to look deeper at the properties.

You’ll still see roofs torn up.

You’ll see that temporary wrap on homes and apartment buildings.

You’ll see the occasional empty lot where the force of trees on a roof or, simply, the force of 120+ mph winds were too much for a structure.

Fixing this is expensive as, we all found out, insurance only covers so much. I was fortunate in that a colleague here at the KCRG World Headquarters likes to use his chainsaw. I spent five weeks, every day, clearing out tree branches and stumps — wheeling them downhill in our pie-shaped lot to the street for the eventual pick up.

It took two months to get rid of all of the debris but it got done.

We still see trees ripping up front yards. Most insurance policies do not cover that. If the tree hits the house, that’s covered. If it lands in the yard, it’s not covered.

“Dems da breaks,” I suppose.

It’s the same with sidewalks. Walk along Center Point Road between H Avenue NE and where Coe College starts. You’ll find uprooted sidewalks from the storm.

Ever had a sidewalk repair for a burst pipe or a water issue? That’s $2,000 minimum. I know. I’ve had it done. I can’t imagine these fixes cost less than $4,000 or $5,000. Not many people have that expense just sitting around.

As we finally hit this one-year mark since August 10, 2020, I find myself finding about the immediate hardships and challenges. For some reason, I filled up my gas tank the day before.

Whew.

Remember this. We had no gas stations open in Linn County for a week. No power. No gas. We heard some of the stations in Coralville were open, 25 miles away.

No power in our house for six days. Some people in Cedar Rapids went three weeks without power.

You’d go to sleep after sunset. Like a 2020 version of Little House on the Prairie. Windows open and with the sound of the cicadas.

I’ve been through two major floods and the derecho in the 13 years we’ve lived here in Cedar Rapids. It’s definitely been an adventure but also one where you appreciate the simple pleasures here and there.

I’ve spent the last two mornings playing sweaty, ugly, old man tennis against my son in these final days before he returns to college. Need it to clear my head. This is coming amid an exceptionally busy week here at KCRG-TV 9.

Beth Malicki interviewed the governor yesterday and she’ll take us through that conversation today. We have special newscasts ahead at 4/5/6/10 p.m. as we all look inside what August 10 means to all of us.

Oh yes… there’s also the Field of Dreams game on Thursday. I’ll be in Dyersville for that.

Thank you for watching us and reading my posts here. We all made it through 8/10/20.

If you live in Cedar Rapids or spend a decent amount of time in the city, do yourself a favor. Take a moment on your travels and look past the sidewalk. You’ll see the bruises from the derecho. You’ll also see workers hammering nails. You’ll see people on their hands and knees fixing their flower beds and their soil.

Recovery is ongoing. No one is snapping fingers and dropping $100 bills from a crop duster all over the city to make us whole.

Although, if they did, that would make great video.

Keep stepping forward. Head up. Shoulders back. Better days are ahead.

THANKSGIVING APPROACHES. EXHALE BUT KEEP THOSE EYES OPEN

November 24, 2021

On the drive into the KCRG-TV 9 World Headquarters early this afternoon, the vibe on I-380 was a little more Bristol Motor Speedway than usual.

Not necessarily the daring speeds but just clumps of tight traffic.

As every national newscast tonight will have a reporter standing outside of the TSA checkpoints at LAX, O’Hare, LaGuardia, Atlanta, DFW, that doesn’t really impact too many of us.

We’re Iowans. In general, we drive for our Thanksgivings.

I can’t help but think back to a year ago. The world was so much more different as we, just now, are dusting off our boots from the first 20 months of the pandemic.

Early December, the first vaccines came to market — for health care workers, older people, those at high-risk”. I was honored to drive to Vinton – a 40-minute cruise – on Day 1 of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament (I remember listening to Arkansas-Colgate) on the drive – for my first shot.

To this point, I haven’t had COVID-19. Neither has our household — as so many have had to battle through this. I’m thankful for that.

