Reality vs. what the heart wants

I realized a bittersweet reality today. It pains me to say this, but I won't be visiting (or staying) with the kids as soon as I would like.

And it comes down to money. My heart, however, aches for those children. I was set to leave Fresno, where my sister and parents leave, this weekend. I could conceivably do it. I want to.

I don't think I will. I want to be with the kids more than anything else in the world. My family says they understand, but I must be honest. They don't. They don't know what it's like to be away from the people you love most of all on Earth for more than a year and a half. I wouldn't expect them to. This is not simply like waiting a few extra months for Christmas to arrive or a bonus check or a promotion at work or the chance to buy a new car. We're talking about being with the two people I love more than anyone else on earth and being with them. Working far away from them, in a way, holds them hostage from me.

Waiting a few more months until I get more money does the same. While I am grateful for the chance to live possibly rent-free and collect either unemployment or a small paycheck from a crappy job, the pull to be with my children is absolutely the strongest emotion I have ever felt in my life. It makes me sad to think that I have to wait as much as six months to be with them. Who knows what can happen in six months?

Don't get me wrong. I love my mom, my dad, my sister and brother and their respective significant others and children and the opportunity to live virtually free of charge. It's an unbelievably kind gesture on their part. But here's the deal: They all live with the people they love, or are close enough to them that they can visit practically any time they want.

I don't.

Imagine having children only to have them snatched away from you and effectively being told you can't have them anymore. And then, realize there is a good chance you could have them, that circumstances have changed and you could at least have the chance to see them every day.

Wouldn't that make you euphoric? It certainly would me. Those children are as much mine as they are Cherie's, and every day I'm away from them is a day that I can never get back. Now, I've been told effectively, by my wallet, that, no, seeing the kids or being with them isn't a possibility right now.

I would be happy begging for food at a soup kitchen if I could just have the opportunity to see my kids. If I had to clean toilets with my bare hands or work to dig footings in the snow, I would do it, just to see my children.

I know my family means well, but they don't understand. I don't expect them to. I've been living a nightmare for the past 19 months, and the chance for it to end is palpable, and worth just about anything I would be willing to give up on Earth, right up to my own life. Unless you've been in my situation, I wouldn't expect anyone to understand.

But I will swallow my urge to do something with a potentially giant downside and take my money and do what I can to salt away as much as possible.

It doesn't give me any comfort to know that my children will have to wait that much longer before Daddy comes home for good. I'm glad at this point that none of them know how to read. They'd probably be heartbroken.

I'm not, but I'm pretty darn close right now.

Goodbye, Grass Valley

I bid goodbye to Grass Valley Saturday morning. Went out with Cowboy Jason and Cindy to the Gray Goose bar, a place as close to "Cheers" as any bar I ever plan to step foot inside. It reminds me a bit of the place Cherie and I used to go to in Las Vegas for karaoke, Calico Jack's. They called me the "Karaoke Comrade" over there all those years ago.

Anyway, was a bittersweet night for us. The bar's owners, Duane and Johnna, are such nice people -- friendly, and they know how to mix a mean highball of fruit juice. Jason and I always get to sing lots, though I end up singing way more than Jason most times. A few people were there from work -- though none from the editorial side of things. That's OK. We had a very nice time, and Johnna made me a cake. A very decadent, rich bomb of a cake. It was huge. And it was so very nice of her and Duane and the crew to think of me.

I have several groups of friends, two of which are very diverse and somewhat opposite. One is my circle of LDS friends, the people whom I would basically give my life for if asked. The other is a similar group, but different. These are people like Cowboy Jason, his girlfriend and others. They aren't LDS. They do some things I don't -- like hang out in a bar or drink a bit. But they're good friends nonetheless. They never, ever pressured me to drink, and respected the fact that I didn't. It's good to have a wide range of friends, just as long as your principles aren't compromised. I hope that sounds OK.

I will miss people like Jason, and Cindy, and Duane and Johnna, and assorted friends with names like T.J. and Ryan. I will also very much miss my most wonderful, caring and loyal friends whom I have known in Grass Valley for years, like the Southam family, the Mullennax family, the Deans, the Richardsons, the Philipsons, the Griffiths, and on and on. Those people -- my church family -- made it so much easier to return to Grass Valley after being gone for three years.

