Deadlines

Deadlines are the bane of my existence. I dislike being cornered into doing something by a specific time or day. I’m more of a “fly by the seat of my pants kind of girl” like Julia Roberts in the movie Pretty Woman. Julia amended that statement by saying she really liked to have things planned out, and so do I. I am just more lackadaisical about when I get those things done.

The Westfield Republican and Mayville Sentinel have a new editor, Jenna Loughlin, and the last couple weeks the paper has had a decidedly different look. Each editor puts their mark on the look and direction the paper takes. I’m sure there are more changes in store as Jenna gets more familiar with the community.

Having recently met Jenna, I can say she leaves a good impression as a professional woman who intends to make the most of this cozy little paper. My only complaint is that she insists that the deadline for article submission is noon on Friday! For the past several years, despite the fact the paper clearly states a deadline of noon Friday, I have worked under a noon Monday deadline for this column and other articles I’ve put together. Change is so hard…

I’m a Sunday night cruncher. Along about Friday night I realize I haven’t got a column written yet for the following week. By Saturday I’m usually frantically trying to think of a topic to tackle. Sunday afternoon rolls around and I’m sitting at my computer, tossing ideas around in my head, discarding a half dozen or so, and by Sunday night I sometimes have a passable start on what I’m going to say. More often than not I’m scrambling Monday morning to get something submitted by noon that day.

What have they done to me! Without the last minute weekend to fall back on I am now forced to think ahead an entire week! From the time I submit a column until it gets to your hands will be a week’s time. I’ll have forgotten what I wrote when you come up to me and say how much you enjoyed it because I’ll be scrambling to get another submitted the following day. I don’t know how I’m going to cope. It’s hard to teach an old writer new tricks.

My husband knows I’m a procrastinator. It irritates him when I don’t arrive on time. He sits and stews while waiting for me to show up at an appointed time. I really try to get places when I’m supposed to, but quite often I am distracted by other people. I love stopping to chat with someone. You never know what tidbits of information may come my way by just having a casual conversation. When it’s important, I get there on time. It’s just that my idea of what is important is often at odds with someone else’s.

My new hero is Elizabeth Taylor. Prior to her death, she arranged to have her body arrive at her funeral fashionably late. I’m thinking about having that done when my time comes. Talk about missing a deadline!

To quote Sam Levenson, humorist and writer, I’m going to stop putting things off, starting tomorrow.

Memorial Day 2011

As this Memorial Day approaches I’ve been drawn to East Ripley Cemetery where several of my ancestors have been laid to rest. As I tend to the graves, pulling weeds and planting flowers, I am once again full of curiosity about these men who went before me and served their country. The recent death of Sgt. Kevin White of Westfield has been more real to me than those of my uncle and great-grandfather. Sgt. White’s passing is immediate, current, drawing my attention to the present wars the United States is waging around the globe. I know several veterans who were deeply affected by the tribute paid to White. To them it’s personal.

I come from a long line of patriots, dating back to pre-Revolutionary War years. Conrad Near, a German immigrant and my sixth great-grandfather, fought in the Revolutionary War and was killed in the Battle of Klock’s Field, near Palatine, New York. Several great-grandfathers fought in the Civil War on both sides of the battlefield. But the one that piqued my interest this week was Bernard E. Manning, my mother’s grandfather, who was one of two Ripley residents who fought during the Spanish-American War.

Manning, mentioned briefly in Marie McCutcheon’s book, “Golden Glow of History Past,” was one of two Ripleyites who fought in the Spanish-American War, the other being Merle H. Cornell. Lasting only a matter of months, Spanish-American War veteran’s graves are difficult to find I’ve read. Because so few men were called to serve in Teddy Roosevelt’s “splendid little war” it is rare to have the opportunity to visit one of those graves, and we have one here in Ripley.

One of the saddest stories in my family’s history, to me anyway, is that of Harvey Lanphere, Jr. When he was a senior in high school here in Ripley, World War II broke out. He was due to graduate in June that year, but instead he and a friend decided to quit school in March of their senior year and enlist in the Navy. “It broke his mother’s heart,” I’ve often heard. Seaman 2nd Class Lanphere never made it to war, however. He contracted rheumatic fever shortly after signing up and was medically discharged before ever being shipped overseas. Not long after coming home to what I’m sure was his very relieved mother, he was killed in an auto accident. I never knew him, but I visit his grave and tend to its upkeep.

There are so many of our men and women who have fought and died for our country who are forgotten. Families have moved away or simply lost touch with their forebearers over the decades or centuries. A stroll through Quincy and East Ripley cemeteries will reveal 200 or more graves of servicemen who lived in Ripley, dating back to before Ripley was a town.

