During the MIAA basketball tournament a couple of weeks ago, I went out for drinks after the first day of the tournament with the other reporters who cover the league.

David Boyce, who writes for the Kansas City Star, is kind of the dean of the conference reporters. David was one of the ringleaders for the night. He told me about the tradition of going out months before, and he wanted to make sure it was a good night. He had a sense it might be his last go around.

The Kansas City Star has been laying people off at different times in the past year. I’ve always tried to maintain faith that, despite what people said, newspapers were going to find a way to make it. I heard whispers when I worked at the Denver Post that the Rocky Mountain News might go under and I listened as my fellow journalists talked scared about how our industry was dying.

But I’ve never really believed they would just go away. I kept the faith that things would get better. It was tough to keep the faith when the Rocky went under, and people and faces I knew were out of a job.

David is a guy who at one time probably felt the same way as me. It’s in his personality to be optimistic.

The first time I really started to get to know David was during a women’s basketball game a couple months ago at Emporia State. He’s the type of guy who just loves life and loves people and he knows no stranger. During the MIAA tournament, fans from every team would say hi to David. At one point he went to talk to the parents of one of the Emporia State players he had interviewed that week and he was gone for nearly 30 minutes.

David sat down next to me at press row that night in Emporia and we started talking like we’ve been friends for years. I, like David, am a KU guy, so we had an instant bond. Although, I think David has an instant bond with anybody who likes to talk — or even just listen.

The conversation never stopped that night. We talked basketball and we talked about our beloved Jayhawks. We talked about the MIAA and at one point the conversation even turned to women. And of course, we swapped stories. Journalists love to swap stories. We’re natural storytellers. But the best stories are often ones that are not fit for print, and David has plenty of these stories.

I almost forgot about the game that night and thought to myself, I’m glad David doesn’t come to all of the games, because I think my writing would struggle.

David came to the game that night see if the Emporia State women were for real. Five minutes into the game, he decided they were the best team in the league. After the game, David asked Emporia State guard Andrea Leiker how in the world her team lost to Southwest Baptist, one of the worst teams in the league. David asked the question in sort of a joking way, hoping to get a fun response. Leiker didn’t give him a fun response. She said they were a different team now, and she didn’t think it was necessary to talk about that loss. David didn’t like that answer and decided to put a hex on Leiker at the MIAA tournament.

One of the best shooters in the league, Leiker began throwing up airballs.

I had been looking forward to the conference tournament in Kansas City all year, but after that night, I got even more excited about it. I couldn’t wait to hang out with the rest of the reporters in the league, and, of course, I couldn’t wait to see my new reporter buddy David and hear more stories and talk more basketball.

I’ve always admired people who really love their job. After a night of drinking and riding a mechanical bull (highly entertaining to watch), David and I were walking out of the bar and down the stairs at the Power and Light district in downtown KC. We had all shared a lot of laughs and a lot of stories, but the group had also talked a lot about newspapers that night. Everybody seemed scared for the industry and scared for their futures. Even David, always optimistic, was worried. As we walked down the steps, David turned to me and said, “I hope you’re able to keep doing this, because it really is a fun job.”

Last week, David lost his job at The Star. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again and talk hoops or put hexes on shooting guards. I’m not sure what he plans on doing or if he’ll be able to find another sportswriting job.

I’m not sure about my industry anymore. All I know is I hope newspapers find a way to bounce back and I hope David is back covering hoops somewhere next year. Because, and David put it best, this really is a fun job.

It was a Sunday, and I was taking a walk. By myself. No husband, no son, no friends in sight. Just me and my iPod, keeping me company with some music. A much needed retreat from whatever it is that constitutes my day-to-day.

It was cold and rainy, the dirt paths in the park all muddy, the colours muted and grey. I had been yearning for spring to come for weeks now, the winter had been so long here in northern Germany. Give me some colour, some light, I was pleading silently.

My eyes caught on a brightly coloured piece of fabric, tangled up in the bare branches of an old tree. A kite, of course, a child’s game, abruptly pulled to a halt by the forces of nature. A symbol for the carefree, playful times of childhood, and the ways in which they are often muted too, just like earth in winter. A symbol also for the dreams we have when we are young, when we still believe in the magic of stories and know about the power that lies within each of us. When we still trust ourselves. When our intuition is intact and taking the lead.

More often than not, those dreams get tangled in the How-it-should-be’s that surround us from all sides, just like a kite gets tangled in a tree.

Think of all those dreams, untold for fear of embarrassment, muted by supposedly well-meant but unasked-for advice. Think of all these manifestations of hope and intent, starting out with so much purpose, only to be stopped, maybe even crippled, by, for lack of a better word, circumstance.

