Steak, turtles and good dogs

The turtle I ran over. This is what he looked like when I went back to check on him.

Pour the wine and settle in, sports fans, because this is going to be a good one:

I’ve been waiting all day to grill this little piece of strip steak I’ve been saving for my dinner. So I take it out of the freezer this morning, put it in the fridge to thaw, and at about 5 PM take it out and set it on the counter to get ready to cook.

I go out to let Bandit out, and come in to find … yup, Bailey had eaten it. Dammit. So  I get dressed and go to Wegmans to get another steak, because now I’m so enraptured by the thought of steak that nothing else is going to satisfy me.

On the way home, I run over a turtle on Fairport Road. Squash, crunch, right under my tires. Who knew there were turtles on Fairport Road?? At rush hour? I mean, I think it was sitting still and then started moving, because I can’t think of any reason why I’d see it at the very last minute. Good grief! I’m completely freaked out when I look in my rearview mirror and see him on his back, legs waving in the air, helpless.

Dammit. So I go to the next street, turn around, and go back. Yup, there he is, but now he’s all tucked inside what looks like a squished shell. I think he’s dead, but I can’t leave it in the middle of the four lane thoroughfare to get run over again and again. So I make my way out into the lane with a towel and gently scoop it up and put it in the jeep before either one of us gets hit in traffic. What I’m going to do with the turtle, not sure.

I get home, take the turtle out and lie it on the grass while I figure out what to do with it. Then I open the door to go inside the house, only to find …

… the dogs are loose. Together! Standing at the top of the stairs! Barking at me! OMG!

I try not to freak out, and when I open the door they both rush at me in what would normally be a precurser to a fight, both dogs at mach emotion level and trying to occupy the same space. Instead, with Bandit almost on top of Bailey at the screen door, I say, “What are you two monkeys doing out together? OK, Bailey, outside …”

Like trained movie dogs, Bailey quietly goes outside, Bandit goes to the top of the stairs to wait his turn.

No problem at all. Seriously.

Then I check for blood, damage to the house, any sign they’ve been fighting (other than the fact they’re both soaking wet from spit and tipped water bowls) or any clue as to how they bypassed the gates/doors. Nothing. No sign they’ve been romping, chasing, rough housing on the beds. The water bowls have been pawed at and clearly both dogs have had their fill. But otherwise … they were good dogs. Very good dogs.

Apparently my consistant routine coming into the house clearly paid off in this case. Even though they both were very, very excited that I was home, they went through the routine like little dogbots. Bailey outside first, Bandit waits in the foyer. (I say “my” routine; I’m still trying to train the husband.)

Anyway, I call darling husband to tell him about it all – the steak, the turtle, the dogs -  and get the expected response: it’s so good the dogs didn’t fight, but even through the phone I know he’s rolling his eyes that I would bring home a dead turtle. I also get the reassurance that despite the fact I’m notorious for running over strange critters (I once plowed over an owl that was sitting in the road) I am still loved.

I explain to darling husband that even if the turtle is dead, the shell is quite pretty, so why can’t I just put it in the garden? He explains that dead turtles stink. Can’t he just gut it, like he guts a deer? He tells me there’s probably something on the internet about gutting a turtle. I explain to him that it doesn’t really matter what he does with it. I usually kill ‘em and he usually disposes of the bodies. (Dead bunnies, headless birds, sick chickens, the owl …) We’re a team that way.

For the record, I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time in over a week, and even then it’s more napping. I’m exhausted. It’s entirely possible that I forgot to close the door and actually left the dogs loose. Or at the very least didn’t check the door, which tends to stick and can be pushed open very easily. I usually double and triple check everything but not today.

And it might explain why I left the steak out where Bailey could get it in the first place, starting this whole chain of events. I can barely remember what I’m doing right now.

As for the turtle, I’m emotional over the death of an animal, especially if it’s my fault. But in my defense …

… the turtle is alive! I put him in the grass and he’s meandered into the foliage, where, if he’s smart, he’ll make a home. It’s much safer than the middle of the  highway.

So I’ll go to drink my wine and eat my steak and hopefully get a night’s sleep free from dreams about turtle murder.

