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Dancing lessons from God

2/28/2019

Charles City Press, 2-28-19

This is the winter that made us dance.

Last weekend, for the umpteenth time, the season dumped an oversized load of snow on us, and our world was frozen.

Local law enforcement and emergency management sent out a clear message: “Don’t try to travel, you idiots. We might shoot you if you do.”

The local school district has called off classes 11 times now, and the final day of the academic year is now approaching the Fourth of July. Ball games rescheduled, community events rescheduled, school concerts rescheduled — it never ends.

I’ve had a very important medical appointment in Iowa City twice canceled due to poor road conditions this winter. I’m hoping the third time will be the charm.

I was planning on driving to the Quad Cities last weekend, to see my 14-year-old nephew perform in a stage musical.

I saw his theater debut last year, which was a junior-version production of Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” at the Brunner Theatre Center at Augustana College in the Quad Cities.

It was presented by the college theatre, the local arts center, and something called the “Penguin Project.” This year, it’s “Seussical.” My nephew is a monkey, I’m told.

The Penguin Project is a national non-profit organization with the vision of creating unrestricted access to the performing arts for children with special needs. This is accomplished with the assistance of multiple sites across the country that produce a modified version of a well-known Broadway musical. Artists with special needs fill the acting roles.

The cast is made up of kids and young adults. Last year, the youngest were still in the single digits in age, while the oldest were in their early 20s. All have special needs. Some of them have Down syndrome, some are on the autism spectrum. Some have cerebral palsy. Intellectually disabled, congenital heart disease, cognitive and developmental delay. Hearing impaired, visually impaired. One of the kids last year was in a wheelchair.

Call them ailments or handicaps or disabilities or whatever you want to call them, but just know that whatever disadvantages the cold hard world has heaped upon you or me, there’s somebody out there fighting out of a bigger heap. And that person is fighting to pursue the same happiness that you and I are.

Maybe you’ve had to fight through a huge pile of snow this year, but it’s nothing compared to what these kids fight through, every day, just to live.

I was emotionally moved by last year’s show, and was truly looking forward to driving down this year. But God and Mother Nature didn’t cooperate.

Instead, I shoveled. My wife and I have designed and maintained an elaborate tunnel system in our yard this winter, so that we may leave the house and crawl through the tunnels to our vehicles. Tunnel system maintenance requires a good amount of shoveling, we’ve found.

I hate shoveling. I once read a report that of all the regular physical chores, shoveling snow is by far the worst thing for your health.

Or maybe I didn’t read a report; maybe I just made up the report in my mind.

Regardless, the report said that one hour of shoveling heavy snow takes more years off your life than smoking 12 packs of cigarettes per day. In fact, there’s a city in Canada where shoveling snow while smoking 12 packs of cigarettes is the most common form of attempted suicide.

The last couple of paragraphs probably aren’t true. Did I mention I hate shoveling?

As I shoveled, I thought of a question my youngest daughter once asked me, when she was about 3 or 4 years old.

“Dad, when snow melts, where does the white go?”

I was stunned. Little girls are perpetually inquisitive, but usually I had an acceptable answer for my daughter at that age.

I did not. I have no idea where the white goes when the snow melts. I assume it goes somewhere tropical, to a beach, and enjoys a strong but sweet drink with an umbrella in it. That’s just a theory.

Another theory I’m fond of is attributed to author Kurt Vonnegut, who is credited with writing, “Unexpected travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.”

I believe Vonnegut was trying to say that when something happens to alter your schedule or routine, that’s God teaching you how to dance — and how to live.

Whether caused by a funeral or an illness or a blizzard, an unexpected route forces you to do a little dancing — it takes you out of your comfort zone and makes you live life a little bit differently than you had planned, if only for a moment. It makes you think differently. And ultimately, that’s a good thing.

I’ve rescheduled my trip to the Quad Cities to visit my nephew and witness him performing in another Penguin Project event. It just so happens that the day my wife and I are planning on attending is the same day my parents will attend.

As my mom said, “Great! Now it’s a family reunion.”

So it’s even better than before. Now, I’m not only going to experience another amazing, heart-warming show, I’m going to get to spend time with my parents, my sister, my brother-in-law and my nephews.

Unless, of course, God decides to send another heap of snow this direction.

Then, I guess I’ll dance.

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Black History Month lessons from Buxton, Iowa

2/21/2019

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Charles City Press, 2-21-19

If you’ve never been to the town of Buxton, you must.

Although when you arrive, you might not realize you’re there. There’s very little evidence of the old Monroe County, Iowa, mining town remaining.

About 120 years ago, Buxton was the largest coal mining town west of the Mississippi River. It also was the largest unincorporated city in the nation — and it was thriving.

Buxton had modern schools, beautiful parks, arts, culture and fine dining. The town featured a YMCA with a gymnasium and indoor swimming pool. Nightlife included music, dancing and other live entertainment. This was in 1900 — the pioneer days — long before most of the rest of Iowa had even heard of those things.