I will always love Grass Valley -- when I arrived for an interview at The Union in July 2001, I thought two things: How high am I going to climb on this mountain highway, and Cherie's gonna think this place sucks, because there's no mall, no big Borders bookstore or general conveniences she was used to in Las Vegas. But we made it work. We got married, I joined the church, Destiny was baptized and Isaac and Savannah were blessed in Grass Valley. For the first time in my career, I was successful at writing over a long period of time. I got it. I understood what it meant to provide for my family and be a husband and father. I learned a lot that first go-round.

The second time was equally enlightening for different reasons. I learned, hopefully, how to become a better friend, a trusted confidante, and I also learned that keeping things you hold dear: your family, your friends, even your job, is important. Life changes quickly, and often without you even realizing it. My friends in the ward taught me to seek guidance from the Lord and listen to His promptings, and they also taught me that friendship, no matter how long it may go dormant, can be rekindled. I will always love them for that. My friends outside of church taught me that it is OK to have fun, to enjoy yourself, even if you are grieving inside. It is OK to enjoy life.

As I prepare to move, however, my focus will become transfixed on my children and improving their lives and my own. I don't really have time for other things, and quite frankly, don't want to have time for anything else but them and improving myself. I am nervous to start this new chapter, but it is what Heavenly Father wants me to do, and it is what I must do for the betterment of myself and the people I love. There will be time, sometime, for karaoke and Roy Rogers mocktails, again. But for now, it's time to focus on what the Lord put me here on the Earth to do: to improve myself and the lives of my loved ones.

5-minute blog

I'm way nervous about money. I'm getting some soon, but I wonder if it will be enough. I'll probably be leaving Grass Valley on Saturday, and leaving California for good once the money rolls in. I don't know if it will be enough.

But I have to make a go of it. It's the biggest leap ever, and I don't even know if the parachute will work. It will eventually, but I'll have to jump through a lot of hoops, probably.

I thought I almost lost my phone today. That would be terrible, since it is my only lifeline to the outside world, my kids, etc.

My old publisher got punched out yesterday by an irate reader who was upset about the content of his column the previous day. Got decked, suffered a broken hand and a concussion. No matter how things ended between Jeff Ackerman and I, I would never wish that on anyone. Jeff's an overall decent man whom I respect, despite journalism crumbling all around him. I hope he recovers.

Tonight I'm headed to Gordon's for a night of watching the triplets and Tanner. I can't wait. It might be the last time I see them all for a long time. Sad about that, but happier that I get to see the kids soon.

Ah, money. I wish I had about twice as much as I had coming to me. I better get a job soon.

Gonna sign off for now.

Are excited and nervous the same thing?

I went to perhaps my last karaoke night last night. Sang a bunch of songs, drank water and Coke again. I think I'm going to head to my parents' this weekend before blowing out of town when I can. It's strange, because I don't have much to move, except a dresser and my clothes.

I'm worried about money. I'm worried about finding a place. It might have sounded romantic to just jet out of town, but as the days draw closer, that romance turns into a bit of fear. I've never done something like this before.

I am probably going to need some monetary help. I've noticed companies are starting to hire for Christmas help, and I wonder if I will get there in time to get any of those jobs. I also worry about logistics for school, and that my money will evaporate before I have much of a chance to do anything at all. I should be getting unemployment, but I'm not even counting on it that much.

I have to keep telling myself that I will, and I must, make this work. I don't really have any other options. I don't want to be flippant and say things will all work out, because I have to make sure that they do.

I'm not backing away from this -- I just know it's going to be difficult. I'm going to need a lot more than faith to make it happen.

Sacrament meeting

On Sunday, presumably my last day at church in the Grass Valley ward, I had the opportunity to help with the passing of the sacrament.

I'm notoriously a late arrival to church. One of the things I despise the most is when I get there late enough that the sacrament is being passed and I can't enter, for fear of disrupting the service, or getting there entirely after sacrament has been concluded. I was determined on Sunday not to be late, and in fact, to be early.