As we take a moment, a day, perhaps a long weekend to pull back and look at Thanksgiving, I know it’s still a struggle for so many people.

The cost of living is up — the most in 30 years. With inflation at 6.4% (the highest since 1991), it’s a “silent tax” that eats away at how a person makes a living.

If someone made $15 an hour in 2020, they would ABSOLUTELY notice it they were making $14 an hour this year. It’s the same effect (actually worse, as the tax liability would be higher). Same for dropping from $30 to $28. $60 to $56.

You simply notice.

I’m 47 so this is the first time I’m seeing the true impact of inflation as a grown man. Sure, I remember it as a small child. (The World Bank reports U.S. inflation was 11.25% in 1979, 13.55% in 1980).

Then decades of relative calm.

Right now, everything costs more and I see it in the essentials every day. Sure, we all notice the price of gas hovering at $3.20 here. But do we see the loaf of bread up 50 cents? The basics up 10-20% at the grocery store?

Every day, there are people who are, constantly, in the battle. A circumstance hits – perhaps a car starter went out or a dog needed a $600 treatment from a vet – and people feel like they can’t get back ahead.

We see this with the ongoing stories over child care slots — not enough of them in Eastern Iowa and that’s part of a myriad of reasons. About 1/3 of providers in Iowa have closed in recent years. The pay for child care workers is, let’s just call it, not very lucrative and there is that decision of “do I work outside of the home just to pay for child care?”

On top of this, single parents don’t even get that option.

As we all take in the holiday and get back to gathering with others, let’s all remember that the world is a little different than it was in November 2019.

As a collective, we’re a little more “rattled” after 2020.

I’ve been saying here “better days are ahead” for a long time. They still are. In fact, they always are coming and much of that depends on how the world appears to a person.

I recognize, like many others who do what I do for a living, that we are really close to the news. Every day, it’s like trying to chronicle the “history of the day”.

Many days, it can be very disheartening. I found out, during the 4 p.m. newscast on Tuesday, that a child died in the Waukesha parade tragedy. I don’t know how a parent ever handles that.

The killing of a Spanish teacher at Fairfield High School earlier this month shocked many of us to the core.

We have good days, too, here in Eastern Iowa. I welcome those days and nights, even if makes the newscast a little more challenging to complete.

Let’s keep searching out those good days. They’re out there.

Let’s keep our hearts open as we gather. Celebrate the successes but also recognize that everyone has a struggle. Everyone is in a battle, somewhere inside.

Let’s try and be our best but also encourage people who are having trouble finding their best.

Drive safe. Stretch those legs a little after the meal tomorrow. Enjoy Thanksgiving.

EPICENTER OF DESTRUCTION

December 21, 2021

“Two a.m. and I’m still awake, writing a song

If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer

Inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to.”

We’re back from three days of looking at the damage, the loss, the years of recovery ahead in Mayfield, Kentucky.

I found myself unable to sleep last night, even with my middle-aged bones and tendons tight and sore from three days on the road, three days of rain, meeting content deadlines and trying to shine a light on this corner of our country.

“How was it?” I’m asked in the newsroom and the people close to me.

“It was awful.”

My default response. Not the workload. This is what I do. “This is the business I’ve chosen”.

What happened in Mayfield is unspeakable.

* * *

Jack Lido and I pulled back into the comfort of Cedar Rapids, just before 5 p.m. Saturday . We were only in Mayfield for about 40 hours but it was long enough to comprehend what happened.

Mayfield has a 2020 census population of 10,017. It’s in Graves County. One county from the Mississippi River. One county from the Ohio River.

I’ll put this into some context for all of us in Eastern Iowa. Imagine an EF4 tornado hitting Mount Pleasant. Similar population. Similar relative “geographical position” within its region – on a highway but it still takes some effort to get to from the larger cities nearby. Paducah is 30 miles north of Mayfield. That’s where Jack and I stayed in relative comfort for two nights.

