A couple of things landed my mood in a particular team locker room today. You know what I mean, we all have teams. Some of us are golfers, some are recovering-whatevers, some drive faster than we should and some eat way too much garlic.
The point is we have identity markers that come and go and are either used or ignored until the next time they become relevant.
Some people make a living out of being on one team or another. A gay activist or Al Sharpton are examples of professionals in this sense. Recently one of my teams has come under a great deal of scrutiny and I don't mind telling you it is a very somber club house right now.
I won't mention the players that tend to give us a bad name. You know who they are. What I am moved to do here is remember a Golden Age. I want to remind you (and me) of the men who propped up a generation, several generations on broad shoulders and dared us to be better than what America was expecting. One of those men was Bill Willis.
I grew up calling this great athlete, scholar and cultural pioneer 'Uncle Bill' because he was one of my dad's best friends. Dad did not have much of a family growing up. Maybe that's why the family he and mom created was more important to him than anything. So he created a circle of friends, of brothers that stayed in close contact and helped each other every step of the way. That term, brothers, has become something of a team nickname that few understand. Bill Willis and Al Collins understood it. It meant being there, teaching and guiding. It meant doing what is right, period.
Bill Willis achieved great things. He is in several Halls of Fame and deserves every accolade. But what is not inscribed on the plaques is the contribution he made to another team: young men and women of color, and many who do not claim that distinction, who still walk along the path he cleared.
No matter what team you are on, we are all better because of men like these.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Snoop Rakes It In
Calvin slips the gray and yellow reflective vest over his pigtails. The smile on his face is difficult to interpret. No one could be happy spending much of the day, and the better part of the next month in city parks picking up other people's trash.
The rest of the crew? That's a different story. They are almost giddy and falling over each other to gain the attention of this "new fish." They try to get close to him mumbling rhymes and lyrics that, to the speaker, are so fresh they ain't made it to the vine.
The tall, thin man with slits for eyes and a permanent smirk listens politely, then, with a well-placed stare, closes the audition. Something might stick, and the other indentured park worker might hear a treatment of his couplings in a song on the radio one day; realizing he gave it away.
Calvin Cordozar Broadus, Jr. could buy and sell most of the parks he will clean in the 160 hours of his sentence. At the edge of the work detail waits a Bentley and several men in dark glasses, white and black, hired to protect him from undo harassment. The L.A. County sheriff's deputies don't mind the help. Should someone try to gain props by dogin' the Dogg, there could be serious trouble.
They never get used to it, the deputies. They say celebrity inmates are more trouble than the gang-bangers. Celebrity rappers are the worst. Snoop Dogg might be the most recognizable of this growing genre of mega star. Even people who would not be caught dead listening to Rap know him on sight.
One year ago he was caught with a collapsed baton, the kind the police use to break car windows or legs, if need be. It was at an airport and the item was deemed a dangerous weapon. That it is, but Mr. Broadus claimed it was to be used in a video. Since when does the Dogg carry his own props to a location? Lame doesn't even come close to describing this excuse.
But instead of using his court ordered community service in schools or community centers, drawing distinctions between the projected rapper image - something that can be very destructive - and the real business of artistic expression, he is raking leaves and spearing candy wrappers. I supposed he could have fought the conviction into oblivion. Why? Part of that crew near the Bentley includes a cameraman and sound tech.
One guy looks a little like Spike Lee.
The rest of the crew? That's a different story. They are almost giddy and falling over each other to gain the attention of this "new fish." They try to get close to him mumbling rhymes and lyrics that, to the speaker, are so fresh they ain't made it to the vine.
The tall, thin man with slits for eyes and a permanent smirk listens politely, then, with a well-placed stare, closes the audition. Something might stick, and the other indentured park worker might hear a treatment of his couplings in a song on the radio one day; realizing he gave it away.
Calvin Cordozar Broadus, Jr. could buy and sell most of the parks he will clean in the 160 hours of his sentence. At the edge of the work detail waits a Bentley and several men in dark glasses, white and black, hired to protect him from undo harassment. The L.A. County sheriff's deputies don't mind the help. Should someone try to gain props by dogin' the Dogg, there could be serious trouble.
They never get used to it, the deputies. They say celebrity inmates are more trouble than the gang-bangers. Celebrity rappers are the worst. Snoop Dogg might be the most recognizable of this growing genre of mega star. Even people who would not be caught dead listening to Rap know him on sight.