I have been a member of my church now for about seven years, and in those years, only twice have I ever had the privilege of reading one of the two passages that are read before people are given the tiny bits of bread and thimble-fulls of water. The last time was probably about six years ago.

I was so nervous, just to read those six or so lines in front of a congregation that numbered probably about 60 individuals -- on Sundays, our congregation normally numbers about 100 people. But it really didn't matter. It's quite something to be in the pews, listening to the sacrament being recited, and being passed. It's completely another thing to be up on the dais, in front of about a half-dozen young men, all dressed in white shirts and solid-color ties, each young man no more than, say, 17, waiting reverently to pass the silver trays out.

It was almost a breathtaking experience. I say this primarily because I've only done it once before, and it was a long time ago. For members of the faith, this -- passing the sacrament -- may seem as common as eating green Jell-O at wedding receptions or gassing up the Suburban for a family home evening in the park -- but for me, it's different, just because I haven't done it much.

It was a wonderful, moving experience, and a perfect way, I think, for me to end my time in the ward that baptized me, blessed my two children and baptized my stepdaughter.

I so love the members of the Grass Valley ward, who have given me so much over the six years I lived there, and I will miss each of them very much.

I am forever grateful to the people I met in Grass Valley, for they have made a difficult time in my life that much more enjoyable. I would feel as "at home" in Grass Valley as I would visiting my parents and siblings in their towns. The chapel in Grass Valley is as close to home as it can be without it actually being a place I live.

I am reminded of a story someone once told me about the chapel: that a young boy, trying to escape from a difficult family situation, sought refuge in the chapel, on the condition he only stay there when it was dark out and no one else was using it. The bishop at the time said it was no problem, that he would graciously allow this. The church was the young man's refuge from the storm, literally and figuratively. He stayed there for weeks, until he could find a safe place to go home.

That's exactly how I feel about the chapel in Grass Valley. It was my first chapel, and it will always, always have a special place in my heart, and for my family, for as long as it and I am around.

And so, with a week or so to go before I leave to be with my family, I would like to thank everyone for their kindness, love and support that I received while in Grass Valley at two very different times in my life. I will never, ever forget what you all did for me and for my family.

May God bless you all.

The changing face of journalism

I have been out of work for a week now. I'm not going to be naive and say it's been a great thing, because any time you're not earning money when you have obligations is not necessarily a good thing.

So the desire to find something that earns money is palpable, and one must work hard to make sure that they get a decent-paying job to subsidize whatever lifestyle they choose. As my mom told me once after I earned my first paycheck at 17, the money I earn isn't all just for me. It's for obligations. The older we get, the more we have.

There is a silver lining here. For the first time since 2000, and most likely, for the first time since 1993, I do not have a job in journalism, nor do I plan on returning to said career, unless things change. My first byline came on March 3, 1993, on the front page of The Daily Collegian at California State University, Fresno. My first professional byline came on June 28, 1995, on the front page of the Selma Enterprise weekly newspaper. My last byline came Thursday, October 8, 2009. That's 16 years of bylines.

Some years, I had less than others. I don't know what year produced the most, but I probably on average, once I began working in daily newspapers full-time in 1996, wrote about 300 stories a year.

I've worked for papers big and small. I still love "the craft." To call it a craft these days is debatable, even at the best newspapers in the country. The best papers -- in my estimation, there are a number of them -- The New York Times, the Boston Globe, the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, the Los Angeles Times, the St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times, and the San Francisco Chronicle prior to 2000 -- really produced this craft. There were (and still are) some wonderful small papers out there, too -- the Anniston (Ala.) Star, The Eugene (Ore.) Register-Guard, even the Bucks County (Pa.) Courier -- there are countless other good ones out there.

The point is, so many of them have been hammered by a double- or triple-whammy of epic proportions: a broken business model, an economy in the toilet and the "migration" of people to the online world. I think it has more to do with the first two than the last reason. Newspapers are, by and large, information. How it gets delivered shouldn't matter, even economically.