Mayfield is not a place of what we might call material abundance. Young people don’t leave big cities at age 18 to “make it big” in Cedar Rapids. They don’t leave Boston to “make it big” in Mayfield.

A population of 10,017, a little more racially-diverse than one might think from outside the region. Thousands of people in Mayfield were struggling before December 10, 2021.

Per Wikipedia, 27% of the city’s population lives below the poverty line, including 40% of the city’s children. (By comparison: Mount Pleasant, Iowa has 10% below the poverty line in 2020, 11.5% of children. Linn County is about 6%.)

The Graves County Fairgrounds, about two miles northwest of the most dramatic damage, is the staging area for responders, donations, truckloads of people coming in. There are two indoor facilities there – an indoor soccer complex and also a small gym that looks like it could be a rec area with some basketball hoops. Cases of bottled water. Dry foods. Canned goods. Stacks and stacks of diapers.

The flashback hit me when I saw these endless purple boxes of Luvs.

I’m 47 now. I became a parent at 27.

“You’re never more broke than in the months after you have a child,” I’ve said quite a bit over the last twenty years.

Seeing those boxes of diapers took me back to 2002.

Trying to scrape together $15 a week for a box of Luvs… and my wife and I had jobs with schedules that allowed one of us to be home with a newborn at all times. I look back and remember that, when the starter went out on one of the cars, that $400 fix felt like It would have broken us. We drove a car without air conditioning for two years because that $731 (yes, I remember the exact cost of the estimate) was about four months of diapers and formula.

Even when you’re older and a little further along in your career, you remember the struggle. It’s important to remember.

Thousands of people in this city lost everything. Some people lost their lives. Survivors, truly, don’t have a place to go.

* * *

“But you can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable

And life’s like an hourglass glued to the table

No one can find the rewind button now

Yeah, sing it if you’ll understand”

I’ve attached about five minutes of the NewsDrone 9 video that I recorded over Thursday night into Friday afternoon. With fewer than ten hours of sunlight in December, this makes the work of “getting the word out” even more challenging. Using chainsaws or clearing out debris in the dark is even more dangerous than in daylight, complete with pooled water and downed lines all over the city.

I ask you to take a look at it. Perhaps the reaction will move you.

As I launched the drone on Thursday, with about 40 minutes of daylight left, a man approached us.

Pastor Bobby Waldridge.

“I don’t want to tell you do your job–” he offered.

“Please, I’ve been in town for six minutes, tell me what to do,” I interrupted.

“But I’d like to get the word out. We don’t need pizzas. We don’t need water. We need money. I hate to beg but we need money.”

We still had another ten minutes until the next live shot, at 4:30 p.m. on Thursday, so I flew the drone to get the first three minutes of video you’ll see here. Bobby walked around his damaged church sanctuary and then talked to us, on-camera, after the 4:30 p.m. live hit.

He was heartfelt and told us about the area. Apparently, chicken farming is a major industry around Mayfield. The tornadoes took out those facilities.

This means hundreds of people, perhaps more, are out of work. I imagine the life of a chicken worker may not be that much more different than people here in Eastern Iowa working in poultry and food processing. It’s a job. It’s messy work. Bruised and blistered hands. Sore feet and backs from a full day of work standing up.

Their livelihoods are on hold.

But life marches on. Life costs money and that is never on hold.

* * *

“There’s a light at each end of this tunnel, you shout

Because you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out

And these mistakes you’ve made, you’ll just make them again

If you only try turning around”

Not all of Mayfield is like this but it’s shocking when you see it.

Driving into the core of the city, on Highway 45, there was a hill around of the Dairy Queen.

“Jack,” I said, on Thursday in the final mile of a 500-mile journey, “I bet once we go over this little hill, it’ll be awful.”

It was even worse than I expected.

At night, these blocks of Mayfield take on a far different people. The silence is jarring. Just reference any movie about a futuristic world with few people walking around and damage everywhere. That’s this slice of Mayfield.