One year ago he was caught with a collapsed baton, the kind the police use to break car windows or legs, if need be. It was at an airport and the item was deemed a dangerous weapon. That it is, but Mr. Broadus claimed it was to be used in a video. Since when does the Dogg carry his own props to a location? Lame doesn't even come close to describing this excuse.
But instead of using his court ordered community service in schools or community centers, drawing distinctions between the projected rapper image - something that can be very destructive - and the real business of artistic expression, he is raking leaves and spearing candy wrappers. I supposed he could have fought the conviction into oblivion. Why? Part of that crew near the Bentley includes a cameraman and sound tech.
One guy looks a little like Spike Lee.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Just When You Think You Don’t Matter
The call happens now and then: “it’s so hard to be an adult.” This coming from someone I will always see as twelve years old. But she’s not. She’s 27 and has lived on her own since her second year in college – with some help, of course.
Now another series of disappointments and more job related consternation. In some respects I love these conversations. It is good to know that such important decisions are still brought home. Aside from being the youngest in the family, she is also the smartest, and a career in the medical field seemed the right choice. But she has to really want to do it and the call last night indicated that was no longer the case. So it goes.
I just want her to do something that she enjoys, and if at all possible something that matters. Usually sometime in these conversations I realize, even if I don’t say it out loud, that the career I have chosen really doesn’t matter much. Strip away all the hype and my second career - a writer - is only to entertain. My time is spent creating a diversion that may or may not be used by listeners or readers to take their minds off the troubles of their day.
Today I got another call. It was from a very nice lady named Jackie. She had just heard the song “Vincent,” by Don McLean on 1590 WAKR. Jackie was in tears and just called to thank me for playing the song. There is a line in the song, “…the world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.” Jackie’s son committed suicide late last year and she is still in deep pain. For that instant, she said, the radio and that song brought her closer to her son.
It was a difficult call to take. By the time we were about to hang up we were both in tears. Suicide is not a foreign concept in the Collins family. It only happened once, and that was many years ago. It was my brother who was too complicated, too conflicted and yes too beautiful for this world.
Jackie’s call reinforced something we often forget: there are people who listen and there are people who hear. For the listeners we are quite trivial, but every now and then there are those who hear something that makes a difference, possibly a real difference in their lives.
Now another series of disappointments and more job related consternation. In some respects I love these conversations. It is good to know that such important decisions are still brought home. Aside from being the youngest in the family, she is also the smartest, and a career in the medical field seemed the right choice. But she has to really want to do it and the call last night indicated that was no longer the case. So it goes.
I just want her to do something that she enjoys, and if at all possible something that matters. Usually sometime in these conversations I realize, even if I don’t say it out loud, that the career I have chosen really doesn’t matter much. Strip away all the hype and my second career - a writer - is only to entertain. My time is spent creating a diversion that may or may not be used by listeners or readers to take their minds off the troubles of their day.
Today I got another call. It was from a very nice lady named Jackie. She had just heard the song “Vincent,” by Don McLean on 1590 WAKR. Jackie was in tears and just called to thank me for playing the song. There is a line in the song, “…the world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.” Jackie’s son committed suicide late last year and she is still in deep pain. For that instant, she said, the radio and that song brought her closer to her son.
It was a difficult call to take. By the time we were about to hang up we were both in tears. Suicide is not a foreign concept in the Collins family. It only happened once, and that was many years ago. It was my brother who was too complicated, too conflicted and yes too beautiful for this world.
Jackie’s call reinforced something we often forget: there are people who listen and there are people who hear. For the listeners we are quite trivial, but every now and then there are those who hear something that makes a difference, possibly a real difference in their lives.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Swimming The Blur, Sinking in The Bull
Let's clear the air. I want to talk to those who don't have a problem with alcohol and drugs; that special person who uses, drinks at inappropriate times and constantly makes a mess of things. But only if you don't have a problem. This is not a sermon, not even a warning. It is an idea, a notion that life was not meant to wash down the drain in tiny streams of selfish acts.
If you have any courage left, you'll read on.
When I first set out to do this journal, my intension was spotlighting our similarities and differences on a cultural level. I wanted to show the good things that were happening, like the efforts to bring much needed drugs and care to AIDS victims in Africa, our magnificent Art Museum and Symphony, the library and the Zoo; the Urban League and the grassroots efforts to help people get it together, able to help themselves.
