It’s Christmas time! Whoopee

For the ninth year in a row, my child will not wake me up before dawn to open his presents this year. The almighty biased judge ruled my son should live primarily with the destroyer of our family, not the one who fought to save it.

This year, because of the cost of airfare, Nik will not get to Arizona until in the evening of Dec. 29. We’ll open our Christmas gifts to each other on Dec. 30, but the morning of Dec. 30 is not Christmas morning.

I’ll smile and appear festive in front of family and friends on Christmas day, but it’s all a façade. It’s the same façade I stand behind 302 days a year, but my Christmas façade is a heavier burden to bear. Perhaps I’ll be able to sneak away and find a secluded and dark spot to cry my eyes out. The problem is when I’ve had those rare moments in the past, the tears don’t come. You see, the destroyer not only ruined my dreams for an idyllic family, she also ripped out my ability to cry. I guess I shed my God given supply of tears during my futile fight.

Savor every second you are physically with your child, my friend. Savor every hug. Savor every kiss. Savor every time they laugh and they make you laugh, because someday you won’t be together. And then all your problems of today will seem rather trivial.

I pray that day for you comes later rather than sooner.

Thanksgiving Moments That Have Passed

My precious Thanksgiving memories:

* Sitting at the "Kid's Table" with Brian and Stephanie Palvas at our Yia Yia and Papou's house on Taft Street in Gary, Indiana.

* Moving up to the "Adult Table" at either the Palvas house or my house.

* Gathering around the TV to cheer on the Chicago Bears against the Detroit Lions. We didn't care about the other Thanksgiving day game at Dallas.

* Sometimes, the weather in northwest Indiana was good enough that Brian, Stephanie, later Ronnie and Mark Cool, others and I could go outside and have our own football game.

Today, we’re making new memories at our own tables in Chicago, central Indiana, Denver and Arizona. New adults and grown children sit at the “big” table and the “Kid’s Table” has been handed down to grandkids. Yia Yia, Papou and Uncle Bill Palvas are feasting with our Lord in heaven – and either cheering for or yelling at the Bears.

A line in one of my favorite songs, A Long December by Counting Crows, is “I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself / To hold on to these moments as they pass.” I wish I could remember more moments that have passed, but I am, and will eternally be, thankful for the memories I have.

Children Come in All Shapes, Sizes and Fur Coverings

Amy and I have 1 dog (Dynamo), 2 cats (Kirk and Scottie – Spock died 5 years ago) and 5 chickens

Amy feeding "The Children". 

(Zooey – short for Zoolander, Matilda, Tinker, Evers and Chance. Hansel died a couple of years ago). Along with bird seeds, Amy feeds the chickens various table scraps and Dynamo steals his fair share.

Last week, Dynamo’s vet put him on a strict diet to treat a bout of Pancreatitis. That led us to answer the question “How do we keep Dynamo from eating what is meant for the chickens?”

A few years ago, Amy erected planting boxes so she could grow vegetables and the chickens love jumping into the boxes to scratch around and eat the bugs and worms they happen to dig up. In a rare moment of brilliance, I suggested Amy dump the food for the chickens in the planter boxes and away from Dynamo. Of course, that “moment of brilliance” was only brilliant in my mind, because Dynamo quickly figured out he could jump into the boxes like the chickens do, shoo them away and then feast.

So this morning, Amy threw down some food for the chickens and after I saw Dynamo jump in the planting box, I yelled from the back door “DYNAMO! GET OUT OF THERE!” which he promptly did.

Dynamo then ran quickly past me to the other room where Amy was getting dressed and gave her a look on his face that said “Daddy yelled at me! I wasn’t doing anything wrong! He’s so mean to me!”

Ah, the life of a Puppy-Parent. 

One More Pat Bartram Story

A couple of weeks ago, I told you about my friend, Indiana State Police Trooper Pat Bartram (see Officer’s Funeral Rekindles Good, Bad and Difficult Memories). This morning, I remembered another Pat Bartram story that I would like to share.

Former Mooresville Police Chief Tim Viles organized a one-day, women only rape prevention seminar. Of the 50 to 60 people in the Mooresville High School auditorium that Saturday morning, only four were men – Viles, Pat and his brother Mike, and me.

I think this was the spring or summer before Pat’s accident because Mike had just started his undercover drug enforcement work. Chief Viles told me ahead of the seminar about Mike’s new duties, and I assured Mike I would do whatever I needed to do to preserve his cover, but every time I would raise my camera, Mike would drop his head and hide his face behind his hand.

One of the female presenters was from the medical field. She spoke about the physical and psychological effects of rape. A female police officer described the steps police departments take to investigate rape cases and gave tips so the ladies in attendance would know when they’re inadvertently getting themselves into dangerous situations or with dangerous people.

