The Man Who Knew Phog

How many times in our lives do we meet someone new and ignore the chance to find out about them?

I’m guilty.

I can recall times when I was simply not interested, or distracted or so busy I only wanted to shake hands and move on.

There was even a time in my life when I thought “I already have enough friends. I don’t have time for any more.”

So many missed opportunities. So many amazing people in this world, each unique and special and each with their own rare story to tell.

My high school reunion a month ago is a good example. I met someone who reminded me that it is important to look, listen and hear another person when you meet them. You just might find a gem and a reminder of the things you love.

A childhood friend approached me after our dinner banquet ended and said “hey, you need to meet this man because I think you’d be interested in him!”

The man’s name is Keith Kappelmann and by the end of our short visit I was compelled to return to my hotel room, mid-reunion, so I could write down every detail of our exchange.

Keith graduated from White City High School in 1944, two years after my Grandmother Mary Jean Harmison. She passed away six years ago and I have felt the loss deeply. This man knew her, remembered her.

Keith’s sister Jean was also with him and she graduated in 1949 with my late Great Aunt Naomi Harmison. White City is a very small town and people from this generation are disappearing rapidly.

The first thing I did after returning home that weekend was to dig out my Grandmother’s 1942 year book. It is thin, paper, tattered and yellowed but I have loved looking at since moving in with my grandparents at the age of six. I know each page, recognize the names of her 17 class members. I would lie on the floor in our dining room and pour over the pages. Harlow Warneke, class Vice-President, seemed so handsome to me. Thelma Pretzer, class Secretary Treasurer, must have been smart, at least in my young mind.

I always thought my grandmother was the prettiest in her class and I could pick her out of every group photo.

Somehow, though, in those same group photos, I had missed a tall sophomore named Keith Kappelmann.

Keith told me that he remembered my Grandmother, that she had been sweet and kind. I knew this but it was wonderful hearing it from someone who had known her in her youth.

This little connection was only that, though. Little.

Keith and I had far more in common.

You see, Keith was tall for that time. 6’5 in fact. And he played basketball.

He planned to attend the University of Kansas and maybe, just maybe, play basketball under Phog Allen. Unfortunately, World War II was raging and like the rest of his generation Keith entered the military.

Yes, another connection.

Keith joined the United States Army and served in the Battle of Okinawa.

For those of you who know my own story, Okinawa is a very poignant place to my family. Keith served there at the same time as my Grandfather Delbert. Keith told me he spent most of his time on Okinawa helping with the supply chain on the Yontan airbase. My grandfather would’ve been further south at the same time, in heavy combat prior to losing his arm during the battle for Dakeshi Ridge.

Two Morris County boys, halfway around the world, fighting for their country on a small island in the middle of the Pacific.

I wonder if their paths ever crossed. If the jeep carrying my grandfather’s battered and injured body maybe passed by Keith as he was walking on the air base. So physically close, both knowing the same blue eyed girl, and yet so far away at the same time.

I’m sure I may have appeared a little odd and eager to Mr. Kappelmann, who is now in his nineties. In a ballroom filled with people a 46 year old woman was peppering him with questions, intent and focused. Of course he downplayed his time in the service, saying he didn’t do “much”, just helped on the airbase. Only I know what happened on the Island of Okinawa in 1945, to our own servicemen, to the Japanese soldiers and, most important, to the natives. It was a violent and turbulent place with many victims and nightmares.

When Mr. Kappelmann returned to Kansas he chose the same path as my grandfather. They both entered the University of Kansas in the fall of 1946 under the GI Bill. In addition to combing through my grandmother’s high school year book, I also dug through a University of Kansas 1946 year book, picked up several years ago in a KU vintage shopping expedition. I had never explored the KU album as deeply as I have in the following weeks since meeting Mr. Kappelmann and it has been a fascinating journey. In the fall of 1946, according to one of the year book articles, there were 370 veterans enrolled at KU. Mr. Kappelmann and my grandfather would have been two of them. By the spring, the number of veterans would be well over a thousand.

By that same fall of ‘46, Delbert was a married father, trying to juggle husband and father duties while completing homework using a single, non-dominant hand. The disability presented struggles, although to use that word could invoke his wrath.

Keith was single and, in piecing together what I can from our short chat, tried to resume his original course before the war created a detour.

Which involved Jayhawk Basketball.

Talk about yanking the proverbial “Marlys chain”. My grandmother…White City High School circa 1940’s…World War II Okinawa…KU basketball. We would be soul mates if only the same age and single.

I tried to contain myself while talking to Mr. Kappelmann. It was apparent that his small group was heading home from the reunion when we were introduced and I didn’t want to delay them. But curiosity was obnoxiously roaring in my head, creeping from my tongue.

The basketball story is short. There was roster space for 20 players and Keith was the 21st player, meaning he could still practice with the squad without suiting up. But he was a different man after the war, as was an entire generation.

He mentioned Charlie Black and Otto Schnellbacher; seemed impressed that I knew who these men were. He talked about the break the war caused and how the top tier players had been able to play while over seas, leaving them more like professionals after they returned. Players who hadn’t seen a basketball court during their time in the military had lost valuable time and seemed remedial next to the All-Americans.

