Word Combinations

… And still champion

Manistee senior Kenny successfully defends state title in giant slalom

HARBOR SPRINGS — What runs through the mind of a champion when composing her craft?
For Nathalie Kenny, it could have been a thousand thoughts at rapid fire as she blistered through her final run.
The Manistee senior may have had in mind the stakes:
— A second straight state championship.
— A tone to set for her teammates still vying for a title as a group.
— An exclamation point on one of the most successful athletic careers of all the Chippewas before her.
Not to mention, Kenny could have been mentally reciting what any skier would while zipping down a mountainside, such as “turn,” “push,” “dip” … “don’t fall.”
Instead, she thought of nothing.
“There can be a lot of different things — things like, ‘hands forward, hit this turn,’” Kenny explained, “but honestly, most of the time my mind’s just blank. I’m on automatic pilot.”
There’s nothing automatic about defending a state title, but Kenny made it look especially easy Monday afternoon at Boyne Highlands by repeating as Division 2 giant slalom champion. In a combined time of 59.79 — more than a second ahead of her nearest competitor — Kenny became the first multiple state champion in MHS history. And when it was over, Kenny could think.
“Relief,” she said of what she felt at the finish line. “When I finished (my final) run, I felt like that was the cleanest one I could have put down. I didn’t know I had it in the bag yet, but I was happy with it. And I felt like, no matter what, it was a great day for me in GS.”

DEFENDING THE CROWN 

A year ago, Kenny won her first GS crown by edging Petoskey’s Victoria McVicker by 0.32 seconds. The victory was made sweeter by the fact McVicker had edged Kenny for gold two straight years prior.
“I think last year’s was a little sweeter,” Kenny said Monday, recalling her first title. “I was a junior, I was so close before, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy. That was such a feat for me. This year was a little different. As a senior, I obviously wanted to do well, but enjoy the day too.”
Kenny started seizing the day with a second-place finish in the slalom during the morning events. Then, she started the afternoon on pace to defend her crown.
“Last year, I was the underdog. There was a little less pressure, a little less expectation. This year, I just kind of let myself forget about last year. I wanted to focus essentially on what I was doing. In the gate, I reminded myself of a few technicalities, just to keep focused — not thinking about the result, but more about the process.
“I felt like if I came in thinking I was going to win, or completely expecting to — I don’t know, you don’t want to get too cocky because that’s when it can all fall out from under you. I just tried to stay grounded, and remind myself how I did well last year and do the same thing this year.”
Kenny finished her first GS run in the time of 29.56, just edging Jean Klochko Bull (29.97) for first.

‘NEVER HAD SUCH A GREAT RUN’

As if she hadn’t already in the first trip down the mountain, Kenny set the bar out of reach during her second, and final, run of her prep career.
With the gates set “just how I like it,” Kenny flawlessly sped to the finish line in 30.23.
“My second run, I was just fl owing,” she said. “It was so smooth. I’ve almost never had such a great run.”
Her coach agreed.
“Her second run — and I told her this when she came down — she looked like she just walked off the World Cup,” Manistee coach Dick Totch said. “Every turn was perfect, precise. She let it really rip.”
Kenny watched as no other skier threatened her combined mark through their second runs. And when it was official, Kenny was the first Chippewa with a pair of individual state titles.
“It’s kind of awesome to leave a piece of history like that behind,” she said. “I mean, anyone’s happy to win something like this, but that’s just a great feeling.”

LASTING IMPRESSION 

Totch has coached a lot of skiers, but never a two-time state champion. What makes Kenny different?
“I would call her a fanatic about being perfect,” he said. “Anything she does, she wants to be perfect at. When you put that much time and dedication into something, you’re going to get very good — even if you don’t reach your full potential. She is extremely dedicated and because of that, extremely fast. Her victory today was really sweet.”
After the race, Kenny was not yet reflective on her career.
She still had a medal to collect, and wasn’t prepared for her last race with the Chippewas to sink in.
“I don’t think it has — not yet,” she said. “There’s still so much hype right now in here, and we’re all still together. But I think once we leave, and I’m on my way home, it might. Like, ‘wow, I’m not going to be skiing for high school anymore.’ It’s sad. It really was my last time.”
For four years, Kenny has blazed down mountains and collected medals. In the last two, she’s added state championships. 
And for a final 30.23 seconds, without even thinking, she left her lasting impression on her school.
She sure finished it fast. But some races last forever.

(Originally published on Tuesday, Feb. 28, 2012 in the Manistee News Advocate.)

Chips’ Kenny skis to D2 state title in giant slalom

BOYNE FALLS — Nathalie Kenny knows firsthand just how slim the margin between first and second place can be.
In the previous two ski seasons, the Manistee junior twice won a silver medal in the girls giant slalom at the state championship — missing out on gold each time by mere fractions of a second, and each time, to the same competitor.
But with her own nagging mantra in tow, Kenny devoted herself to get over the hump by getting down one — fast.
Monday, that hump was Boyne Mountain, and Kenny did exactly that. With a combined time of 58.11, she won the individual Division 2 GS state championship over Petoskey’s Victoria McVicker — the skier who has twice topped Kenny for the title — by 0.32 seconds.
“At the beginning of the year I said no more second places,” Kenny said. “That turned out to be right on.”

