In Memoriam--Keith Barnes

My high school biology teacher, Keith Barnes, passed away June 6, 2008. He was so much more than just a teacher, though. He was my good friend and probably even a mentor. I've known him since I was a little kid and he and my mother were co-workers.

Like many of his former students, Barnes was my favorite teacher. According to my grade card, he taught biology and genetics, both being studies of life. However, his teachings weren't limited to the scientific realm--he also taught us about life in a much more general sense...and he loved what he taught. That was one of his most important qualities. I think we might have had textbooks in his class, but I don't ever remember him telling us to read them. I think this was because it was important enough to him that an outdated textbook would be a failure to his students. So, the source of what he taught was always the latest article on genetic disorders or DNA replication, and the old man had it all in his head.

Barnes always made it a point to recognize the efforts of his students--how many of us did he nominate for the Who's Who Among American High Schools? He knew he ran a tough class. He was never hesitant to push us harder if he thought we were lagging, either. I'm sure every one of his students remembers a particular class when getting answers and class participation was akin to pulling teeth. Barnes was more than happy to play the dentist. He would get all riled up, possibly chucking an eraser at the chalkboard or yelling at the top of his lungs "THINK, PEOPLE!" He was never mad, he just cared that much. That caring resulted in relationships lasting well beyond high school. I can remember his annual Thanksgiving dinners when the line of alumni was 40 deep.

I don't know how many people know this, but he was one of the most charitable people I've ever known with his time. He volunteered at various times at the Nelson-Atkins Museum and Union Station. He always had the some hidden hobby or interest that would pop up and surprise you. These were all symbolic of his love of life.

Barnes probably blurred the line between teacher and student moreso than most teachers would. I mean that in this way: he was one of only two former teachers with whom I ever drank. Maybe some other teachers would frown upon drinking with their former students who are of age. Maybe you could talk to Barnes in a way that other teachers would not appreciate. Maybe, on senior skip day, he'd take those of us too goody-two-shoes to skip out to lunch despite a closed campus policy. He probably caught a little flak for these actions, but I can tell you this--I learned more from him than any other teacher I've ever had.

Most importantly, Keith was a wonderful friend to my mother. They helped eachother through the shared experience of losing a parent. They went to lunch or cultural events together at least once a month. Probably most importantly, they never passed up a chance to give eachother a little good-natured shit--in my opinion, one of the most important components of a strong friendship. He was, after all, older than dirt. Yup, had to get that last one in, my friend.

I know my mom is hurting right now. The only thing I can tell her is this:

Keith Barnes' passing saddens me deeply. I feel like I lost a member of my family. His charity, compassion, humor, enthusiasm, thirst for knowledge, belief in his students, and friendship will be missed. However, you only need to read the messages on his memorial web site to feel a little better (and keep in mind that there are hundreds more who feel the same way but maybe didn't write.) It is then you realize that he left a little piece of himself with the many family and friends he had and the students he taught, and, in that way, he'll live on for a long, long time.

Garrett Wood
Olathe South High School '95

There will be a celebration of Keith's life on Friday, June13, from 3-8pm at the Ball Conference Center, 21350 W. 153rd Street, Olathe, KS. Memorials are suggested to the Keith Barnes Educational Memorial Fund, in care of First National Bank of Olathe, P.O. Box 150 Olathe, KS 66051.

Neither snow, nor ice

The National Cyclocross Championships are being held at Wyandotte County Park this weekend. Yes, the riders are as crazy as this photo would suggest. I had a blast out there and hope to make it out Saturday. You can check out more photos I took here.

Here we go again

Well, the first snow beyond a dusting hit the metro area yesterday, and you know what that means! Yep, time to take part in the Kansas City time-honored tradition of purchasing mass quantities of canned goods at the grocery store in case we're snowed in for two weeks. Hopefully everybody went out and bought four gallons of milk, six loaves of bread, and eight cases of canned peas. Nevermind the fact that in the 31 years I've resided in this city, there have only been two days that I can remember when it was actually too dangerous to drive. However, maybe I'm wrong, considering the fact that there were 278 wrecks between 10 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. yesterday. Or maybe it's just a matter of Kansas Citians NOT KNOWING HOW TO DRIVE!!!!!!!

Charleston Fire Tragedy--politics as usual

The City of Charleston has politicked its way out of admitting any wrong-doing in the June 18 blaze at the Super Sofa store that killed nine firefighters. You'd think that if nine people died, somebody (or a whole lot of somebodies) did something horribly wrong. Although the Charleston Fire Department seems intent on improving to hopefully avoid another tragedy like this, isn't the first step in recovery always to admit there is a problem?

KC music scene alive and well

Contrary to popular belief (ok, maybe just my belief), music is alive and well in Kansas City. The fiance and I went to Jardine's Sunday night to catch the very first performance from the Goombahles, a band put together by KC fixture Todd Wilkinson. The band also features on keys John Brewer, a fellow firefighter who earned his master's degree in music at the University of New Orleans. They reminded me a lot of one of my favorite bands, Robert Walter's 20th Congress. I had forgotten how much I like Jardine's and had no idea that this level of talent was present in KC. It's a pleasant surprise.

