For better or worse

Good night. It’s important to me that this whole thing is fair and mutual with the boys’ well being as the guidepost. The main thing I’m asking for is to sell the house, pay our debts and have some money to find something of our own. I’d like the boys to stay on your insurance. I don’t want to make this any harder than it needs to be because the harder we are on each other, the harder we make things for the boys. I want to come up with a parenting plan we can both agree on. One thing is that I think we can be flexible to a degree. All I ask for is that we find a way to make this work because we love the boys. Someone told me you’ll always be the most important woman in my life because you are the mother of our beautiful children. If there’s a time we can work together with love on behalf of the boys, that time for me is now. I know you will be fair because that’s part of your nature and I am grateful for that. I was looking at old pictures of the boys today (and us) and it got to be quite painful and I had to stop. I realized that part of my life - when I think we were at our best - didn’t exist anymore. I don’t mean to be standoffish or whatever vibe I give off. I sometimes find it uncomfortable when interacting with you because it feels like the kind of small interactions we had for years, they sound the same as they used to and they bring comfort at first, almost like a reflex. Then reality sinks in and I realize these words are coming from someone who I let get away yet know I need to set free. I’m sorry for my role in the marriage’s demise. I accept responsibility and must make peace with it. I don’t blame you for wanting a divorce, honestly. I could have worked harder to enhance your life and show you how much I appreciated what you did for our family of four. I could have owned the direction my life had headed and kept my head and heart in the marriage. I could have been a better cheerleader for your victories and could have been a better lover who knew how to keep the romance kindling. Anyway I promise to keep my emotions in check during this process. Love, Andy

Album I'm really digging right now

Echo by Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers: Petty cut these moody tracks during the organic Rick Rubin-produced Wildflowers era. These albums are the most personal statements of Petty's incredible career. Highlights from Echo include "Swingin," where he compares his marriage to a losing boxer. The melancholy "Accused of Love" and "This One's For Me" are propelled by that classic jangle. Even the handful of rockers like "About to Give Out" rollick with a degree of despair. Guitarist Mike Campbell always finds the right embellishments and never wastes a note - he also takes a guest vocal turn with garage rocker "I Don't Wanna Fight." In interviews, Petty said he left the songs on the album behind and didn't remember writing some of them. He was in a dark place at the time and had fallen prey to addiction. The darkness is palpable when laced with Petty's ear-friendly tendencies. "Rhino Skin" is one of the darkest tracks on a Petty album full of them: "You need rhino skin if you're gonna pretend you're not hurt by this world," he sings. If there's one thing Petty was doing at the time, it was hurting.

Mr. Barlowe

I learned that my favorite high school teacher died this week. Philip Barlowe had taught English and creative writing for 27 years at Lowell High School. We exchanged a couple of letters while I was in college, but otherwise, I had no idea when he retired or where he was living.

When it came to writing and creative expression, Mr. Barlowe taught me to be myself. I can still hear him saying "don't write that down 'cause then you'll remember it."

He spoke with a peculiar cadence that could be mistaken for a drunk. My buddies and I joked about his got-dressed-in-the dark attire, which on any given day could include cherry red leather boat shoes, no socks, pink cotton pants and/or a black Cross-Colors T-shirt. He resembled popcorn legend Orville Redenbacher, complete with black rimmed glasses and white hair.

I took Mr. Barlowe's AP Composition class my junior year and his creative writing class as an elective my senior year. He loved top 10 lists. The class would often split into groups and color up poster-size paper with top 10 lists on vocabulary words, for example. We were also required to keep a journal for the class. My entire goal with the journal was to make him laugh - the entries were written with the thought he would be reading them, and I wanted to impress him.

Mr. Barlowe encouraged us to stretch ourselves. He rewarded effort and creativity, no matter how off-the-wall we went. I don't recall one particular moment that sticks with me. His influence is felt more in the creative mindset that he taught me how to tap. I don't want to make him sound like a guru. Maybe it's best to credit Mr. Barlowe for fortifying a foundation for writing along with respect for the English language.

Thank you, Mr. Barlowe.

The one that got away

It's been a while since I've posted, and a lot has changed in my career. After three and a half years at The Olympian, I am back in Federal Way as publisher of the Mirror. I missed Federal Way, but never thought I would return, especially in this capacity. In many ways the job is the complete opposite of journalism. I am thinking about the paper's reputation and financial health. I am focused on creating the conditions to ensure the entire team succeeds. It is a blessing to stay in the newspaper business and mold a publication. The job comes with a different level of stress that I am still learning how to handle.

I sometimes miss reporting the news, but also feel relieved to be doing something else. Once upon a time, I dreamed of someday working for The Seattle Times as an editor or a reporter. The closest I ever came was having the Times pick up a few of my stories through the wire service. The Times can pick and choose pedigree journalists who are lining up for a job. They are the big leagues, and I didn't get the big break. Not that I was looking for one. I believe that we're supposed to end up where we end up, and I was ending up on the local news side of things. I still wrote hard-hitting stories that mattered to local readers. I also wrote a lot of throw-away news that was forgotten the day after printing.