A SPECIAL REACTION

The Manistee girls team, which eventually took fourth of the nine Division 2 state finalists, competed in the slalom during Monday’s morning runs, in which Kenny took third.
However, the afternoon’s giant slalom was no time for bronze, or another silver for that matter.
“I was like ‘I’ve got to win first today,’” Kenny said on heading into the afternoon, but cited an epiphany right before her first GS run.
“I didn’t really go out of the gate thinking ‘OK, I’m taking first,’” she recalled. “I just wanted to ski fast — the best I could. And it prevailed.”
Kenny won the first of two runs over the two-time defending champion by the slimmest of margins. Kenny clocked in at 28.89 to McVicker’s 28.91.
On the second run, Kenny sealed the deal — even though she didn’t realize it at the time.
“I wasn’t sure exactly what my time was,” explained Kenny, who was followed by McVicker two skiers later, “and when Victoria came down, I thought she had beat me by a half a second.”
Manistee coach Dick Totch was the first to clue Kenny in.
“At first, she was hanging on to my arm and goes ‘Uh, I didn’t get it,’” Totch said. “I looked at (the scoreboard) and said ‘Are you having a hard time adding?’ Then she realized she actually did it.
“The look on her face was something special … That’s one of the reasons that I coach.”

FRUITS OF LABOR

After sharing hugs and tears with coaches, family, friends and teammates, Kenny could rest easy. Her day was done, and what she’s worked tirelessly for was accomplished.
“I worked really hard for this in the preseason,” Kenny admitted “It was an awesome feeling (to win).
“After taking second for two years, I just went out and did my thing.”
Before training with the team every afternoon this season, Kenny said she regularly hit the weight room with Bear Lake cross country coach Eric Ross before her school day even started.
“We do a lot of weight lifting, plyometrics — we run stairs for 25 minutes — that is horrible,” Kenny said. “But I keep in mind this quote by Muhammad Ali: ‘I hated every minute of training, but I said ‘Don’t quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.’ I just wanted to stick to that.”
Reciting “The Greatest” verbatim was impressive, and obviously paid dividends.
But Kenny’s own adage “No more second places,” seemed to work out for her as well.
“Yeah, that too,” she said with a laugh. “It was always in the back of my mind.”

NO REST FOR THE CHAMPION

There’s one thing for sure: when Ali, the architect of Kenny’s words of wisdom, knocked out Joe Frazier, he certainly wouldn’t break down the ring, or sweep up bits of popcorn from the aisles afterword.
Kenny, on the other hand, was found back on the mountain she had just conquered to help event officials tear down the course.
Doesn’t the recently crowned champion deserve a break?
“Oh no,” she said. “They put it up, I just ran it. So, I just do my best to help.”
It’s that sort of work ethic that doesn’t go unnoticed by her coach and teammates.
“She’s been behind (McVicker) the past two years, she did not want it to happen again,” said teammate and fellow MHS junior Andrea Paine. “She was so determined to win. It all paid off in the end.”
Said Totch: “You can’t get any closer to a state championship, and not get it, than she has (the past two seasons). With her work ethic, she certainly deserved it today.
“The kids she races against are so fast,” he added. “I knew it was going to be so close, so it was never a given she’d get it, but I knew she had it in her to get it.”
Get it, she did — and, according to the clock, by the slimmest of margins.
But don’t be fooled. Kenny’s solid gold determination made all the difference in the world.

(Originally published on Thursday, March 1, 2011 in the Manistee News Advocate. This article, coupled with “Manistee boys place second, girls fourth at state finals,” won second place for Sports Writing in the 2011 Michigan Press Association Better Newspaper Contest in the Daily D division. Judges comments: “Newsy pair of stories with good, human angles that tie together well. Nicely Written.”)

Living a lifelong dream

Story resigns after 32 years coaching Onekama track

Over the years, Onekama students have run in and out of Mickey Story’s life as fast as they can.
It’s been by design.
As the high school boys track and field coach, he’s taught them to do so.
Though they’ve been brief flashes in the pan, the prep athletes who’ve passed through his 32-year tutelage have all lined up in a similar lane.
Off the blocks, they’re boys. Often times, at the finish line, they’re young men.
And after spending over half his life as a coach, the 61-year-old Story decided this past season would be his final lap.
“I’ve really enjoyed coaching a lot,” said the OHS teacher, who plans to continue his career in the classroom. “I think it’s just the time to step aside and let a younger person take over the reigns.
“It’d be good for someone to step in right now with some fresh enthusiasm. That would be a very positive thing for the program.”
Story knows all about positive strides.
The decorated coach has traveled leaps and bounds since taking over the Onekama middle school program in 1978 and the high school boys program in 1980.
And he admits that all the while, it’s been his pleasure.
“I’m pretty fortunate that I’ve been able to teach and coach for all these years, especially for one school system,” Story said. “When I was in high school, I knew I wanted to be a science teacher, I knew I wanted to coach. This has been a lifelong dream.”