The old veteran and KU alum was honest and forthright. He said that during one particular practice Phog Allen was pushing him to perform a particular spin move the correct way. The famed coach told Keith he wanted it perfected by the next day.

Keith told me he thought to himself “you know, I don’t really need this job.” So he left the team and continued moving forward with a free education (the word “free” somehow doesn’t seem quite appropriate now, does it).

I immediately thought to myself “no wonder - you had just been through war and this must’ve seemed so trivial, so minor; now that you had the financial support through the GI Bill to pay for an education I can’t say that I blame you.”

He talked about dunking and the fact that it was a fairly new phenomena and one which Phog Allen deeply disagreed. The players who were able to dunk would wait until Phog left the gym and then they would take every opportunity to dunk. The price, if caught, was high because Phog would bench the offenders during the next game.

Standing next to Keith was Jean’s husband. He was a Lawrence High School graduate, Class of ’49, and, like his brother-in-law Keith, had stories to share.

He said as a kid he managed a paper route which went right by Phog Allen’s home and he would often see Phog out walking. In 1938 his Boy Scout troop watched a game in Hoch Auditorium. It was so crowded students had to sit on the stage.

What was absolutely fascinating to me was the way they all still seemed to remember small details, like purchasing tickets to half of the basketball and football games for $20 during a time when only a fraction of the student body could even fit into Hoch Auditorium.

Keith’s brother-in-law recalled a time when Phog would actually address the young men who were registering for selective service, giving them a patriotic pep talk, if you will.

The conversation eventually drifted to Dick Harp and Phog’s retirement. Although Keith hasn’t seen the new movie, staring Justin Wesley, he says there was a law at the time that required Phog to retire at a certain age. But he gives credit to Coach Dick Harp, Allen’s predecessor, for ushering in an era of African American acceptance onto the court during a time when the country was extremely segregated.

Politeness required that I eventually allow them to continue heading towards the door but Mr. Kappelmann shared one last bit of information about himself. After college he joined the Air Force instead of reenlisting in the Army and served in the Korean War.

And although I was feeling guilty for holding them up and pressing them with questions, he relieved my guilt by telling me that meeting me and seeing my interest in him was the best part of the two reunions he had attended. They told me it was nice meeting a member of the Harmison Clan.

It was a brief meeting, a passing if you will. But I’ve continued to think about all three of them because they are from a generation that we are losing by the day, by the hour. Certainly, meeting someone who was coached by Phog Allen was a genuine pleasure. Hearing stories of Hoch Auditorium and Phog’s disdain for the slam dunk was, in the vernacular, awesome.

I was more honored, though, to meet a World War II Veteran, someone who had served on the same island at the same time as my grandfather. And though Mr. Kappelmann and every other member of The Greatest Generation will tell you “I was nothing, I did nothing, the others were heroes”, many of us recognize that this isn’t true at all. Every one of them contributed and was part of a unity and a commitment to putting our country, our freedom and our way of life before all else.

I’m documenting this to thank him for his service and for sharing a little of himself with a stranger. It meant more to me than he could know and for just a brief moment I could imagine him as a young man walking the halls of White City High School with a beautiful young blue eyed girl named Mary Jean Harmison.

Make sure to talk to people. You never know if their story may speak to you.

Update 11/09/2015: I received notice today that Mr. Kappelmann passed away on October 31. Having lost my own grandparents, I can honestly say it is a bittersweet thing when such a unique and special member of this generation leaves us. What an amazing life he lived and what a humble gift it was to have met him so soon before he left his family and friends. Obituary linked here.

A Year of Firsts

Another “first”.

Yes, the “firsts” hurt. Deeply.

The first Thanksgiving wasn’t as difficult because I made sure we would be out of town, visiting Brian’s parents in sunny Florida where I could stay busy and not think about it as much.

Thanksgiving was always the one holiday we spent with my Grandparents. The singular tradition I maintained after we got married and the one time a year when the majority of Stone offspring were together, unified in our deep love, adoration and loyalty to Delbert and Mary Jean.

Christmas was the holiday I decided years ago would be spent with our own tiny family unit. As the child of my grandparents, whose home was THE hub for all holidays, I remembered Christmas being a madhouse. I love my extended family but thought maybe we would make Christmas a tradition where we didn’t have to get out of our pajamas, where we would literally hang out and do nothing…no driving all over town, having to get dressed up or having to worry about making meals and desserts. It has been a wonderful tradition.

The first Christmas wasn’t as difficult because we did what we always did. We stayed home.

The first birthday was a tough one. I typically begin thinking about what I’m going to get my Grandpa Stone for his birthday not long after Christmas. He was just always so much fun to buy for.

The man collected pens, hats, knives, trinkets, gadgets, books, KU memorabilia, Marine Corps mementos and old school Democratic collectables. Buying for him was easy and once you bought him something he would use it. He would display it. He would find subtle and not-so-subtle ways to let you know how much he enjoyed his gifts.