The Buxton Wonders baseball team — sponsored by the Consolidation Coal Co. — had its own stadium and uniforms, and traveled to such places as Chicago, Illinois; Kansas City, Missouri; and Birmingham, Alabama. They were perpetual contenders.

And the majority of Buxton’s 5,000 or so residents were African-American.

February is Black History Month, but a lot of folks have a tough time taking that seriously here in Iowa, with a population nearly as white as the snow outside. Currently, of Iowa’s nearly 3.2 million people, the population is about 91 percent white, about 3.3 percent black, according to World Population Review.

But there was a time, during the lives of our own grandparents and great-grandparents, when a little town in Iowa showed the world that racial equity was possible.

In the 1905 census, Buxton boasted 2,700 African-Americans and 1,991 whites. The town supported African-American doctors, lawyers and other professionals.

This is all according to Rachelle Chase, author of the book “Lost Buxton,” as well as information from Iowa Public Television, the Iowa Department of Cultural Affairs and the State Historical Society of Iowa.

In Buxton, the mines were integrated and equal wages were paid to all workers, regardless of color. African-Americans held positions of authority in the coal company as well as the town. There were integrated schools, businesses and churches. The multi-ethnic community had a racially diverse population of African-Americans and European-Americans, and they existed peacefully with each other.

The city was the brainstorm of Consolidation Coal Co., which worked for the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad. CCC was having a hard time recruiting white miners, so the company sent agents to southern states to hire African-Americans. In 1873, it founded the town of Buxton and opened nearby mines.

By 1913, nearly 2,000 in Buxton were employed by CCC and other area mining operations. They were treated well. State-of-the-art equipment allowed the mines to produce record amounts of coal. Miners worked a five-day week and earned $50 to $100 per week. In today’s money, that’s equal to nearly $1,250 to $2,500 per week — or about $65,000 to $130,000 per year.

They spent their money locally, downtown shops thrived, and Buxton was home to the largest department store in Iowa at the time.

Several African-American citizens from Buxton rose to prominence.

E.A. Carter became the first black graduate from the University of Iowa College of Medicine. He returned to Buxton to become assistant chief surgeon for CCC in 1907, and chief surgeon in 1915.

Attorney George H. Woodson co-founded the Niagara Movement in 1905 — which later became known as the NAACP. He and fellow Buxton attorney Samuel Joe Brown also helped co-found the National Bar Association in 1925.
But as they say, all good things come to an end.

By the 1920s, mechanization and conversion of train engines to diesel fuel decreased the demand for coal. Also, several severe fires ravaged the community and the mines. By 1919, Buxton’s population had declined to only 400. The last mine closed in 1927, and Buxton became a ghost town. The residents moved on, to less integrated and less utopian places.

Its demise had nothing to do with race. Buxton was instead a victim of the changing economic times.

For 30 years, however, the little company town was an oasis of racial harmony in Iowa.

And if you’re asking me how they did it — how did they manage to create such a place, where the rage and derision so common everywhere else were so nonexistent — I’d have to tell you I really have no idea. I’m not a sociologist or a historian, and that question is beyond the realm of my knowledge.

But it seems to me, the people of Buxton chose to treat each other well, because it was best for all of them.

After all, we choose to hate. It doesn’t come naturally. We choose to take the steps we take toward racism and bigotry, and we can also choose to take a step away.

So it seems, 120 years ago, the people of Buxton made a choice to get along — and they stuck with their decision.

Maybe — just maybe — it’s really that simple.

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Trump Press Conference, 2-15-19

2/15/2019

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"... Just like the Pied Piper
Led rats through the streets,
We dance like marionettes,
Swaying to the symphony
Of destruction ... "

For the first time, I was actually a bit frightened, along with my usual revulsion.

I've said many times that the man is no longer capable of rational thought, assuming he ever was, and I was only half-serious.

Now I am completely serious.

On display today was a man obviously and completely incapable of rational thought, and everyone's playing this game, pretending it's just typical political business-as-usual.

It's not.

This is literally a madman pretending to run the country, it's sick, sad and scary.

He is completely delusional.

It would be pathetic, if it weren't so dangerous.

When is everyone on all sides going to give up the game?

This is all unreal, until it's real.

This not a argument of ideals, nor is it a pragmatic discussion.

This is not an abstract problem. This is an existential problem.

Every minute the two main parties sit and pretend this situation can be solved through speeches, legislations and elections is one minute closer to disaster.

Every minute those in the legal system pretend that this can be solved through investigation and litigation is a minute closer to catastrophe.

Every minute the press and media pretends that this is fodder for analysis, debate and lively discussion is a minute closer to annihilation.

It’s so obvious this has to end.

This has to end now.

Who is going to shatter this charade?