MICKEY’S STORY 

Baseball was Story’s favorite sport. Track and field had to top it.
“I just ate drank and slept baseball,” said Story, who grew up in Steamboat Springs, Colo. “I just loved it until my ninth grade year.
“That year, I played baseball and also went out for track and field just as a lark. What I found out about track and field was I was the one responsible for how good I got. If I wanted to be good, that would be up to me … that’s what really drew me into the sport. After ninth grade, I was totally infatuated with track, and never played baseball again.”
If there was a right choice between the two sports, Story must have made it.
He garnered much success as a high school sprinter before moving on to the next level as a mid-distance runner for one year at Colorado State University.
“Going into a Division 1 track program is really an eye opener,” he said of the jump. “It was a job. You really had to work hard to keep up with those gifted athletes.”
After graduating from CSU, Story’s wife, Nancy, convinced him to move to northern Michigan, where she had family ties.
“She grew up in Michigan and she wanted to be near her parents for two years and I grudgingly said, ‘OK, I’ll give you two years in Michigan,’” Story said. “And that two years has turned into 32. The rest, as they say, is history.”
The location may have changed. But, after taking a teaching job in the Onekama school system, track and field was quick to beckon.

BY THE NUMBERS

Through his 30 years of coaching the high school program at Onekama, Story has built a pretty lengthy, not to mention impressive, resume.
Among the accolades are 15 conference championships (five Northwest Conference titles and 10 in the West Michigan D League), five regional titles, 29 All-State athletes, and six state champions.
He also coached 11 athletes who currently hold Onekama High School records. And while the numbers may speak for themselves, Story has prided his career on a less cut and dry statistic.
“By far the thing I’m going to miss most is watching kids improve who really want to improve,” he said. “The kids who work really hard, just to watch them improve and watch them get the satisfaction, coming up and saying ‘Hey coach, I just got a PR.’”
From state champions to team players, Story’s favorite aspect of coaching hasn’t subsided.
“It’s the thrilling part of the sport. Whether it’s at a low level where a kid is just starting an event, or whether someone does the best in their life at a state meet. It’s awesome to see that.”
Story has seen lessons learned on the track translate to life, time and again.
“It goes without saying, those kids who have a really good work ethic are very successful in track and field and very successful in the classroom, and will be very successful in life,” he said. “What you get out of anything is what you put into it. I’ve found if you work hard, you don’t have to be necessarily talented because, boy, hard work pays off for a lot of things.”

IMPROVING AS A COACH

While his athletes strived to shed times and set new heights and distances, Story said he’s also been learning — crafting his coaching style through the years.
“I’ve probably learned to become more understanding of each kid,” he said. “I think I became a better coach and a better teacher when I became a parent.
“Being a parent really opened my eyes to the fact that sometimes things have to be explained more than once, or demonstrated, rather than telling a kid something and assuming they’ll get it.
“Probably, my best virtue now is patience. That’s probably something I couldn’t say earlier in my coaching career,” he added with a laugh. “I’ve just become more patient and understanding.”
By the end of his tenure, Story’s lifelong experience around the sport has helped guide the Onekama athletes.
“At my age now, what I was bringing to the table was the fact I’ve done this for a lot of years,” he said. “I have a lot of experience. They may look at me at first, thinking ‘oh, this old guy is talking to me,’ but I really do know what I’m talking about and I think that they see that too.”

BUILDING AN ATMOSPHERE

Anyone who’s kept an ear to local prep track and field has surely been privy to Onekama’s recent success, both in boys and girls competition.
But, what isn’t found in the numbers and the headlines is the sense of team the Portagers carry close with them.
From lining up at meet’s end to cheer on the final relay squad to sacrificing a personal record to pace a teammate, Onekama has exemplified the team approach in an otherwise individual-heavy sport.
It’s been a quality that Story and girls coach Bonnie Brown have instilled in their programs.
“I hope that continues,” Story said. “We work really hard in trying to get the kids to understand that they have responsibilities to cheer on the team. It’s comforting to see during the last couple events of the meet that you have your teammates cheering for you, rather than sitting and waiting for the meet to end back on the bus.
“We’re sort of all in this together.”

STILL A PRESENCE

He may not don the whistle and stop watch next year, but Story plans to be a part of the program he helped build.
“I still plan on coming and helping,” he said. “I’d be glad to do that where I can. I just won’t be doing all the other planning.
“I don’t see myself walking away from track and field.”
And who can blame him? Story has been as much of a fixture to Onekama’s track facilities as the hurdles and starting blocks.
“Looking at the track brings a smile to my face,” he said. “I have spent over half of my life on that 400-meter oval.”

PASSING THE BATON

Story’s quick to pass on praise.
He cites his fellow coaches, namely Brown and her husband and assistant coach Jerry Brown.
He thanks the parents, the school’s administration, his past athletes who have come back to help coach like Tony Shrum, Anthony Torres and Ryan Brown.
His wife Nancy, he calls his “right hand in coaching.”
He credits his athletes — their talent, their hard work, their will to improve. But for the past three decades, Story has been the constant variable.
In a marathon career, his leg of the race has been well run — setting up whomever his successor may be in perfect position.
He’ll now pass the baton. But, during his 32-year pursuit, he’s given his athletes what he always expected from them.
His absolute best.