As you visit the cemeteries this Memorial Day weekend, give a thought to those American heroes who died in battle, as well as those who lived to tell the tale. And when you see a veteran, stop and shake their hand and thank them for their service. So few of them receive the gratitude they deserve for sacrifice they’ve made for our freedom.

Goin’ to Canada, eh?

On a whim, my ever-lovin’ and I decided recently to go to Niagara Falls, Ontario for the night. As we were packing the night before our jaunt, I reminded hubby to not forget the passports.

I do love traveling with my husband. It’s always an adventure. With everything loaded into the trunk early the next morning, we set off in the rain for our adventure. “Did you remember the passports,” I asked Bob, halfway to Buffalo. A look of horror appeared on his face. “NO! Did you?” was his reply. Of course I did. I know Bob. He relies on me for everything.

Somewhere along the way we decided to drive to Toronto to see the zoo there. I’ve heard it’s a good one, and I love zoos; good ones that is. Looking at the maps and calculating our route, we tried to figure out how long it would take to get there from Buffalo. (We don’t believe in GPS systems. We prefer to rely on the tried and true paper map system.) “I think it’s about two hours from Buffalo,” I say. “No, I think it’s more like three or four hours,” my long distance truck driver husband says. “We aren’t going to get there until almost 4 o’clock, Robyn! Are you sure you still want to go today?” Of course I’m sure. I KNOW it isn’t three or four hours away.

Bob has had some issues getting in and out of Canada in the past. He and his first family went to Canada, long before passports were required, and had a lovely time; until they returned to the United States, whereupon he realized he still had a pocketful of Canadian money. So they crossed back into Canada to exchange the money. Each passing of the border guard required questions about where they were from, where had they gone, how long had they been there. If you’ve ever traveled to Canada you know the routine. Upon crossing back into the United States for the second time within an hour, the border guard was a bit suspicious. Where are you from, he asked. Where have you been? Didn’t you just cross into the U.S. awhile ago? Are these children yours? Do you have proof of that? About an hour later they finally let poor Bob and his children reenter the homeland. I get a charge out of that story every time I hear it.

Consequently, I drive across the borders between the two countries and instruct Bob to keep quiet and let me do the talking.

After crossing the Queenston Bridge into Canada I suggested that Bob should look at our newly purchased map of Ontario to figure out the route to Toronto. There is much rustling of paper as he tried to unfold the map in the front seat of the car. I heard muttering coming from his side of the vehicle. “Stupid maps. Why can’t they make a map that’s simple to use? Which way is north on this stupid thing?!”

“Bob,” I said, “don’t fold the map backwards like that.” (I am a map aficionado, myself.) “Road maps are like an accordion,” I tell him. “You just unfold the tri-fold first, then it’s very simple if you just unfold the pleats you need to look at.” Something similar to “smart-alec” came from the other side of the car.

After finally finding the section of Ontario he wanted, he started spurting out route names and numbers all the way to Toronto. “Just give me the first road we’re looking for,” I told him. “Okay, you want to stay on 405 until you get to ‘Q E W’, what’s that, or 406,” he said. “The QEW is the Queen Elizabeth Way,” I told him. “So which is it, the 406 or QEW?” “I don’t know, it says both here!” is the flustered reply I got. “Bob,” I sweetly said, “you were a truck driver for over 40 years! How did you ever find your way around?”

“The speed limit is 100!” he said incredulously. “That’s Canadian, 100 kilometers per hour, dear, not 100 miles per hour,” I gently reminded him. “We’re going approximately 60 mph.” “Oh yeah, that’s right, I forgot,” replied my confused husband.

The U.S. dollar isn’t what it used to be. For the first time in MY memory the Canadian dollar is worth more. After stopping for a bite to eat and getting sticker shock with the bill, first converting American into Canadian and paying $1.05 for each dollar spent, then tacking on a thirteen per cent tax, we head back out mumbling about exchanging money at the border instead of using American money.

“Okay,“ I ask, “how far is it to Toronto?” A sign appears shortly, advising us that Toronto is 120k. “That’s gonna take us two more hours to drive, at least,” my darling told me. “It’s in Canadian kilometers, hun. Seventy five miles away, Bob. We’ll be there in about an hour and fifteen.” “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

The speed limit had dropped to 55 kph when Bob asked me why we were going so slowly. I explained 55 was Canadian, that it meant approximately 35 mph for us. Converting kilometers to miles is pretty easy when you have a speedometer that has both on it. It makes me look really smart.

