DAISY BOLIN
A LIFE WELL-LIVED
Senior Sean McMahill’s arms wrap around his dad Jeff’s broad shoulders. Sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, Sean’s toes grip the beige carpet, and his fingers fidget as tears glide down his cheeks. His head sinks into his dad’s chest as the room silences.
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Next to them in the bed are Jeff’s wife Annie and two of his daughters, Danielle and Madeline.
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Circling his bed are 12 folding chairs. On this day, the chairs held co-workers and family members. Some days they held friends from elementary school and other days he was surrounded by members of the Lancer football team. Light spills into the room, illuminating the turquoise walls that surround the people Jeff impacted as a father, husband, friend, co-worker and coach.
These people in Jeff’s bedroom and visitors to follow make up Jeff’s “team.” They were on the sidelines of his life, filling his last moments with stories of losing kids at the park, jokes about his co-worker Chris Jones being homeschooled and debates over who is responsible for Sean’s fishing skills. In the midst of laughter, for just a few seconds, everyone forgets the reason they are there in the first place.
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When Jeff was diagnosed on Feb. 27 with stage 4 Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a cancer affecting white blood cells, he was scared – but not that scared, he said. The doctors told him the odds were on his side. They told him it would be chemotherapy, a stem cell transplant and then it would be over.
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But, on Oct. 25, doctors told Jeff they had done everything they could to help him and estimated he had about a month left – two weeks later he was admitted to hospice. Jeff took his last breath at 6:55 a.m. on Nov. 10.
This bedroom is a microcosm of Jeff’s life. His family, who sit as close to him as possible, was with him since he first noticed a lump on his left shoulder. His friends who sit around him came from as far as Hawaii to be at his side through his battle.
The ACE bandage crossing Jeff’s left shoulder sticks out just above his Adidas shirt. White gauze wraps his elbow with a small tube sticking out; these pieces became part of him over the past 10 months and defined every day after.
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Cancer meant no more Royals games. No more hours of fishing with Sean. No more playing catch outside and, most devastatingly, no more watching Sean on the field for Lancer football games.
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“There are a million regrets [like] ‘I wish I hadn’t picked on that kid in 3rd grade,’” Jeff said.
“What about that kid at work?” Chris quickly retorts. The room bursts into a flood of laughter as Jeff smiles, lightly shaking his head.
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Jeff’s mom, Susan Bates, leans over to one of his co-workers with a teary-eyed smile.
“This is what goes on all day.”
One chair empties as his boss, Dom Schilt, gets up to catch a plane back to Chicago; the room settles from laughter into silence. It’s quiet enough to hear the sharp breath both Jeff and his boss take in with a tight hug.
“There hasn’t been a lot of sadness in the room until they come and go,” Jeff said. “When they come, it’s ‘thank you for being here, I love you’ and when they go, it’s ‘I love you a lot I really appreciate you being here’ – there’s no goodbye.”
Sitting in the fourth folding chair from the door is one of Jeff’s best friends and co-workers, Dave Templeman. Dave presses his index finger and thumb into his eyes, pulling crinkles onto his forehead. Raw emotion replaces his usual humorous quips as he says what he will remember about Jeff.
“I hope I have enough strength in my body that you are carrying in your pinky because it’s just humbling; it’s inspirational,” Dave said. “That’s what’s going to carry us all through this. You know I love you, Jeff.”
A floral tissue box is handed around the circle of co-workers and friends. Some wipe their eyes, some dab their noses and others just grip the tissue as if it’s Jeff’s hand they’ll never let go of.
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ESPN flashes on the TV behind everyone in the room. Just after glancing at the latest scores, Jeff squeezes his eyes shut as he takes a sip of water from his Royals mug to wash down a pill the size of a baby aspirin.
“They guessed my chemotherapy would be done by September and the first thing I thought was ‘When’s the Rockhurst game?’” Jeff said.
Jeff never missed one of Sean’s games. Baseball. Basketball. Football. From the day Jeff taught him to throw a ball to the time he watched his son take the field as a varsity athlete, he was at the sidelines as both a parent and a coach. He sported Columbia blue Lancer gear beginning when Sean was a third grade cornerback.
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In mid-September, Coach Dustin Delaney asked Jeff to speak to the football team at their weekly motivational meetings. Jeff spoke about cancer, strength and teamwork to the once baby-faced third graders he coached years ago. These now-bearded senior boys, who tackle 300 lb. opponents every Friday night, began to cry because the reality of the loss looming before them wasn’t something they knew how to tackle.
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“On the days he felt like giving up, [when] he couldn’t get out of bed or walk, he had his team behind him,” senior Nigil Houston said. “He told us that if you can’t do it for yourself just know you always have a team. And if you can’t push yourself, your team will always push you.”