(Originally published on Thursday, May 27, 2010 in the Manistee News Advocate. This article won third place for Sports Feature in the 2011 Michigan Press Association Better Newspaper Contest in the Daily D division. Judges comments: “This piece earned third on the strength of a promising writing effort.”)

Moment or not, marriage is a rewarding road

There’s this iconic scene in “The Graduate” I’ve always sort of envied.
It unfolds in the last sixty-or-so seconds of the film, depicting somewhat of a dust-settling reflection of the famous wedding-gone-awry.
Ben Braddock, the story’s protagonist, had just interrupted Elaine Robinson’s nuptials to the “wrong man,” to which she answers with a rebellious flee from the alter.
After commotion ensues through their departure from the church, the two star-crossed lovers hop a passing bus and plant themselves in the back seat, leaving the fallout of disappointed family, friends and the rest of the world behind.
Then my favorite scene starts: a quiet series of expressions exchanged by the two over Simon & Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence,” coupled with the buzz of the bus engine as it perpetually moves them forward.
It’s unclear whether either think they’ve made the right decision — they never once lock eyes during mixed looks of elation and retrospection — but one thing is certain. Whatever they’re in, they’re in it together. And wherever the bus is going, it will take them both. From there, the road will be long, possibly challenging, but most-of-all rewarding.
The credits role.
Since I sometimes strive to be a product of what I watch, I was hoping for my own Hollywood moment to organically arise during my wedding day nearly two weeks ago. The difference was, I was marrying the right girl. And I’ve lived with her for a while now.
Still, I wanted to live that definitive here-we-go-, this-is-it-type scene that I’ve been so accustomed to seeing develop in mediums just outside the boundaries of reality.
But it never came.
Don’t get me wrong, our wedding was wonderful. Friends and family made it especially so.
The weather, the food, the music, the dancing — all great. An aside: my dancing was particularly great. I’m told I shimmy and shake like a resurrected Fred Astaire and/or Michael Jackson. I wouldn’t know, I blackout and let the rhythm consume me on the dance floor.
Our own-written vows went off without a hitch at the ceremony, if you don’t count the stumbling, bumbling and sniffling, while I read, a hitch. In so many words — 622 to be exact — I told my wife she’s my greatest triumph, and as a man who hasn’t had too many in his life, I vowed to try and mean to her what she’s meant to me.
Then it was official. We were married. And to be honest, I’m still not sure what it all means. That’s why I wished for an epic moment to let me know.
I know I have a ring on my finger now that I’m still trying to get used to. And I know Megan has a new last name.
But meaning of an arbitrary, traditional, albeit wonderful event is hard to come by when you’ve known your better half for so long prior.
We’re back to normal now. And I like normal. And it started as soon as our big day came to a close.
Exhausted from the nerves, the food, and mostly the dancing of our ceremonious day, we collapsed in bed that night with a lot to say but no energy to say any of it. Our moment’s door was closing fast, then locked shut when she fell asleep first. Granted, I wasn’t too far behind.
But with one last conscious breath, I used it to exhale in relief. I was glad we did it. I was glad we were officially, legally and finally a married couple. I was glad we were in the same bed, just as sleepy as the other. And I was glad she was the last thing I saw before my eyelids dropped …
… Wow, there it was. I was too stupidly oblivious, and probably just too tired to realize.
Our moment, there and gone, without notice.
Now comes the long, challenging and rewarding road ahead.

(Originally published on Friday, July 1, 2011 in the Manistee News Advocate as part of a weekly entertainment column entitled “Back Talk,” in which staff writer Dylan Savela and managing editor Dave Barber pen dueling columns on the same topic. For this particular piece, the topic was “the meaning of marriage.”)

