Death by Text
Mary Kavanaugh, 22, planned to graduate in a few weeks from nearby SUNY Geneseo. Last Saturday witnesses said her car began drifting off the road before Kavanaugh attempted to recover. The car rolled into a ditch, and life ended for the outgoing communications major. Cell records showed Mary was texting moments before the crash.
The National Safety Council estimates 28% of traffic accidents are caused by driver distraction while talking or texting on phones. Texting-while-driving increases the risk of accident by four-fold. Nationwide Insurance projects 20% of us are texting behind the wheel. While many drivers agree with the risk, many of the same individuals believe they can do it and remain unharmed.
As the human toll rises, here are some recommendations:
• Unless you have a hands-free system or ear piece, turn your phones off. Even hands-free speaking distracts you twice as much as a focused driver. It is clearly better than looking at screens, punching numbers, and taking a hand(s) off the wheel.
• Turn-off email and message signals. Most premium devices, like RIM’s Blackberry, allow owners to bing or buzz when a message or email comes through. Turn those signals off. All will wait until reach a rest stop or your destination.
• Don’t text at traffic signals. Just because you are stopped, it remains unsafe to text. Many drivers punch it at green, never seeing the car that broadsides them.
Our technologies tend to consume us. Some auto companies are design new computer tools into future dashboards that may further block our driving senses. You insist this will not happen to you. Talk to the friends and family of Mary Kavanaugh. Invincibility is as fragile as one tap on a keypad.
Who Will Save The Children?
A war of words is growing between the press and the Vatican about the current Pontiff’s alleged role in covering up child abuse by priests. Prior to his papacy, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger headed the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. The CDF is responsible for safeguarding the doctrine of faith and morals throughout the Catholic world including dealing with priests accused of sexual abuse. The press is accusing him of covering up abuse accusations in the U.S., Ireland and his native Germany. The Vatican is taking a ‘best defense is a good offense’ posture – attacking the press. As fingers point, one must question, “Who will save the children?”
A comprehensive study of crisis called, “The Nature and Scope of the Problem of Sexual Abuse of Minors
by Catholic Priests and Deacons in the United States” by the John Jay College of Criminal Justice reveals staggering information. Between 1950 and 2005 there were nearly 20,000 allegations against over 5,000 priests or deacons. The peak was the 1980’s decade with over 7,000 accusations. 37% of the accused clergy were assigned to treatment programs. 6% were criminally charged. 2% were convicted. 57% of the accused were either not-guilty or never punished. The Church paid approximately $500 Million in settlements, forcing the close of hundreds of churches and nearly bankrupting several dioceses. Victims continue to re-live their trauma. No amount of payout will resolve their nightmares.
Since 1995 an average of 50 accusations are made annually in the U.S. This is much lower than before but 50 more than anyone should accept. Where is the zero tolerance on this issue? New accusations and cover-ups are alleged in Ireland and Germany? Didn’t anyone learn from the problems in the mid-nineties? I hear the Vatican debate the press, and wonder when will complete intolerance of pedophile priests be the culture and law within the Church? When will our children feel safe?
The guilty, and those that covered up, will eventually phase a more brutal judgment. Jesus said, “Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe to stumble, it would be better for him if, with a heavy millstone hung around his neck, he had been cast into the sea.” Amen!
Terror Down Below
The recent subway bombings in Moscow reminded me of a 2001 trip to Russia’s capital. While attending a trade show, I was assigned an interpreter/guide and a bodyguard. Security collapsed with the Soviet Union and gangs fought over the ruins. Given my bodyguard was a neck-less broad-shouldered giant, I was surprised we took the subway to St. Basil’s and other sites. “It is safer”, he muttered.
Expecting a dark ‘iron curtain’ dungeon, it was surprising to walk into subway station that resembled an art museum. One stop featured bronze sculptures depicting working Soviet citizens accented by wood panels. Another presented arched ballroom ceilings decorated with ornate chandeliers. Each subway station was bright, clean and uniquely decorated. My guide described the pride and sense of security by the travelers down-below as the Cold War and totalitarianism impacted their lives above.
Terrorists bombed one of these underground oases, killing dozens and stealing those precious moments of individual security from all. I grew up fearing Russia with their bombs and atheists. It became clear, during this visit; the average Moscow citizen is religious who both fears and respects America. Now, even their safest haven brings fear.