He was like a little kid, eager to play with any new toy.

I never bought gifts for my biological father, having met him so late in life. He lives far away and I don’t know him well enough to feel comfortable buying for him. Likewise, I didn’t have the chance to shop like this for my Grandfather Wentworth because dementia had already taken hold of his precious mind by the time I introduced myself to him as his granddaughter. But Grandpa Stone? Oh how I loved to buy gifts for him, from an early age.

Yes. The first birthday hurt.

Today, Father's Day, is the last grueling summit of “firsts”.

I will get through today because my husband will keep me busy; the kids and I will be celebrating him. But I am reminded, in complete and total simplicity, that I am very sad sometimes. And I miss my Grandfather deeply, viscerally.

Those of you who have already lost your fathers or father figures know exactly what I am saying.

For some of you, it has been many years and the sting lessons over time. But it doesn’t mean you don’t still pause at times, still wince, still want to pick up the phone…and still want to buy that perfect item for them.

For others, the loss is recent. Maybe just last week. You are still trying to wrap your minds and hearts around the fact that you will never be able to look into his eyes again, talk to him again or hear him laugh again.

My heart goes out to you. The year of “firsts” is just starting.

We each handle grief in our own way, but I think the “firsts” are maybe not quite so bad in hindsight. They allow us to pause, let the grief wash over us, and feel what needs to be felt. I need those soulful crying episodes every once in a while. They are cleansing.

And in some way, during those moments, I am connected with the man I mourn losing. I feel him and know that he is beside me. I believe that his spirit understands how much I loved him…how much I still do.

Today I will cherish our time with Brian and I will encourage my kids to take advantage of the memories they are making with their own father. I will rejoice in my heart the life I had with Delbert and the lessons he taught me. I will laugh and tease, just as he always did.

Today’s “first” will be a celebration of my hero. Today will be a great day.

Here’s to you Grandpa Stone…I miss you.

Message To My Daughter as She Enters High School

Message for my daughter as she enters high school.

You never, ever have to bear a burden alone. Your father and I are here for you. Always and unconditionally. But if you can’t talk to us, find someone you can talk to (we probably have a few suggestions). It can be another friend’s parent, one of our friends or even another family member. It might even be a close friend whom you trust; but please remember, sometimes an adult can have a wiser perspective. After all, we have each been through the teen years and we truly do know many of the situations you will be facing. If you go to someone else, your father and I won’t be hurt and we won’t be mad. We just want you to always know that you aren’t alone.

The actions of your friends are never about you. Your peers aren’t thinking about you as much as you think they are. Their actions aren’t about you. Each of your friends and other teens are dealing with their own issues and finding their own way. Use this mantra (unless it’s a specific situation you are involved in and then refer back to the first paragraph): It’s Not About Me.

Because of this, be kind. Remember that the actions of your peers could be happening because of something they are missing or searching for. Sometimes, they are dealing with situations you may not be aware of…may have no inkling about.

Don’t hold grudges. Each of you is just a baby in your personal growth. None of you is the full adult you have yet to become and a grudge now could prevent you from knowing someone who may become a beautiful person in ten or fifteen years; someone you may need later in life.

Always stand up for yourself, your friends and those who are weaker than you. It is a hard thing to do, but will become easier. It will also become empowering and will endear you to those who know you. It will earn their trust and loyalty. And if we have set the right example, you know in your heart that it is the right thing to do.

You and your friends are children of a different technological age than we are. We don’t understand social media the way you do and we promise not to judge it. Live by this one rule, though, and you should be okay: never post anything online that you wouldn’t want us or your grandparents to see and never share another person’s secrets; it can hurt them and you both. You can’t hide something you post online, be it a photo or words and it can’t be erased, even after hitting “delete”. Your private personality should serve you well in this regard.

We will always be one phone call away. No matter what. No matter how late or how far or the situation. You see, nothing else matters if you don’t make it home safely. Your friend’s parents feel the same way. We will pick you and them up at any time if you find yourself in a questionable situation or if you have made choices you know will make us unhappy. The unhappy can wait in those moments and we will get through THAT together as well. Your safety comes first.

You can also talk to us about boys. We know you are a very private person and it is one of the special things that makes you who you are. But please know that both of us will listen respectfully and answer openly and honestly any questions you have. Girls usually talk to their mothers, if they decide to trust a parent, but you and your father have a special bond so never count him out as a resource. No question is too dumb. We won’t freak out. We know how emotional and passionate those feelings can be. Please don’t try to tread those waters alone, amazing and beautiful daughter. The consequences could be life altering and we can quietly and respectfully be there to help you navigate them. No judgements promised, ever, even if we don’t agree with your choices. Again, your safety comes first.

We promise to consider how our behavior impacts you. Because it does. Something as simple as teasing you in front of your friends might seem harmless to us; to you, it might be painfully embarrassing. We also know how important it has been and will continue to be for you to count on us to do the things we say we will do. We expect the same from you.