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When they heard that Jeff wasn’t getting better, they decided to spend one Saturday morning raking the McMahill’s yard. Before going outside, they each walked down to the basement, where Jeff was watching his beloved K-State Wildcats play Iowa State. Jeff was waiting for each one with a hug and something special to say and in what is typical Jeff McMahill style, he even did that for the ones he never coached.
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Cancer meant no more Royals games. No more hours of fishing with Sean. No more playing catch outside and, most devastatingly, no more watching Sean on the field for Lancer football games.
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“There are a million regrets [like] ‘I wish I hadn’t picked on that kid in 3rd grade,’” Jeff said. “What about that kid at work?” Chris quickly retorts. The room bursts into a flood of laughter as Jeff smiles, lightly shaking his head.
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Since his diagnosis, Jeff’s team was behind him, pushing him and supporting him. Friends set up a meal train supplying mounds of chili, enchilada casseroles and vegetables. Visitors came in and out beginning at 10 a.m., with berry Slurpees or a Dairy Queen peanut buster parfait, Jeff’s favorites. Sean shaved his head in solidarity and when Jeff could hardly lift his wrist to read his watch, his wife Annie was there to lift it for him.
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The seats in the room remain full. When one person leaves, someone else enters. When Jeff feels his thoughts drift to the reason everyone is there, someone would squeeze his shoulder. When the conversation gets too sad for too long, Jeff or Dave lighten the mood with a joke.
At the sound of approaching footsteps on the carpeted stairs, Jeff turns his head, asking where his wife is. Thinking, he twists his silver wedding ring. Annie sits back down next to him as she wraps her hands around his.
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Jeff wanted to spend his last few weeks waking up every morning to Annie’s luminous smile. He wanted his children to take turns laying on his chest while he played with their hair just like he did when they were two years old. He wanted all of the chairs to be filled– and they were.
Even when the chairs fold up and Jeff isn’t there to crack a joke, the McMahills know– it was a life well-lived.
WHAT IT TOOK...
I had one afternoon to soak up the relationship between a son and his father who was dying of cancer. When I arrived at his house, I was surprised to find the father with his entire family, many co-workers, friends and neighbors in a circle surrounding his bed. After just an hour and a half of talking to all of his loved ones, later interviews with coaches who knew him and kids impacted by him, I was able to bring a piece of him to life through writing with the help of a co-writer. This is the story of his impact on everyone he knew.
MIND OVER BODY
Sophomore Hannah Hobert’s Wi-Fi stopped working in February of her freshman year when East switched from Blue Coat to Cisco. The night that Cisco broke down she got 20 minutes of sleep. She broke out into a 105-degree fever. Hannah couldn’t go to school for a week.
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She closed her eyes and laid flat on her bed with her palms face up and fingers spread apart.
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“I am cold. I am cold. I am cold. Sahara Desert but at night. I am cold.”
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104. 103. 102. It was these chilling thoughts that Hannah recited to lower her temperature. After two years of wincing when she brushed past people which shot a needle-like sensation up her arms, sleeping through entire days, vomiting after eating anything except Pringles and hardly having the energy to stand up, she could do something to mitigate the pain. Hannah, 5”6 and 110 lbs, was bedridden and confused by what was happening to her.
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Hannah’s life first took a nauseous turn her second week of seventh grade when she missed the bus home from Indian Hills Middle School. Her stress that she had to find a new way to get home turned into panic and then severe abdominal pain.
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This bus mishap is what Hannah believes was the official trigger of, what after months of tests doctors decided was, eosinophilic gastroenteritis. Eosinophilic gastroenteritis is a “giant cut in [her] stomach and every time [she] eats it’s like pouring lemon juice in the cut,” as Hannah puts it. This rare disease causes severe stomach pain, vomiting, cramping and weight loss.
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It took three months of MRIs and blood tests for doctors to figure out that it was eosinophilic gastroenteritis. For those painful three months Hannah just hoped to never hear the “c-word”: cancer.
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Her father, Ben Hobert, began his own research, printing off stacks and eventually binders full of articles detailing what food could possibly be causing his daughter to scream at the uncontrollable pain. They tried walks at 2:30 a.m. to anticipate the morning sickness. Hannah tracked the foods she ate and the times it upset her stomach most: gluten, dairy, anything with flavor. The only food that didn’t cause stabbing pains was Pringles. There was something about the light and bland salted chip that wouldn’t initiate pain.
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After finally being able to put a name to the pain, the Hoberts believed there was hope in moving forward and healing. However, this disease of sorts still continued with days of vomiting, weeks of sleeping and months of missing school.
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Her best friends were Pringle cans from Costco and her border terrier named Chai. Everything she needed was inside the turquoise bedroom she couldn’t leave: getting out of bed was like lifting a boulder. She didn’t leave her bed for Christmas that seventh grade year. And some days Hannah had to take baths because she couldn’t stand up for showers.