There are lots of people doing the good work. But just as it comes down to the individual, it also depends on the individual's personal habits and discipline. That is where we are failing miserably. We are not a sober society and that means we abuse everything!
I can't speak to those who abuse credit or food or sex or power. We are all guilty of that at one time or another. But for those of you without a problem - and you know who you are - it's time to take a good close look at your life.
Pretty ugly, no?
Let me tell you about a very close friend. He keeps a job but seldom arrives home without taking a drink or two. He helps out around the house, or with the kids, but those same kids have learned to keep secrets at a very early age. Like, daddy stopping at the place and leaving us in the car for a while, or mommy keeping her favorite "pop" under the seat and won't share. "Daddy snores funny and sometimes he smells." The kids would say, if they weren't so afraid.
This is nothing. He used to hand every other paycheck to a guy named "Z" who would hand him a tightly wrapped bundle of something. It would last about three days if he were alone, a lot shorter time with pals. Renting temporary relief for the pain that most certainly would follow.
But today it's that well-deserved cocktail. And who wouldn't drink if you had my life? Take yesterday f'instance. It was all I could do to forget about that...that...what were we talking about?
You. We were talking about you, maybe, but only if you don't have a problem.
If you have any courage left, you'll read on.
When I first set out to do this journal, my intension was spotlighting our similarities and differences on a cultural level. I wanted to show the good things that were happening, like the efforts to bring much needed drugs and care to AIDS victims in Africa, our magnificent Art Museum and Symphony, the library and the Zoo; the Urban League and the grassroots efforts to help people get it together, able to help themselves.
There are lots of people doing the good work. But just as it comes down to the individual, it also depends on the individual's personal habits and discipline. That is where we are failing miserably. We are not a sober society and that means we abuse everything!
I can't speak to those who abuse credit or food or sex or power. We are all guilty of that at one time or another. But for those of you without a problem - and you know who you are - it's time to take a good close look at your life.
Pretty ugly, no?
Let me tell you about a very close friend. He keeps a job but seldom arrives home without taking a drink or two. He helps out around the house, or with the kids, but those same kids have learned to keep secrets at a very early age. Like, daddy stopping at the place and leaving us in the car for a while, or mommy keeping her favorite "pop" under the seat and won't share. "Daddy snores funny and sometimes he smells." The kids would say, if they weren't so afraid.
This is nothing. He used to hand every other paycheck to a guy named "Z" who would hand him a tightly wrapped bundle of something. It would last about three days if he were alone, a lot shorter time with pals. Renting temporary relief for the pain that most certainly would follow.
But today it's that well-deserved cocktail. And who wouldn't drink if you had my life? Take yesterday f'instance. It was all I could do to forget about that...that...what were we talking about?
You. We were talking about you, maybe, but only if you don't have a problem.
Monday, August 20, 2007
A Culture in Ascension
Black America is often over-looked. The needs of those still struggling with poverty, crime and addiction, and those success stories needing to be heard have fallen into the "solved" box. Trust me, this is not a done deal.
From time to time the folks get something to dance about, sing about and really be proud of. The Akron Urban League defied the odds and built an impressive facility in a neighborhood that welcomed the addition.
The Urban League is the concept of "teach a man to fish..." in action. Much of the facility will provide education and small business assistance, along with day care and meeting rooms.
Here is just a quick walk-through of a party that truly means business.
From time to time the folks get something to dance about, sing about and really be proud of. The Akron Urban League defied the odds and built an impressive facility in a neighborhood that welcomed the addition.
The Urban League is the concept of "teach a man to fish..." in action. Much of the facility will provide education and small business assistance, along with day care and meeting rooms.
Here is just a quick walk-through of a party that truly means business.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
We Can't, Just Can't Let Go, But We Must
"I am so stressed I am literally ineffective." My friend was trying to focus, but I could see that her thoughts were spinning in every direction, nearly out of control.
Earlier this day another associate mentioned the same event and how it was dominating all his time.They have little in common, these two, other than having their paychecks signed by the same guy. Oh, and they are both sending kids to college for the first time.
My friend has the more oppressive task at hand. She is moving her older child over 2-thousand miles away to a very expensive city for training in perhaps the most competitive field imaginable. Her daughter was blessed with an absolutely angelic voice. She wants to be an opera singer! Think about it, do you know any opera singers? Can you name an opera singer, other than what's-his-name and the other guy? Maybe the name Beverly Sills comes to mind, perhaps because she recently passed away.