Pat and Mike each have Black Belts in a number of Martial Arts. They were there to give the women defensive fighting tips should a situation get that far. But Pat’s first tip had nothing to do with fighting.

“When you are surprised by an attacker jumping out of the shadows at you and you fear you’re going to be raped, you may think you’re going to pee in your pants. If you’re in that situation and you think you’re going to pee in your pants, then do it!

“I’m a guy and if my intent is to rape you and I see you’ve peed all over yourself, then I want nothing to do with you. It is much easier to take a shower and either wash your clothes or throw them away than it is to recover from being raped.”

Pat and Mike then demonstrated various kicks, gouges, and thrusts to fend off an attacker, but the lesson was to do whatever it takes keep from being raped.

Officer’s Funeral Rekindles Good, Bad and Difficult Memories

Yesterday, Sept. 15, 2014, was a chilly, rainy day in my hometown of Merrillville, Indiana - fitting conditions for the more than 30,000 residents of this community in the northwest corner of the state.

Merrillville Police Officer Nick Schultz was shot and killed on Sept. 5. The assailant then killed himself. Officer Schultz is the first Merrillville Police officer killed in the line of duty. He was only 24 and a little more than a year out of college. He is survived by his parents, sister, grandparents and a girlfriend.

I moved out of Merrillville a decade before Officer Schultz was born. I didn’t know anything about him or the shooting until my friends mentioned his passing on Facebook. But I know how my friends feel and the sadness encompassing Merrillville.

On March 31, 1998, Indiana State Police Senior Trooper James Patrick “Pat” Bartram died on State Road 144 near Waverly west of Mooresville, Indiana. He was trying to catch a traffic violator. Despite having his lights and siren on, a different vehicle crossed Pat’s path from a side road. Pat lost control of his patrol car and crashed into an oncoming pickup truck. Wayne Nuckels, 34, and his 7-year-old son, Jesse, also died at that moment.

I was a reporter at the Mooresville/Decatur Times newspaper on that day. Mooresville and neighboring communities in Morgan County southwest of Indianapolis was “my beat.” I covered everything but I really liked the police and fire emergency stories. I kept a police scanner in my car and had a portable scanner nearby at all times. Everyone with the Mooresville Police Department and troopers with the Putnamville post of the Indiana State Police, a district that included Mooresville and Morgan County, knew me and the car I drove, so they waved me past police barricades like I was one of their own. The shock and fear I felt as I drove up on the accident scene on State Road 144 that day I remember as if it happened seconds ago. All the victims were dead. There was nothing anyone could do.

For the next week, police officers and I bounced back and forth from mourning our friend to doing our jobs.

Pat and his twin brother Mike, who also was an Indiana State Police Trooper, were always at emergency scenes I responded to, either as the lead officers or to assist other departments. In their tailored blue uniforms, they looked even more identical than in real life. Some people said Mike has a rounder face than Pat, but I could never tell. I always had to sneak a peek at their name tag when I thought they weren’t looking. There were only two times I knew for sure who was who. Pat and Mike were receivers on a short-lived semi-pro football team, the Morgan County Broncos. Mike wore number 1 and Pat wore 86. Or it could have been the other way around. The other time was while Mike was doing undercover work with the ISP drug task force and he let his hair grow long.

Pat and Mike were model state troopers, but Pat had little ways that set him apart. About a year and a half before Pat’s death, I responded to a school bus accident and fire on the first day of school near Monrovia, Indiana. Of course Pat and Mike were there. I don’t know if they flipped a coin or traded the duties, but on this day, Pat was handling the report. As with most “dog-day summer” days, this day was hot and humid and I was sweating like a pig – Pat, of course looked perfect – which may be why he recommended we sit in his air-conditioned patrol car while he gave me the details he had collected. While we talked, the woman who was driving the school bus, and who Pat concluded caused the accident, came to the car to give Pat more information. Pat listened very professionally and when she left, he turned to me and said “That lady’s crazy.”

Occasionally, I covered Morgan County Broncos games. A fight would break out at least once every game. As the Dick Butkus wannabes pounded on each other, Pat and Mike would stand near me on the sidelines and watch. “Are you going to do something about this?” one of the other players asked Pat and Mike. Pat replied “I don’t like getting in the middle of fights when I’m working. I sure as hell am not going to get in the middle of one when I’m not.”

I did my best reporting, writing and photography during the week between the accident and Pat’s funeral. I kept up to date on the investigation. Police never found the driver of the vehicle that caused the crash or the driver of the vehicle Pat was trying to catch.