Those family vacations? They are important. There may come a time when you don’t want to join us and we promise to not force you to do everything with your family. However; there will be times when we insist. Our bonds as a family are more important than you can know right now and those precious vacations are a time for us to relax, be ourselves and feel comfortable within a unit that will be the one constant in your life. I promise to chronicle those times because memories are something no one can take away from you. Think of the laughs we already share when recounting road trips!

We promise to listen to you. When we fail at this, simply ask and remind us of this promise. We are human and we are flawed but you and your brother will always come first.

And finally, there may be times when you don’t like the answers we give. Or the consequences. Please, in those moments, remember that your father and I would never do anything to hurt you. Every action we take will be taken from a sincere belief that it is best for you. We do not have a handbook telling us how to parent a teenager. This is uncharted water for us. You do not have a handbook telling you how to get through the teen years; everything will be new to you as well. Together, though, we can get through anything.

We know you will be angry with us at times. We will be angry with you. But we will always love you, always cherish you and always try to do the right thing. We ask only that you also try to do the right thing and that you never forget your biggest supporters will be right there with you, every step of the way, even if we aren’t standing next to you.

Love,

Mom

10 Year Old Man in the Mirror

Today’s Facebook pages were oozing with depressing stories.

A father in Texas, while playing with his AR-15 last weekend, shot his three year old to death.

A video gone viral of a homeless man in Los Angeles, trying to give away money, shined a spotlight on man’s basest vanity, pride and willingness to insult and humiliate strangers.

I was feeling a little icky as the day began, to say the least.

Slightly irritated, mentally piecing together a blog that would call out ugliness, I took a few minutes to clean out some texts. Thank God.

I text myself sometimes (actually pretty often) when I want to freeze frame a statement or an incident. I have a horrid memory; even when I do remember, it typically isn’t accurate (curse of being a double Gemini). As a way to combat this problem, I’ve taken to using technology to capture important moments.

I recommend doing this folks. Freeze frame the best moments, the best random comments, the best feelings. Capture them and use them as sustenance when you need a lift.

Because when you do, this is the type of story you might come across.

I was heading to Target with Brody, our ten year old. He had earned a reward, a $10 item, but what it really meant was that I got the chance to spend some one-on-one time with him. This doesn’t happen often; between schedules and my own flawed distractions, I miss out on far too many opportunities to remain “in the moment” with my youngest.

I started a discussion in the car with him about the Tooth Fairy. He had lost a tooth recently and I was curious about whether or not he had found any money under his pillow (gads, I actually remembered this time). Inevitably, this led to the much feared “do you believe in the Tooth Fairy” question being asked by me.

Seriously. There isn’t a handbook telling you WHEN to ask this question. Somehow, I just felt that it was right. One thing I do trust is a mother’s instinct. Mine is typically on target (ask me next year when our oldest is finishing up her first year of high school; you’ll possibly get a different answer regarding the infallibility of my so-called “instincts”).

He pondered the question, quite intently, and finally said he really wasn’t too sure. In fact, he didn’t necessarily believe in the Tooth Fairy…but he DOES still think maybe Santa Claus exists. And this is where things got real.

Brody then told me that he equates Santa Claus with the “Soul of Hope” in Pandora’s box.

After asking him to repeat himself, because in all honesty I had NO idea what he was talking about, I almost wept upon hearing his response.

He told me that the God Zeus was mad at another God for offering humans the gift of fire. As punishment, he created a box for Pandora. In this box, he placed things like sadness, stress and depression. Because this was before Zeus developed an exceptionally bad temper, he also added something positive to the box. He added hope.

Hence, the “Soul of Hope”.

Now, whether or not that is the academic version of the story is irrelevant. This is the version shared with me by my ten year old.

As for Santa…Brody said he believes Santa Claus is real because he represents hope.

I told him that I thought it was pretty cool that he thinks of Santa as hope. Brody simply shrugged his shoulders and said “it’s because Santa is good and just gives without wanting anything in return.”

He continued, saying “we can pay Santa back by going out into the world and being kind to each other.”

Now, I’m in the moment. I’m thinking about how I can keep this conversation going because, quite frankly, it’s pretty darn awesome. We talk about spirituality on a regular basis and I think he’s transferring; I’m loving that he understands the same messages regarding how to treat our fellow brothers and sisters, but I’ve still got those downer Facebook posts in the back of my mind. So I say to him “that’s true, although sadly many people don’t do this so all we can do is be responsible for ourselves.”

Without missing a beat, as he walked down the aisle in Target, Brody said with the wisdom of the elderly, “yep, be the man in the mirror”.

It was then that I pulled out my phone and started texting myself. I didn’t want to forget this moment.

Technology is a yin and a yang but, right then, it allowed me to record for myself a message from my ten year old; a message I’m going to preserve. Thanks Brody. You are pretty awesome buddy.

Be the man in the mirror.

Postlude: While waiting for Brody to pack up his sparring gear at Tae Kwon Do tonight, the father of another boy whom I’ve never spoken to before approached me. He said “you are Brody’s mother, right?” After I replied in the affirmative, he said “I just wanted to say that he is a really good kid.”