Seasons of Mt. Hope Cemetery (pictures)

I was going through some photos today and realized I had taken some pictures a few weeks at Mt. Hope while I was out for a walk with Bailey and forgotten to upload them. I also remembered that while on that walk, I’d purposely tried to take some shots at places I’d shot during the last year,  places where I’ve been romping, roaming and researching in my favorite place in the city. So for fun, here are some pics of Mt. Hope, through the seasons.

Mt. Hope Cemetery, Curtis Mausoleum
October 2012
(c) 2012 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

Mt. Hope Cemetery, Curtis Mausoleum
February 2013
(c) 2013 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

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Mt. Hope Cemetery
May 2012
(c) 2012 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

Mt. Hope Cemetery
October 2012
(c) 2012 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

Mt. Hope Cemetery
February 2013
(c) 2013 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

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Mt. Hope Cemetery
October 2012
(c) 2012 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

Mt. Hope Cemetery
February 2013
(c) 2013 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

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Sylvan waters, April 2012
(c) 2012 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

Mt. Hope Cemetery, Sylvan waters
October 2012
(c) 2012 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

Mt. Hope Cemetery, Sylvan waters
February 2013
(c) 2013 Joanne Brokaw all rights reserved

Ending 2012 with firefighters on my mind

Lt. Michael Chiapperini

I’ve spent the last two days watching funerals on TV. West Webster Firefighters Michael Chiapperini and Tomasz Kaczowka were laid to rest and their services were aired live on one of our local news channels. (You can read more about the events that led to their deaths in this post.)

The services were so different. Chiapperini was married with children, and his funeral service focused on his family and on his 25 years with the West Webster Volunteer Fire Department and his 19 years with the Webster Police Department. The first hour was spent with first responders filing past his casket.

Tomasz Kaczowka

Kaczowka was just 19 years old, only a year out of high school; his funeral service was much more religious in nature, focusing on his committment to his Polish- American heritage and his strong ties to his church. The first hour of his service was a traditional Catholic mass.

In both cases, thousands and thousands of first responders from across the U.S. and Canada stood in formation outside the church or school where the services where held. Appropriate, as the two died together in the line of duty on the morning of Christmas Eve when a madman started a fire to lure first responders to the scene, and then gunned them down.

They died together, mentor and mentee.

Different funeral services, yes, but, like their lives, together they seemed to perfectly bookend the life of a first responder. Chapparini was the more experienced public servant, leaving behind a long legacy of public service and in the dozens of young people he’s mentored over his lifetime – one of them being Kaczowka. Kaczowka was in the spring of that call to a lifetime of service. That lifetime, though shorter in years, leaves a lasting impact that will be felt for decades through lives of other firefighters and coworkers who knew him.

On this last day of 2012, my original plan was to look back on the year and recap the positive changes I’ve made in my life and the obvious progress towards regaining my sense of self.

In other words: me, me, me, me.

But the events of the last week have left me pondering less about myself and more about the nature of service and community.

I muse about the tragedy in Webster, NY

Early on the morning of Christmas Eve, tragedy visited the small town of Webster, NY, when a madman set fire to a house and a car, luring first responders to the scene and then gunning them down in cold blood. What ensued were hours of confusion and chaos as SWAT teams descended on the small spit of land, a two lane road bordered on one side by Irondequoit Bay and the other by Lake Ontario, chasing the gunman, evacuating neighbors, and retrieving the bodies of shooting victims. Firefighters, unable to enter the area to fight the blaze, could only watch from a distance as seven houses burned to the ground and their commrades lay injured or dead.

West Webster volunteer firefighters Mike Chiapperini and Tomasz Kaczowka were shot to death and John Hofstetter and Theodore Scardino were seriously injured by gunfire as they arrived on the scene. Jon Ritter, a full time officer with the Greece, NY police, was on his way to work; seeing the fire trucks he followed to offer assistance and was injured by shrapnel when gunfire hit his car.

This happened almost in my backyard, figuratively speaking. Webster, NY is a few miles from my house on the east side of Rochester, NY. My daughter went to Christian high school in Webster for three years; I often walk the beaches to take pictures where this event happened. Webster is part of the larger community of the city of Rochester. It’s a small town just outside of the city, but we’re all neighbors.

