Pulitzer Prize winning journalists are full of infinite wisdom about the power of the written word.

John Hersey wrote, “Journalism allows its readers to witness history.” Ellen Goodman quipped, “In journalism, there has always been a tension between getting it first and getting it right.”

American historian Edward Eggleston believed journalism is organized gossip. Maybe, if you grab a splashy rag from the front of the supermarket.

 But my sentiments favor these unaccredited words:  Journalism is the first rough draft of history.  It’s the initial telling of an event, with happenings sometimes unfolding even after the newspaper boy flings the first edition at your doorstep or you direct your web browser to your favorite news URL.

            As I write this, I’m in Lincoln, staring out the window of my downtown hotel room. The Lincoln Journal-Star sits diagonally across the street, already bustling with activity in the early morning light. A copy of USA Today arrived at my door, bright and early, offering headlines from near and far corners of the world.

            The news cycle never ends.

            In a few minutes, two of my journalism students will take part in the State Journalism finals, sponsored by the NSAA and the Nebraska High School Press Association. They are the first students from our school to qualify for the event.

            The nature of journalism has evolved since I wrote my first newspaper article. That was in high school, circa 1977. Our crack reporting staff of the Kat Kapers spent hours designing our simplistic, yet newsworthy publication. No photos or fancy infographics graced the pages. We wrote articles in longhand. Then, manual typewriters clicked in rhythm as we typed our stories into two columns.

            And we prayed – yes, we prayed in public school – that we wouldn’t have a typo and have to realign the page in the carriage and erase our mistakes.

            We didn’t ship our editions to be printed at the local newspaper. We cranked the mimeo machine. Remember the purple-blue ink handouts? Later, we formed an assembly line, collating the latest edition. No fancy Xerox machine that collates and staples was available.

            I spent two years sharing the exploits of my schoolmates, capturing the historical significance of our daily activities and accolades.  

            Later that year, I wrote my first professional (although unpaid) article, a profile of a Husker football walk-on from South Carolina who was friends with my family.

            I hand-delivered my typed copy to the paper’s editor, along with photographs I snapped at a football game and waited three days for them to be returned from the lab

            Now, I zip words and photos to editors around the state and world at the speed of fiber optics and satellite connection. Smart phones and social media bring a new layer to reporting.

            In some aspects, reporting has never been easier.

            One of the best lessons I’ve learned – and hope my students discover – is the significance a newspaper plays within a community. It’s an investment in our collective narration; the original and additional rough drafts of the moments of our lives.

            Think about your senior year. Consider the memories you made as you spent your year as the top dog: the last athletic event, the concluding dance, the final final.

            If you dig a bit deeper, you may remember the last significant moments with your classmates.

            Perhaps you participated in an age-old tradition by joining forces and missing the same day of school as part of International Ditch Day or Senior Skip Day.

            Or, maybe your class took a group outing. I’m not talking about a traditional field trip. I’m speaking about one of the favorite events of senior year: the senior “sneak” trip.

            The senior trip is an established tradition that has experienced a renaissance in some schools and elimination in many. In some instances, it has endured rules changes.

            Back in ’79, my class had a 24-hour window to travel, visit and return to Clay Center.

            Travel time limited our choices, but after careful deliberation, we decided to venture to Kansas City for a senior extravaganza at Worlds of Fun, dinner at a KC chop house, and shopping at Crown Center.

            We were a close-knit bunch, but that particular trip brought us closer together. Maybe it was our upcoming departure from home, from security and routine, that made us realize the significance of this last time together.

            As I write this column, Scott and I are in Chicago with 20 St. Mary’s seniors. Along with two sets of parents, we are supervising their last hurrah before graduating and commencing the next step in their lives.

            It’s been a fun, crazy, eye-opening whirlwind weekend in the windy city.

            And I’m certain my students have made everlasting memories, storing them in their internal memory bank so they can recall the details at any moment.

           We visited prominent Chicago landmarks, watched jousting at Medieval Times, saw a Red Panda (and agreed that the Henry Doorly Zoo is the best zoo in the country), cheered at a Black Hawks game, and walked over 10 miles a day. Students discovered the ins and outs of the Chicago Transit Authority and quickly learned that the ‘L’ sometimes transports colorful characters.

            We weren’t in Nebraska anymore, Toto.