This doesn't even take into account the fact that so many newspaper owners have leveraged themselves to the hilt with purchases of large media outlets, all on a seemingly endless gold credit card -- that there isn't much time to worry about "craft" at all. Yes, the L.A. Times and Wall Street Journal, and even some other smaller papers will still win Pulitzers every year. But you will no longer see the likes of Ben Bradlee, former editor of the Washington Post, or Eugene Roberts, former editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer, pour tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars to invest in "the craft" anymore. No, you'll see unknowns like Platinum Equity Partners (the firm with no newspaper experience that bought the San Diego Union-Tribune recently) do what they can to suck the life -- and every last dollar -- from the dead-tree business.

People who produce "the craft," I feel, will not come from newspapers, but from foundations and philanthropic trusts and organizations with deep pockets and an affinity toward "afflicting the comforted" and "comforting the afflicted." I read plenty of journalism inside baseball to know this is already happening in places like San Diego, in Denver, and at publications that most journalism lifers have never heard of. ProPublica, anyone?

Is this a bad thing? Not really. But if you feel your hometown newspaper -- the same paper that publishes youth baseball scores, gives you coverage of the county fair and court roundups of a week's worth of mayhem and jurisprudence -- owes it to you, the reader, to offer the kind of journalism produced by big, giant Old Media titans like the New York Times can produce, in the pages of a smallish community daily, then, yes, it is a loss. It is a loss to a community.

It's a loss when the paper you write for has to stoop to the level of pandering to advertisers who angle for weekly "profiles" that are only thinly veiled advertisements or plugs for said business. It's important to reflect the community in the pages of a newspaper, especially a community one. It's also something to stand for ethics and fairness and not get rattled when said merchant complains about the placement or the tone of the story about his or her establishment.

Community newspapers are especially vulnerable to this type of scenario. As an editor or reporter, you want to be above such chatter as to how the story was "played" in the paper. You want and need to be a good community partner. One hand washes the other, if you will.

But I wonder, for the hard-core journalists out there, what Harrison Gray Otis, or Arthur Hays Sulzberger, or M.H. de Young, or James Knight would think if they saw newspaper culture today. Would they think what has happened is a good thing? For that matter, forget about those old-timers. What about newer journalists? What would they think of today's grind-it-out-at-all costs way of doing things, both on the editorial, as well as business side of things?

What would people like H.L. Mencken, Mark Twain, or, for you 21st-century types out there, Tom Hallman, Anna Quindlen, Lane DeGregory, or Lowell Bergman think about what has happened to newspapers? Should we be focused on producing as many widgets as we can, as fast as we can, so we can sell more? Or is there still room for high-quality, thoughtful, investigative or high-concept feature journalism in a daily newspaper?

It's what has me perplexed and thinking the former, unfortunately, is more appropriate for the newspaper reality that exists today. I don't like it, and I wish it wasn't the case. It's why I don't see a future for me in the career that I so once loved.

Personally, there's a part of me that hopes I eat my words. Literally.

Ready to set sail

I was so very excited last night, and I'm not sure why. For the first time in nearly 10 years, I don't have a job. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought about something. Two years ago at this time, I was living in a four-bedroom house, full of furniture and belongings. People were everywhere -- at least my family was. As I fell asleep last night, I realized where I was: by myself, in a room in a double-wide trailer, with all of my worldly possessions. Everything I owned in the world could seemingly fit in the trunk of a car. I have no furniture of my own; that's all been auctioned off (I guess); I have no TV, no bed, no chair, no table. Just myself, one small reminder of the kids (a stuffed animal that belonged to Isaac that sat behind the TV in Casper for nearly a year), my recent pictures of them and my clothing. Nothing else. Everything I owned could fit into a small raft. It's like I'm heading out on a lake, and I can't see where it ends or where dry land is. And you know, I'm OK with that, for now. I have to be diligent about applying for school and part-time work, but I think Heavenly Father, perhaps, cleared my path for me, in a way. No distractions about work. Just what I'm supposed to do. It felt exciting and terrifying. Like moving to Idaho in the dead of winter in my pickup. That might happen. Or moving to an unfamiliar city with little more than the clothes on my back. That might happen, too. Or going to class, when I haven't opened a textbook in 13 years. That's scary, too. But you know something? It's also exhilarating and liberating, to know I could be close to Isaac and Savannah, while working toward a tangible goal. That thought brings tears to my eyes. It doesn't matter how many possessions I have with me, just that I have a plan and work at it. This is a chance, I believe, that Heavenly Father has given me. A gift. I won't turn it down again.