I’d like to think that these brightly coloured dreams are sitting in the top of each tree, millions of them, patiently awaiting their chance to break free and continue on the journey they started so long ago. They could be like that kite, taking flight once again, freed by the wind. Missing a piece or two, torn maybe, but flying nonetheless.

Setting: Recess, office at elementary school in Oceanside, Calif. I am sitting with two fourth-graders who are hanging out till the whistle blows. I am on deadline.

Me: I have to write about something that inspires me or makes me happy for a website. Do you have any ideas?
Boy 1: Do you have any kids?
Me: No.
Boy 2 (hopeful): Any pets?
Me: No.
Boy 2: (Looks disappointed/disgusted.)
Boy 1: What are your hobbies?
Me: (long blank stare and silence). Uh … well … I mostly work all the time. I don’t have time to really …Traveling! Only it’s really expensive … Well, I like going to see art or plays or new places. When I have time. But now I mostly just sleep and read because —
Boy 1: Have you ever tried to sculpt?
Me: Huh? No. Have you?
Boy 1: No, but I am always inspired to sculpt.
Me: What? Seriously?
Boy 1: One time we got rocks and painted them.
Boy 2: Yeah, we got to paint rocks. Did you ever try to make art?
Me: Well, I mean I’ve colored and stuff. Writing is kind of art, but I really don’t —
Boy 2: Have you ever tried to make clothes?
Me: (shakes head)
Boy 2: Have you ever tried to, like, stick diamonds on clothes?
Me: (thrilled with unbidden reference to bedazzling) No, I can’t say I have. Unfortunately.
(Girl enters with awesome, crazy dredlocks in a cool design.)
Me: Your hair is awesome! How do you do that?
Girl: My mom does it.
Me: Well she must really know what she’s doing! That looks like it’s from a magazine.
Girl: (Smiles. Exits.)
Boy 2: Have you eve tried to make your own hairstyle?
Me: Well, like, in high school for crazy hair day or something … maybe with my friends … I used to have long, long hair that I could make really big.
Boy 2: Oh, so there’s one thing.

Later that afternoon.

Me: I have to write about something that makes me happy or inspires me for this website. Any ideas?
Fifth-grader: Music. I always listen to my CD player when I’m angry.
Me: Great start! Do you have any other ideas?
F-g: Taking deep breaths?
Me: Well it doesn’t have to be something I do when I’m angry. Just anything that makes me happy in my day-to-day life.
F-g: Friendship?
Me: Ooh, I love it. Can you think of any examples?
F-g: Well not really, but I saw a sign that said friendship and there was a picture of somebody helping somebody else.
Me: That sounds like friendship to me. What else?
F-g: Drawing?
Me: Does that make me happy?
F-g (irritated): I don’t know, but it makes me happy.

Later, with a student who can’t handle the pressure of answering questions.

Me: Can you think of anything inspiring or happy that I could write about for this website.
SWCHPAQ: No.
Me: Well, can you try? What makes you happy?
SWCHPAQ : Going to hang out with friends
Me: Sure, great one. What else?
SWCHPAQ: (long pause) Going out to eat.
Me: To where?
SWCHPAQ: Shakey’s pizza? (pause) Going to the skate park.
Me: Uh-huh. Why does that inspire you?
SWCHPAQ: Because it’s fun … and cool.

I nearly lost my voice on Saturday. I’m guessing it was a combination of singing (uh… screaming might be more accurate) Kelly Clarkson songs since Tuesday (AmazingNewAlbumReleaseWoo!) and yelling all morning at Central Park during a race. My terrible-sounding voice was totally worth it though. And I actually had a great Saturday despite getting up at 5 a.m. to volunteer for the race, and then having to spend three hours just standing in very chilly weather (even tights under jeans weren’t keeping me toasty enough).

I’d decided to volunteer for an 8K race in Central Park and my job was to make sure that the runners stayed inside the left two lanes, leaving the other two for Central Park patrons who wanted to run, bike or walk in the park. This seemed pretty easy. But I hadn’t considered that I’d also be the emergency contact should someone fall, pass out or get injured. I freaked out a little and crossed my fingers that the race would be injury-free on the East side (and thankfully, it was).

The part that I’d been looking forward to was cheering runners on. From the few races I’ve participated in, having people yelling for you — even if it’s completely generic stuff, and you don’t even believe that you can finish or pick up the pace or make it up another hill — is incredibly motivating. But after the runners finally started coming, I was afraid to talk. The men in the front pack had looks of such determination and focus on their faces that I’m not even sure they knew I was around. I also thought they’d get mad if I talked to them. Once the group started weaving outside the designated lanes, I knew I’d have to at least say, “Please stay to your left. Thank you!” I’d just listened to a lecture about the way we talk to people, and I was making a point to be appreciative as I made my request. I’m not sure if people thought I was being condescending or unsympathetic, because I certainly got my fair share of glares.