Eventually we come to the outskirts of Mississauga, a suburb (really?) of Toronto, population 740,000. Wow! Is that in Canadian?

Starflight Mock DWI Crash Presented at RCS

On May 5th Ripley Central School high school students attended a mock crash scenario that could have taken place on a Prom night. The presentation by the Starflight Mock DWI Crash Team is a joint venture between the Chautauqua County Sheriff’s Department, WCA Foundation and WCS Services Corporation.

“Mock DWI crash scenarios are not new to school systems,” said Team Coordinator Ron Hasson. “We have been doing them in this area for almost fifteen years and have received numerous compliments from teachers, students and parents alike. Our greatest reward, however, is that there have not been any DWI accidents involving students that attended our programs in the year we presented at their school during our target times of Prom and Graduation.”

Surveys are sent to some classes and responses like one young lady’s is typical, “If my boyfriend drinks, I’m not riding with him.”

“We try to go to a school every four years so that all the students from 9 through 12 are given the message to not drink and drive,” continued Hasson. By combining educational and behavioral objectives, with emotion evoking music, audio tape recordings, and by developing a contrived “theatrical” approach to the event, the DWI Crash Team provide an effective message to students about drinking and driving.

Pre-Prom Wake Up Call

The headline would have gone something like this: Underage Drinking Causes Fatal Crash.

On May 5th, a sunny afternoon at Ripley Central School, high school students attended a Mock DWI Crash simulation, caused by drinking and/or drugs and driving. Just before upcoming prom night, the simulation was meant to present a strong message about what could, and does, happen when the partying goes too far and crosses the line into drinking and driving.

Here is what happened at the athletic field simulation that day: At 1:40 p.m. on May 5, 2011, a crash occurred at the intersection of Route 20 and Shortman Road in the town of Ripley. A call came over the loud speakers from Mayville citing a “personal injury accident.” The Ripley Hose Company fire whistle went off shortly thereafter. The Sheriff’s department arrived first on the scene and after a perimeter check, called in a Code 1041, a call for the County Coroner. Soon after, the Ripley fire department arrived. The EMT crew found a two car crash involving four Ripley students. RCS students Maggie Hammond, Becky Shioleno, Andrew Judd and Dan Dulong participated in the presentation.

The male driver, Dan Dulong, of the car that caused the accident was able to get himself out of his car, whereupon the Sheriff administered a field sobriety test, which the driver failed. He was arrested for DWI and taken away. The teen-aged driver never got to say goodbye to his friends as he was taken to jail.

Meanwhile, the EMTs assessed the situation. The jaws of life were needed to extricate one of the victims from the car and Andrew Judd was Starflighted to a trauma center. Another crash victim, Becky Shioleno, was taken by ambulance to an area hospital. The body of the single fatality, Maggie Hammond, a lovely young lady all dressed for the Prom, was removed from the vehicle and laid on the ground with a blood stained sheet draped over her. As the emergency crew worked to remove the injured teens from their cars, shocked and tear-streaked faces looked on from the student body.

Chautauqua County Coroner Warren Riles arrived at the scene to examine the body of the fatality victim, pronounced her dead and called for Mathews Funeral Home to pick up the last victim of this terrible crash. Students watched as she was placed in a blue body bag and then put into the hearse.

As the Sarah McLachlan song, “In the Arms of the Angels” played, Starflight Medevac Team Coordinator Ron Hasson explained to the students how the firefighters and police officers who had been at the scene were affected. “They’ll go to their own homes and hug their children, thanking God it was not their child. The hardest thing any of them have to do is call the parents of the victim and tell them their baby girl won’t be coming home.”

The RCS students were then directed to go back to the gymnasium for the completion of the program. Town Justice Vera Hustead appeared to “arraign” the young driver, finding him in violation of seven statutes, the most serious of which was vehicular manslaughter. Ms. Hustead explained the seriousness of the charges to the young driver, including the fact that his “rap” sheet (record of arrest and prosecution) would follow him for the remainder of his life. Any job application he filled out in the future would mean he had to divulge his arrest for vehicular manslaughter. Bail was set at $10,000 and our young driver was returned to jail to await trial, where, if found guilty, he would spend up to seven years of his life in a state prison. His life would never be the same and he would carry the guilt of that night with him for the rest of his life.

A funeral followed, complete with a casket and mourners. Kenzie Mencer gave the eulogy for her friend, and was choked with tears as the possible reality of the situation settled in. Students, teachers and staff sat in stunned silence or quietly shed tears of their own.

