Vigil to honor memory of Debbie Key
By Beth Velliquette : The Herald-Sun
bvelliquette@heraldsun.com
Nov 25, 2007
CARRBORO -- It was 10 years ago, the weekend after Thanksgiving, when friends of Debbie Key realized something was wrong.
Her car, with her purse still inside, was parked in a bank parking lot near their favorite hangout spot, Sticks & Stones at 102 E. Main Street.
"When we realized her car was still there, and her door wasn't locked, that was so out of character," recalled Key's friend, Joy Preslar. "Immediately we knew something had happened to her."
Key was never found, and she is presumed murdered. To honor her memory, Preslar and other friends have planned a candlelight vigil for Friday at the spot where she was last seen alive, in the Bank of America parking lot, from 9 p.m. until 3 a.m. Saturday.
The organizers are hoping to find an indoor space nearby where Key's sister, Susan Gagnon, will speak between 7 and 9 p.m. They also hope to lay a stepping-stone in her memory near the site. Key's mother, who has since passed away, placed a similar stone there years ago but it was stolen.
Preslar remembers that weekend 10 years ago. Usually she and her husband stopped by Sticks & Stones on their way home from Sunday dinner, but that night they decided to drive straight home.
Other people who were at the bar later told police that they saw Key, 35, talking with a younger man with a ponytail. He had recently started showing up at the bar, where he drew drawings of nude women.
"She was out with friends, meeting new people," Preslar said. "She committed no crime. She had not put herself into a dangerous situation until he misperceived her intentions and lost his temper and strangled her."
He, many people believe, was Andy Dalzell, a young man who grew up in the area and attended local schools.
Key was last seen with Dalzell in the parking lot next to her car.
Dalzell confessed to strangling Key, driving her body to Wilmington and putting it in a waste bin. But a judge later threw out the confession, saying the Carrboro Police Department violated Dalzell's constitutional rights as well as a number of North Carolina laws when they tricked him into believing he was being arrested for murder and would receive the death penalty unless he immediately told police where to find her body.
Dalzell's family said they believe he made a false confession, but many others believe he did indeed kill Key after she rejected his advances in the parking lot.
Preslar still thinks of her friend, who she called a vivacious, warm and friendly woman who loved music. "She and I were concert buddies," said Preslar, who sings and plays in a band.
Although it's been 10 years since her friend went missing, the pain still cuts deep, Preslar said. "I stopped going to Walnut Creek [a concert venue]," she said. "It was just too painful."
Driving to the Raleigh arena makes her think of Key. "I can't make it alone," Preslar said. "I just start crying."
Key knew many musicians, and they've been invited to bring their instruments to the vigil. If the weather is good, they may play music, said Bill Widman, who maintains a Web page called debbiekey.org in Key's memory.
A television station will also be there to film a few scenes of the vigil for a segment that will be part of a show called N.C. Wanted, Widman said.
© 2007 by The Durham Herald Company. All rights reserved.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
New Version of Genesis
This is an e-mail I got from my dear friend, Tammy. I thought it was good enough to share with everyone.
Tammy says,
I think this is hilarious! I NEVER HEARD CREATION EXPLAINED THIS WAY BEFORE!
In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. and populated the Earth with broccoli, cauliflower and spinach, green and yellow and red vegetables of all kinds, so Man and Woman would live long and healthy lives.
Then using God's great gifts, Satan created Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream and Krispy Creme Donuts. And Satan said, "You want chocolate with that?" And Man said, "Yes!" and Woman said, "and as long as you're at it, add some sprinkles." And they gained 10 pounds. And Satan smiled.
And God created the healthful yogurt that Woman might keep the figure that Man found so fair.
And Satan brought forth white flour from the wheat, and sugar from the cane and combined them.
And Woman went from size 6 to size 14.
So God said, "Try my fresh green salad." And Satan presented Thousand-Island Dressing, buttery croutons and garlic toast on the side.
And Man and Woman unfastened their belts following the repast.
God then said, "I have sent you heart healthy vegetables and olive oil in which to cook them."
And Satan brought forth deep fried fish and chicken-fried steak so big it needed its own platter. And Man gained more weight, and his cholesterol went through the roof.
God then created a light, fluffy white cake, named it "Angel Food Cake," and said, "It is good." Satan then created chocolate cake and named it "Devil's Food."
God then brought forth running shoes so that His children might lose those extra pounds.
And Satan gave cable TV with a remote control so Man would not have to toil changing the channels. And Man and Woman laughed and cried before the flickering blue light and gained pounds.
Then God brought forth the potato, naturally low in fat and brimming with nutrition.
And Satan peeled off the healthful skin and sliced the starchy center into chips and deep-fried them. And Man gained pounds.
God then gave lean beef so that Man might consume fewer calories and still satisfy his appetite. And Satan created McDonald's and its
99-cent double cheeseburger.
Then he said, "You want fries with that?" And Man replied, "Yes! And super size them!" And Satan said, "It is good." And Man went into cardiac arrest.
God sighed and created quadruple bypass surgery.
Then Satan created HMOs
Tammy says,
I think this is hilarious! I NEVER HEARD CREATION EXPLAINED THIS WAY BEFORE!
In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. and populated the Earth with broccoli, cauliflower and spinach, green and yellow and red vegetables of all kinds, so Man and Woman would live long and healthy lives.
Then using God's great gifts, Satan created Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream and Krispy Creme Donuts. And Satan said, "You want chocolate with that?" And Man said, "Yes!" and Woman said, "and as long as you're at it, add some sprinkles." And they gained 10 pounds. And Satan smiled.
And God created the healthful yogurt that Woman might keep the figure that Man found so fair.