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“There would be a one minute period where everything would go away,” Hannah said. “It was like my body was teasing me saying ‘hey this is what you’re missing out on just to remind you.’”
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Eventually this cycle tapered and the five medications she took every day started helping Hannah’s stomach. Towards the end of seventh grade, Hannah was back on her feet and she attended school more regularly. That is until the beginning of eighth grade brought waves of angst and a new health problem to fight.
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Hannah said eosinophilic gastroenteritis triggered amplified pain syndrome, a condition that causes a person’s nerves to overreact and make small motions or contact with others feel like a slap or scratch. Days that she made it to IHMS, she shuddered at the idea of having to make it through the crowded halls.
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“I would grip the rail of the stairs like I was trying to get up a mountain because the pain was so bad,” Hannah said. “It was so loud and I didn’t really know anyone and on top of that, everytime I brushed past someone it was like a bunch of needles were in my skin.”
Zippers from dresses felt like nails digging into her skin. A tap on the arm felt like a five-star slap. The pain was so strangely severe Hannah wondered if she was subconsciously making it all up.
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“[Doctors] always emphasized that the pain is real,” Hannah said. “It isn’t all just in my head.”
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The syndrome causes Hannah’s nerves to react to any unexpected motion or contact with a fight or flight response.
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For two years Hannah had no motivation to move. She didn’t read her favorite dystopian novels anymore. She didn’t write anything for the fiction book she started in third grade – as Hannah put it, her brain only halfway functioned. It was hard to think or focus. Hannah ached to learn something, to understand something, because she still didn’t fully understand what was going on with her own body. Time was foreign to her, days blended together because of the monotony, and this made it very difficult for her to remember things.
“It wasn’t like I went to school and could remember that on Monday I learned about cells. I didn’t have that,” Hannah said. “It was me and my bed and Chai, the sheets would change once a week but it was still bed, no indicators. […] If I threw up and couldn’t eat for a day I wouldn’t even remember that. So, I tried to learn languages on Duolingo.”
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Hannah managed to accomplish 52 percent fluency in German. Her brain was finally moving. She felt productive for that 10 minutes each day. Then she started traveling to Horizons Academy every Thursday for two hours of discussion for the Homebound program with a tutor to keep her up with school.
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The worst part of missing school was not knowing anyone’s name or what her teachers were like. In a geometry group project she didn’t speak up or talk to anyone in fear of throwing up from the pain resulting from stress. Uncertainty made Hannah reluctant to participate.
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“I was never at school so my group would see me and assume I wouldn’t do my part of the project,” Hannah said. “I would never correct anyone even if I knew the right answer for the problem because I didn’t have any justification as to why I could tell them they were wrong,” Hannah said. “I was never there and they went to school every day.”
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Hannah later heard that many classmates assumed she was a transfer student. She hears stories about substitute teachers taking attendance in classes and everyone sighing, “not here” when Hannah’s name was called. But there was discomfort in telling people why she wasn’t at school or talking to people at all – it brought a sickening pity.
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“Whenever I told people that I was sick I felt like someone died because they would jump to saying ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘you’re in my thoughts,’” Hannah said.
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Days with amplified pain syndrome looked a lot like days with the stomach disease: bed, pain and no school. However this time, Hannah wasn’t supposed to stay in bed and take medication in order to mitigate the pain the way she did when she suffered from the stomach disease. With amplified pain syndrome, the goal was to create more pain in order to decrease it or make it tolerable.
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Hannah was assigned a strict physical therapy schedule to force pain upon herself at home: 45-minute walks around the neighborhood that turned her legs firetruck red, brushing her arms with a strip of velcro and stretching on the yoga mat beside her bed. It was the worst thing ever Hannah said.
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While she dreaded the monthly visits to her physical therapist for push-ups and velcro, she enjoyed her trips to Madonna, her Children’s Mercy biofeedback technician. Hannah sat in the “comfy chair” each visit while Madonna hooked Hannah’s arms and head to a bunch of mini wires and a belt around her waist to track her muscle movement. Hannah liked Madonna. Conversations were normal and Hannah blushed as she explained that Madonna swore Hannah was her best student in biofeedback.
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Hannah would start at a normal temperature and then Madonna would do a series of actions like slamming a door shut to cause Hannah’s heart rate or temperature to rise. Madonna showed her, through charts on a screen, how Hannah’s body reacted in different scenarios. This was something Hannah could see and understand after a bit of training to read the squiggly lines. She learned to control her own temperature, heart rate, sweat levels and muscle movements without seeing these machines but rather recognizing her own body’s reactions and telling it to calm down like the chilling thoughts.
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This use of biofeedback helps dissipate angst before her nerves transform her body into a battleground and choose fight or flight. Nerves that amplified pain which would become sickness again, much like what happened when Cisco broke down. But at least she finally had a form of control as Hannah said. She could understand what was happening to her body when she used biofeedback. She knew how to focus and tell herself to relax.