Chief Coroner Warren Riles addressed the teens, explaining how his job, after pronouncing the death, included determining the exact cause of death through autopsy and talking to the parents of the victim. Drugs and alcohol have always been around, and lives are lost when an impaired driver takes the wheel. A new threat to student’s safety has become popular and that is the misuse of prescription drugs. Drugs prescribed for the treatment of medical problems can be fatal when taken by others or not according to the directions. Mr. Riles tried to impress on each student how the results of their actions could cause a situation similar to the one they had just witnessed.

Photos of the “victims” are now on display in the school with the following quotes: “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” “I killed my best friend.” “These weren’t the prom memories I wanted.” And “I didn’t get to say goodbye to my Mom.”

A representative of the Sheriff’s Department said, “We’ve made this as real as possible without taking you to an actual accident scene.” The message is a powerful one.

59 Mother’s Days

This Sunday marks my mother’s 59th Mother’s Day. As she often says, she couldn’t have done it without me. As this year’s tribute to her, I want to share a few of the special things she did for me and my siblings as we grew up.

Almost twenty years ago (has it been that long!) the five of us put together a little booklet recounting many of the memories we had of the special things she did; everything from the smell on her hands after cutting up onions that one of my sisters loved to creating fabulous award-winning Halloween costumes year after year.

Mom, still on occasion, makes homemade cinnamon rolls; Bisquick, sugar and cinnamon and butter rolled up and baked to perfection. There is no other cinnamon roll that compares in our minds. She also spoiled us terribly by making individual meals for anybody who didn’t like that evening’s fare. She became a short order cook in essence because we were a finicky bunch and she allowed it.

Mom was involved in all our school projects, from smoking volcanoes to art projects and she saved almost all our school papers. Sometime in my early thirties she gave me a box of school art papers and homework papers that she’d saved from Kindergarten on. It was like receiving a microcosm of my life to that point, and something I still cherish. I’ve added things to the box over the years, like a favorite dress when I weighed ninety-five pounds and doilies a favorite aunt crocheted.

Holidays were always an event with my mother. We went to countless “Breakfast with the Easter Bunny” or “Breakfast with Santa” outings at the Boston Store in Erie. We were the obnoxious kids who played on the escalator, riding it up and down until the last minute, although I don’t think we were loud or roughhoused. We were well behaved kids for the most part. She took us to performances of the Nutcracker and attended all our concerts, plays or sporting events.

Before the days of seat belts, one of our all-time favorite pastimes was to load up in the old DeSoto, four of us in the backseat, and Mom would drive real fast over the railroad tracks (the tracks at Loomis Street or Phillips Road were the best) so we’d fly up out of our seats and sometimes hit the roof of the car. At the very least, our stomachs would do a little flip-flop and we’d beg her to do it again. It took awhile for Dad to figure out why the car shocks were always shot.

Mom instilled a love of poetry in most of us. She’d recite bits and pieces of poems she had learned in school, bits of Shakespeare, and sad depression era poems her mother used to recite to her. She always said her mother taught her to put expression into the words, not just repeat them, and she’d demonstrate by reciting the last line of The Face on the Barroom Floor, by Hugh Antoine D’Arcy, “With a fearful SHRIEK,” she’d shriek, “ – he leaped and fell across the picture- DEAD!” She’d emphasis the words with fearful clarity.

Our love of reading didn’t end there. My sisters and brother and I were great road builders when we were young. We had two sets of encyclopedias at our house and they made excellent roads when placed flat, end-to-end across the living room. We’d spend hours crawling along the “road” pushing our cars and trucks to various destinations. Maybe she thought we’d pick up some knowledge by osmosis.

Mom spoiled us, she pampered us, she made us feel like we were the most important people in the world. They don’t make Moms like they used to it seems. Depending on the decade, she did all the wrong things according to the experts. But most of us turned out pretty well in spite of it.

Yes, Mom, I DO know how lucky I am to still have my mother. Every year grows more precious. I love you too.

Fairy Tale Princess

Friday morning at 4 a.m. Eastern Time the television coverage of the newest “wedding of the century” starts. Prince William, unlike his father Prince Charles, will marry the woman he loves and presumably they will live happily ever after.

There is a lot of speculation about who designed Kate Middleton’s dress. I’m just hoping it isn’t the same husband and wife team, David and Elizabeth Emmanuel, who designed Diana’s cacophony of styles represented in her dress. Diana’s dress, apologies to my British friends, was a mess. I’ve looked at dozens of photographs of the dress, and it just looks to me like the designers couldn’t make up their minds what to do, so they did it all.