My lasting impression of Moscow was near the U.S. Embassy at night. We were returning from the Russian Ballet. The embassy was decorated with flowers and lit candles, almost like Christmas luminaries. Six weeks after the 9/11 U.S. tragedies, ‘Muscovites’ still mourned and remembered our victims by lighting a candle before getting back on the subway. Let’s remember to light a candle for them.
Baby Killers, Targets & Dead Men
The rhetoric continues to heat-up regarding the health care debate. Cries of ‘baby killers,’ images of rifle scope targets, and discussions of ‘dead men’ are filling the airways. It is time for both parties to show leadership and tone down the discussions before words become tragic actions.
There is euphoria or deep disappointment depending on which side of the health debate you are on. Both political parties are attempting to fan whatever flames to ignite their momentum toward the November midterm elections. The problem is the words are leading to threatening phone calls and bricks through windows.
Violent rhetoric inflamed emotional debates during the civil rights movement and Viet Nam War protests leading to deaths. When leaders chose to call colleagues “baby killers,” they ignore recent murders by extremists, like Scott Roeder who shot a physician in the back. According to the killer, “There was nothing being done and the legal process had been exhausted, and these babies were dying every day. I did what I thought was needed to be done to protect the children.” That is the problem. While politician and news organizations speak of rebellion and targeting, weaker minded citizens decide to take action. Other psychopaths enjoy the invitation to demonstrate power via death and destruction.
Both political parties are at fault. The Democrats are amplifying the issue by calling multiple news conferences whining about the other side. In fact House Minority Leader John Boehner’s reference to a colleague’s vote, as a ‘dead man,’ received minimal publicity until the victim called a press conference to complain. The Democratic Party tried to use the violent rhetoric as a fund raiser. It makes you think politics is the world’s oldest profession.
The Republicans need to pressure their extremists to tone down. Also, they need to put a gag in their 24-by-7 partners, like Glenn Beck, who used spankings, guns, bombs and rebellion in the same breath the other day.
War-like words are often used to describe politics, like battlefields, duels, and casualties. Our leaders need to show better judgment in projecting analogies and passion in a manner that improves the debate without encouraging violence. Don’t wait for funerals to call a truce.
The ‘Have Not’s’ Now Have
I am the son of an insurance sales person. Affordable health care, then and now, was always available. Put me on the ‘Haves’ team. We ‘haves’ worry about: who is going to pay for the new health care plan? Will our insurance costs go up? Will we be forced to choose another physician? Will our grandchildren face a huge federal deficit? The ‘haves’ have it rough.
The ‘have not’s’ are the winners of the new health care plan. According to a recent Harvard study, an estimated 45,000 people die in America each year primarily due to a lack of health care coverage. That is more than those who die from kidney disease. That is three times the size of the city of my birth – each year!
While much of the congressional debate dealt with right-to-life, consider how many expectant mothers do not receive quality prenatal care because their insurance company blocked coverage due to a pre-existing condition – a previous pregnancy. Pre-existing condition rules will no longer prevent access to quality health.
An estimated 57% of the employees of the world’s largest public company – Wal-Mart – are uninsured. When ill, government pays or they figure it out on their own. In the future Wal-Mart will be incented to offer better insurance or face penalties. Will their imported plastic prices go up? Maybe! Perhaps there will be a more even playing field in the retail industry.
Socialism! America is becoming European! The U.S. will soon be bankrupt! Those are the cries from the ‘haves’ who since a healthy birth always found it difficult to share their marbles. Now, the ‘have not’s’ are in the game of life and health. It’s time to share.
Desperate Crossings
Cornell students race across the bridges spanning the Fall Creek Gorge on their way to class, to the town of Ithaca, or to some other activity. Rarely do they stop to enjoy the magnificence of the gorge or listen to creek bounce off boulders below. During the last few days many probably paused and glanced over the edge. Two students jumped to their deaths off these spans in recent weeks, raising the Cornell suicide total to six in this academic year. For survivors peering down 100’ to the creek, it must seem like an abyss.
Statisticians are spinning the ‘facts’ that Cornell’s suicide rate is normal, if you pull data all the way back to 2005. Nearly 8 U.S. college students, out of every 100,000, end their own life each year. That compares to the 11 suicides per 100K for the U.S. population. The death of a youth is sadder, more like a hole in your soul. Why? Couldn’t they see through their personal fog at a bright future?