No, this is a happy kind of sadness. I know, we've been through it, Monika and I, and there is something ripped from your heart when you look in the rear-view mirror and see that lone person; sometimes crying, sometimes looking around, getting the feel for the place, this new place. She does not look like an adult standing there, ready to make her own decisions, take responsibility for her actions, choose her friends wisely, eat right and get enough rest. She still looks like she just turned twelve. "What do I do now?" is the next thing out of her mouth. But you won't be there to answer. Even in the age of tiny phones, you won't be there.
My friend will have to take her role in that scene and she will have the most difficult flight home she has ever had in her life. So where is the happy part? Hang on, it's coming.
It happens quite by accident, when you are visiting, or when she comes home. There you are, talking about this or that, and suddenly you realize that she has become a friend; an adult and a friend who knows you better than anyone and still loves you. She makes critical observations that are free of judgments and right on target. If you are lucky there is also appreciation for all that you have done.
You also see the best of you in all those plans and dreams and energy that swirls around this new adult.
If you are going through what many of us - including my friend - are facing, try not to stress too much. You will stand at the edge of insanity, but you will step back in time and breathe a little easier. When, you ask? When that next door opens for both of you.
Earlier this day another associate mentioned the same event and how it was dominating all his time.They have little in common, these two, other than having their paychecks signed by the same guy. Oh, and they are both sending kids to college for the first time.
My friend has the more oppressive task at hand. She is moving her older child over 2-thousand miles away to a very expensive city for training in perhaps the most competitive field imaginable. Her daughter was blessed with an absolutely angelic voice. She wants to be an opera singer! Think about it, do you know any opera singers? Can you name an opera singer, other than what's-his-name and the other guy? Maybe the name Beverly Sills comes to mind, perhaps because she recently passed away.
No, this is a happy kind of sadness. I know, we've been through it, Monika and I, and there is something ripped from your heart when you look in the rear-view mirror and see that lone person; sometimes crying, sometimes looking around, getting the feel for the place, this new place. She does not look like an adult standing there, ready to make her own decisions, take responsibility for her actions, choose her friends wisely, eat right and get enough rest. She still looks like she just turned twelve. "What do I do now?" is the next thing out of her mouth. But you won't be there to answer. Even in the age of tiny phones, you won't be there.
My friend will have to take her role in that scene and she will have the most difficult flight home she has ever had in her life. So where is the happy part? Hang on, it's coming.
It happens quite by accident, when you are visiting, or when she comes home. There you are, talking about this or that, and suddenly you realize that she has become a friend; an adult and a friend who knows you better than anyone and still loves you. She makes critical observations that are free of judgments and right on target. If you are lucky there is also appreciation for all that you have done.
You also see the best of you in all those plans and dreams and energy that swirls around this new adult.
If you are going through what many of us - including my friend - are facing, try not to stress too much. You will stand at the edge of insanity, but you will step back in time and breathe a little easier. When, you ask? When that next door opens for both of you.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Gas is Cheap! We're Talkin' Water Here
And it's not just in price, but draining one's cool. If you are going to swill the crystal, you better have it in a bottle you can wash out and use again or you might as well wear fur.
I was reading an article in The Times about bottled water and it occurred to me that one more bit of modern behavior has fallen to the depths of planet-killer. As those of us over 50 used to say, "everything is a hassle."
Here are some raw calculations for you to ponder as you tip your plastic pop bottle (hold the sugar, flavoring, carbonation and chemicals): each year we send a million and a half barrels of oil to the bottle making folks; if most brands of bottled water were made to pump into our cars rather than our stomachs we would pay roughly 6 bucks a gallon, more if we bought it at any of the c-stores that prop up our filling stations; and in San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Minneapolis and New York the mayors are speaking up against the use of the healthy alternative to coffee and vodka. Not that we shouldn't drink water, we just need to think about the packaging.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't there such a thing as recycling all those plastic demons of modern life? Weren't the green bins and blue bags and stuffed parkas and lawn furniture all supposed to usher in a new generation of plastic, fantastic guardians of the earth? The ouroboros arrows signaling peace of mind, firm in the belief that I R OK, U R OK? Don't we recycle anymore?
Seems to me that the people who want to maintain another reason for sucking oil from the ground were hoping that no one noticed the nice, clear, un-recycled plastic that holds the extra virgin glacier water. Could there be a modern day Daniel deciphering the writing on the wall indicated by all those hybrids and all that talk of alternative fuel spewing from Green-D's and those who put bottled water on hip-list in the first place?