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The story I never wanted to write

2/7/2019

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Charles City Press, 2-7-19

I was the first journalist to read the full arrest record in detail. I was the first news writer to see the photos.

I still have the page from the legal pad I used to scribble notes as I looked at the files. Among other things, written in bold, angry letters in the top right hand corner of the page, there are two words.

“I quit.”

There is a curse word written up there in the corner, too, one not appropriate for a family newspaper.

This wasn’t what I’d signed up for. I was physically sick from what I’d seen and read. I consider myself a good writer, and I certainly have many years of writing, editing and reporting experience, but I had no idea how I was going to write an article about this.

A baby named Sterling Koehn had died, and his parents were implicated.

Zachary Koehn and Cheyanne Harris, his dad and mom, were charged with first-degree murder and child endangerment causing death. Sterling was found dead in a swing seat in their apartment in Alta Vista, Iowa.

He died of malnutrition, dehydration and infection from diaper rash. Investigators said his diaper hadn’t been changed in over a week — maybe two weeks. Sterling died 12-24 hours before anyone bothered to call 911.

I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I couldn’t look at the photos. I was sick.

I’d covered some pretty horrific things over the years at newspapers large and small, and also some wonderful things. I’d gotten out of the business for a few years, and returned to work at this small-town bi-weekly in New Hampton. I’d been there a few weeks, and I’d been re-energized. I was loving community journalism. Covering board meetings, city celebrations, football games, local events — I felt like I was doing something worth doing again.

Yes, there was bad news, too, that was essential to cover — but even that was kind of fun and challenging to write about.

Then this. The most horrible thing I’d ever seen. As a parent — as a human — I wanted out. How does something like this happen?

Eventually, last fall, Sterling’s dad was convicted of first-degree murder and child endangerment causing death and sentenced to life in prison. He has appealed his conviction.

Closing arguments were heard in Sterling’s mom’s case on Wednesday, and by late in the afternoon the jury had returned a guilty verdict for her, too.

But justice wasn’t on my mind on the day I read those files and saw those photos. I wanted out. I wanted to go home, go to bed, get some sleep, and never go back to work.

I didn’t quit. I did my job. I reminded myself that cops and first responders and soldiers and firefighters see things like this far more often than I do, in person, up close.

So I wrote up what I’d seen. I was more careful and more focused than I’d ever been. Never have I treated a task so respectfully. My editor had done some work already and talked to some sheriff’s deputies and county prosecutors about the case, and so we shared a byline on the article.

I told him it would be OK with me if he left my name off of it, or just used “news staff,” or something like that. I really felt like I didn’t want to be associated with the story. He told me he understood, but he was going to put my name on it. He told me that at some point, it would be important to see the specific names of the people who covered the story.

He could tell I was sick. He told me to take the rest of the day off. He knew I needed that.

In the days and weeks that followed, I watched the story take off and become a national and international news item. The way the story morphed in the national media was upsetting to me.

Forensic investigators had used insect larva to help determine the time of death, which is a standard procedure. Major media outlets focused on that one small detail, and began referring to Sterling Koehn as a “maggot-infested baby.” I felt it took the humanity away from this baby, and turned a tragic story into some kind of awful zombie movie.

What’s worse, it simply wasn’t true. Sterling wasn’t “maggot-infested.” I read the reports. I saw the photos. National publications used those words to get attention, to attract internet clicks, and that pissed me off.

It’s a myth that small-town community journalists like it when the big papers and media organizations pick up our stories. Some assume that we’re somehow supposed to be flattered that they found our stuff to be worthy of their publication.

They oftentimes don’t treat those stories with the same care and focus. In fact, I saw one national publication lift this particular story, word-for-word, from the article my editor and I had written, place their own journalist’s name on it, drop the phrase “maggot-infested” into the story and headline, and call it their own — as if they did any work at all.

Even though I put in the work, I requested my name be taken off the story, because it disturbed me so much. And here was another writer, at a major newspaper, so eager to take credit for someone else’s work. I felt like there was something wrong with that, something inhuman.

It’s no wonder we have a president who’s constantly screaming “fake news.”

I hate that he says that. He’s not right.

But he’s not completely wrong, either.

I’m a father of two daughters, and I helped to take care of them when they were babies, but you don’t have to be a parent for the story of this baby to cut at your emotions.

You just have to be a human being.

Maybe if more of us went back to just being human, there’d be fewer Sterling Koehn stories to write.

— Editor’s note: James Grob was a reporter at the New Hampton Tribune when Cheyanne Harris and Zachary Koehn were arrested and charged with their baby’s murder in October 2017. Grob is now a reporter for the Charles City Press. Both newspapers are owned by Enterprise Media Inc. of Charles City.

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Dancing lessons from God

Black History Month lessons from Buxton, Iowa

Trump Press Conference, 2-15-19

The story I never wanted to write

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