About once a week my buddy, Barry, and I get together to play guitar and hang out. We almost always play an Uncle Tupelo song called “New Madrid.”

The song references the New Madrid Fault and infamous earthquake prognosticator Iben Browning, including a lyric, “Mr. Browning has a prediction … .”

Browning, while credited with successfully predicting other earthquakes, had speculated that a major earthquake was likely along the New Madrid early in December 1990. He said there was a 50 percent chance of a major quake, in fact, which he based on expected heightened tidal forces at that latitude at that time. The big one never happened.

Well, this Mr. Browning did not predict the earthquake that shook the Midwest Friday morning. But I did make two separate New Madrid Fault jokes in the week preceding the tremors – which appear to be somewhat prescient.

The first comment came last Sunday during a softball game. My friend Chris – a really big guy – ripped the ball to the wall and was trying to leg out a triple when he slid into third and was tagged out. Of course this drew considerable smack from most everyone on our team, particularly after I said seismologists across the country were trying to figure out if the New Madrid Fault had just given way.

I had totally forgotten that joke, when I once again referenced the fault Thursday in our newsroom. When large trucks drive past our office here at the Model Mill Building they often rattle our walls. One truck caused a great deal of seismic activity Thursday. When reporter Rebecca Sandlin asked “what was that?” I responded, “the New Madrid Fault.”

A few hours later, a real earthquake would be rattling our newsroom. I mean, is that weird, or what?

At the very least, you have to admit feeling the earth move in central Indiana was a unique experience. I’d never felt an earthquake like that before. For us here, it was kind of cool. No major damage was reported. No one was hurt. And it gave the local TV stations the opportunity to preempt the national morning news shows and send Tree Boy to interview the rattled masses at an area doughnut shop.

Fortunately, it wasn’t the big one – and Mr. Browning’s prediction has still not come to fruition.

But the great quake of 2008 did allow for one self-fulfilling prophecy. When I arrived at work Friday morning, an e-mail from Barry was waiting.

“I guess we know what we’re opening with tonight,” he wrote.

I’ve detailed the nearly-obsessive love my son has for all things racing many times. It’s scary how big a racing fan he is as a 4-year-old, watching every NASCAR and IRL race that is on television, and using racing jargon as he plays with his toy cars — or his sister’s baby strollers for that matter.

He does not get it from me. I love sports, but have never been a huge motor sports fan. I’ve not discouraged his obsession. Afterall, it’s not like he’s becoming a white supremacist or a Pistons fan. In the past couple years, I’ve learned far more about racing than I ever imagined I would because of Zach.

Well, now it appears he has infected his sister.

Sunday offered up a tricky twin bill of racing, with the NASCAR and Indy Car races running at the same time. I had a lot of work to do around the house, and Zach couldn’t choose just one race. Well, I allowed him to take his first step into manhood, and control the remote. That’s right. I sat him up on the couch with some pretzels, a drink and the remote and taught him how the “recall” button works, so he could switch from race to race at his whim.

At one point in the afternoon, I listened as he explained to 2-year-old Emily that he was watching the Indy Car race and only switching occasionally to the NASCAR race because “NASCAW waces are longoo then Indy Caw waces, and the NASCAW wace will still be on when the Indy Caw wace is over.” Despite his difficulty pronouncing his Rs, he made a compelling argument.

What shocked and dismayed me, though, was after he switched to the Indy Car race during a commercial in the NASCAR race, I heard Emily’s little voice scream in protest, “No, I want watch NATHCAR.”

Occasionally a story will come along that inspires even a cynical journalist.

In this line of work, a lot of what we deal with is the darker side of human nature. As someone who spent more than a decade covering police, fire and court beats, I’ve seen the worst humanity has to offer. It’s easy to become jaded. As far as grouchy old newspaper editors go, I’m about as grouchy and pessimistic as they come.

But I was been blown away last week by the way my community rallied around Michael Treinen and his family. If a story like this doesn’t touch your heart, then you don’t have one.

When we got into the office last Monday morning to find several e-mails detailing the family’s plight – how Michael had reached a lifetime cap on his insurance and would need to raise $500,000 by Thursday in order to have a bone marrow transplant – the cynic in me said “no way.” I mean think about that. A half million dollars in four days.

Well, as of Friday, the community had collected more than $700,000 to help save this young man’s life. That’s staggering. Never in my career have I seen anything like that. I’ve never even heard of a community rallying like that, in that amount of time.

Schools and organizations and businesses pitched in to help. In most cases, they were helping someone they didn’t even know.

I don’t know the Treinen family. But I want to personally thank everyone who took the time to collect donations, who gave income from their business or their family budget.

As a father, I can’t even imagine what it would be like for my son to be facing that type of battle. But I hope the Treinens gain some comfort in knowing they are loved and supported.

As a Noblesville resident, I am proud to say this is the community in which I am raising my children.

Our job is to give you the news, and often the news is bad. While most of what the Noblesville Daily Times reports is positive news, it is seldom as inspiring as this.

It has been an honor to share this story, and it is an honor to serve a community like this.