Just asking.
Today I stopped into Discount Drug Mart in Hudson for a green, recycled bottle of Diet 7-Up. Wouldn't you know it, there they were, just as plain as day, cans of bottled water! Aluminum cans! Now all they need is a way to reseal the opening and I'm there! Vote for Nader!
Until then, remember we live just south of the greatest body of fresh water in the world. Drink up.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
The Radio Murders, Book 2, Part One, Prologue
Between posts from my on line column, The Culture Clash, I will post sections of my upcoming Mystery/Thriller series "The Radio Murders." This book will be available this Fall as well as coming in podcast very soon.
Here is the first installment.
Prologue
Rachelle Brennan held the palm-sized star in both hands and remembered the day. The raised letters and shiny surface were smooth to her touch. She brought the leather clipped case to her face and breathed deeply; once her sensitive nose cancelled the hand worn cowhide, she smelled three different colognes and inexpensive wool. Shelly, as her uncle called her, had upwardly arched eyebrows and oval blue eyes that made her youthful face appear stuck in infinite doubt.
The moment-past was as vivid in her memory as the cup of tea that steamed in front of her and the inherited Chicago Police sergeant’s star in her hands. It happened in one of the many small restaurants that she and her uncle would visit for no particular reason. It was difficult to remember if she ever told him how much she enjoyed the spontaneous meals – she never really said it in exact terms - when she would talk freely and openly to the only man she knew as father. The conversation came to life.
“So, you want in law enforcement, huh Shelly? You know, most of us are not the brightest bulbs on the marquee.” In her memory Mick Molnar sipped his coffee through his rust brown moustache.
“I know Mickey, but it looks like so much fun, and my professors say I have what it takes to go into pathology. So why not start in the forensics lab while I’m taking more classes? Mom can’t afford to send me full time anyway… and I can work with you.”
“You’ll be working with the DOA’s, the crime scenes and about million pieces of nothin’ that we call evidence. You won’t be working with me. You’ll tell me what your findings are and that’s the last we’ll see of each other until someone else turns up dead. And get that fun shit out of your head right now. I mean, it’s a great job, an interesting job, but fun it ain’t.”
Rachel only half listened to her uncle. She remembered nearly always only half listening since she was a little girl. There was a time when everything Mick said was treated as gospel until she realized he was making up much of what he told her. For a time, she would not believe him if he told her Springfield was the capital of Illinois, she had to see for herself. Somewhere along the road to adulthood she struck a balance and learned to listen to him again. “You ever think about how dangerous your job is, Mickey?”
“Can’t. Or you can’t do it.”
“Never?”
“Listen, sweetie, you and your mom are all the family I have.”
“And Sig! Don’t forget him.”
“Little shitbag crapped in the garage again this morning.”
“He wouldn’t if you’d drag your lazy butt up and walked him on time.”
“Yeah. But you’re right. He’s family, too. You guys matter to me more than anything. I know something happening to me would break your hearts and I don’t want that. I’m careful, I have good people around me and I keep my eyes opened. That’s all I can do.” Mick paused to stress what followed. “But I have to tell you, Shell, if it comes down to my life or the life of some kid whose only crime was being a kid, or being in the wrong place… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d do. I guess none of us do. You just have to wait until it happens, then see what you’re made of.”
The memory faded and Rachelle Brennan sniffed and smiled. It was as though her uncle had put the conversation in her head to remind her that a day like that Friday morning, August 13th - a day a peace officer would perform his final duty – could happen anytime.
She remembered what Stemp and Freddy, her uncle’s partners, said about the actions taken by Sergeant Molnar. He had only a split second. There was nothing anyone could do except be with the kids as they faced certain death. And if by some miracle the SUV did not clear the edge of the Turnpike bridge and tumble more than two hundred feet to the rock floor of the quarry, he was going to be there to help the two children inside. It could have been just an attempt to save one of the kids, to pull the seventeen year old from the driver seat, which is exactly what he did. But something told him to take her place in the seat and take the ride with her younger sister and brother, the thirteen year old and the little boy who might otherwise not see his sixth birthday.
No one knew for certain what Mick Molnar was thinking. But Rachel had a pretty good idea. She had seen her uncle make decisions based on facts not in evidence, as he liked to put it. There was something he trusted that made him do some of the things he did in a long and often contentious career. He called them angel’s notes and he told her once, when he had been drinking, that the notes came to him in a flash, without warning. He said they told him who was the bad guy and who was the victim. He relied on this inner voice to get him through some tough cases and he learned to trust it. Rachelle doubted he ever told anyone else about this display of faith, cornball and mild psychosis.