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Hannah taught herself to anticipate other people’s actions, learning to dodge a stray elbow in the hall or accept that her mom would brush against her arm when showing her something on the computer. This combined with the biofeedback helped her subdue the pain.
When freshman year approached, Hannah’s mantra became “Don’t get sick.” She would repeat this in her head until she made it from forensics to journalism everyday.
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“It was great to not go in every morning and have her say I don’t feel good,” Hannah’s mother, Ann Hobert said. “I mean I had that attendance line memorized from calling in every day.”
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Hannah brings biofeedback and Pringles with her to school every day. However, she never eats the Pringles. Hannah passes the chips – her staple for two years – around the table to anyone who is hungry. Her way of passing a token of comfort.
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Now she practices debate, plays the piano and designs for the yearbook. Hannah is able to speak in front of groups of people and be a personable friend according to multiple classmates, when before she couldn’t even talk to peers. Not only is she a friend and active student, Hannah is described as a “really good speaker and debater” by a debate classmate of Hannah, sophomore Olive Henry.
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She still uses the Sahara Desert at night to cool her temperature and sweat levels and breathing exercises to slow her heart rate. This will carry throughout the rest of her life, but for now, each day Hannah is able to say, “I am okay. I am okay. I am okay.”
September, 2017
WHAT IT TOOK...
I spent an afternoon in her room learning about eosinophilic gastroenteritis and the therapy methods she used to overcome that along with amplified pain syndrome. Despite all of the days she spent vomiting and aching, scared of even brushing against something, the day she showed me her therapy tools, she was confident in herself. I was able to see the driven and grateful girl she is despite a life-changing syndrome.
December, 2017
WHAT IT TOOK...
FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY STING LIKE A BEE
The sound of junior Tyler Jones’ alarm on the day of a fight means one hard-boiled egg, half a glass of water, weigh in.
The scale reads 158. Perfect.
After a month of eating grilled chicken and salads with hardly any dressing, running three to six miles in two layers of sweats weekly and limiting himself to one gallon of water the week prior, Tyler weighs in two pounds less than he allotted for. His diligent eating and exercise routines prior to the boxing match paid off and now he goes home and prepares for his 18th fight, only four hours away.
Tyler was first taught to box by his uncle when he was just three years old. He comes from a family of boxers – great-grandfather, grandfather, uncle – and he’s the next one to fill the gloves. Will Becker, a student-coach at Tyler’s gym, was impressed by Tyler’s skill in the first MMA class Tyler attended at Brass Boxing last August.
“I was watching him warm up and I was like, ‘This kid knows what’s up,'” Will said. “[…] And no sugar-coating it, he’s a monster.”
But, unless you asked, Tyler wouldn’t tell you that he’s traveled to Ill., Tenn. and all over Kan. and MO. for tournaments and matches. He wouldn’t tell you that he won the Ringside World Champion tournament in the Bronx, N.Y. this summer. He wouldn’t tell you that his standing record is 17-1 – the one loss being his 18th fight this October, a “shocker,” according to junior Harrison Gloe who attended the match after hearing about it in American History AP.
The 18th fight. He touched gloves with his opponent to initiate the bout, then Tyler had three rounds – one minute each to prove himself the stronger and smarter fighter.
“I’m the best out here. I’m gonna kill him,” Tyler repeated to himself.
In the first round he knocked his opponent down within 45 seconds. His mouthguard forced his upper lip to puff out and the dark gym full of other competitors and spectators studied his threatening gaze. After each hit, Tyler’s hands quickly retracted to protect his own face. The second round came, and Tyler continued to “destroy the guy,” according to Harrison.
Finally, the third round. Harrison compares Tyler’s fighting to world champ Floyd Mayweather: defensive. Dancing throughout the ring lightly on his toes, he dodged swings and protected his face–Tyler especially doesn’t like getting hit in the face.
“The only way to describe it is that [Tyler’s] glove was always on the other guy’s face,” Harrison said. “The other guy didn’t even have time to get his hands up because Tyler was hitting him so much.”
Tyler won the first two rounds with ease, but after his third round the judges saw enough to give the win to his opponent. When there is no knock-out to solidify the winner, the winner is determined by collecting points for form and hitting target spots. As much as Tyler loves the sport, he finds it “historically corrupt” in many scenarios.
“Something I started noticing is that his mind is coming into the game. It’s athleticism with a small version of chess,” his trainer Michael Hughes said. “Chess pieces, metaphorically speaking for hands, what combination is he going to throw? What angle is he going to come at? What punch is next? He’s developing his mind more than he is his physical body.”
Tyler “got robbed” during that 18th match, according to Harrison and Will, but the loss didn’t detract from his clear confidence in the ring according to Michael. Tyler works on his confidence at Brass Boxing. There, it’s not uncommon for strangers to feel inspired by his presence and agility, according to Hughes.