Proposing on Christmas like a bull in a china shop

So a bull walks into a china shop with the purest intentions.
He’s head-over-heels in love with the store’s owner and today’s the day he’ll tell her.
But a bull’s a bull. And on his way up to the counter, his left horn hooks a teapot’s handle and drags the vessel across its shelf, which is also lined with plates.
The whole row comes crashing down, and the racket startles him into a frenzy.
The bull’s natural instincts take over, and his back hoofs thrust wildly as he bucks around the shop’s close quarters, creating unintentional chaos in his wake.
After each shelf is overturned, destroying every cup, saucer, plate and pot, the bull wobbles to a halt and realizes what he’s done.
His tail withers bashfully between his legs and he slumps his head in shame. The teapot, which stayed latched to his horn through the duration of the ordeal, spirals down the tilted spike and shatters on the floor.
Now nothing in the room is salvageable.
He looks up at the girl, who stands awestruck behind the counter, and he begins to speak.
“I love you,” he says, “but I’m sorry for what I am.”
There’s plenty to look at from the girl’s vantage point — her livelihood, her world, reduced to rubble. But her gaze stays affixed to the sad eyes of the bull.
“I love you too,” she says, “for everything you are and everything you’re not.”
If there’s a theme to take from that fabled anecdote it’s this: Love is unconditional.
On Christmas morning, I proposed marriage to my girlfriend Megan, to which she said yes. The move may have been long overdue, though I’d argue the timing was just right. But in any case, nothing has ever made more sense.
A month back, I came home from a typically late night at the office, and as usual, my house was in the dark, quiet semblance of slumber.
Megan lay asleep in our room, and on this particularly lonely night, I felt compelled to steal a kiss. It’s a practice she has perfected in our time together. Before she sneaks away to work in the morning, I sleep vulnerable on the couch. Her quiet goodbyes hardly ever wake me, but if they do, it’s ever so gently.
But she’s Megan. And I’m me.
I opened the bedroom door with expert precision, as not to wake her. And in retrospect, I should have let my eyes adjust to the pitch black before proceeding, but hindsight’s 20/20, even in the dark.
On my first step towards the bed, my smallest toe met the rigid corner of our dresser. I bounced into the edge of the mattress which took my last leg out from under me, and caught myself an inch away from the angelic face of my better half. For a split second, I thought I still could make a perfect, undetected landing on her lips, but the commotion had caught up to her, and in her frightened state she exclaimed words no angel has ever uttered.
And who can blame her? Her dreams were dashed by her stupid clumsy bull of a boyfriend.
But when the confusion dissipated and her heart caught up with itself, the first full sentence she constructed was “I love you.”
At this point, I was apologizing up and down, but she insisted she was glad I was home. She says she sleeps sounder when I’m around. And slumber soon consumed her again.
It’s this and a library full of reasons why we will soon be wed — each one as significantly insignificant as the next. Because love is unconditional.
It holds up through sleep and rude awakenings, until death do us part, all the while making perfect sense.
And whether we use it to conquer the world or glue the pieces back together in the event everything crumbles around us, we’ll do it together — the last ones standing, albeit knee-deep in the rubble, with an unconditioned love for everything we are and everything we’re not.

(Originally published on Tuesday, December 28, 2010 in the Manistee News Advocate)

Penn State scandal can prepare us to fight

In the wild, it’s every beast for itself.
A lion preys on a herd of antelope and for one unfortunate member, brute brawn usually prevails.
The others — the escapees — continue to flee, seeking safety from the disruption, and leaving their kin to its own fate.
See, the others act only on instinct. They’re hardwired for a fight or flight response, and they’re natural reflex is to run. They’re not fighters. They’re impulsive opportunists. They’re animals.
We are not.
Or, at least, shouldn’t act like it.
The tragic storm surrounding Penn State has dominated the headlines and become an obviously simple test of hindsight.
The perpetual damage former Nittany Lions defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky was enabled to inflict on innocent lives for the better part of the past 13 years (and that’s just what we’ve learned), speaks to the epic mishandling by those in the know. He could have been stopped at every step of his despicable wake. But wasn’t.
That has all been well documented. Not to mention reported on, and editorialized plenty.
But what can we do, now?

NOT ABOUT FOOTBALL, NOT ABOUT PENN STATE

The story has taken an odd but appropriate focus.
Sandusky, himself, hasn’t been talked about nearly as much as longtime Penn State coach Joe Paterno and the other witnesses, both legitimately and by word of mouth, who ultimately stayed as silent as they possibly (and legally) could.
Sandusky has been dismissed as pure garbage, as he should be. And as they should be, the others have been identified and eliminated from their prestigious positions.
This story isn’t about football or Penn State University, but both play a significant role.
In Sandusky’s world, as a major player on the sidelines of the singular pulse that keeps State College on a map, he was entitled to anything he wanted. Those who saw or heard of his deplorable actions knew the image of their brand was in jeopardy.
But a rug can only cover so much dirt. It took too long, but the floor is now exposed. And outsiders can’t believe a football team, or a brand name, could have ever trumped humanity.
This story remains about the victims in it, and the countless others like them.

WHAT CAN WE DO, NOW?

The fallout to the Penn State child sex scandal is finally running its course. It’s too late to right any wrongs, but whatever form of delayed justice there is to salvage will be carried out.
Hypothetical hindsight is hardly helpful in this particular case, but maybe it can be put to use.
Mike McQueary — the then-Penn State graduate assistant who witnessed Sandusky sodomize a young boy in the school’s locker room showers — was understandably not prepared to see what he saw. And his instinct was to flee. It should have been to fight.
To put ourselves in his shoes is an uncomfortable fit — witnessing a close acquaintance, whom we thought we knew, involved in something so reprehensible — but let’s force our feet inside.
What would we do?
Let’s ask ourselves that question, and prepare ourselves to fight — verbally, physically if need be, intervene right then and there.
Let’s be Joe Paterno, athletic director Tim Curley, vice president Gary Schultz, president Graham Spanier. Let’s be any Joe off the street who hears of such a crime. And let’s prepare ourselves to fight — contact the correct authorities, who are always there and willing to intervene.
What can we do, now?
Child abuse happens every day in every town. If we know of its existence — even if it’s hearsay — let’s quit fleeing.
Let’s fight.
Now.
The Sanduskys of the world are monsters, but the people around him were animals.
Let’s train our instincts to be humane, and act on them accordingly.