When things like this happen in other places, the national news media always reports that “it’s a small town where almost everyone knows someone who was affected.” But you never really understand what that means until it happens in your town.

Yes, I know someone affected. Several someones, in fact. (Click here to continue reading on my blog at Patheos.com)

Emma Moore, Sarah Bardwell and me

It took months, but a reward was finally offered for information leading to the disappearance of Emma Moore. While the citizens took up the search immediately, the mayor and police insisted Emma left town of her own accord. When her body turned up in the river, they were proven wrong.

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately doing research on a woman named Emma Moore, who I learned about when I went on the “Mischief, Murder and Mayhem” tour at Mt. Hope. (For the record, I am there so much I joined the Friends of Mt. Hope and volunteered to be a tour guide in the spring.)

Anyway, in Rochester, NY in 1854, Emma Moore went missing. Left home one night and simply disappeared. She was a single, 37 year old seamstress who had a loving family, a good job, some money of her own, and no reason to leave town without letting her family know where she went.

Her disappearance stunned the community, and for months afterwards thousands of citizens met nightly to coordinate a search for her – since the Mayor and police refused to believe she’d come to harm or investigate her disappearance. (In fact, she disappeared in November of 1854 and it took until February of 1855 before an official police reward was offered.)

The citizens scoured the areas surrounding the city, the Lake, the river. They followed every lead and interviewed hundreds of people. The raised money and donated time and diligently searched for the woman they hailed as a modest woman of impeccable character.

Then in March of 1855, the body of Emma Moore was found, frozen in the river. When the coroner examined her body, he found she was six months pregnant.

Her 26 year old fiance was the prime suspect, but while an inquest found that Emma had drowned, the jurors were unable to determine if she had been murdered or if she committed suicide. Emma Moore is buried in an unmarked grave in her family’s plot, the woman once known for her impeccable character hidden away forever due to the scandalous nature of her death.

I’m fascinated by Emma Moore, her life and her death. In an era where woman had few rights or money of their own, she had a little money – about $20 cash left in her room, $20 cash on her when she disappeared, a savings account with about $100, and notes that indicated she’s lent out small amounts of money to friends.

In an age when woman married young, she was single into her middle years. Unmarried and with a much younger fiance. Was that unusual? Despite the fact they were engaged about 3 years, why didn’t they marry? He apparently had lost fingers in an accident and was unable to work (he was a cutter in a tailor’s shop); how would Emma have felt about working to support a younger husband – because upon marriage, anything she had would have become his.

How unusual was it for a woman to be sexually involved with a man to whom she wasn’t married? We like to think of our ancestors as pure and innocent, but was that really how it was? An unmarried, pregnant woman today doesn’t raise an eyebrow. But in 1854? Another story.

And of course, there’s the big mystery: Why did she disappear? Who knew she was pregnant? Was she killed or did she commit suicide? There’s much to believe the truth lies with the former.

I’m also enamored with the story of another woman, Sarah Bardwell. Her interment records indicate that she died of “insanity”. How does one die specifically of “insanity”? I get that you can die of causes related to insanity – suicide, walking naked around town in December and freezing to death. But just … going insane until you die?

Sarah Bardwell died of “insanity” after spending the last 25 years of her life in an asylum.

So I did a little digging and found a newspaper notice of her death, which said:

“Under the effects of religious excitement, at a time well remembered by many of our old citizens, Miss B. suffered mental injury, from which she never recoverd, and the latter years of her life were spent in an excellent Asylumn at Brattleboro, where her friends had placed her with the hope of restoration at first but where she remained for comfort and safety.”

From all accounts, the Asylum in Brattleboro was fairly progressive; treatment included nature walks and painting and music and lots of rest. And the “time well remembered” is most likely the Finney revivals that swept Rochester in the 1830s, making the city a hot bed of evangelism for the entire nation.

“Insane” is a little subjective, in this case. So you know I’m doing research into the Finney revivals, what a “mental injury” from that experience might look like, and what it would be like for a woman to be committe to an insane asylum in the 1850s.