Man in the mirror. Living it.

Let's Face It, Women Have Some Nasty Bathroom Habits!

I love women.

I love my friends. I enjoy their insight, their passion, their laughter and their support.

Women are amazing and unless you are one of us and unless you’ve experienced the enlightenment of a close friendship with a woman that resembles that of a mother or sister you cannot possibly understand how valuable such a relationship can be to the long term happiness and mental health stability of us females.

I feel certain I would wither away and shrink without my circle of lady friends.

With that being said, and I mean this in the kindest way, some of us are downright nasty.

I’ve had the horror (I don’t think that is too harsh) of experiencing three different bathroom experiences over the past few weeks that have left me wondering if some of our feminine sisters have lost their mother loving minds.

Some of us are downright disgusting.

Exhibit A: The women’s public restroom at the northwestern end of The Legends outside shopping mall. It needs to be fumigated. As in yesterday. The first thing I noticed upon entering was the stifling smell, reminding me of an elementary school kid who has been playing outside in the heat for a solid four or five hours without bothering to take a restroom break. It was that heavy, moist, crotch-like smell. With my face jammed into it.

Oh stop it, if I had to endure it then you can read about it.

I found myself wondering if any of the women who had been in there ever bother to wash their private parts. I also wondered if they know how to pick up toilet paper because it appeared as if ten litters of kittens had been set free to attack every single toilet paper roll in the bathroom. It was everywhere on the floor. I do believe a person would have to make a concerted decision to teepee a bathroom in order to make such a mess. Come ON ladies.

The smell, however, was most pressing.

Here’s my advice when you find yourself in a bathroom like that; you know, the ones that smell like the stench never quite goes away and just piles on top of itself day after day after day after day.

Use your own shirt as a makeshift gas mask. Remember, though, that strong thigh muscles can help. You don’t want to touch these toilet seats, which means you have to have strong thigh muscles to support yourself while crouching in the defensive basketball stance. This has the added bonus of taking your mind off of the smell.

If you are really lucky, and have a strong sister like my friend Kris-Ann (we mastered this act many years ago while visiting our first co-ed bathroom at a club in NYC; worked beautifully), then you can help each other by joining hands while she helps hold you up, kind of like a balancing act. This, however, could impact the next paragraph’s suggestion because it requires both hands. Life sometimes presents us with difficult choices, I know.

If you are wearing short sleeves or a tank then simply pull the neckline up to a point just over your nose and inhale deeply your own smell. Hopefully you use cologne, lotion or use those yummy smelling Downy Unstoppable scent boosters in your laundry. If you are wearing long sleeves simply hold your forearm under your nose.

In defense of fellow stinky sisters, a bathroom IS the place we are supposed to go for THOSE issues. Which means the stinky bathroom at Legends is the least of the horrors I experienced within a three day span of time.

Exhibit B: The women’s restroom at TJ Max at, again, The Legends (maybe I’m on to something here). These bathroom stalls included feminine product disposal boxes. The box was not full. Someone, mother of God, decided she didn’t want to take the time to wrap her “feminine product” in toilet paper neatly and dispose of it properly. She thought it would be appropriate to leave it lying, sticky side down (dirty side up) on the LID of said disposal box. As an aside, it is a deeply held belief of mine that we are responsible for teaching our daughters proper and clean feminine product disposal practices. My own daughter hated this “talk”, begged me to stop speaking the day we reviewed it, but I sleep better at night knowing this crime will never be committed by my offspring.

Back to the crime - what the hell????

At what point does this seem appropriate? Who thinks other women want to stare down a used maxi pad while in the thigh burning defensive stance position and gasping for air inside the neckline of their shirt?

I have faith in my sister brethren, though, because even though there was a line in this bathroom not a single woman would venture into that stall and every one of us was commenting loudly on how disgusting it was. I feel confident this could be an isolated issue?

Scratch that. After this last exhibit I don’t think anything would surprise me.

Exhibit C: A visit to the women’s restroom in the Amtrak Station in downtown St. Louis resulted in a panic inducing nightmare later that night in which I was being attacked by feces. I’m still not over it.

While waiting to return to KC after a quick two day getaway to St. Louis with my husband, I needed to use the lady’s restroom. Every stall was open so I did what I always do (don’t ask me why - why do any of us practice our unique bathroom habits?); I walked all the way to the end, just before the handicapped stall (I never use those unless it’s the only one available in case someone who needs it comes in while I’m finishing my business – I’m proud of this habit).

What I found there left me scarred for life.

A woman (it IS the women’s restroom after all) appeared to have walked in, turned around, bent over and assaulted the back of the toilet, handle and wall with excrement.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

That’s how long it took before I gagged.

Then, out loud and at a fairly high volume, I said something like “holy shit, what happened in here and how the HELL does a person do that? What is WRONG with people? What is wrong with the WORLD? Gag, ack, whew, breathe Marlys, breathe.”

I wanted to run out of that room and never return but we had just finished an eight block walk after consuming multiple beers while watching the NCAA basketball tournament. My eyeballs were floating.

I was faced with a conundrum.