(Originally published on Saturday, November 12, 2011 in the Manistee News Advocate)

One quarter at a time

MAPS custodian, ‘Mr. Rick,’ retires after 37 years; Jefferson Elementary says farewell

Seldom are there riches to be made in the custodial business — at least not in the monetary sense. 
There’s no lofty pension, no outstanding severance package, and typically no great gift of commemoration for dedicated years of service upon retirement.
These truths are fortunate, because Rick Marquardt has never been in it for the money.
Yet, he’s been the unsung hero in the halls of Manistee Area Public Schools for 37 years in more ways than a broom, mop and a waste basket can measure.
And as this school year winds to a close, so too does Marquardt’s tenure.
On Wednesday morning, unbeknownst to the longtime head custodian, staff and the kindergarten through third grade students of Jefferson Elementary held a surprise assembly to honor their generous janitor, and pay him back the best they knew how: one quarter at a time.

MR. RICK — ‘MORE THAN A CUSTODIAN’

Custodians can come and go. When they leave without anyone noticing, the unfortunate way of the world can be blamed. But such a farewell wasn’t in the cards for Marquardt. Although soft spoken, he was never one for staying in the shadows.
“He’s more than a custodian,” said Jefferson principal Kevin Schmutzler. “I don’t really know how to put into words what he does for the students.
“He just has a natural fit here and a love for kids.”
And the kids love Marquardt, or “Mr. Rick” as they know him.
“Sometimes they just want somebody to talk to,” Marquardt explained simply, adding that he, too, can benefit. “Some days I’ll come to work frustrated with something … and they’ll give you a big old hug and it’s gone.”
Sure, cleaning accidental spills, unsticking jacket zippers, and unlocking the Rubik’s Cubes that are chocolate milk cartons is all in a day’s work for Marquardt.
But it’s his giving generosity that defines him.
It’s the company he gives at the children’s lunch tables, the gifts he gives at the end of the year to each member of the eldest class, and the quarters — oh yes, the quarters he’s famous for giving out on bake sale Tuesdays — that makes Marquardt Jefferson Elementary’s “Mr. Rick.”
“People always ask ‘Are you married?’ I say ‘No,’” Marquardt said. “They say ‘Do you got any kids?’ I say ‘Well, I got 200-some.’”

PHOTO OP ON THE ROOF TOP

Last week — Marquardt’s second to last on the job — Jefferson Elementary celebrated its annual Peace Pole gathering out in front of the school building.
As tradition, Schmutzler had Marquardt lead him up to the roof top in order to take a bird’s eye snap shot of the gathered students.
Marquardt of course didn’t expect the importance of his presence that day.
“He had no clue,” Schmutzler said. “It was fun for me to be a part of that. He was ready to come back down and I said, ‘Hey before we go back down, why don’t I take a picture with you and the kids.’ And when he had his back turned to everyone, I was pretending to fumble around with the camera, trying to kill time.”
While Schmutzler kept Marquardt’s attention, the students unrolled a banner encompassing the words “We Love Mr. Rick.”

Schmutzler snapped the picture while Marquardt was unaware of his backdrop.
When he became privy to the students’ message, he gathered himself, and applauded from above. Even though, it was he who deserved the round of applause.
“When he turned around and saw the sign and all the kids and teachers, he never said a word,” Schmutzler said. “He just started clapping at first, and tears were just streaming down his face.”
Said Marquardt: “I just started tearing up. I told them I was lucky I didn’t fall off the roof. I got weak in the knees.”

37 REASONS FOR 37 YEARS

Leading up to Wednesday’s honorary assembly, the students at Jefferson were charged with comprising a list to be read for Marquardt.
The topic? Thirty-seven reasons why they love Mr. Rick.
Among the bullet points were the mundane, but important tasks Marquardt does to keep the school in shape:
No. 9. He cleans the windows.
No. 23. He fixes chairs.
No. 35. He mops up our messes.
His acts of kindness did not go unnoticed either:
No. 27. He always says “Hi.”
No. 14. He helps little kids with tough stuff.
No. 12. He reads to us.
No. 1. He smiles at me.
And then of course there was No. 21: He gives us quarters on Tuesdays.
For the 17 years Marquardt has worked at Jefferson, he always anticipated those reoccurring Tuesdays — the day of bake sales, popcorn bags, and slushies.
Some kids, often times, will forget to bring their quarters. But, “Mr. Rick” always remembers.
“Whenever I get change for dollar bills, I always save it for those days,” he said. “I just felt bad when the kids couldn’t buy anything. Sometimes they just didn’t have quarters, and it was just something I felt like I should do.”