What ties these two women together? When Emma Moore disappeared, Sarah’s brother was the Police Justice.

One of the things I’ve determined this year is that maybe my purpose is to give voice to those who can’t tell their own stories. It’s a general idea that I’ve been able to apply specifically without committing myself to any one genre of writing. And that realization has been really helpful for me. I can share about animal issues, although I find that I’m less and less interested (and often completely turned off by the aggressive, angry, divisive animal scene; but that’s a story for another day).

More importantly, I can share Emma and Sarah’s stories, two women lost in history but whose stories are interesting and important.

And soon, I’ll be sharing about some children in Uganda. Stay tuned for more on that.

Stories from the grave – another walk through Mt. Hope Cemetery

It was a beautiful day to meander among the headstones.

Bandit and I went out for a meander through Mt. Hope Cemetery today, mostly so I could clear my head and shake off the negative vibes I’ve picked up over the last month or so from some know-it-alls and jack-asses I’ve been forced to interact with.

That’s a pretty way to start a blog post, isn’t it?

You know I love the cemetery, so even though the temperatures hovered around 40 degrees on this late April morning, I  enjoyed wandering around the headstones, taking photos and reading epitaphs and wondering about the people who reside there.

Take, for example, the headstone from the Hommel family. I was struck by the age of their son Oscar, who died in 1878 at 7 years old. So I snapped a photo.

When I got home, though, I realized that the date of Oscar’s birth is the same as his mother’s death. That got me wondering if perhaps Regina died giving birth.

In general, I hate technology, but in situations like this I’m grateful for online databases like the UR’s records on the interments at Mt. Hope Cemetery. A little digging showed me that Oscar died December 13, 1877 of meningitis (although is tombstone says 1878). His mother, Regina, died December 21, 1871 of typhoid fever. George died March 13, 1879 of consumption.

So while I don’t know what month Oscar was born, we can assume his father, George, was left with a child under a year old after losing his wife Regina to typhoid fever. And then he  lost his son a few years later.

Davy Jones dies; goodbye, my childhood!

Sad news today: Davy Jones of The Monkees died today at 66. Goodbye childhood!

Of my earliest childhood entertainment memories, The Monkees are at the front of the line (followed very closely by “That Girl” and Carol Burnett, but that’s a story for another day).

In fact, as a child I got to meet The Monkees. How’s that for cool? (And possibly where the seeds for my entertainment writing stint were sown? We’ll never know, will we.)

The Monkees had flown into the Rochester, NY airport. It was maybe 1967 and I was maybe three-years-old, but I was old enough for the memory to be imprinted on my brain. I knew where we were going and who we were going to see. There was a crowd, and I remember being at the fence as the guys got off the plane – this was back when people got off the plane and walked around on the tarmac.

And then they came over to us, and I remember being scared. One of them had a beard and was carrying a movie camera and had it pointed as the crowd; my mom thinks it was Mickey. Someone – she thinks Davy Jones – wanted to reach over the fence to hold me and I started screaming like a baby.

Well, I pretty much was still a baby!

My mom thinks there may be a slide photo of the moment somewhere in the cases and cases of projector carousels I have stored in my spare bedroom that date back to the early 60s.

Yes, Kodak holds a special place in our hearts here in Rochester, and in our personal photo albums. It’s more than the decline of a company as Kodak gets out of the picture business; it’s the end of an era of memory-making. But I digress

Watching the video clip of the opening and closing credits from “The Monkees”, I realize how much pop culture really does shape our lives. It can be for good or bad – methinks today’s music falls on the bad side of the spectrum.

But in this case, it was good. Very bubble gum, pop rock, innocent cutesy, let’s try and walk like The Monkees because it’s fun kind of good. Super innocent, puppy love, Marcia Brady falls in love with Davy Jones kind of good.

It probably won’t surprise you that from The Monkees I graduated to … ta da! The Osmonds!

My sister and I reminisced today about seeing The Osmonds in concert – I was seven years old, I’m pretty sure. My dad took me and my sister, and my cousins came in from Pittsfield to see the show with a guy named Ernie who was dating their mom. I remember the opening act – Bo Donaldson and The Heywoods, of ” One Is The Loneliest Number” – and that my dad bought me a life sized poster of Donny Osmond that hung on the back of my bedroom door until til it fell apart.