As for the morning of August 13th, she was pretty sure the actions were the product of his experience and talent as a policeman. He had no way of knowing that the SUV was secured, at least for a time, by the cable winched to Greg Flowers’ Jeep; that without that, it was the end for him and the children. Yet he knew there was a chance, a slim chance to save them. And he took that chance, saving the children, if not himself.
“You just have to wait until it happens, then see what you’re made of.” The thought came back to her. She knew what her uncle, the decorated detective-sergeant was made of, and it made her very proud.
Here is the first installment.
Prologue
Rachelle Brennan held the palm-sized star in both hands and remembered the day. The raised letters and shiny surface were smooth to her touch. She brought the leather clipped case to her face and breathed deeply; once her sensitive nose cancelled the hand worn cowhide, she smelled three different colognes and inexpensive wool. Shelly, as her uncle called her, had upwardly arched eyebrows and oval blue eyes that made her youthful face appear stuck in infinite doubt.
The moment-past was as vivid in her memory as the cup of tea that steamed in front of her and the inherited Chicago Police sergeant’s star in her hands. It happened in one of the many small restaurants that she and her uncle would visit for no particular reason. It was difficult to remember if she ever told him how much she enjoyed the spontaneous meals – she never really said it in exact terms - when she would talk freely and openly to the only man she knew as father. The conversation came to life.
“So, you want in law enforcement, huh Shelly? You know, most of us are not the brightest bulbs on the marquee.” In her memory Mick Molnar sipped his coffee through his rust brown moustache.
“I know Mickey, but it looks like so much fun, and my professors say I have what it takes to go into pathology. So why not start in the forensics lab while I’m taking more classes? Mom can’t afford to send me full time anyway… and I can work with you.”
“You’ll be working with the DOA’s, the crime scenes and about million pieces of nothin’ that we call evidence. You won’t be working with me. You’ll tell me what your findings are and that’s the last we’ll see of each other until someone else turns up dead. And get that fun shit out of your head right now. I mean, it’s a great job, an interesting job, but fun it ain’t.”
Rachel only half listened to her uncle. She remembered nearly always only half listening since she was a little girl. There was a time when everything Mick said was treated as gospel until she realized he was making up much of what he told her. For a time, she would not believe him if he told her Springfield was the capital of Illinois, she had to see for herself. Somewhere along the road to adulthood she struck a balance and learned to listen to him again. “You ever think about how dangerous your job is, Mickey?”
“Can’t. Or you can’t do it.”
“Never?”
“Listen, sweetie, you and your mom are all the family I have.”
“And Sig! Don’t forget him.”
“Little shitbag crapped in the garage again this morning.”
“He wouldn’t if you’d drag your lazy butt up and walked him on time.”
“Yeah. But you’re right. He’s family, too. You guys matter to me more than anything. I know something happening to me would break your hearts and I don’t want that. I’m careful, I have good people around me and I keep my eyes opened. That’s all I can do.” Mick paused to stress what followed. “But I have to tell you, Shell, if it comes down to my life or the life of some kid whose only crime was being a kid, or being in the wrong place… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d do. I guess none of us do. You just have to wait until it happens, then see what you’re made of.”
The memory faded and Rachelle Brennan sniffed and smiled. It was as though her uncle had put the conversation in her head to remind her that a day like that Friday morning, August 13th - a day a peace officer would perform his final duty – could happen anytime.
She remembered what Stemp and Freddy, her uncle’s partners, said about the actions taken by Sergeant Molnar. He had only a split second. There was nothing anyone could do except be with the kids as they faced certain death. And if by some miracle the SUV did not clear the edge of the Turnpike bridge and tumble more than two hundred feet to the rock floor of the quarry, he was going to be there to help the two children inside. It could have been just an attempt to save one of the kids, to pull the seventeen year old from the driver seat, which is exactly what he did. But something told him to take her place in the seat and take the ride with her younger sister and brother, the thirteen year old and the little boy who might otherwise not see his sixth birthday.