The dress Diana wore must have weighed twenty or thirty pounds. Twenty five yards of silk taffeta that wrinkled like tissue paper on the trip to the church, ten thousand hand embroidered pearls and mother-of-pearl sequins, one hundred yards of tulle netting and twenty five feet of train were put together in what was hoped to be a fairy tale princess confection. Trouble is the design of the dress never quite came together. Mutton chop sleeves that never made it to the wrist and a frilly neckline with a cute little bow in the middle are only two of the mismatched styles the designers employed. Can you imagine how exhausting it must have been to wear that dress for hours on end? I could go on, but I promised friends I wouldn’t totally trash the dress. After all, we Americans loved Diana as much as the British, maybe more.

Although Diana grew to develop a great sense of style, she didn’t start out that way. Kate Middleton, on the other hand, has style and grace that comes naturally it seems. I hear the Royal family is calling the media together to ask that she be called Catherine, not Kate. Good luck with that. As bad as the American press and paparazzi are, the British seem to be worse. I don’t think “Kate” is going to go away anytime soon. I rather like it myself. Makes her more approachable, more lovable.

Do you know the British get a national holiday because Prince William is getting married? He’s not even the next in line to the throne. If I remember correctly, they not only get Friday, the day of the wedding, but the following Monday as well! I guess that’s for all those well wishers who didn’t get invited to the church, so they can celebrate the marriage of the future king and queen of England for days on end. It’s about time some new blood was introduced into the Royal lineage. I’d celebrate that too.

I’m hoping for the fairy tale ending for William and Catherine. It’ll restore my belief in happy endings.

Crystal

April 22 marks the 50th anniversary of the passing of a friend of mine, Crystal Hawker. Our mothers were friends, and consequently we became friends, playing at each other’s house, doing things little girls do. Crystal was ten years old at the time of her death and I months behind her at age nine. Nine year olds don’t have a real strong grasp of death, at least not back then. There weren’t any grief counselors brought in to help us understand and cope. In fact, it was almost as if she never existed; nobody spoke of what happened that caused her death, only that she had been sick. And nobody spoke of what became of Crystal after she died. She went to some mysterious place called Heaven, which was really kind of scary, because while we knew Heaven was supposed to be a good place, none of us wanted to go there and leave our families like Crystal did.

It has been fifty years since she left her dolls and hair ribbons behind and in all that time I never knew how she actually died. Until now. There are two accounts of her lost battle for life, one in The Ripley Review and one in The Westfield Republican. In honor and remembrance of Crystal, I will take a little literary license and combine the stories here.

“Crystal Jean Hawker Ten Years Old Dies After Brief Illness

“Little Crystal Jean Hawker, 10 year-old daughter of Harry and Jean (Pratt) Hawker, of 23 Maple Ave., Ripley, left her fifth grade class at the Ripley Central School only a few weeks ago. She will not be returning to her classroom where she was a bright little student and who loved her school work and was loved by her classmates. Crystal, one of five children of Mr. and Mrs. Hawker, died at 12:30 a.m. on Saturday morning at the Westfield Memorial Hospital after a last minute unsuccessful attempt to prolong her life was made when she was placed at 7 p.m. in the Iron Lung of the Westfield Emergency Corps of the Fire Department.

“Crystal, a pretty little girl with golden hair and a sweet smile, who had been a leading student in the fifth grade class at Ripley Central School, had been ill for about two weeks before she died. At first it was thought that she had pneumonia complicated by pleurisy. Some symptoms indicated polio but the cause of death, according to Dr. R.R. Northrup, was a deep seated rare infection which caused blood clots and the eventual brain hemorrhage which was pronounced as the cause of death.

“Adding to her parents grief was the fact that Friday afternoon Crystal rallied, seemed to be on the road to recovery and was able to sit up without use of the oxygen tent in which she had been placed for most of the hours she was in the hospital.

“Gay and eager to open the cards sent her by many friends, the little girl’s happy state brought her parents their first relief from anguish which they had lived through for several days. Then, suddenly, about 3 p.m. she complained of a headache, seemed to tire and fell asleep. She was placed back in the oxygen tent. Her decline was rapid and at 7 o’clock the iron lung was called for as a last measure to prolong her life.”

Crystal left behind her parents, a sister and three brothers, grandparents and countless cousins and friends. As children we were left to grieve and wonder why. Years later, when I had moved away, every time I came home to visit I would make a trip to Quincy Cemetery to stand at the stone angel that marks her grave, and remember a friend gone too soon. Never having said good bye to Crystal, I will say now, until we meet again my friend.