Not only are his trainers complimentary of this trait, so is a mother of four young boxers, Husseena Maya, whom Tyler doesn’t know personally. The mother watches outside of the gated mats in Brass Boxing, adjusts her white headwrap and points.
“He motivated my son to win,” Husseena said. “It was [my son’s] third time fighting and he hadn’t won yet, but he watched Tyler, and I think he saw he just couldn’t give the judges a choice but to give [the win] to him.”
Tyler bobs his head behind his laced black gloves and dodges a right hook while sparring, or essentially scrimmaging, with Husseena's 13-year-old son. Tyler inches lightly on his toes toward his temporary opponent. He quickly jabs at him before breaking and dropping to the floor for a set of push-ups.
“You’re grinding all year round and you don’t get any breaks,” Tyler said. “You’re constantly going and that can be the toughest thing – it’s really easy to quit.”
Tyler hasn’t always been the dedicated fighter he is. After his first 10 matches when he began competing at 15 years old, he quit to spend time with friends and play lacrosse. But a year later, he found himself shadow-boxing in the halls again, thinking about boxing. Now, Michael describes Tyler as a “perfectionist.” His diligence and passion for the sport and training makes him a silent leader amongst the other boxers, like Husseena's son.
“He’s comfortable with being uncomfortable,” Michael said. “Every single time you go into the ring, it’s a true test of self. Tyler is on the right path wherever he’s going he’s not afraid to face what could potentially hurt him and gain from it. […] You would have to pick his brain to know it.”
Although this was not a monstrous or sensitive topic to tackle for me, Float like a Butterfly Sting like a Bee came with its own challenges. None of his family wanted to or were able to talk about Tyler's boxing, many of whom were boxers themselves. I was left with the trainer, a few boxing friends, some who watched the match, and a woman I met as I watched him spar with other trainees. Through this process I was reminded of the power of casual conversation and paying attention.
March, 2015
BUZZ ABOUT HONEY
Step one: Jennifer Burrus slips on the honey-stained body suit and pulls the thick gloves over her hands. Step two: substitute teacher plops on her beekeeper’s hat and folds down the veil. Step three: she hefts up her wheelbarrow full of equipment and heads to the hives.
Burrus heaves the top of the hive off and around 20 discombobulated bees instantly fly out. But within two or three seconds, hundreds of bees are flying all around her.
They sporadically fly in and out of the hive carrying globs of pollen on either sides of their bodies. Five land on the netting of the veil just a few inches from her eyes. While six other bees settle on her gloved hands. Burrus doesn’t flinch or pull her hands away from the hive. She’s enjoying herself.
Just six years from when she came across a ‘Beekeeping For Dummies’ book at her brother-in-law’s farm, Burrus comfortably tends to two hives in the corner of her backyard. This is where she spends many spring evenings working the hives, anticipating the honey harvests for her friends and neighbors.
Hundreds of them may seem daunting to the non-beekeepers of the world, but Burrus’ bees are just beginning to prepare more eggs and hit their peak of tens of thousands of bees by July. During July, Burrus cannot even visit for a checkup. The hot season causes the bees to be protective of their gold inside the hive.
Burrus continues on and eases one frame out of the hive. The pitch in her voice raises as if she was talking to her dog.
“Hellooo bees,” Burrus said.
Although her heart still beats faster when she is with them, she works in harmony with the honey bees, making sure the queen bee is still laying eggs and the honey comb is building up.
“Bees will do what they do without us, but it’s fun to see how we directly benefit,” Burrus said.
She picks up her sharp scraper and wedges it between two more frames to pry them apart. Burrus continues to separate spots of propolis, otherwise known as bee glue, that the bees have created all around the hive to seal up their home. A few scattered bees cling onto her shoulders and back before she shoos them off. Burrus puffs small wisps of smoke between each frame to calm them, yet another pack of bees linger in between her knees.
The buzz continuously growing louder. Five…ten…fifteen minutes go by, and the bees become temperamental with the prolonged invasion of space, and are more likely to sting. When she first began beekeeping, her hands were stung so many times that she went to the hospital. But now, Burrus knows the stingers well. She spends this essential ten to fifteen minutes with her bees only one to two times a month.
Oh, honey.
In the beginning, Burrus started the hives out of pure interest in the process and she joined a number of Facebook groups for beekeepers to find new resources and read more about it. But as she collected the honey in harvesting seasons for the past five years, the sweet treat grew on her too. Having the extra bees around helps the neighborhood plant life and creates honey.
Burrus initially shared her hobby with others three years ago when her husband reached out to get help extracting because the honey production had grown so much. Last year, between the June and November harvest, Burrus produced about 13 gallons of honey. Since then, from spreading the word of beekeeping, four other families have started their own hive. Burrus even started an extracting party once a year to expose her friends to the world of beekeeping.