No one knew for certain what Mick Molnar was thinking. But Rachel had a pretty good idea. She had seen her uncle make decisions based on facts not in evidence, as he liked to put it. There was something he trusted that made him do some of the things he did in a long and often contentious career. He called them angel’s notes and he told her once, when he had been drinking, that the notes came to him in a flash, without warning. He said they told him who was the bad guy and who was the victim. He relied on this inner voice to get him through some tough cases and he learned to trust it. Rachelle doubted he ever told anyone else about this display of faith, cornball and mild psychosis.
As for the morning of August 13th, she was pretty sure the actions were the product of his experience and talent as a policeman. He had no way of knowing that the SUV was secured, at least for a time, by the cable winched to Greg Flowers’ Jeep; that without that, it was the end for him and the children. Yet he knew there was a chance, a slim chance to save them. And he took that chance, saving the children, if not himself.
“You just have to wait until it happens, then see what you’re made of.” The thought came back to her. She knew what her uncle, the decorated detective-sergeant was made of, and it made her very proud.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
It's Like a Gun Show for People Who Love Yarn
That was the way the young lady described the event she was so looking forward to this weekend. It is the largest knitting convention in the world and it takes place in the Exposition Center near Chicago's O'Hare Airport.
She always called herself "crafty." Not in the sinister way, but indicating that she is good with her hands. And she has been that way since she was a baby. At almost 27 years-old her crafts have taken on a practical appeal. If she didn't mind getting dirty, which she does, she could fix cars.
"I signed up for two seminars," she said, knowing it would be appreciated on the other end of the phone. It was. "$200, but worth it."
The former Rosemont Convention Center, officially called the Donald E. Stephens Convention Center, is just shy of a million square feet of exposition space. You could fit almost three IX Centers on the available floor. According to the young lady, a Chicagoan since shortly after she left college (see "A Bridge Too Close") the space will be pretty much filled with "crazy knitters and vendors."
Her grandmother, mom and aunt are knitters, but nothing that comes close to the passion she shows. She once knitted the wardrobe for an 18 member cast of a weird warehouse performance of "The Myth of Prometheus." The play was almost unwatchable, but her costumes made it worth the trip.
Stitches Midwest is a serious Mecca for more than just grandmothers and crafty daughters. It is probably mostly women, but there are bodybuilders, cops and combat vets who use the skill to purl away the boredom between fits of terror in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have even been told that knitting is to these wars what illegal drugs were to Vietnam. That might be a stretch, but it is not beyond caparison.
The young lady sent me a link to what she called the "myspace/friendster/facebook of knitters." It's ravelry.com, and I would add that it has a touch of eBay as well because members can sell what they create.
Decorating an entire wall of one of my favorite places in Akron, The Akron Art Museum, is a weaving made from whisky bottle caps. In other locations there are magnificent works created in much the same way my girl in Chicago knits a skirt. It is art in the truest sense. And it can keep you warm, too!
link to post
She always called herself "crafty." Not in the sinister way, but indicating that she is good with her hands. And she has been that way since she was a baby. At almost 27 years-old her crafts have taken on a practical appeal. If she didn't mind getting dirty, which she does, she could fix cars.
"I signed up for two seminars," she said, knowing it would be appreciated on the other end of the phone. It was. "$200, but worth it."
The former Rosemont Convention Center, officially called the Donald E. Stephens Convention Center, is just shy of a million square feet of exposition space. You could fit almost three IX Centers on the available floor. According to the young lady, a Chicagoan since shortly after she left college (see "A Bridge Too Close") the space will be pretty much filled with "crazy knitters and vendors."
Her grandmother, mom and aunt are knitters, but nothing that comes close to the passion she shows. She once knitted the wardrobe for an 18 member cast of a weird warehouse performance of "The Myth of Prometheus." The play was almost unwatchable, but her costumes made it worth the trip.
Stitches Midwest is a serious Mecca for more than just grandmothers and crafty daughters. It is probably mostly women, but there are bodybuilders, cops and combat vets who use the skill to purl away the boredom between fits of terror in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have even been told that knitting is to these wars what illegal drugs were to Vietnam. That might be a stretch, but it is not beyond caparison.
The young lady sent me a link to what she called the "myspace/friendster/facebook of knitters." It's ravelry.com, and I would add that it has a touch of eBay as well because members can sell what they create.
Decorating an entire wall of one of my favorite places in Akron, The Akron Art Museum, is a weaving made from whisky bottle caps. In other locations there are magnificent works created in much the same way my girl in Chicago knits a skirt. It is art in the truest sense. And it can keep you warm, too!
link to post
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