If I went to the furthest stall could it still get me?

I decided to clench and find another bathroom (yes, I know it wasn’t reasonable to think the darkness could creep under the stalls and touch me but at this point I was experiencing a mild form of poo-trauma).

After passing Brian, who looked at me curiously when I held up my hand and tersely said “don’t ask”, I headed down the hall to the other women’s restroom.

It was closed for cleaning.

The situation was becoming dire and I knew, in that moment, that I would have to head back into the women’s feces room from hell.

I pulled the collar up over my nose, quickly walked into the first stall and set a world’s speed record for peeing.

Not taking the time to wash my hands for fear the black plague was streaming towards me (Purell is our friend), I hauled ass out the door only to run into the cleaning woman.

Noticing the panic in my eyes and fear in my face, she asked “what’s wrong honey?”

I decided to give it to her straight.

“Someone shit all over a stall in there. I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t miss a beat, instead coyly asking “It wasn’t you, was it?”

I didn’t even know how to respond to that. Was the question even necessary? Seriously. As if?

Then she laughed and, I swear to God I’m not making this up, said “it’s okay, I see it every day.”

My first thought was “and you come BACK?”

That’s when I decided I needed to write this blog.

If you are a woman and don’t clean yourself, leave soiled feminine products exposed after using a public restroom (or ANY restroom for that matter) or feel it is appropriate to relieve yourself all over the back of a toilet without cleaning it up (I can’t allow myself to imagine how that happens) then please stop it.

You are being chastised. You are being called out. I’m begging you to show some self-respect and, barring that, practice respect for your fellow sisters.

You are giving the rest of us a bad name.

Along with nightmares and poo-PTSD.

Please, I beg of you. Stop it.

It Will Be Fine Jayhawk Fans

My best friend Kris-Ann and I at the KU vs WSU tournmanet game

I’ve been asked by a number of friends what I think about KU’s loss on Sunday evening in Omaha to the Wichita State Shockers. Honestly, my thoughts are quite simple.

We got beat by a better team.

So let’s just tackle some of the points of view floating around Kansas, social media, and the sporting world.

First of all, Bill Self does recruit in Kansas. Remember Tyrel Reed (Burlington Ks)? Perry Ellis (Wichita KS)? Conner Frankamp (Wichita KS)? Conner Teahan (Overland Park KS)? As for Kentucky’s Willie Cauley-Stein, an Olathe native, Bill Self has said of course he’d love to have him but recruiting is an inexact science and had he recruited Cauley-Stein he wouldn’t have landed Joel Embiid.

There are more Kansas kids who have played for KU, I know, but in my defense I’m writing this off the top of my head. Use google if you want more names.

Which leads us to Ron Baker. Who wasn’t on anyone’s radar until his senior year, when he grew an astounding three inches, put on pounds and led his high school team to a state championship…which is when Bill Self and Greg Marshall both took notice.

You see, neither KU nor WSU had scholarships available by then. Both were interested though, recognizing the young talent, but when Bill Self invited Ron to tour KU and practice with the team Ron declined. He said he was afraid he would embarrass himself and didn’t think he was good enough. WSU, he said, felt less intimidating so he paid his own tuition the first year and was able to get a scholarship his sophomore year, which is exactly what would’ve happened at KU had he chosen to play for the Jayhawks.

Now I don’t have a crystal ball and neither do you, Bill Self, Greg Marshall or Ron Baker. Who knows what might have been. Had Baker attended KU he may have ended up down the bench and never fully developed. Bottom line? Ron Baker is better off at WSU. He has been nothing short of amazing and part of a monumental shift in their basketball program, which began under KU alum Mark Turgeon. What happens after he and the rest of WSU’s core leaves is anyone’s guess. I personally think that Coach Marshall has something special and I hope it continues. It doesn’t matter, though, because for Ron Baker he made the right choice and I’m happy for him. He’s an amazing young man based upon everything I’ve read and seen and he has absolutely flourished in Wichita.

Stop saying Bill Self ignored him though, because he didn’t.

That leads us to this idea that Bill Self is “scared to play WSU”, which is absolutely insane.

Bill Self has played the toughest non-conference schedule in the entire country for the past two years. That’s not up for debate. That’s not exaggeration. That is based upon every ranking and RPI number published. It is quoted on every sporting show and article. KU played Kentucky’s two NBA teams this year and got pounded. Doesn’t look like fear to me.

Here is what IS true.

KU has a limited number of very valuable non-conference away games. They are chosen carefully, in national recruiting hot bed areas, against power conference teams.

Wichita is not a recruiting hot bed. It never has been and it never will be for KU because kids who grow up in Kansas are already familiar with KU. And the Perry Ellis’s aren’t hopping off the school bus in Wichita every year either. They are, however, quite abundant in places like Chicago, Philadelphia and the east coast.

KU is not going to give up one of those valuable road recruiting opportunities to play an away game in Wichita. They will, most likely, gladly host WSU in Lawrence. None of this has anything to do with how Bill Self “feels” about WSU; it has everything to do with the future of his basketball program.