The part that made it all worth it — losing my voice, not getting much sleep, being cold — was when the super fast people had gone by and the normal runners approached. They were fighting to keep going. It showed on their faces and in the way they held their bodies and in their eyes. And that’s when I knew that it was OK to yell, and I wasn’t scared of cheering them on. I felt like a broken record robot in the beginning…”Keep it up!” “You guys are doing great!” Gradually I started sounding like myself, or at least my impressions of my favorite running coaches during class, and I got into it. To my surprise, people started thanking me as they passed. Thanking me. I was shocked and touched, and started yelling even louder so the people coming up the hill might be able to hear me. Even when the “runners” in the race were walking, I still called out to them. I still told them they were doing awesome and could handle this and to keep going.

Even though Saturday is my day to sleep in, I’ve already signed up to volunteer for another race. I hope this time it won’t take as long to find my voice.

“Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing Under the sky’s gray arch; Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing It is the wind of March.” — William Wordsworth

By the time this is published, it March will be well underway; but even now, a full week or so before that time, I am preparing with a smile of childish anticipation for the most glorious time of year.

Friends, March Madness is nearly upon us.

To gather its full meaning, I suppose you must be a sports fan. Then again, perhaps not. Now is a time of mystery and excitement, the beginning of things to come as well as a culmination of seeds sown long ago. If you choose to see it as a mere basketball tournament, I say fine, and if you choose to see it as something more (the dawning of a warmer and gentler time on the calendar), I can understand that as well. I, for one, choose both.

As a lifelong resident of the State of Kansas, as well as a graduate of the University of Kansas, I suppose you could say I have two horses in the race. I’m well accustomed to the long, discouraging nature of a Midwest winter and have also been raised to appreciate a good basketball team now and again. Kansas is home to some of the wackiest weather you’ll find anywhere on the planet as well as a school that identifies itself more with the legends of the hardwood than with any sort of academic achievement (I mean come on — EVERY school has garnered accolades in the classroom; how many can match Kansas’ century-plus-old tradition of basketball?).

Having spring just on the other side of the door, almost within reach, seems like an upcoming reward for the windshields scraped, the sidewalks shoveled and the perfectly fine Saturdays spent stuck inside cowering away from the cold and ice.

By the same token, we’ve reached a point in the basketball season where the stakes couldn’t be much higher. The effort and heartache we have(I mean, cough, the team has) put into the past five months is meaningless without results that come during the next three weeks. Besides, anything short of success means we’ll bare the summer’s miserable heat without anything to be proud of. And what’s the fun in that?

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The stretch of K-10 highway between Lawrence and Lenexa is about 28 miles long. It winds through small towns and rises above creeks and train tracks. It’s not a very exciting stretch of road and often times I suddenly find myself at my destination with no recollection of my journey. Still, this highway represents more to me than the fastest way to get to Lawrence or Lenexa.

As a young child I remember the 28 miles being a lot longer. Our weekend trips to Clinton Lake or visits to the outlet mall seemed so far away to my young self. In high school, when I was lucky enough to accompany my dad to a KU game, the excitement of a game in Allen Fieldhouse made the 28 miles from Lenexa to Lawrence seem more like 28,000. And on that early August morning when I packed up all of my belongings and set out for my new home in Lewis Hall the 28 miles seemed to drag on forever.

In college K-10 represented a path to something better. After Sorority Recruitment took a turn for the worse K-10 was all that stood between me and a comforting hug from my mom. When life in Lawrence became complicated or when my bank account would run low, the comforts of home and a refrigerator of food were waiting for me in Lenexa. During long summers or over breaks from school, I would excitedly leave Lenexa for my friends in Lawrence and feel instant excitement when I’d turn the bend near Eudora and see the University of Kansas atop Mt. Oread.

These days home is in Lawrence, Kansas. Because of my job and puppy, the trips to Lenexa are less frequent. Still, K-10 is there to lead me back to Lenexa for family birthdays, holidays and my little sister’s soccer games.

There have been times when driving on K-10 has become dangerous. I once drove from Lawrence to Lenexa during a rather miserable snowstorm. Cars were stranded on the side of the road for miles and it was almost impossible to see. The drive home took over an hour. Another time, I drove from Lenexa to Lawrence during a tornado watch. Several spring thunderstorms and a few windy days have made me clutch the staring wheel a little tighter and forced me to pay more attention to the road.

But come rain, snow, ice, wind or any other obstacle found on K-10, I’ve always managed to get home, no matter if that home is in Lenexa or Lawrence.