Working Fire

BAM!!! The bells go off and I'm pretty sure the sound waves lift me out of bed. Some guys manage to sleep through that sonic blast. Not me. It hits me like a freight train. The heart goes from 40 to 120 in half a second. Head for the rig and listen for the tone: two short ones and it's a car wreck, automatic alarm, or some drunk passed out on the street; one long one and it's MOVE. YOUR. ASS. Shove your feet into your boots, feel that lump of sock that somehow always gets wedged where it shouldn't be. Grab the suspenders, wing 'em around your shoulders and jump on the rig. Try to get dressed in a four-ton runaway rollercoaster going 60 down streets never meant to be taken at 60...with a load that tends to shift. Watch that car always creeping closer in the intersection, never knowing if it's really going to stop despite the Bright Flashing Lights, Two Different Wailing Sirens and Constant Blast of the Airhorn. The windows are down, you can smell the smoke from 6 blocks away. It's a worker and your heart beats that much faster. You get close enough to see the house--another pumper beat you on scene--that's ok....they're gonna need water and there's plenty of work for everyone. You pull up next to a hydrant, the plug man jumps out, grabs big yellow and the hydrant wrench, wraps the hose around the hydrant and gives the signal to GO! shuck....shuck....shuck Big yellow flops out the backside of the pumper and into the street. The fire is a block up and the neighbors are out, migrating toward the scene. You pull up to the house, thick black smoke chugging out of the eaves. Grab a hook and an axe and up to the front porch. Your driver is fixing the first pumper up with water. Other guys are on the roof, chopping away. Flashing lights and radios speaking up everywhere. It's your turn to work. Don the facepiece and fumble with the regulator. Put on your gloves and go in. The smoke is lower and thicker with every step until, finally, you can't see six inches in front of your face. Don't fall into a hole--test that ground in front of you. You can hear it now, always louder than you think it would be--crackling and blowing like a furnace. The ceiling needs pulled in that room. Jam the hook up into the plaster and through the lathe, now pull down. It crumbles, but you need a hole twenty times bigger. Arms churn, hook jigsawing up and down, falling debris covering you in God knows what....until the black gives way to glowing orange--"I got fire here!!" The guy on the nozzle comes in, you open the hole up more for him. He lets it fly and the orange immediately darkens. The smoke begins to clear out through the 4' by 4' holes cut by the guys on the roof. What was invisible before begins to reveal itself. You can take a breath, remove the facepiece, take a look around. The smoke still burns your eyes and throat, but the amount of air left in your bottle is directly proportionate to how much of a man you are (this just in: cancer risk is twice as high for firefighters). There's that pile of junk you tripped over on the way in. There is always junk, everywhere. You chuck it out the window if it was or is on fire. The fire is probably in the walls, so you go to town on them. Some idiot is still breaking windows--NEWS FLASH--this fire is almost out and there is no more need for ventilation. It could be nine degrees out, or ninety. Either way, you're drenched in sweat inside your gear. If it is cold, now is the time you start to notice. You mop up the hot spots--don't want to be coming back two hours later. "Chief Rekindle" does not work here. You exit the house, drop your air bottle and tools in your rig, and help the other companies roll up, all the while avoiding any TV camera that might be present. Back at the station, rolled up dirty hose is tossed on the bay floor--the next shift can get that. Dirty tools don't get cleaned--the next shift can get that too. Peel off and hose down your nasty gear and replace it with dry stuff. Smooth out that lump of sock. Wet gear hangs from every conceivable place. Maybe you take a shower, or maybe you fall right back into bed. Maybe you sleep the rest of the night, maybe you run 6 more calls of homeless alcoholics and automatic alarms. Either way, that serene woman's voice wakes you at 6 a.m. every work day. The next shift can tell you had a fire that night the second they walk into the bay--the smell hangs in the air. You sip coffee, skim the paper, talk about the fire a bit and watch the local early news with a keen eye looking out for any fireman's face--any TV time earns you the privilege of buying a couple dozen donuts. Take your gear off the rig, roll up your bedding, and go home. Take another shower, the smell is still there, lingering in your hair. Kiss your wife, your kids, whoever, and tell them you love them. Wait two days. Repeat.

It begs the question

We were dispatched to a car wreck last night, which, en route, turned into a pedestrian hit by a vehicle. (This is common; you can't blame the dispatchers, as they are only relaying the information they receive.) We were then told to stage for the police, as a disturbance had supposedly developed. So, we sit at the corner for a moment until we see the ambulance barrel on through and go to the scene, which happens to be right outside a bar. We figure we'll follow them in. Once on scene, we are told by a really drunk and loud guy that his friend was supposedly hit by the big-ass tour bus idling in the middle of the street. "I saw everything," the drunk guy says, which is an immediate indicator that he is the last person from whom I'd want to get the story. Anyway, I'm looking at the three guys standing by the bus, one of whom was supposedly hit by said bus, and I can't tell who that would be, because they all look fine and drunk to me.

So, it begs the question--if someone was hit by a bus, but you can't immediately determine who that person is, was anyone really hit by a bus?