Sigh. Innocent pop music. Those were the days.

Today is a sad day. Rest in peace, Davy Jones. And thanks for the memories!

PS: My dad just called. He now lives in Pennsylania and he’d forgotten until he saw the local news tonight that Davy Jones actually lived in Middleburg, PA, just up the road half hour from where he is in Milton. Who would have guessed? See, your childhood never really goes too far away, does it? They’re going to have a celebration this weekend. Wish I could make the trip; it would be fun to have another Monkees moment, even if it is a sad one.

Invasion of the estate pickers – part 5: you forgot your numbers

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Note to the estate sale pickers who camped out overnight on our street: #s 23, 26 and 56, you forgot your temporary numbers in my front yard. Gee, I hope you don’t need them.

And to the man who wandered out from behind Wayne’s garage at 6 AM: just so you know, sneaking behind a garage for a pee is not only rude and unsanitary, it’s not private.

Related articles

• The estate sale buyers arrive about 14 hours early to pick through Wayne’s stuff (notesfromthefunnyfarm.wordpress.com)
• Invasion of the estate pickers – part 2 (notesfromthefunnyfarm.wordpress.com)
• Invasion of the estate pickers – part 3: It’s time for you to go home. Now. (notesfromthefunnyfarm.wordpress.com)
• The invasion of the estate pickers – part 4: A look at the bigger picture (notesfromthefunnyfarm.wordpress.com)

The invasion of the estate pickers – part 4: A look at the bigger picture

Now my neighbor's house will be sold. After reading my blog, I can't imagine anyone would want to be my neighbor.

As you know, I – and several of my neighbors – were annoyed, inconvenienced and a little ticked off this week when a horde of estate sale pickers, buyers and collectors descended on our little street for the estate sale of our neighbor, Wayne. Because I’m a writer and blogger, I came up with a lot of article ideas, but while working on queries I blogged, off the cuff, and from the heart.

If you read daily, you saw that I had fun, and then I was just super annoyed after 2 1/2 days of people sleeping in their cars on the street, parking willy nilly, and then telling me that it’s only for a day or so and that I should basically suck it up.

By the last day, I was ready to never see an estate sale sign again.

Invasion of the estate pickers – part 3: It’s time for you to go home. Now.

One would imagine that people who are smart enough to find estate sale listings on the internet can also obey parking laws. But maybe the laws don't apply to pickers.

As you know, I’ve been following the estate sale next door because I’ve never seen one before, and since it affects me directly I wanted to write as the sale progressed.

As a recap – people started lining up on Wednesday afternoon to sleep in their cars for a sale that started on Thursday morning. ( I buddied up to them (after I called the cops because they were freaking me out, and found out they were estate sale buyers) and spent time talking to them that night and all the next day. I was fascinated and horrified, and by today, I’m disgusted.

The second day of the sale was calmer on the street, at least right off the bat. No one slept overnight that I could tell, although I fully expected it because everything was 50% off today. I went over to see if I could pick up something that would remind me of Wayne, something he’d told me a story about, something I knew he’d get a kick out of me having on a shelf. I picked up three old history books, nothing special or of value, but Wayne and I were both trivia fans, history lovers, and pack rats. I also grabbed his old Kodak Pony camera, although knowing Wayne’s appetite for … er …. girlie magazines and his penchant for nudist camps, I’m not sure I want to know what photos have been taken with that camera.

The folks running the estate sale ranged in personality from very aloof (one might even say cold) to fantastically friendly. They were, for the record, all very, very nice. But I wouldn’t necessarily invite all of them over for tea, if that makes sense. I imagine, though, they are really good at what they do, since it requires a level of detatchment and objectivity a family (or neighbor) can’t reach. So a business like this needs employees at all ends of the personality spectrum.

But the pickers today? Vultures. They weren’t the professional buyers, scroungers and pickers to go to things like this to supply their businesses. Not that they weren’t without problems. But some of the people today are showing up fantastically well-dressed (furs, suits, driving expensive cars) who completely ignore the parking laws and the people in the neighborhood.