The pressure on each college students is immense. As a professor, you see it in their eyes. It is beyond grades. There are expectations from friends and family. There is self-esteem. There is fear of failure. There is the end of relationships. Whether these are real or perceived, it is important not to judge. Add depression to the mix and a bridge for some becomes a solution.
The Ivy League campus is on a ‘suicide alert.’ Strange term! Is taking one’s own life a virus? Does one jumper embed an idea into another? Do you post bridge patrols? No doubt such an alert is asking the community to keep their eyes and ears open. There are clues to observe. Most importantly, students need listeners. Tragedies tear through emotions like the gorges carve through Ithaca. Getting counseling and support will help both the survivors and potential victims.
The rails over the gorge are cold. An early thaw feeds Fall Creek into a roaring torrent. Sunshine sparkles across the rapids. You pray all of those that seek-out this vista, enjoy its beauty, and walk on.
Moria’s Prayer
“She was standing on a wall, just inches from the cliff. The rocks shifted beneath her feet, and then, as fast as I could blink, she was gone! We’ve got to go back! She may be still alive.” Herb Donnell paced back and forth across the worn tile of the police station. He mopped sweat from his bald scalp with one hand and popped antacid tablets into his mouth with the other.
Officer Leahy sipped some tea and reviewed his notes. “Mr. Donnell, a clearer description of the girl will be helpful.”
Herb sat down and pushed back his glasses. “Hair was long and curly –– red. No, maybe orange. Can’t this wait?”
“I have people at the scene. They will ring us with any news. Now, what was she wearing?”
“White wool sweater, plaid skirt, and a cross –– a large Celtic one on a gold chain.”
The young policeman, puffing on a pipe, didn’t look up from his notes. “What on earth were you doing at the Cliffs of Moher so early in the morning?”
“Taking pictures. Taking pictures of birds.”
“Really?” Officer Leahy put down his pen and stared at Herb. “Awfully odd to be photographing birds in fog as thick as stew.”
“What the hell do you think I was doing up there?” Herb’s cheeks turned red.
“Calm down, Mr. Donnell. Just like you, I’m looking for answers.”
Herb sat down and sighed. “Look, I’m on the way to London on business. Stopped in Ireland for a brief vacation. Some holiday!”
The policeman resumed taking notes and said, “The cliffs are more than 700 meters above the Atlantic. It’s amazing you could see anything. Did she speak to you?”
“What do you mean?”
Officer Leahy put down his pad. “You were twenty or thirty meters from her. Did she acknowledge your presence?”
Herb closed his eyes. “I screamed, ‘For God’s sake, get down from there!’ She didn’t flinch, just turned and stared at me. Pointing her finger, right at my nose, she looked up at the sky and shouted something. It was foreign. I didn’t understand.”
“Please try to repeat it, Mr. Donnell. It may be important.”
Herb closed his eyes and concentrated. “Go . . . go dee-na . . . uh . . .go deena tro . . . something or other.” He threw his hands into the air. “Why this is important!”
Officer Leahy sighed. “We will try again, later. Please go on.”
“Well, she kissed the cross, stretched out her arms, like a bird, and she . . . she stepped over the edge. All I heard was the screaming of some sea gulls that seemed to encircle her until she slammed into the ocean. She was gone! Not a trace, just the gulls flying above the surf. That’s when I rushed back to Lahinch and found you.”
The phone rang and Officer Leahy scribbled some more notes before thanking the caller. “Mr. Donnell, do you want to make another attempt at recalling her words?”
“News from the cliff? Did they find her?” Herb almost dreaded the reply.
Leahy walked to a file drawer and searched through some documents before extracting a tattered manila folder. “They found nothing at the cliffs. I wasn’t expecting much.” He laid down an old brown photograph. “Is this the girl you saw jump off the Cliffs of Moher?”
Herb gasped as he studied the photo. “My God, that’s her! The same eyes. How could you have known? How could you possibly have . . .”
“Mr. Donnell,” the policeman interrupted. “This will be hard for you to understand. The girl you saw was Moira O’Grady. She jumped off the cliffs nearly sixty years ago.”
“Impossible!”
“It was 1940. Her body washed up a day or so later.”
“She was as real as you or me.”
“Mr. Donnell, you are not the first person to see Moira’s ghost. She says something different to each witness. That’s why it would be good for you to recall her words.”
Herb leaned back in his chair, a bit pale, and popped another antacid tablet. and moaned, “Ghosts may come easy for you Irish. I came here for relaxation.”