A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW

Wednesday marked the last full day of classes for the students at Jefferson, and the brief intermission in the gymnasium was in order.
While Schmutzler again bought time by asking Marquardt questions about the school’s boiler room, the students and staff filled the gym and awaited the man of the day.
Upon his arrival, the school sprung into song — “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
Quietly wrestling with emotion, Marquardt was genuinely surprised, and equally appreciative. 
He was sat down in a rocking chair at the head of the gym.
The 37 reasons he was loved were read by 37 students.
He was the subject of the “Mr. Rick Rap,” performed by two unnamed look alikes (from the Jefferson staff) donning Marquardt’s famous grey mustache and custodian getup.
He was the recipient of “Mr. Rick’s Important Book,” which was wrapped in ribbon and made up of the personal letters every student wrote to their favorite janitor. The pages were accompanied with artwork, while the text expressed, as best a child could, the list of reasons why Marquardt is important to them.
He was given a golden broom, an apron splattered with the students’ signatures and a frame that enclosed the picture taken on the roof a week ago — Mr. Rick, backed by the children who love him.
Afterwords, Marquardt tried to reflect on his fitting farewell.
“This here, I don’t know — I get emotional watching TV programs! — this is just …” he trailed off, trying to find the words. And upon discovery, shared them in a choked whisper: “I just appreciate it … I love them all.”
As the students filed out of the gym, Marquardt was given one last task.
He was to hold a bucket at the door as each student dropped off their final gift.
They paid “Mr. Rick” back. The children each dropped 25 cents into the shiny pail, one quarter at a time.
They were perhaps too young to grasp the true value of their small donation, but gave Marquardt one last hug, anyway, before heading back to their classroom.
And if it’s possible to humbly beam with pride and gratitude, “Mr. Rick” did. He had struck gold.
There, handing out his familiar hugs and graciously accepting his small, but priceless fortune, stood Mr. Rick — a jolly good fellow — looking like the wealthiest man in the world.

(Originally published on Thursday, May 27, 2010 in the Manistee News Advocate)

U.S. on losing side of American-like victory

Heartbreaking.
The description is being kicked around like dirt off the toes of the dejected after coming so close but falling just short.
Heartbreaking.
Stateside, there isn’t a more accurate word for Sunday’s crushing blow suffered by the United States women’s soccer team in the World Cup Final. The Americans lost two late leads, each erased just minutes before ultimate triumph — being crowned champions of the globe.
Heartbreaking.
For 120-plus minutes and eight penalty kicks, women’s soccer was America’s sport, but the storybook run through the tournament didn’t have the ending to which Americans are accustomed.
Or did it?
Heartwarming.
The most accurate description, both here and abroad, for the World Cup Championship win of Japan’s, the victor of Sunday’s instant classic.
They fought back, twice — tying the game in regulation’s 81st minute, and extra time’s 117th. And before the penalty kick shootout, Japanese coach Norio Sasaki invited an ear-to-ear smile to his team’s huddle, as if he already knew of the pending outcome during the game’s most nerve-wracking moments.
As fate, or luck, would have it, he was right.
But forget, for a minute, Japan’s fight within the bounds of the soccer field, and its unlikely path to victory that wound through most of the tournament favorites — host and reigning champion Germany, Sweden, and eventually the U.S.A.
The Japanese were playing for something bigger than themselves. And the country’s win was much more than the goal differential on the scoreboard.
In March of this year, devastation struck Japan when an earthquake and ensuing tsunamis claimed the lives of more than 15,000, while injuring and displacing more than 10,000 more. The natural disaster left billions of dollars worth of damage in its wake. In following a script seemingly so uniquely American, the Japanese rallied through sport.
And Sunday’s win was part of the healing process, one to which Americans can certainly relate.
It’s in our blood, and in our history.
The rag-tag bunch of Americans who in 1776 declared independence from Great Britain set the sort of standard us “underdogs” have come to strive for.
It’s in our folklore, and in our screenplays.
From John Henry to the Hoosiers, our Hollywood endings don’t feel satisfying unless Goliath is ultimately out matched.
It’s been part of all of our healing, too.
The New Orleans Saints’ Super Bowl gave a devastated city something to celebrate, and the 1968 Detroit Tigers’ World Series brought a divided one together.
On Sunday, the United States women’s soccer team captivated an American audience — one that couldn’t help but feel heartbroken with the dejected players drenched in Japan’s celebratory confetti.
But from beginning to end, we weren’t the underdogs.
An American win sure would have been nice. But then it wouldn’t have been the type of ending Americans love.

(Originally published on Monday, July 18, 2011 in the Manistee News Advocate)

The most beautiful flag I’ve ever seen

I rarely go anywhere without a hat on my head.
See, I’ve never been able to keep my hair under control.
I use the former to mask the latter.
It’s a relatively no-fail system too — that is, until our national anthem gets in the way.
“Please rise. And gentlemen, remove your hats,” the P.A. system booms.
It’s the sound of my gnarled mop getting exposed, usually in a gymnasium full of people.
I stand self conscious, while the group of children to my left fidget, and the teenagers to my right text.
Most of the crowd knows the routine: stand tall, head held high, with eyes affixed on Old Glory — certainly not on my messy mane. Phew.
Speckled through the masses, I can see some who stand a little taller, with their heads a little higher. 
They sing. 
Their hands are pressed firmly to their chest. If they could cradle their heart in their palm, they would.
They inspire me to do the same, and as I soak in the colors of that huge banner on the gym wall, I’m reminded of the most beautiful flag I’ve ever seen:
I’ve never been one for blind patriotism — the kind that can translate into greed, discrimination and self righteousness. Nor do subscribe to the kind used for cheap political gain — the “I’m more American than you” schtick we’re so used to hearing.
I’ve just always considered myself lucky to be born in a country as great as ours, and assumed my blood is dyed just one-third of our nation’s colors. Just like everyone else.
But, I’ve never bled on any battlefield.
Brave people, like my grandpa, did.