The night before Wayne’s and Jesse’s joint funeral, I called Wayne’s widow to get her permission to attend. I told her I was definitely covering Pat’s funeral and I wanted to be fair and respectful to Wayne and Jesse also. Reporters with the Indianapolis Star and Indianapolis’ TV stations were turned away because they did not get prior consent. I stood in the back and took notes. As I promised, I did not talk to anyone or take any photos during the service, but I did take a photo of two hearses pulling out of the parking lot of the funeral home.

Pat’s wake was the next day at the Mooresville Nazarene Church. The line of people paying respects snaked through the church and out the front door. Officers with the Indiana State Police, Mooresville and Martinsville police departments and Morgan County Sheriff’s Department stood at attention at the head and foot of Pat’s coffin for 30 minute shifts. After I hugged Mike I assured him he would not be in any of my pictures so I would not blow his cover. But after the Indianapolis paper and TV stations showed Pat’s picture, the jig was up for Mike.

The day of Pat’s funeral was warm and sunny. Thousands of officers from across the country attended Pat’s funeral in the gymnasium of Mooresville High School. Officers from neighboring departments handled police duties so all Mooresville officers and Morgan County deputies could attend.

Two state police cars gave the crew from one of the TV stations and me an escort to Forest Lawn Memorial Gardens in Greenwood, Indiana ahead of the miles-long funeral procession. A riderless horse with empty boots facing backwards led the procession from the entrance to the cemetery to Pat’s grave. Three bagpipers played Amazing Grace, Pat’s favorite song because he said it perfectly depicted his life.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

Was blind but now I see.

Every officer stood at attention and saluted as a bugler played TAPS and a rifle company fired three shots in the air. An American flag that draped Pat’s coffin was folded and given to his mother. And I got great pictures of all of it.

I wrote the banner story for our weekly paper the following Wednesday. The title was a quote from the reverend who spoke at Wayne’s and Jesse’s funeral – Not Goodbye, But See You Later. A full color photo page from Pat’s funeral was inside. I wrote that issue’s editorial with stories about Pat, including our time at the bus accident.

Pat’s official police photo was hung at the Mooresville Police Department. Every morning as I made my daily rounds I’d look at the picture and quietly say “Good morning Pat. Miss you, buddy.” One of the officers happened to overhear my greeting a number of years later. He told me he does the same thing.

Reporters on the police and fire beats end up seeing a number of dead bodies during their careers. After I covered my first fatality accident, I asked a policeman I knew how he does it. “You have to think of that person as an object. Their life is gone; they’re only a shell. You treat it with respect like something that is not yours, but it is still just an object.” That trick served me well until that March day in 1998.

The code signifying the end of an officer’s shift is 10-42. Officer Schultz and Trooper Bartram have called in their last 10-42 and have gone home.

I’m Dropping the Ball

My list of pet-peeves grows by the year; sometimes by the hour.

One peeve is Hypocrites.

Another is when I speak and act like one of my peeves, even unintentionally.

When I started this tome, my intent was to record for posterity who I am and why. Not because I want to add my name to the historical greats, but because I don’t want to be forgotten by my son or Nik’s future children – and so on, and so on, and so on.

I am fortunate to be able to remember all four of my grandparents and two of my great-grandmothers. Nik’s maternal grandfather passed away when Nik was 8, and he tells me he doesn’t remember this grandfather, what he said, or how he made sacrifices on Nik’s behalf.

Though I have many fond memories of my grandparents, my ability to recall what they said and remember their positions on important issues are fading. I’ve been reading a biography of Thomas Jefferson for more than a year now. Because of the large numbers of letters the writer of the Declaration of Independence and America’s third president wrote, the author, Jon Meacham, was able to intricately document Jefferson’s life. In many ways, I know more about an 18^th century and 19^th century historical figure than I know members of my own family.

Such is the case of my maternal great-grandfather William Francis Boyer. Great-granddad William was a singer in a traveling minstrel show, and was in San Francisco the day the Earth shook in 1906. I have held and read the letter he wrote to his mother describing that event, how he sought safety and how he assisted others. Through his “voice,” a man who died more than a century ago taught me more about that moment than what I learned in school.

So why do I recognize the importance and value of getting my thoughts and experiences recorded and I don’t do it? Here lies the hypocrisy.

During my 20-year journalism career, I received numerous praises and a couple of awards for my editorials and columns. I’ve written on many topics – some serious, some funny, some on news and issues, some on sports. One commonality is I thought ahead about each article.