            As an onlooker, this group has given me a renewed sense of pride about today’s youth.

            As we exited a CTA bus yesterday after trekking through Lincoln Park Zoo, each student said ‘thank you’ to the driver. He smiled and shook his head at this out-of-place display of appreciation. When I stepped off the bus, he told me he hadn’t heard those words from a customer for several years.

            What’s the significance of taking this kind of trip? It’s an educational opportunity to see new places they may never have the chance to see again.

            It’s a wake-up call about the realities of life – the hustle and bustle – beyond our community.

            It’s a social event, a time for emotional bonding amongst this group that will soon head on different life paths.

            I hope this group realizes what a special bond they share and continue to maintain that sense of family that exists among them.

                Presidents and statesmen have touted it. Philosophers reveled in it. Businessmen rely on its emphasis on creativity. And scholars from around the world sing its praises.

                “It” is music, the universal language of rhythm, sound and words, creating a lasting presence on everyone who experiences its joy. Music is powerful, an art form that sparks creativity and provokes imagination.

                But, what if the music suddenly stopped? What if, due to budget constraints, schools no longer introduced this most basic connection of human existence to its students?

                It’s an unfortunate yet true situation caused by a combination of factors.

                Many school districts across the country receive reduced state aid benefits, leading to cuts in programs. The first to disappear: fine arts.

                Plus, more schools elect to focus on the basics skills of readin’, writin,’ and ‘rithmatic, the heartbeat of the No Child Left Behind Act.

                These two factors are a lethal mixture for arts education programs. Ironic, since research shows students involved in fine arts activities tend to score higher academically.

                Music education is about so much more than notes on the scale. That’s why I am always reminded of former President Bill Clinton’s take on why music education makes a difference.

                “Music is about communication, creativity, and cooperation, and by studying music in schools, students have the opportunity to build on these skills, enrich their lives, and experience the world from a new perspective.”

                Music education showed me how to incorporate creativity into other subject areas, like finding a rhythm to Algebra problems; to fine-tune leadership skills, try being the drum majorette and line up a 60-member band and keep them quiet; and how to listen to the deeper meaning of a song lyric and apply it to a current event.

                It’s a strong foundation of my educational upbringing.

                I feel privileged to have had outstanding music educators – primarily Lucille Norman and Lois Zulauf – teach the intricacies of the E minor scale, the history of Beethoven and Bach, and the soul of Three Dog Night.

                Yup, my fourth grade class – as well as other Clay Center Elementary classes – could be heard belting out “Jeremiah was a bullfrog….was a good friend of mine.” And some days, we’d pay homage to “Bad, Bad LeRoy Brown” because he was meaner than a junkyard dog.  Other days, we’d sway along to the optimistic “Let There Be Peace on Earth” and hoped it would begin with us.

                The message of these musical interludes – the power of harmony – still resonates today.

                Now, I think about the SMH music program and how our instructor produced a pep band for this year’s athletic events. Sitting in the crowd at the State Basketball tournament games listening to them play reminded me of some of my strongest memories from school.

                We WILL rock you!

                Hopefully, Nebraska schools will not be faced with the agonizing decision whether or not to continue music programs. It’s a strong foundation for enhanced creativity, a building block of a student’s culture, and a pathway that opens doors.

                Music lasts a lifetime.

            Ghosts and goblins may have spent Monday tricking or treating Nebraska residents, hauling in jack-o-lantern shaped buckets full of sweet treats.

            But if you believe legends and tall tales or everything you read on the internet (because it’s all true, right?), spooky phantoms and imps inhabit an overwhelming number of buildings or parcels of ground in locations across the Cornhusker State.

            When I was competing in a debate tourney at Nebraska Wesleyan in 1981, one Wesleyan debater kept telling my debate partner and me that the Lincoln college was haunted.

            Supposedly, the apparition of Clara Mills, a former faculty member, was first viewed in 1963, 20 years after Mills suffered a heart attack at her desk in the C.C. White Building.

            When that structure was torn down for campus expansion, Mills’ ghost allegedly moved next door to Old Main.

            The tell-tale sign? Piano music drifting through the atmosphere at odd hours.

            We both chuckled. Our roommates were music majors and had small keyboards in our dorm rooms. We heard piano music at odd hours, too.