I like to think I was a better than average reporter. I was grateful to finally realize what it took to be a great reporter, and I had been working toward that goal while knowing the goal wasn't in the cards. I could tell a good insightful story, but I lacked the investigative reporting experience needed to reach the highest levels. I worked with colleagues who were capable of reaching that level, and the self-comparison was humbling.

I have always gravitated to local journalism and have no regrets. When I think of a story that "got away," I don't think of an investigation that fizzled or a rumor that sizzled.

The one that got away just happened to be a man who changed the world.

At previous job, I wanted to answer the question: Who is the wealthiest person in Olympia? The question generated a range of responses from the city's movers and shakers. One name that surfaced was Dee Hock, who created Visa through his unorthodox approach to business.

Aside from publishing some heavy metaphysical books about his philosophy, Hock has stayed out of the limelight. I searched for his contact information and tried unsuccessfully to reach him. Then I found his address.

With a notepad and nothing to lose, I drove to his house on the outskirts of the city. He lived on a well-maintained waterfront cul-de-sac surrounded by surprisingly modest homes for a guy who founded Visa - certainly upper-end, but not extravagant.

And he answered the door! Mr. Hock is in his 80s. He was calm, steady, sharp. He listened to my pitch for a profile, and he said he would think about it. He gave me his cell phone number and said to call him in a few days. He politely declined because of concerns about his privacy. And that was that. Obviously I wasn't pitching it as "I'm going to tell people you're the richest man in Olympia." He is a fascinating individual who lived in the same fishbowl as our readers.

The story wouldn't have netted any awards. But I bet readers would have loved it.

Life, death and police

A reader once said she felt sorry for me because I had written several stories that month on violent crimes and tragic deaths.

I immediately shot down that sympathy. I'm getting the information from the police and firefighters who respond to these horrific scenes.

During a police officer's funeral that I was covering, a lieutenant told the story of how this particular officer - who died of a sudden heart attack at a young age - had once responded to a call where a baby fell in a fire pit. The officer held the dead infant in his arms. I remembered the story, including unwritten details of a police report that are making my eyes well up a bit.

I'm guessing that particular officer had to write the report on the dead baby. Police reports are quite detailed and usually paint an unflinching picture of what happened from the officer's view. I admit the reports can be painful to read and have even made me physically ill.

Once when covering court cases for the day, I looked up a charging document for a man caught with illegal porn. I was caught off-guard by these charging documents and the gruesome details of what police found on this man's computer. Usually in these cases, the documents don't get that deep. After a few paragraphs, I walked outside and vomited. And to think, a detective had to watch all that shit, then write about it.

Thank goodness all I need to watch is the offender get sentenced.

I grew up thinking police were the good guys. "Officer Friendly" would visit our grade school. I would stare at his gun the whole time. As an adult, I have encountered a few officers who acted like dickheads. Or maybe "meatheads" is the better word. Most officers just want to do their job and make the community a better place.

I am disappointed that all the turmoil in 2016 is directed toward the people who are supposed to protect us. I am disappointed in the police officers who cross the line and get away with it. Even one of these poison apples is too many.

I've never been in the heat of the moment, where I faced an armed suspect coming at me, and it was life or death. Preparing for that pressure is part of a police officer's training.

But how do you train for a life or death moment when the training itself isn't life or death?

Dinosaur blues

I am learning to let go of the compact disc, but I could never part with newspapers. Two dinosaurs in the 21st century. OK, make that three dinosaurs because I am dysfunctionally attached to both.

I suppose my CD collection is like a body full of tattoos. Each one tells a story and represents a point in time. My music collection (and instruments) are the only material possessions that matter to me. But these streaming services like Spotify are quite satisfying with quality speakers and/or headphones.

The newspaper has always been a part of my life. My first job was delivering newspapers - on a bike, no less. My family always had a pile around the house. I liked reading the sports, comics and department store ads. As a teen, I'd roll and rubber-band about 40 newspapers seven days a week and deliver them around the neighborhood. That was back in the early '90s. Most if not all of these routes today are run by adults who pack their cars with hundreds of papers at 3 a.m.

I would like to apologize to the handful of customers including Mr. Palmer who had hoped to read their news at 5 a.m., but were forced to wait on a teenager to get his ass out of bed. That was before the internet put its foot on the newspaper's throat. That was back when newspapers were the gatekeepers - when readers were at the mercy of the paperboy who overslept on Sunday morning.

Birth write

Today, for the first time in nearly 38 years, I saw the hospital where I was born: Madigan Army Medical Center.

I had an assignment today at Joint Base Lewis-McChord and rode past the building en route to my first ride aboard a Blackhawk helicopter. I kept thinking about the intro to "MASH" as I boarded and departed the chopper, the breath of the propeller whipping my body and the ground below. When these macho machines ascended straight up, the gust blew us off-balance as we flinched and covered our faces.

Anyway, my parents were stationed at the former Fort Lewis back in 1977-1978. I've lived in Washington for 10 years and had yet to see the hospital.

Until today.