“You wouldn’t believe the different people that mark their calendar and collect in my kitchen to extract honey for a few hours,” Burrus said.
She truly becomes the queen of bees on the extracting day. As she shows off the wonderful work her bees do every day, curious kids and parents prod her with questions about the process. It’s a full day of chatting, snacks and a heap of honey.
“By the end of the party our kitchen is so sticky you can’t walk around without having to peel your feet off the ground,” Burrus’ husband David said.
Junior Isaac Schmidt began his own hive after helping Burrus and her sophomore son, Will, extract honey this past November.
“We cranked [the extractor] for four or five hours and I found it super interesting,” Schmidt said. “As she was telling me about how it works, I thought it would be cool to have my own, so she helped get me started.”
Schmidt’s hive was jump-started by Burrus’ frames that had already developed comb so that his bees could adapt quicker. The Schmidts are on their third week of working with their hives and already love it. Burrus loves the fact that other people can enjoy the same hobby she does.
“I love the bees because there is always something new to learn,” Burrus said. “Beekeeping is a whole new way to look at nature, it’s just a different view.”
As she packs up her tools, Burrus removes the veil, picks up an older frame covered in a layer of wax. She pops off a piece of wax and sticks her finger in for a glob of honey and eats it. Fresh, natural and sweet.
WHAT IT TOOK...
This was the first story, feature more specifically, I found myself entirely invested in. I spent two days with the beekeeper, watching and helping her with beekeeping in her back yard. I learned to listen and watch closely, and the gift of being genuinely curious. Pure interest and curiosity led me through the story telling process and allowed me to immerse myself in the art of beekeeping and understand this woman's passion for it.
December, 2016
BEHIND THE STORY
A carriage at the Plaza toppled and crushed a horse beneath it and I felt crushed too. I've always loved horses and those cold trots around the Plaza with my family and friends are some of my fondest holiday memories. Instead of writing it as a news story, I chose to write an opinion in order to prevent personal bias from angling the story.
October, 2015
BEHIND THE STORY
YAY OR NEIGH
I was giggly and full of fondue after the princess-themed birthday party. The pack of seven girls piled into the luminous dream carriage on the Plaza. There was a glitter in all of our eyes, and a spark in our step. We snuggled together on the padded seats as our moms hurried us into the $70 ride.
My three-foot-five-self watched in awe as the white horse pulled us, mistletoe hung around its neck and silver tinsel peaked throughout its braided mane. Its coarse tail swayed side to side and the Plaza lights reflected off of the shiny, painted hooves.
They must love carrying princesses. I bet they talk to each other in neighs. Some days I was a mother, others a teacher, often I was Sharpay from High School Musical – quite the imagination – but that night I was to be toted around among the bright city by my recently-transformed pumpkin carriage.
Nine years later, I am 17, and watching the news to find that a carriage practically crushed one of the horses at Ward Parkway and Broadway. This time the awe was not from the beauty of the horses braid or the mistletoe around its neck but the image in my head at the words “crushing the horse.” Are you kidding me? What if it was one of the horses I fed carrots years ago?
The accident led to a petition to remove all carriage rides in Kansas City – and I am on board. In the accident, the horse, called Tiny, was attempting to escape the discomfort of a heavy carriage on its back, and ran in hopes of relieving some of the stress. Tiny ran right through a stop light and into a fence above the creek. The chaos resulted in the carriage toppling onto the white beast, while the passengers and driver were thrown from the carriage to the ground.That horse was crushed by it’s own carriage. That innocent beautiful creature was sedated due to the extreme pain it was in.
I was the little girl that asked to pet the forehead of the horses, wanted to know the names of all of them and take a picture next to each one. As happy as I was, I thought the horse must be equally as happy. How naïve of me.
Light was finally shed onto the real mistreatment of those horses. Eight years old and soaking up my few moments of being a princess, I was blinded by Christmas lights and snuggling inside the round Cinderella carriage, unaware of the freezing temperatures those horses endure, as their hooves are worn away on the asphalt.
I drive on the plaza and see how close the horses get to the cars and how uncomfortable and tired they seem to be of the bit lying in their mouth – the distress apparent from the way they drag their hooves along the pavement. I watch their bodies carry the burden of a carriage up and down slippery hills, crowded by cars, absorbing the fumes. They deal with stressed carriage drivers, hastily budging them along at stop lights.
That’s not where horses belong. They don’t deserve to be so exposed to the fumes against their will. The strong animals shouldn’t be so crowded by cars and controlled by greedy humans all while carrying a carriage the size of them or bigger. They could be grazing fields, living freely and naturally as they are meant to. There is no excuse for the treatment they receive on the job, whether they are properly cared for off the job or not.
I may have felt like a princess at eight years old, but today my tiara lies crushed on the ground. My slipper is left at the plaza steps. The carriage is now a pumpkin. And it must be midnight, because that fairy tale has ended.