A majority of the hundreds of thousands of articles I’ve authored were stories about the event or meeting or game that I was covering. I thought ahead about how I was going to construct the article, but the “meat” of the story was given to me. But an editorial or column is my creation – my “voice.” I want you, the reader, to enjoy what I write. In some cases, I want to influence your opinion and lead you to question reality and yourself.

I don’t want you to read 500 to 1,000 words and think “Really?”, “Why?”, “There’s five minutes I’ll never get back.”

But the reality is I am not that deep. I am not overly scholarly or learned on all topics. Often, something quirky will cross my mind and make me think about reality and myself. By the way, “quirky” is one of my favorite words. So is “plethora.”

I don’t have a problem with future generations thinking “that guy was quirky” because that is what I am, along with sometimes serious, often comical, and occasionally irrelevant.   

Shortly after beginning my research into my ancestry, I realized that, over time, entire lives get reduced to statistics, a few unidentified photos, and a tombstone. I want my life to mean more. I don’t want future generations to wonder why I did something or not do something. And if I happen to be in the right place at the right time for something historic, I think it will be really cool for someone to say “My great-granddad Scott was there, and I know he was because he wrote about it.”

So I am going to try to write more on this blog in honor of the future. I may not always share what I write on Facebook or some other media, but it will be here.

And if you end up thinking “Really?”, “Why?” just
remember I’m quirky.

And in Other News – Hockey Has Started

Another hockey season began last week, which is a perfect time to tell you about my new endeavor.

Playing hockey.

(Hello! McFly! You’re 51-years-old, you’ve never played hockey, you can’t even skate, and you’re disabled. You think you can play hockey?)

I’m speaking about Sled Hockey, also known as Sledge Hockey. When you’re disabled, you need to make some type of adjustment for everything you do. If you’re disabled and you want to play hockey, you adjust the way you play the game.

The origin of sled hockey, as written in Parasport, a website about all Para-Olympic sports, goes back to the early 1960s when a bunch of former hockey players in a rehabilitation center in Stockholm, Sweden bolted two hockey blades to the bottom of a sled, and armed with rounded poles in each hand played the game they loved.

The origin of my involvement in sled hockey goes back to New Year’s Eve 2011. Nik, Amy, Mom and I went to an Arizona Sundogs hockey game in Prescott Valley, Arizona. Before the game started, Prescott’s Tom Lopeman, who lost both legs to injuries he suffered while serving in Vietnam, skated out on his sled to deliver the puck to the referee. During the first intermission, we talked about his equipment and playing the game. Tom invited me to practice with the Phoenix Coyotes Sled Hockey team that he plays for. A couple of weeks later, I met the team at the Ice Den in Scottsdale. The guys on the team were fantastic. They let me borrow a sled and some equipment, helped me get on the ice and got me involved in their practice. What I was able to do can in no way be confused with playing. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I could barely skate the width of the rink before I had to stop and catch my breath. After an hour and a half of the team practicing on half the rink and me hoping to not have a coronary on the other half, practice was over. My arms were so sore I could barely lift them, but I loved being on the ice. I had to be able to actually play this game.

First, I had to get my upper body prepared for the rigors of just skating. The muscles of my arms, shoulders and back were not prepared to propel nearly 200 pounds. Perhaps if I had walked on my hands for 50 years, I would have felt better. I got a membership to Kate’s House of Fitness in Prescott Valley. Kate Cooper is a professional bodybuilder and does not look feminine. Kate is a wonderful lady but scary looking. I told my dad if I was ever in a dark alley, I wanted Kate by my side. Kate wrote up a workout program and showed me how to complete the program without injuring myself. I went to Kate’s House of Fitness three or four days a week until earlier this when she closed her gym. Now I go to a different gym that has more equipment but not as nice as Kate’s.

The weightlifting is paying off. This past summer, a Phoenix organization called River of Dreams reserved time at the Ice Den for anyone wanting to try sled hockey. Tom and other members of the Coyotes sled team were there to help novices like they helped me a year and a half earlier. I was able to skate the length of the rink multiple times and I never thought my arms would fall off my shoulders. And I’m glad Nik was one of those first-timers. He enjoyed it and he did great. Of course he is nearly 40 years younger and 75 pounds lighter than me.

I have all my personal gear. A few months after my first attempt at sled hockey, I came across a man from Flagstaff who was selling his helmet, gloves, pads, and bag – everything but his skates – on Craig’s List. I don’t need the skates anyway. I have prescription heavy-duty athletic glasses. I look like a raccoon, but I don’t have to worry about breaking my everyday specks. And I’m saving for my own sled and hockey sticks.

My goal is to play sled hockey, not just in practice, but in a game. I still have strength gaining and a whole lot of conditioning yet to do, but I have a goal. And what better place to have a goal but a hockey rink where there is one on each end.