Greg Marshall finally publicly admitted last week that he has never picked up the phone and called Bill Self to ask him to play. He also admitted he understands why KU doesn’t schedule an away game against WSU. Maybe Greg Marshall understands that he may very shortly be in the same position as Bill Self when it comes to recruiting and scheduling. I don’t have a crystal ball.

WSU is in a mid-major conference; the last few games KU played against them in the early 90’ were beat downs by 30+ points (the last game KU won by a whopping 49 points). Not very competitive, to say the least, which is probably why the games were ended.

That was then and this is now. WSU has proven for several years that they are no longer a mid-major caliber team but, for the time being, capable of beating any power conference school in the country. That is awesome for WSU, their fans, the city of Wichita and the state of Kansas.

It doesn’t impact KU though, other than to leave their fans irritated and whiney about one loss.

We should be irritated.

We shouldn’t be whiney though (seriously, Jayhawk fans, don’t perpetuate the stereotype).

We should keep things in perspective.

This year was rough. We lost two first round draft picks last year, one of which was unexpected.

We spent a number of years without a true point guard.

We have no large inside presence, which absolutely destroyed our rebounding this year.

We either had a mental block when it came to making easy shots or someone with a sick sense of humor messed with the rims.

We played with a majority of freshman and sophomores and the most notable freshman recruit has been sidelined with NCAA issues.

We finally have two amazingly young and talented true point guards but after watching Self’s teams for years I’ve come to accept that his offense is so difficult, so complicated, that it takes even talented point guards several years to master it.

This means watch out. Next year we will see Frank Mason transitioning into a great leader. I believe this. In fact, I can’t wait for the player I call “Bulldog” to unleash his anger over this season’s ending.

Moving on; some of you have questioned Bill Self’s recruiting. Seriously?

Every school is recruiting. Every school has needs. It isn’t an exact science and schools are competing against each other.

Tom Izzo, in my opinion one of the greatest active coaches in the NCAA today, began recruiting Jahlil Okafur when he was in EIGHTH GRADE. Michigan State offered him a scholarship when he was just a freshman in high school. Izzo thought Okafur would attend Michigan State until, late in the recruiting game, Okafur chose Duke instead.

This means Izzo had to look elsewhere. By then, many of the top recruits were already committed to other schools.

This happens to all of the coaches. There are only so many players, only so many schools, and many factors involved in how and if a coach is finally able to land top level talent. And then there are the Ron Bakers out there; kids who show lower level talent and are smaller until, for some reason late in the game, they blossom, grow and surprise us.

Do you have a crystal ball? No? Then why on earth would you expect it of Bill Self?

Coach Self’s rate of winning is widely known. He has achieved a monumental feat, untouched by a power conference school since the days of UCLA in the late ‘60s and ‘70s, with an insane 11 straight conference championships. I honestly doubt I will see another power conference school achieve this in my lifetime.

KU has attended the NCAA tournament for 26 years straight. The Jayhawks win at one of the highest rates in the country and have done so for decades.

Unfortunately, the Hawks had a weaker team than usual this year. We had a young team. Something was off, far be it for me to say what. Matchups were bad, we lacked size, we lacked experience, sometimes attitudes were bad and we lacked the hard working motor so indicative of Bill Self teams. Watching likely NBA bound Kelly Oubre get beat on a loose ball because he simply didn’t hustle was, for me, the final exclamation point on what was missing for the Jayhawks this year.

Suffice it to say, this was the weakest Bill Self team in many years happening to meet up with a powerful and seasoned Wichita State Team. Bad timing for Self and the Jayhawks but, seriously folks, it’s not the end of the world. We still won the league and made the NCAA round of 32. Over 300 other teams in Division I basketball can’t say that.

The loss does sting for me because it is once again the end of the season and because they played beneath their ability. I’m not sad that it was to Wichita State, just sad about the way we lost. The Shockers are having a ball, their fans are getting a taste of how awesome following a winning program can be, and the state of Kansas has something positive to share with the country as opposed to our sad state government.

And folks, WSU is damn good.

Sunday night was one game. It is one season. We won the Big 12 again and we will return almost every player next year. We will actually have a senior starter for a change. We will have a junior point guard running the offense.

If nothing else, watching a Bill Self team with upper class leadership is something awesome to look forward to. I can’t wait for 2015 Late Night.

In the meantime, don’t be haters. Let’s cheer for the Shockers. They have earned it!

What Do I Do When They Leave Home?

Being a stay-at-home parent is like a roller coaster. And I hit the lowest point this weekend.

Like any career there have been moments when I felt on top of the game, operating at full capacity and performing at the highest level in my field.

There have been moments when I’ve been off my game, uninspired. Things don’t get done. I always reminded myself that the world wouldn’t end, which is how I learned to cope in the crazy universe of probation when caseloads ramped up and crisis ensued.

I could always pull into the previous career’s bag of tricks to help with the “new” , stay at home one. I’ve continued to utilize mentally and emotionally supporting tricks from that same bag over these past eight years.

Eight years.

It has been eight years since I quit working outside of the home.

