Jeff’s Dark and Early Blog

The alarm clock sounds at 3:05.  I lightly tap the snooze and flip the switch to the “off” position.  My wife stirs, but does not wake up.  I roll out of bed, motion a good morning to my dog as he silently watches me leave the room, and turn off the alarm in the hall.

I make my way toward the bathroom in the dark.  BANG!

I silently utter a few choice words as I hobble toward the sink, stubbed toe and all.

I’m ready by 20 after three and heading down the stairs for breakfast.  Cheerios, a banana and some orange juice.  I’m trying to stay off of the coffee these days.

I grab my gear, re-set the alarm and head out to the garage.  My wife stirs again as the door goes up, and then down as I pull away.  I know she stirs at this time because she likes to tell me about it every day.

I take the quiet drive down Shawnee Mission Parkway at 3:35.  Most every stoplight is green, with only a handful of cars passing me in the quiet morning.  The low volume of the radio serves only as background noise.  There is a peaceful feeling at this hour of the day.

I arrive at the KMBZ studios by ten till the hour.  I make my way up the stairs, avoiding the elevator, another thing I’m trying to cut out these days.

As I enter the hallway leading to the newsroom, I can hear the scanner chatter.  Six people shot in KCK.  I compare notes and details with producers Jayme and Cooper, grab the keys to Cruiser 980 and back down the stairs I go.  I am out the door as quickly as I arrived.

I can see the flashing lights and the crime scene tape from Parallel Parkway.  Flashlights are visible in the distance.  Maybe a search, I think to myself.

I pull the car to the scene, grab a microphone and recorder and located the officer handling media questions.  I’ve got plenty of them.

Following that conversation, I edit sound, compile notes into a legible report and am on the air by 5.

As the morning progresses, I learn that one deceased victim is a seven-year-old girl.  I have a conversation with the mother of another victim.  I check with police for leads.  I relay that information to the public, hoping we might play a role in catching a bad guy.  No such luck.  The shooter is still at large.

Over the course of that four hour period of the morning, my life as a street reporter is in high gear.  Phone calls, questions, waiting, more questions.  Sometimes there’s breaking news in the case, other times the process wears on throughout the morning.

I go home in the afternoon, and can’t help but be impacted by what happened.  A child has died, and no explanation of why can make that okay.  I walk through the door and pick up my little boy.  We spend the afternoon playing silly games of make believe, far away from the world I often see on work days.

When you’ve done field reporting as long as I have, you find yourself shocked by very little.
I once covered a naked man in Joplin, Missouri who entered a convenience store, ate a bunch of canned tuna and then laid down in the middle of the highway.
So when I got the assignment to pay a visit to a family who had a large oak tree in their bedroom, I wasn’t overly alarmed. I had, after all, seen this before.
What I and we as reporters sometimes forget, however, is that for the people involved in these situations, this IS the first time.
I can only assume that man had never laid nude in a highway before and there was no doubt in my mind this morning that trees were not regular visitors in the home of this particular family.
My job is to tell their story. Not just the facts, but the human side as well. I hope I never forget this valuable lesson of journalism.

My first official Father’s Day as a dad was filled with family, food and a few simple reminders about what matters most.

We celebrated the holiday all weekend, as I’m sure most families do.  I took Saturday off from anything around the house.  My wife bought me a massage, cooked some of the best short ribs I’ve ever had and I got to watch 13 innings of baseball as my Cubs defeated the Cleveland Indians.  That afternoon, I had unlimited hours with my nine month old son.  We played, we laughed and we all went to bed with the satisfaction of a much needed Saturday full of relaxation.

But it was not until Sunday that I saw a first hand example of what makes the holiday special.

My father-in-law, Duane, is a typical American guy.  He works hard, loves his family, and spends a lot of time infatuated by cars and sports.  Needless to say, we get along just fine, and because my wife and I live in Johnson County, he gets to see us on a regular basis.  His other kids don’t live so close.

So I watched on Sunday as he spent time with two of his daughters, his son, his dauther-in-law, and two of his sons-in-law.  His other daughter wasn’t able to make it to town, but his face lit up when she called to wish him Happy Father’s Day.

As I watched a father with his grown children on a holiday reserved for such togetherness, I couldn’t help but keep my eyes on my own son, so little, playing with his toys in Duane’s living room.

Life happens in a heartbeat.  One day you’re in diapers.  The next, you’re gone.  Ethan has no choice but to spend Father’s Day with me right now.  He’s only a little boy and his daddy is still the apple of his eye.  I only hope I’m as lucky as Duane someday, and share the day with children who choose to be with me, even if it means traveling long distance, because of the obvious impact I’ve made on their lives.

For anyone who loves classic television, picture the following scenario:

The town of Mayberry, North Carolina is hit hard in the middle of the night by fierce, 90 mile per hour straight line winds.  Floyd’s Barber Shop is a pile of rubble.  Wally’s Filling Station is heavily damaged.  The roof of the jail is ripped apart and strewn across town.  The homes of Andy, Goober and Thelma Lou are in need of repair as well.  Barney cannot even find his bullet.

The way the fictional folk of the old “Andy Griffith Show” might behave in the aftermath of a storm like that came to life this morning in the small Missouri town of Drexel, which was ravaged by a real-life storm in the middle of the night.

Neighbor helped neighbor.  Despair was crushed by optimism.  Jokes were told, prayers were prayed and fine friends shook hands.