NUTS ABOUT "NARCOS"
The hypnotizing Spanish music began to play, white powdery cocaine puffed across the screen and a real photo of the drug kingpin Pablo Escobar appeared, surrounded by his crew of bikers. Stacks of money dropped in slow motion on top of one another, and faded into an infographic map of Columbia. It was just the intro, and Netflix’s original show “Narcos” already caught my interest.
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“Narcos” has found its home on the ‘most popular’ section of Netflix since its debut in late August. The show follows the formation of the Colombian drug trade in the '80s, highlighting Escobar’s operation of the billion dollar drug trafficking industry and the Drug Enforcement Administration’s (DEA) pursuits to catch him. Throughout the show, Escobar is paralleled by a DEA agent, who serves as the narrator.
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Over the course of the 10 50-minute episodes, I grew to appreciate the perceptive style of the show. Unlike a documentary, the show’s fictional aspect let me see so many different sides of Escobar: his thought process, his relationship with his family and the ruthless outlaw he was. The DEA agent as the narrator was helpful and intriguing, because it gave information that the dialogue didn’t provide.
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The show constantly reminds the viewer of the reality of the plot by incorporating evidence, adding in real video footage and photos of both Pablo Escobar and the DEA agent. The show seemed to stick closely to real life events, but managed to keep me as entertained as “Gossip Girl” could.
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The editing of the show was as well crafted as the plot. I noticed that the intense scenes of killing, arguing and smuggling had a dark color theme and close-up, detailed shots. Yet, during family scenes and celebratory moments, the color scheme would include bright colors and broader shots. This is the sort of attention to detail that is carried through the entire series, an element that separates “Narcos” from mediocre television shows.
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Throughout the episodes, I found myself rooting for Escobar. This obviously made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, as I was basically siding with the man who made pregnant women swallow cocaine tablets to transport the drug and paid people for each policeman they killed. The same man that shamelessly blackmailed government officials. Escobar was not my usual protagonist.
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The actor succeeded at creating an unpredictable portrayal of Escobar, always keeping me on the edge of my seat, wanting to know more. It made kicking back in my living room to watch the next episode (or three) so much more enjoyable.
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If you like documentaries, thrillers and dramatic plot twists, this is the show for you.
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I know it’s the show for me because I love the how planned and detailed every part is, from the combination of narration and fictional elements, to the angles and editing in the filming.With detailed images of cocaine labs and public officials turning a blind eye to trafficking, every minute of the show is simply brilliant.
When I hit episode ten, I was almost hesitant to watch it, knowing that it would be the last one…for now. Narcos is in the process of making a second season to elaborate on the fantastic story of Escobar’s Empire. The anticipation of waiting for season two to come out is as difficult as it is for the DEA to catch Escobar.
This Netflix series was a hit right off the bat and hopping on the couch early to review this thrilling show was well worth my weekend. I learned through reviewing this show, the various aspects that should be noted such as logistical details with the camera, character building, plot and set up.
October, 2015
BEHIND THE STORY
As Halloween rolled around, I thought about all of the reasons I love October and the number one reason is because I grew up visiting Atchison, Kan. – the most haunted town in America. Of course, I wrote about it. This spooky town is full of happy memories for me because my grandmother and relatives live there.
ALL ROADS LEAD TO ATCHISON
The temperature drops to 50 degrees, leaves crunch and pile up on sidewalks but the colors of the trees get a little brighter to me. Nostalgia warms my heart with thoughts of Atchison, Kansas.
Typically the people I know love the Halloween season because it means running through The Beast. Some get jitters about carving pumpkins or watching “It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown” and trick-or-treating. But for me, the Halloween season is all about being greeted by the Shell gas station as my family drives into Atchison – the most haunted town in Kansas.
Established in 1855, Atchison is Amelia Earhart’s birthplace and part of the Pony Express trail, but more importantly for me, it’s rich with my family’s history and the location of many of my fondest memories. There’s no squirting blood or vampires hidden in attics: the thrill of Atchison’s eeriness is in the people who live there through stories they share.
It’s between the trees of Jackson Park and floating in the air on Parallel Street. The town is small, but the spooky reputation is colossal. The notorious hauntings and annual ghostly tours are a part of their culture, not something “Atchisonians” abstain from or deny. This culture is what has made Halloween so special for me. While others were trading Whoppers for Snickers listening to “Monster Mash” I was becoming a part of Atchison’s tradition by hearing these stories.
One of my favorite memories of Atchison is when my aunt Denise and uncle Jack piled me and my brother in the trunk of their 1990’s Tahoe. They drove us around Atchison in the night to see gargoyles mounted on the home on 4th Street and the infamous “Sallie House” that Atchison is widely known for, where a six-year-old died during an operation and has wreaked havoc for the home ever since.