We saw other parts of the city with damage and some homes appear salvageable. Chainsaws filled the air. People working Gators to take away shingles, siding, sheds that couldn’t withstand winds of 170 mph. Insurance adjusters were out, with hard hats and clipboards.

But for the damage that you’re seeing here on the drone video, there isn’t a need to any of that.

These properties are teardowns.

The people who survived have lost just about everything. Hundreds of smashed cars and trucks, with windows shattered, sit in driveways that don’t have a home anymore. Millions of bricks tossed around the city like Lego blocks.

Thank you to people from Eastern Iowa who came down to help. Willie Ray Fairley and his team of barbecue and logistics experts, including Trevor Nicholson “Trucker Trevor”, kept us in the loop for the response efforts as they set up at the fairgrounds to serve 500 meals a day to survivors and National Guard members here to offer whatever they could. We ran into Jeni Schultz, of Williamsburg, coming through town to get to Nashville to watch her son, Jalen Schropp, wrestle for Loras College. She stopped to help clear debris. We heard from Jim Greif, who was part of a team delivering a truckload of relief supplies off donations from Monticello, Prairieburg, and Anamosa.

* * *

Who makes a movie or a sitcom about this part of Western Kentucky?

Compared with the rest of our collective, national culture, this part of the country is extremely isolated.

“Country roads, take me home,” wasn’t about this region.

Iowans hear the words “flyover country” quite often but we do get the occasional nod on “Field of Dreams”. Heck, there was even a movie called “Cedar Rapids” a decade ago, even if it was shot in Michigan.

Do not forget about these people of Mayfield, touched by an EF-4 tornado that hit at night on December 10, 2021.

Their lives changed forever.

If we can help, let’s keep helping.

On Tuesday afternoon, I was just getting set for the next few days ahead. One kid coming home from college. Watch the Chiefs game on Thursday. A fairly laid-back week.

Then I was told I was going to Kentucky to look at the response efforts. KCRG-TV9 wanted a presence there.

These days are hard work – news reporting from 500 miles away, four live shots a day, complete reports at night – requires a level of intensity, discipline and drive to push through.

However, when it’s in the context of reporting on the lives of people “on their worst days”, my days were a breeze. I’m certain that working at a chicken mill, before the tornado, is five times as difficult than what we were doing.

Thanks to Jack Lido, who is months out of college at Northwestern, and had never been to Kentucky. Producing this content, as a team, was even more rewarding.

Thanks to all of you for your encouragement on the trip, the reason why we went and the continued need for the people of Western Kentucky.

They do appreciate it. More than you know.

Breathe. Just breathe.

AUTHOR OF THREE NOVELS

Gotcha Down (2004)

The Interim (2007)

The Last Out (2009)

TOSSING OUT THE ALARM CLOCK

March 6, 2020

THE COMMENCEMENT WITH NO CROWD
April 6, 2020

ALWAYS ‘FOREVER’S TEAM’ TO ME
April 19, 2020

IN PRAISE OF A CO-WORKER
July 31, 2020

DAY 5 OF THE DERECHO
August 14, 2020

AUTHOR OF THREE NOVELS

Gotcha Down (2004)

The Interim (2007)

The Last Out (2009)

TOSSING OUT THE ALARM CLOCK

March 6, 2020

THE COMMENCEMENT WITH NO CROWDApril 6, 2020

ALWAYS ‘FOREVER’S TEAM’ TO MEApril 19, 2020

IN PRAISE OF A CO-WORKERJuly 31, 2020

DAY 5 OF THE DERECHOAugust 14, 2020

THE COMMENCEMENT WITH NO CROWD
April 6, 2020

ALWAYS ‘FOREVER’S TEAM’ TO ME
April 19, 2020

IN PRAISE OF A CO-WORKER
July 31, 2020

DAY 5 OF THE DERECHO
August 14, 2020