“Mr. Donnell, I could take you to the local cemetery and show you her marker, but I doubt it would help. Come with me. I know someone who might do you some good.”
A group of gulls shrieked at Herb as he got into Officer Leahy’s car. The fog retreated from the bay, like wispy white fingers polishing the blue water. Hazy sunshine illuminated the green and orange storefronts. Elderly men in wool caps queued in front of pub, laughing at each other’s jokes as the owner mopped out the stale Guinness.
The police car pulled up to a storefront by the wharf. Freshly painted bold block letters on a green sign indicated their arrival to O’Grady’s Pub. The taunting gulls landed on a nearby pier.
“In America we call them winged rats.”
Officer Leahy shrugged his shoulders, motioned Herb to wait, and went inside the establishment. A few minutes later he came to the door and beckoned the American to join him.
Sharp cheese and fresh bread filled Herb’s nostrils as he entered a deli selling sandwiches and baked goods. Through a rear door was a cozy pub with smooth stone floors, a mahogany bar with intricate horse carvings and a brightly lit mirror in which a bearded bartender washed beer mugs. Officer Leahy brought Herb to a table next to a roaring fireplace.
“Clancy Hanner. This is Mr. Herb Donnell, the Yank who met Moira this morning.” Clancy remained seated, but reached up and shook Herb’s hand with a strong grip and shoulder-separating enthusiasm.
“Mr. Donnell,” Officer Leahy said. “If Clancy can’t help, ring me and we can talk some more. Otherwise, I pray your remaining days on our Emerald Isle are more peaceful.”
Herb looked over Clancy as the officer left. The elderly gentleman wore a blue fisherman’s cap and a matching wool sweater. A flat nose and ruddy cheeks topped thin lips that seemed to be permanently curled into a smile.
“A couple of coffees, Bob,” Clancy yelled to the bartender as he motioned for Herb to have a seat. “Donnell? Wouldn’t you think that used to be O’Donnell or something?”
“Before my time.”
The coffees arrived and Clancy produced a bottle of Jamesons, pouring the Irish whiskey into his own mug. “Care for some?”
“A bit early for that,” Herb said, wrinkling his nose.
“It’s a bit early to be seeing ghosts jumping off the Cliffs of Moher”
Herb nodded, picked up the bottle, and poured the golden liquid into his mug.
“Legends say enemies used to be lured to those cliffs after dark, only to be dispatched with a wicked shove,” Clancy said with a grin.
“The constable thought you might have some information about Moira O’Grady.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you saw?”
The events were clearer this time as the whiskey warmed his cheeks. He recalled her walking out of the mist and climbing on to a wall, more like a pile of stones, at the edge of the cliff.
“She had a difficult time gaining balance: her arms flapped until she achieved stability. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She looked down and seemed to shudder. I really thought she would change her mind.”
Clancy listened, sipping his coffee. The American finished by asking, “How well did you know her?”
The old man stared for a moment into a vacant corner. “Moira was a talented dancer –– exceptional! She used to perform for the customers, just over there. That girl could step through a jig like nobody. Kicked almost as high as those timbers. And that smile –– when Moira danced, her smile warmed the room.”
“Pretty carefree?” Herb asked.
“Just when she was dancing. Other times she was quiet and very intense. Always worrying about this or that. Her dream was to dance with a ballet company. Got a tryout in Dublin and was accepted.”
“What happened?”
“She fell in love with a big strapping farm boy. They used to hold hands by the fire, right where we’re sitting.”
Herb smiled.
“Moira had found her man. No two youngsters were ever more in love. She forgot Dublin.” Clancy poured some more whiskey into the half filled mug. Herb waved off a second round. “But her lover had never been out of County Clare. He still thirsted for adventure. When the Second World War came, Ireland remained neutral. Half of him worried about the Nazi’s bombing Shannon or Lahinch. The rest of him sought adventure. The lad joined a volunteer brigade with the ‘Brits.’ There was more than a few tears the morning he left. They say she remained at the train station for hours in the rain, staring at the empty tracks.”
Herb added some more whiskey.
“Moira didn’t dance after that. Three months later, word came the boy had been killed at Dunkirk. She jumped the next day.”
“Wow!” Herb got up and walked to a large bay window. While blue skies ruled over Lahinch, storm clouds guarded the Cliffs of Moher. “Such a tragedy. So impulsive.”
Clancy laughed. “You and I would come up with more legitimate reasons to jump than the death of a lover.”