He, above all, was a kind, soft spoken, and gentle man — first and foremost, a proud husband and a proud father.
He was also a proud American — a World War II veteran, in fact.
He’d sometimes joke that he was “the one on the left” in Joe Rosenthals’ famed photograph “Raising the flag on Iwo Jima,” but other than that, war stories were seldom shared.
However, a quiet pride was evident.
You could certainly see it in him — a man who was proud of many things — but it was also apparent in those tattered photographs of a young U.S. Marine, with high hopes of saving the country. And, of course, getting back to his wife to start a family.
It was the same pride I could feel four years ago at his memorial service.
There was plenty to celebrate, remember, and mourn.
Our family — his family — traveled from all corners of the country to pack into his small hometown church.
At funeral’s end, a trio of young Marines, decades removed from when my grandfather wore the uniform, paid tribute in traditional fashion. One played Taps on the trumpet, while the others folded the American Flag.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the building. I was a wreck — my face flush, my knees shaky, my hair disheveled.
As that especially beautiful flag got smaller, my scope of its meaning grew with each crease.
I owe it much more than a mere doff of my cap.

(Originally published on Friday, July 2, 2010 in the Manistee News Advocate as part of a weekly entertainment column entitled “Back Talk,” in which staff writer Dylan Savela and managing editor Dave Barber pen dueling columns on the same topic. For this particular piece, the topic was “patriotic pride.”)

The Pretty Blue Dress (A work in progress)

Today is cold, but it is a good day.
Today is good, because this morning my mom said she will take me back to the store where I saw the pretty blue dress. 
When I was eating breakfast and my mom was making my lunch, she said, “Anita, after school, I will buy you that pretty blue dress you wanted. I am ready now.”
I remember the first time I saw the pretty blue dress a long time ago. That day, was not a good day.
It was cold, like it is now, and when we made it to the store, mama said I could look at dresses while she looked at coats.
There were so many dresses to look at. The store was filled with them.
There were short flowery dresses, with bright colors. There were long, shiny dresses with sparkles running down the sides.
There were red dresses, yellow dresses and green dresses.
But, there was just one blue dress. One very pretty blue dress.
I had to look up to see the blue dress hung high on the wall.
I wanted to reach and touch it, but I am too small.
The blue dress looked like it was just my size.
It had poofy shoulders and a white bow tied around the waste. It had a wavy bottom that looked like the lake when it isn’t ice.
When mama was done looking at coats, she walked over and said it was time to leave.
I pointed to the blue dress and she said it was very pretty.
I asked her if I could have it and she said, “Not now, Anita.”
I was sad to leave the blue dress hanging on the wall, so I cried.
In the car, my mom cried too. It makes me sad when my mom cries. She said I must wait. She said some day, when she is ready, she will buy me the dress.
This morning, she said she is ready. I’ve been waiting so long to wear it. But first, I must go to school.
My mom holds my hand as we walk to the bus stop. It’s a long, cold walk, but mama grips my fingers tight to keep them warm.
We stop at the corner where the bus will pick me up, and we wait.
Mama’s lips are shaking and I can see her breath in the air when it leaves her mouth. I can tell she is cold.
I used to be cold with her when we would wait for the bus together. But last Christmas, the present Santa brought me was a warm coat.
I always wear my coat because it is pretty, but not as pretty as the blue dress I saw in the store. After school, it will be my dress.
We see the bus coming over the hill. Mama kisses me on the cheek. She tells me to have a good day at school and I tell her to have a good day at work. We will see each other when I come back, and then we will go to the store with the pretty blue dress.
The bus ride is bumpy and noisy, but I am happy. I can’t stop thinking about my dress.
At school, Rebecca tells the other girls that I have dirty shoes. She says my shirt is too big and she points to the holes in my pants where my knees poke out.
I usually cry when Rebecca says these things. But today I don’t listen. Tomorrow she won’t laugh at my pretty blue dress.
School is long, but it is finally over. The bus ride is bumpy and noisy, but I am almost home. I meet mama at the corner where she is waiting in our car.
I can’t wait to get to the store. On our way there, mama says I can have any dress I want. But I know I want the pretty blue dress, hanging high on the wall.
At the store, I run to the dresses, and mama says she will be by the coats until I am ready.
All the dresses are still there. There is short flowery dresses, with bright colors. There is long, shiny dresses with sparkles running down the sides.
There is red dresses, yellow dresses and green dresses.
And there is the blue dress, still hanging high on the wall.
All of a sudden, I don’t know which dress I want.
The red dress is pretty. So is the green dress. The blue dress doesn’t look like my size anymore.
I turn to mama to tell her I have changed my mind. I want the yellow dress with flowers on the chest and stripes across the bottom.
She is looking in the mirror.
She spins, wearing a long, blue coat with fur on the neck and the wrists.
She looks pretty and warm.
She doesn’t see me looking and she takes it off and hangs it back high on the wall.
When she walks over to me, I tell her I have changed my mind about the blue dress.
I tell her I now want the blue coat.
“But Anita, that blue coat is too big for you,” she says.
“I want you to have it mama,” I say. “I can wait for my dress when you are ready again.”
My mom starts to cry, but this time is different. She is happy. She hugs me and tells me she’s proud.
She holds my fingers tight when we leave the store. She looks warm in her pretty blue coat.
I feel warm too.