I penned a blog about the emotional ups and downs of being a stay at home mom a few years ago and in it I acknowledged the enormous gift staying home has been along with an awareness of how valuable it has been.

There is one thing I can’t wrap my mind around though. I want to get past it but I’m really struggling. I’m feeling sorry for myself, which piles on humiliation and shame because I have no RIGHT to feel sorry for myself. I have a pit in the bottom of my stomach. I’m a little lost. And I’m deeply worried.

My engineer husband has been working on a “list” and checking off the items one by one. It is almost completed. It is THE list. Everything we need to head into retirement, take care of the kids if something were to happen to both of us, and the big financial plan for our future.

We cancelled my life insurance policy and increased his. Do you know why?

Because if I were to die they would be okay without me financially. I contribute nothing financially anymore. Nothing.

But if he were to die? We would be devastated without his life insurance.

This is why I’m at the bottom of the roller coaster. My kids can get love and guidance from many people. They have a community around them, extended family who love them. I’ve planted the seeds, done the hard work in cementing those core needs we read about. I read once that the first eight years are the ones that matter when it comes to childhood development.

But they cannot survive without food, a roof, clothes, or school.

And me? I could get a job most likely. I have a college degree and am personable, articulate and bright. I couldn’t, however, get a job that would pay what I made when I quit working. I would be looking at minimum wage which would change our lifestyle in a drastic way.

My old industry has changed. Best practices are different, technology is different, and most in the field don’t even know my name anymore.

Plus I’m on the downside of 50.

Oh, I’ve done some things. I’ve written for an online paper (for free), helped care for an aging grandparent (wouldn’t trade that time for anything), write this blog, ran for State Representative (no money in that; in fact, it cost my family money), & helped someone else run (more money).

I know, I know. I KNOW.

What I have done with the kids has no price. They are thriving…our home is stable…but there is a cost.

And today I feel like my value is the cost. Please don’t make me say that it’s worth it, because that is a huge, screaming given. Of COURSE the kids are worth it.

But I have to say it. Maybe because I need to know I’m not alone.

I finally think I understand that invisible weight I saw pressing down on my grandmother. She became less confident, less outspoken and more of an observer of what was going on around her. It is because she felt she had nothing to contribute to the conversation.

When I was in high school my grandfather was struggling to find a job. He had retired early but still needed an additional income; pushing the age of 60 was a problem.

In the interim, she went to work at the only place that would hire her – the housekeeping division at a local hospital. She hadn’t held a job since the 60’s; then it was part time at the local TG&Y.

She was 58 years old.

I remember, vaguely (I didn’t pay too much attention, worrying more about my next basketball game or date), how tired she seemed to be after cleaning floors on her hands and knees all day and then coming home to cook dinner and throw in some laundry.

And the pay? It wasn’t worth the toll the job took on her health. But I never worried about finances or where my next pair of shoes were going to come from. They made sure of that.

All of this has left me pondering my own situation, frustrated and urgent to find something, ANYTHING, to get me “back in the game”.

And I hate this feeling.

If I were you and you me I’d have all of the right words to say. I’d say what Brian said when he saw I was close to breaking as we discussed this; when he said “remember we cancelled your life insurance because, don’t take this wrong, but we’d be okay if something happened to you”.

I couldn’t hide it, was choking as I tried to leave the room.

He reminded me that the kids are straight A students, happy and adjusted, perfect in almost every way and he said the right words, said “it’s because of you.”

He said “we can’t put a value on what you’ve done by being home.”

He’s a good man. He said what I would say to me.

But I’m still at an impasse.

Which is why I’m writing this today. If you are a stay at home parent I want to warn you that this is also part of the deal.

Staying home, to use that oft-quoted word that makes me cringe sometimes, is a blessing. You won’t be as tired, as stressed. Which is an amazing gift, priceless for you and your family. I GET that. I’m not complaining, please understand that. I wouldn’t change staying home with them, not at all.

I’m just being real, sharing my own feelings right now, today.

When you stay home there could be a cost to you later. And when you are with your friends, who are advanced in their careers and bringing in money, receiving accolades, travelling, talking about industries of which you are clueless, increasing their retirement funds as salaries increase, you will smile and nod and admire.

And wonder what you are going to do in eight more years when your youngest finally leaves home and you are too old to start over.

I’m allowing myself to feel this for a few days. Frankly, I can’t stop it. Sometimes we have to let something that hits us on such a deep emotional level marinate a little. We have to let it wash over us, drown in it, before we finally come up for air with a renewed sense of purpose.

I have options, which is another (here it is again) blessing. Many women do not.

Which means I am obligated to take advantage of those options…and I will.

I’ll apply to graduate school in a month. If I’m not accepted, I’ll start looking for a part time job. Something, anything, that can get me back “out there”. Something that pays. Before I’m in a position to HAVE to work. Life doesn’t wait to see if you are ready for crisis or tragedy. It moves forward like a freight train, plowing through anything in its path that doesn’t move.

And I’ll keep writing and sharing stories because I can’t be the only one who feels this way, can I?