            About 20 miles southwest of where I grew up, the unincorporated village of Spring Ranch was apparently haunted.  A stagecoach stop along the Overland Trail, the community sat next to the Little Blue River. Homesteaders were ambushed by natives, and legends state that the cemetery is haunted.

            What piques my interest about Spring Ranch is the story of Elizabeth Taylor and her brother, Tom Jones.

            No, not the celebs.

            A feud developed between the siblings and their neighbors, who claimed the Jones/Taylor cattle were breaking down fences and destroying crops.

            While a group of men cut timber along the river bank, Taylor sent her hired help to scare them away. Soon, a shotgun blast permeated the air and one of the men was dead.

            Since the trial couldn’t be held until a judge was available, riled homesteaders rustled the brother and sister to the bridge, placed nooses around their necks and fired a shotgun into the night air.

            Even local historians say the bridge is haunted and if it’s a quiet night, you’ll hear the gunshot.

            In my hometown, legend – and even school employees and students – declared the halls of the elementary school haunted. A portrait of a former principal was displayed above the entrance to the gym, and people whispered that the eyes of the portrait would follow anyone who walked down the hall.

            Others spoke of seeing the principal’s ghost walking across the gymnasium, heading into the hallway, and disappearing into thin air.

            Figment of imagination? Paranormal activity? 

            Now, I’m pretty sure this sounds like a scene from a Saturday morning cartoon, and pretty soon, Fred, Daphne, Velma, Shaggy and Scooby are going to show up outside CCHS in the Mystery Machine and unmask the impersonator.

            “And I would’ve gotten away with it,” the school janitor would shout, shaking his fists in the air, “if it hadn’t been for you darn kids.”

            Whether or not you believe in the supernatural, Nebraska’s whimsical past creates a lot of present-day ghost stories.

            If I close my eyes, I can still picture family dinner. I’m not talking “Leave It to Beaver” family dinner. No, my mother didn’t fancy diamonds and pearls when she served spaghetti and meatballs and my dad didn’t walk through the door as the town’s evening whistle signaled 6 P.M., expecting dinner ready and waiting. On the other hand, our cat waited patiently for any handouts we’d share.

            But I can still see our kitchen table – octagon-shaped with hints of Spanish influence in the design – and I visualize our family of four gathered around the table, sharing more than a meal.

            Sometimes, we talked about Husker football or a school assignment or activity. Sometimes, we wanted to get away from the table as expeditiously as possible (translate: liver and onions was the main course).  And, we heard and learned lessons about manners: sit up straight, chew that mouthful of food at least ten times, don’t eat so fast, and don’t talk when you have food stuffed in your mouth.

            We didn’t grow up with today’s food court mentality either. Mom didn’t prepare four separate dishes. Instead, she enlisted our help in the kitchen. Looks like mom had the right idea!

            Amber Pankonin, Registered Dietician with Beginning Well Family Nutrition Services in Lincoln, says it’s up to parents and caregivers to educate and direct healthy meal choices.

            “Parents and caregivers need to live by example and engage kids in the kitchen. Kids love to take ownership when invited so involve them by including them in menu planning, shopping for the meal, and meal preparation.”

            Why are family meals important? Pankonin says it engages kids on so many levels.

            Children and adolescents who eat three or more meals with their families each week are 24% more likely to healthier foods and  are 12% less likely to be overweight.

            “Other research has suggested that family meal times keep children accountable and therefore prevent habits such as smoking and alcohol abuse,” Pankonin reports.

            Plus, these kids do better in school than their peers. Studies show that children are introduced to a more diverse vocabulary and language acquisition for future academic success.  Columbia University studies report that teens that eat meals with their families are more likely to get A’s and B’s in school.

            The family dinner isn’t just a Nebraska lesson. It’s a humanity lesson. A glimpse at family values.

            At the dinner table, a family builds and enhances its identity.

            We may have listened to the evening news during our meal, but our telephones weren’t attached to our fingertips, and we actually enjoyed sharing this time.

            Perhaps my sister and I were lucky. Since our parents were educators – and headed to the same destination – our family sat down together daily for breakfast and dinner. Sure, evenings were filled with athletic contests, speech or play practices, or church activities, but mom still managed to get all of us around that table for mealtime.

            When is the last time your family sat down to share a meal?