Twelve Days of Christmas, Part VII: A tough decision made easy by dad, mentors

*My best friend Steve and I during our college days.*

I knew going back to Kansas State for my sophomore year was going to be difficult. I learned earlier in the summer of 1995 that my best friend, who I roomed with as a freshman, wasn’t going back. Still a pseudo-brother 27 years later, Steve was my rock during that first year away from home.

My anxiety got even worse a few weeks later when the school informed me that my request for a single room was declined and I’d be living with a freshman from Poland.

Deep down, I knew going back was a bad idea. But I also felt like everybody back home – my parents, friends, former teachers and others – would be disappointed. I didn’t want to be a failure, so I sucked it up and went back before classes started.

That bravery lasted an entire week. First, I met my new roommate. He wasn’t a bad guy. He just wasn’t Steve. In fact, he was the exact opposite: Loud and extroverted. Just what an introvert needs. He wasn’t there much, which was good, because I rarely left my room, opting to play Super Nintendo and watch bad movies like “Dutch.”

As that first week came to close, I had a life-changing phone call with my father. He could sense I wasn’t happy, and, as he did often, the old man was worried. Several months earlier during Christmas break, a student in the dorm I lived in committed suicide, and that hit Dad hard.

“Son, if you get to a point where you don’t like it there, don’t stay,” he said not long after that incident. “There’s always tomorrow.”

During the call, I did something I rarely do: I broke down. The tears flowed steadily as I poured my heart out to Dad about not wanting to be there. He listened for several minutes. When I stopped, he said kindly, “Babe, it’s OK. Come on home and we’ll figure it out.”

After a short pep talk, I got off the phone and made a list of things I needed to take care of before leaving. As I started to pack, the phone rang. It was a familiar voice, a teacher who mentored me as a student journalist. It didn’t take long to figure out that my father called Mrs. Curtis, who called me immediately. We talked for a few minutes. She was concerned, of course.

“Ernie, I understand you may be coming home,” she said. “All I’m going to say is I really hope you don’t stop writing. That is your gift, and you’re too talented to stop.”

I didn’t come home right away. I made a few phone calls to get a better handle on the ramifications. As it turned out, I only needed to attend one class and drop out and avoid losing my backside financially. That happened to be a Spanish course, where I sat and listened for 50 minutes before walking up to the professor and asking her to sign a sheet stating I’d been in the class.

After visiting the financial aid office the next morning, I packed my things, loaded my car and drove back to the comfort of Burlingame and family. I had no idea what I was going to do next when I pulled into my father’s driveway that night. But I knew I was home, and nothing else mattered.

The following morning, I enrolled at Allen County Community College, a new campus in Burlingame in those days. A few hours later, I got another phone call from another familiar voice: my other mentor in journalism, the late Kurt Kessinger, who ran the Osage County Chronicle for decades.

“I hear you’re back in town,” Kurt said. “I want you to come work for me and cover sports. You can write whatever you want and as much as you want.”

I suspect my father and Mrs. Curtis got ahold of Kurt the day I left Manhattan. Within a week, at age 19, I was the de facto sports editor of the county’s weekly paper, a gig that not only got me through college financially, but also taught me more than any newspaper job I ever had.

The writing never stopped. I ended up at Washburn University by chance, a fortuitous break that has impacted my life as much as any decision. Ten years in newspapers followed. Then, an ongoing career in marketing. Ironically, I ended up marrying one of Mrs. Curtis’ daughters.

Twenty-seven years after leaving K-State, I’m still writing, be it a blog about my old man, a story on Burlingame’s powerhouse football team, or working on a true crime book.

You need constants in life, people who are there. I’ve been fortunate to have several, including Sheila Curtis and Kurt Kessinger. And, of course, the greatest constant: my father.