Herb’s eyes narrowed. “Officer Leahy seemed to think she was trying to tell me something.”
“True Mr. Donnell. The lass said something to you.”
“Like I told the constable, I didn’t understand it.”
“Try sounding it out.”
Herb closed his eyes, concentrated and slowly verbalized the sounds. “Go . . . Go daynah . . .
“That’s good,” Clancy said. “Keep going!”
“Go deenah dee ay . . . Go daynah dee ay . . . ay . . . trow.”
“‘Go nde’ana Dia tro’ caire air?’ Is that it man?” Clancy shouted.
“That’s it! That’s it!” Herb clapped. “What does it mean?”
Clancy’s face turned grim. “You having some troubles, son?”
“Well . . . uh . . . I’m not sure what you mean. Tell me what she said!”
“It’s Gaelic for ‘Lord have mercy on him.’ ”
Herb walked over to the fire and stared into the flames.
“Moira’s choosy about who she appears to. I’ve gone out there dozens of times over the years and never seen her.”
Herb came back to the table and offered his hand. “Thank you Mr. Hanner, but I should be going.”
“Sit down lad!” Clancy ordered. “Tell me what’s really haunting you.”
Herb slid back into his chair. “My once-booming software company is being crushed by competition from India. The banks are pressing. Just when my daughter is ready for college. I could lose everything.”
“Ever feel like jumping?” Clancy’s voice was soft.
“Jumping? What do you mean?”
“I mean for a photographer, you are lacking some essential equipment, like a camera.”
Herb looked away. Biting his lip, he replied, “I may have given up hope at times, but never . . .”
“There’s only a step’s difference between giving up and jumping.”
“Really!” Herb shot back, and again prepared to leave.
“Look at you, man. Your eye’s twitching like a strobe. Your stomach must have a big hole in it.”
“Well friend, life may seem rosy, sitting in a pub and sipping whiskey. I have real pressures. People are depending on me! It’ would be nice to conjure up some ghost or leprechaun and wish it all away, like you blessed Irish.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Donnell. I haven’t finished the story.” Herb slumped back into his seat. “Moira’s lad didn’t die at Dunkirk. Caught some shrapnel in his foot and was taken prisoner. Lost the leg, right up to his knee. He hobbled about a POW camp nearly four years. Can you imagine that? All he could think of was his dancing Moira.”
Herb helped himself to some whiskey.
“Friends had been butchered on that beach or shot trying to escape. Some hung themselves in despair. One SS officer was trying to shoot prisoners as the Allies approached to rescue them. The boy held a dying inmate in his arms as American tanks freed him.” The fireplace glowed, projecting Herb and Clancy’s silhouettes against the back wall. “In the Spring of ‘45 he returned to Lahinch.”
“Devastating.” Herb shook his head.
Clancy nodded. “His precious love was gone. No more farming with that leg.”
“If anybody ever had a reason to jump, her lover certainly did.”
The old man frowned. “You think it’s that simple?” Clancy reached into a tweed jacket, hanging on a chair, and threw a jingling object on to the table. “Recognize this?” It was a gold necklace. The metal was a bit tarnished, except for the Celtic cross that glistened at the end.
“That’s it! The cross she was wearing.”
Clancy pulled himself up to his feet and lifted a cane high above his head. With tremendous force he cracked it against the side of his right leg. It sounded like two drum sticks slapping against each other. Lifting his pants leg, Clancy revealed an artificial limb.
“Moira’s sister gave me her cross at the grave.”
Herb tried to speak, but remained too stunned to utter anything.
“If I were just a farm boy, ending it all might have been a consideration. The detour to Dunkirk changed me. After that, I seemed to be living on borrowed time. You can’t feel lucky about a wooden leg until you’ve considered more dire alternatives.”
“And Moira?” Herb asked.
“My heart cries out for her, even today. For weeks I sobbed in the rain over her grave. But you know, Herb, that thirst for life, I developed as a prisoner, didn’t come from within me. To this day, I’m convinced her soul visited me and screamed at me not to follow her to the cliffs. Her spirit drove me to buy this pub from her father. Eventually, love came again. Bob blessed our marriage. Even though my wife passed on awhile back, I still celebrate each morning, like a thief who stole another day.”
Looking at the old man, Herb felt a shade of envy. “I can’t help but admire your attitude.”