New challenge begins

Today was the first day of my new challenge, and it's clear that I'm probably going to have lots of help and support. What I do with it will be the challenge.

I signed up for unemployment and got a bead on a few jobs, including one newspaper (!) job not far from where the kids are. Why do these jobs keep cropping up? And, perhaps more importantly, do I maintain an interest in them?

This one is close to the kids...about 25 miles or so. This is the third time in a year that the job has come up. It's journalism, which kinda sucks, but it's what I know to do.

Tomorrow, I'm going to further pursue the school angle of things. I was inspired, however, by what Cowboy Jason's friend Cindy told me yesterday, out overlooking a bubbling stream. It's hard for me not to talk about Isaac and Savannah and not get misty-eyed, and I cried when I thought about them yesterday, and talked about them to Jason and Cindy. Cindy basically said that I needed to be with my kids...that they will always love me, but always wonder why I didn't come for them when I had the opportunity.

My good friend John, whom I've known since childhood, has long told me the same thing. He was the one who told me to just pack up my truck and head to Idaho as soon as I could, whether I had a job or not. Well, now I don't, and I'm greatly tempted to do that more than ever. Even if I got a meaningless job and was close to them. That's all they would care about, right?

I want to tell Isaac and Savannah that I'm coming for them. I want to be there for them.

A new challenge

Was an interesting day. Had lunch with two good friends; Ross, who I've reconnected with after being gone from California for a few years. He works part-time at the newspaper and he and I have conversed frequently. I joined him in Sacramento for lunch with our buddy Nick, a former colleague at the newspaper. Nick and Ross go back years to the days when both of them lived in Colorado. I think Nick was born there; and both of them worked at the newspaper.

But I think I've finally been sold on something that has been gnawing at me gently since 2004. My patriarchal blessing suggests I should go back to school. It doesn't say what for, but I've got a pretty good idea.

I want to give myself back in some way. I am reminded so often of the help the group of ladies gave my son Isaac and daughter Savannah when we lived in Wyoming. They helped Isaac with physical therapy and speech, and came weekly to the house to help Savannah develop her motor skills.

Those people who worked at the Natrona County Child Development Center were angels. Such tireless givers of themselves. They inspired me each time I walked in that office, always willing to help, always willing to do whatever they could to help our children. I cannot get that image out of my head. It's been in my head for years, and I think Heavenly Father placed it there.

He has a plan for me, Heavenly Father does, and it does not include my current line of work. If I could, I would quit tomorrow. I just might. I want to go to school and learn something that's going to help someone. I would love to teach a child to speak clearly, or help them discover their physical abilities, or anything that makes them and their parents feel good.

I remember so vividly the young women coming over to our house to help Savannah learn how to jump, or discover colors or shapes. It brings tears to my eyes to know that I brought Isaac to school for two years, nearly every day, and have his eyes light up at people like Teacher Debbie, because he knew that day would be fun and he would be in the care of someone who truly cared about him.

Maybe that was Heavenly Father's way of showing me something that I'm just now realizing. My life's work is not to wrestle with sources because I wrote something they didn't like or pander to businesses looking for some ink.

My life's work is to help people. It's why I got in the journalism business in the first place: because I thought I could help someone, make them feel good, inspire them. What I'm doing now is akin to cranking out widgets, albeit with a check attached to it.

I used to think that if I quit journalism that I would be leaving something on the table: some major award, some big story I never got to do. It's why I didn't pull the trigger four years ago when we left Grass Valley for Wyoming.

Now? I don't care about winning a Pulitzer. I've written some great stories over the course of my career, and I'll always love newspapers, but I'm not helping people anymore. I'm a hamster in a wheel. I'm not doing anything but meeting a quota, a deadline. The excitement, quite frankly, is gone. Truthfully, it left a long time ago.

And I still keep thinking about those wonderful people at the Natrona County Child Development Center, making those kids and their parents so happy. That is something that's priceless, knowing you had a direct hand in making someone's life better.

That's what I want to do. And that's what I'm going to do.