We drove over gravel through Jackson Park, once a zoo, and heard tales about animals who were released years ago and may still amble down Green Street. We always stayed in my grandmother Din Din’s house, right next to the park where a girl named Molly – who was found hanging from a tree after her prom – is still said to be heard screaming in the night.
I’d take these chilling legendary stories over a walk through The Edge of Hell any day.
The stories I hear aren’t just the legends everyone knows some are personal. They’ve been told in my family for as long as I can remember. My grandma Din Din grew up in a large home across the street from the town jail. When a criminal escaped from the jail, a body imprint was found in the monkey grass under the willow tree in her front yard. As a kid, when there were bumps and creaks in the night, her mom told her it was Mrs. Parks, the wife of the man who built the home. Bats lived in the house tower and would occasionally creep down from the attic and Din Din would chase them with brooms.
My dad grew up visiting her childhood home on Parallel Street and still claims the attic there is one of the creepiest things he’s ever seen. He and his brothers found a china doll in a white dress with a cracked face and at some point, one of my uncles placed the doll in the window of the attic where it remained for a long time.
These stories and experiences trickle through generations. One evening my family was walking through St. Benedictine college and we encountered a woman we still aren’t sure was real. She had been sitting on a bench overlooking the Missouri river when we watched her get up, lay two flowers down on the bench and practically float across the frosted grass in a full length black dress. Who knows whether we created the illusion of her floating across the lawn up in our heads. It felt surreal and so fitting for Atchison. Isn’t that what Halloween’s all about? The scary clowns and werewolf movies just don’t live up to these super-natural encounters.
Despite the undeniably ominous air, the town still feels homey to me. Sitting in one of our distant cousin’s, then, Pumpernickel Café, my brother and I learned how second cousins three times removed works. We got to know our great great uncle Dick and see his art showing at age 90. We greeted Albert, the manager of Snowball’s, like family each time we stopped in to get ice cream.
Back in Kansas City, as Ward Parkway trees fade from orange to brown, I squeeze my eyes shut and the corners of my mouth lift into a smile. I think about the Ouija night we had there and see the fields of wheat that enclose the eerie town. I feel the goosebumps I get as we enter the town and instantly want my family and blankets and stories to pile in that Tahoe again.
I will drive my kids through the infamous “Atch.” I will tell them stories and relay family history during drives on the hilly cobblestone. I will hope they cherish the town’s spooky charm over trick-or-treating up the block the way I always have.
October, 2015
BEHIND THE STORY
I found a new bagel place tucked away in Westport, MO and after tasting their New York bagels, I had to review it.
MESHUGGAH BAGEL REVIEW
A glass case displayed every bagel, each of them mockingly plump and wholesome, flaunting their clearly fresh sesame seeds and cinnamon as if bragging about their New York roots.
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These bagels sit tucked in a blue-grey house just off of 39th street, in a place called Meshuggah’s. Clearly Meshuggah’s was a home converted to be a bagel place, the narrow rectangular shape blended in with other Westport homes in neighborhoods behind it.
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I walked in through the side door, casually as if welcoming myself into my neighbor’s house. Music played from a Jambox speaker and the welcoming humm made it feel like home with regulars popping in and out, referring to one another by first name.
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I stepped up to order and learned that all of the bagels are freshly made in New York and shipped straight to Meshuggah’s every few days. Still the bagel is just $1.50 and $7.50 for a dozen, which is cheaper than Einstein Bros. I don’t usually opt for the most expensive bagel…but after the cashier told me the salmon is caught and immediately shipped within just a few hours to Meshuggah’s, I had to try the lox bagel.
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He set the bagel in a brown paper bag with my name on it as if making me a sack lunch. Before I walked away he pointed to it, laughed and said, “So, that was probably swimming yesterday!”
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The bagel itself was fluffy, yet still chewy to the point that I didn’t feel like it was a donut. It didn’t have a thick salty flavor, or a glaze of sweetness. It felt real, fresh, homemade. I was hooked. Not only the filling taste, but the detailed atmosphere made me love it. Fresh sunflowers sat in white jars on all of the tables which made the joint homey. It was arranged like a dining room with one large table in the center and smaller tables surrounding it; the inside was very wooden and farm-esque.
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Enjoying my bagel, I listened to the banter between a 12 year old boy and the cashier, who clearly knew their order: one cinnamon bagel with butter and one coffee. This led me to grabbing my own coffee, self-serve, in a niche just off the dining room. One fridge full of apple juices and waters sat next to an array of coffee brews, which were not stellar, and more expensive than the bagels themselves.
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As wonderful as the fresh bagel was, the coffee was sub-par and had an almost dry taste to it. However, it was still necessary to balance out the lush plain cream cheese with lox.
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I would say this is a great local place to meet people, chat, maybe not for go-to coffee, but they’ve got their bagels down to a science. New York taste, Kansas City local. Does it get much better than that?