“Thank you, son, but this vision of yours wasn’t about me. It was about you . . . about making choices. Moira gave up and jumped off the Cliffs of Moher. Her soul still screams, ‘Choose life . . . choose life!’ “ Clancy leaned forward and looked straight into Herb’s eyes. “What’s your choice going to be, Herbert O’ Donnell?”
Pausing a few moments, Herb stared at the empty corner. In a bizarre way, some of it was beginning to make sense. “Clancy, you’ve been very generous with your time and your whiskey. Thank you very much.”
Clancy replied, “Shaw once wrote, ‘Ireland––nobody can walk upon its green meadows or breath its air without feeling either better or worse for it.’ Have a good and happy life.”
It was mid-afternoon by the time Herb made his way along Lahinch’s wharf. Anchored in the bay, a trawler bobbed with the gentle waves. Its holds bulged with catch. Wool stores were hawking their caps and sweaters. Near an old church he came upon two red headed school girls. One cuddled a baby lamb. The other held a skateboard.
Herb said to himself, “How would Moira have coped with today’s problems? Drugs? Pills?”
While staring across the bay at the cloud-shrouded cliffs, a gull swooped close to his head, breaking the trance. Herb pulled out his car keys.
* * *
The fog formed a curtain at the cliff’s edge. Late afternoon sunlight, trying to break through, created a glow in the air. Herb carefully walked around a crevice and stood near the spot where Moira had jumped.
Sitting on a stump, and still confused, he contemplated the morning’s events. Preoccupied by his thoughts, he never heard a sound beyond the pounding surf. He never suspected another’s presence until someone tapped him on the shoulder. Startled, Herb spun around. There stood Moira O’Grady.
Jumping to his feet, he backed away almost to the cliff’s edge. Moira followed him, her figure radiating like a soft lamp. Her smile eased his fear. He could smell fresh soap and a hint of perfume.
“You’ve made your decision, haven’t you?” Moria’s voice was like a song, softly mellowing his tension and dread.
Herb stopped dead, astonished to that realize that indeed he had made up his mind. Moira nodded, then placed her surprisingly warm hands on Herb’s cheeks. She leaned forward in the gleam of the sunset and gently kissed him. When their lips touched, Herb felt an uncanny sensation flowing to every nerve. Unlike any spirit he had ever imagined, her lips were soft and moist.
“Have a good and happy life, Herb O’Donnell,” Moria said.
With that she turned and climbed on to the wall. As before, she struggled before gaining balance.
“Oh God, no!” Herb stepped forward and reached out to her.
Rocking back and forth on the crumbling wall, she turned her head and smiled. With that Herb sighed and stepped back, realizing this spirit would always be with him. Her arms came up, like wings, and Moira O’Grady stepped into the fog.
The End
Snowfall Derby IV – The Thaw
“Idus Martias” – Beware of the Ides of March. The voice of my long-deceased Latin teacher, Miss Schlegel, shouts those dire words as I watch the outside temperatures rise in Upstate New York. It is the annual sick trick on the area that occurs in late February or early March. For one sunny week the thermometer moves into the 50’s and four months of snow piles dissolve into rivers of icy water pooling around clogged storm drains. Just when everyone believes spring is near, a snow storm will smother us.
Like hibernating bears, stumbling from our caves, we raise our arms to the powder blue skies in prayer, “Oh God, please make it last!” Block-length lines of vehicles queue car washes. The mall quickly switches the Carhartt bibs and North Face long underwear for more colorful and lighter polyesters. College students pull ligaments slipping in the muck chasing Frisbees.
People forget we are in the final quarter of the Snowfall Derby. Current standings are: Syracuse – 106.1”; Rochester – 89.6”; Philadelphia & Baltimore tied – 79.9”; Buffalo – 74.1”; and Washington D.C. – 55.9”. It is a tough year in Buffalo. First the Bills and now they are sucking the Mid Atlantic exhaust. There is a still a shot to overtake Syracuse if just one storm hangs only an inch to their west.
It is tough to breath-in in that sweet warm air knowing this oasis will soon be an icy outpost. Some believe winter is over. There is talk about how the earthquake in Chile shifted the global axis. Perhaps Rochester is now in the same sun path as Raleigh. Reality is Rochester always averages 100” or more. The thawing Great Lake shore lines are throwing moisture in the air that will be caught by a Canadian cold front bringing us back to salt and shovels.