On not one corner of that small town could I find a sour soul.  Instead I found life long friends looking on the bright side.

“It could have been so much worse,” one woman told me.  “We have such a wonderful town.  We’re so glad no one was hurt.”

“I’ve been here 19 years,” said another.  “We’ve had tough times before.  Everyone knows everyone here.  We’ll be just fine.”

As I shook the hands and listened to the words, I couldn’t help but think of Mayberry.  Fictional, yes, but real in the hearts of those who live in small towns like Drexel.

May the clean up be swift and the hard work be done.

Soon enough, Floyd will be cutting hair, Goober will be pumping gas and Barney will indeed find his bullet.

In my neighborhood, what I do for a living is no secret.  You only have to drop by the house in Cruiser 980 a couple of times and people start to take notice.

The comments and questions I get from the other adults who live nearby are pretty standard.

“How did you get into that field of work?”

“Did you go to some special school for that?”

“We heard you on the radio today!”

I live in a neighborhood that is crawling with kids.  My wife and I have a son, the neighbors have two girls and a boy, two doors down are three more boys, their neighbors are expecting, and the list goes on.

The comments and questions I get from the kids, however, are priceless entertainment.  I thought I’d share a few of them with you today.

“Why is your car so little?  You should drive a plane!”

“Do you know Barack Obama?”

“Can I borrow your microphone?  I need to hit my brother with it!”

“How do you fit inside the radio?”

“My dad says the communists are coming!”

The list goes on, but those are some of the better ones.  I’ve always appreciated the honesty and the curiosity displayed by children.  May we all keep a little of that with us as we grow old.

I saw him as I departed from a morning of live reports from the Power and Light District.
At the stoplight from Truman Road to I-35, he sat, fitting the sterotypical profile with ease. He was scruffy and sullen. He had the cardboard sign and the torn up shirt. He look weary in the early morning hours.
Like many of us have done a thousand times, I chose to look the other way. I had a few bucks on me, but I decided to wait out the light and move on as quickly as I could. The other cars around me did the same.
The man continued to sit, sign in hand, waiting.
A car pulled up behind me, but the occupant did not choose to follow the example set by the rest of us.
I watched as the homeless man arose from the place where he sat, and scurried over to the car like a puppy who is offered some table food.
A hand holding dollar bills extended from beyond the glass. The man took it, gestured thanks, and moved back to his spot.
This act alone would make a good story for a Monday, or any day for that matter. But it was not the act alone that inspired me to tell this story.
I cannot describe nor express what I saw on the face that tired old man as he took his seat.
He smiled in the way that only children smile while opening a present full of ribbons and bows on Christmas morning.
It was as if he was overjoyed with the thought that two unfamiliar souls, in that instant of a moment, had touched one another. He did not realize that his moment in time had touched a third soul as well.
I do not know this man’s story, nor will I likely have the opportunity. I know not what led him to his position in life, nor what might lead him from here.
But his eyes, and the smile he shared with me in that brief moment before the light changed, are still with me as I depart on this beautiful spring day.
I hope they stay with you as well.

This post has little to do with what I do for a living, and at the same time, it has everything to do with it.
In light of all the disturbing things in the news of late, I’ve found myself pausing for reflection on the people in my life who make me proud and more importantly, why they do so.

My son. To quote Rod Stewart: “Whatever road you choose, I’m right behind you, win or lose. Forever young.

My wife. For her guts, her sweetness. For every kindness. For always being someone I’m proud to be with. And most of all, for our beautiful child, and all the love that exists in our home.

My parents. For staying married for 30 years, through all that life has to offer. They are the example I hope to live up to.

My dad. For staring heart disease in the face, never giving up and having the courage to keep living life.

My mom. For more reasons than I could ever express. The most kind, most wonderful person I have ever had the privelage of knowing.

My grandmother. For going on with life after losing her soul mate just over ten years ago. I am so proud to be her grandson, and for the memory of my grandfather that she has never let die.

My brother. For setting his sights high, for completing the tough road that is an education at the University of Kansas, for dressing as a taquito and going out in public and for the fine job he does working with the Kansas City Royals. You will always be that little tag along who always wanted to play with his big brother.

And finally, I am so proud to have known two of my close friends in this business who are no longer with us. To Dan Willis and Randy Brown: I would not be where I am today without your guidance along the way. You both changed my life in different ways, but change it you did. For that, I love and miss you both.

Kudos to everyone, and I mean EVERYONE in our newsroom for the hard work on both the George Tiller murder and the bankruptcy at General Motors.

I’ll start with KMBZ’s Bill Grady, who forfeited not only his Sunday, but also his early Monday morning in order to go to Wichita and bring our listeners the very latest on a very unexpected situation. 

Those of you listening heard Bill and I handle double coverage this morning.  Bill was in Wichita, I was at the home of the alleged gunman.  We had it covered from all sides, and continue to work in the newsroom today for more leads.

What won’t get the attention it deserves unless I point it out is the work that E.J. and Ellen did behind the scenes in preparation for what was obviously a busy Monday news day.

We knew the GM thing was coming, but Tiller caught us by surprise.  Our co-anchors took time on their Sunday to book newslines and make sure we had every guest we could possible get on the murder of Wichita’s famed abortion doc.  Those are the things that go unnoticed by the listener.

Criticism comes with the job, but I’ll say again what I’ve said in the past.  I work with some of the most professional journalists in the business, and when it comes down to crunch time, we get the job done.