A formation of Canadian Geese squawks overhead. They never migrate here this early. My neighbor is unraveling Christmas lights from his bushes. A squad of bicyclists spins by motivating me to polish my two-wheeler. Day Light Savings time begins this weekend. Jaymeson got a wagon for his first birthday. Perhaps we can pull him along the canal. “Carpe Diem!”
Oscar Predictions
I published these Oscar Predictions a month ago. Still stand by them. What are your picks?
The Sure Thing
ACTOR IN A LEADING ROLE – Jeff Bridges will prevail. Colin Firth was likely the best actor in ‘A Single Man’ and George Clooney’s role in ‘Up in the Air’ is a personal best. Bridges is not only outstanding in ‘Crazy Heart’ but Lloyd Bridge’s boy paid his Hollywood dues for decades and will be rewarded.
ACTRESS IN A SUPPORTING ROLE – The Mo’Nique juggernaut continues to roll as the co-star of ‘Precious’ will pick-up her Oscar. Both Anna Kendrick and Vera Farmiga are phenomenal in ‘Up In the Air’ as no doubt are Penelope Cruz and Maggie Gyllenhaal in theirs. It is tough to beat a drug-addicted abusive mother on any Oscar night.
Most Likely
BEST PICTURE – ‘Avatar’ will soar in this category. A dazzling display of color , technology and box office power, this is the type of picture the Academy wants to promote. Its competition will receive other statues, but James Cameron will be ‘King of the World’ or at least Pandora.
ACTOR IN A SUPPORTING ROLE – Christoph Waltz as Col. Hans Landa is so deliciously evil in ‘Inglourious Basterds’ that he stole every scene and heist the Oscar as well. His closest competitor is Christopher Plummer in ‘The Last Station.’
Longer Shots
ACTRESS IN A LEADING ROLE – Meryl Streep and Helen Mirren are wonderful nominees, but my money is on Sandra Bullock in ‘The Blind Side.’ Not only did she exceed expectations in this role, but like Jeff Bridges, the perky costar of ‘Speed’ has paid her holiday dues.
BEST DIRECTOR – At the Screen Actors Guild Awards John Cameron was surprised with the best director award. He was convinced his former wife, Kathryn Bigelow, would win with ‘The Hurt Locker.’ The movie’s intensity is incredible. Jason Reitman of ‘Up In The Air’ will push Bigelow, but who can argue with the King of Pandora? The prize goes to his ex.
Snowfall Derby – Part III
A storm is coming. Our snow comes from the North and the West, but this storm is coming from the opposite directions. It is a ‘Nor’easter,’ like the one that sank George Clooney in ‘The Perfect Storm.’ Local weather persons are giddy. Rather than the ½” to 2” brushing, they are forecasting a foot or more along with winds up to fifty miles per hour. Finally, they can be blown about in their hooded jackets with the station’s decal, just like their peers in the South. This is a snowstorm on steroids.
As of this morning the Snowfall Derby is: Syracuse – 85.9”; Baltimore/Washington – 80”; Philadelphia – 73.1”; Rochester – 71.6”; and Buffalo – 68.8”. A comment came in from Atlanta demanding they be entered into the derby. The writer insisted their 4.5” season-to-date accumulation is harder on Atlanta than a few feet in Rochester. I wanted to write back that we will still be shoveling while Atlanta is complaining about pine dust in 70 degree weather. It is never good to dry-up the few comments I receive.
This is called ‘heart attack’ snow, the heavy and wet stuff. There are too many casualties each year shoveling a small pathway. Wind is major problem. A foot of snow, chased by high wind, will pile drifts to roof tops. Talk about claustrophobia when I opened the garage door, a few years ago, and faced a dark wall of the white stuff.
Yesterday, my students at our state university in Brockport wanted to know if classes will be cancelled. I told them it was up to Governor Patterson. A chorus of ‘what does Albany know about our weather?’ came from the desks. I wanted to morph the conversation into the role of government in business, but why throw cold snow in the lap of high class participation?
The best thing to do as a blizzard nears is to join the mob at the grocery store grabbing all of the water, toilet paper and Oreo cookies. Now, it is time to stoke up the fireplace, relax and study the snowfall derby scorecard. All of our competitors, except maybe Buffalo, will be hit by this storm. Philadelphia and Baltimore will melt well before we move across the 100” milestone. Syracuse remains a problem. Oh well, time to cozy under a blanket and watch the Winter Olympics. What’s this? My television is fuzzy. Uh oh, the lights are blinking.