And Satan brought forth white flour from the wheat, and sugar from the cane and combined them.
And Woman went from size 6 to size 14.
So God said, "Try my fresh green salad." And Satan presented Thousand-Island Dressing, buttery croutons and garlic toast on the side.
And Man and Woman unfastened their belts following the repast.
God then said, "I have sent you heart healthy vegetables and olive oil in which to cook them."
And Satan brought forth deep fried fish and chicken-fried steak so big it needed its own platter. And Man gained more weight, and his cholesterol went through the roof.
God then created a light, fluffy white cake, named it "Angel Food Cake," and said, "It is good." Satan then created chocolate cake and named it "Devil's Food."
God then brought forth running shoes so that His children might lose those extra pounds.
And Satan gave cable TV with a remote control so Man would not have to toil changing the channels. And Man and Woman laughed and cried before the flickering blue light and gained pounds.
Then God brought forth the potato, naturally low in fat and brimming with nutrition.
And Satan peeled off the healthful skin and sliced the starchy center into chips and deep-fried them. And Man gained pounds.
God then gave lean beef so that Man might consume fewer calories and still satisfy his appetite. And Satan created McDonald's and its
99-cent double cheeseburger.
Then he said, "You want fries with that?" And Man replied, "Yes! And super size them!" And Satan said, "It is good." And Man went into cardiac arrest.
God sighed and created quadruple bypass surgery.
Then Satan created HMOs
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Remembering Kristin Lodge-Miller
During 1993 and into 1994, I drove every morning down Estes Drive in Chapel Hill. My attention was often drawn to a pile of flowers I would see there, near Phillips Middle School. I say "pile" rather than "arrangement" because they appeared to have been tossed there by people walking by. Every once in a while it would look like someone had spruced it up a bit, making it more into an arrangement. But every day the display got bigger and bigger.
I knew what that was about because I was reading the Chapel Hill Newspaper. On July 15, 1993, a jogger was gunned down at that spot. Her name was Kristin Ann Lodge-Miller. She was 26 years old, and she worked as a speech therapist.
Her killer was an 18 year old student at Chapel Hill High School. Anthony Georg "Tony" Simpson was known as a very troubled young man. He was riding his bicycle and carrying a concealed .32 caliber handgun. At around 6:00 AM on a busy street, Simpson assaulted Lodge-Miller on the jogging trail, and got pepper-sprayed for it. Enraged, he pulled out his handgun and shot her 5 times. This he did in daylight in front of many witnesses. The 5th time he shot her was in the back of the head as she lay dying. He was arrested almost immediately afterward.
Since then, artificial flowers, sometimes in baskets, sometimes casually tossed by people walking by, and at least one styrofoam cross, appeared on or near that spot. It was interesting to watch it grow every day. As shocking as it was to know that such a crime of senseless violence could occur in such a peaceful town, it did my heart good to see that people cared enough to make a shrine for her.
Every day for the rest of that year, the pile of flowers kept on getting bigger. Then one day, when it was decided that the jury for Simpson's trial should be taken to see the scene of the crime, the whole display was removed. It was supposed that the jurors shouldn't see that, though I didn't really understand why. It was said that it might somehow "bias" the jury. I thought it made a pretty good statement.
I was hoping the flowers, baskets, crosses, and other memorabilia would be saved and put back after the jury completed their tour, but I was told it all got trashed. This made me sad, but I noticed another display had begun soon afterward. In time, it too became pretty large.
It was early the following year that the trial was concluded. Not a single person I knew was happy about it. The killer pleaded guilty. The charges were reduced to second degree murder. Why? Because the killer was provoked by his victim's attempt to defend herself. As you can best believe, it seemed the whole town was outraged.
I was pretty upset myself, and was compelled to add a basket of flowers to the new display. It seemed to me that it was the Orange County Rape Crisis Center who took issue with this more than anyone else. There is now a permanant marker on the spot, and on a nearby tree, courtesy of the OCRCC. They have an office across the street from there, next door to Amity Methodist Church.
It is now 14 years later, and there was a renewed interest in this case when it was announced that Tony Simpson would be eligible for parole. It looks like he didn't get it. A recent Google search on the name "Kristin Lodge-Miller" didn't show much in results. I was disappointed I couldn't even find the old newspaper stories I've read before. But I did find two articles by Dennis Rogers with the News and Observer, that I thought were quite relevant. One is dated Dec. 11, 2002, and the other May 10, 2003. I have sent an e-mail to Dennis Rogers asking for permission to post them here, and I am still awaiting his reply.
My friend Joy works as a volunteer at the Rape Crisis Center, and I support her efforts whole heartedly. Violence against women is not just a women's issue to me, but a citizen's issue. I get the feeling there is a lesson to be learned here that we haven't learned yet.
Does anyone else feel that way?
I knew what that was about because I was reading the Chapel Hill Newspaper. On July 15, 1993, a jogger was gunned down at that spot. Her name was Kristin Ann Lodge-Miller. She was 26 years old, and she worked as a speech therapist.
Her killer was an 18 year old student at Chapel Hill High School. Anthony Georg "Tony" Simpson was known as a very troubled young man. He was riding his bicycle and carrying a concealed .32 caliber handgun. At around 6:00 AM on a busy street, Simpson assaulted Lodge-Miller on the jogging trail, and got pepper-sprayed for it. Enraged, he pulled out his handgun and shot her 5 times. This he did in daylight in front of many witnesses. The 5th time he shot her was in the back of the head as she lay dying. He was arrested almost immediately afterward.
Since then, artificial flowers, sometimes in baskets, sometimes casually tossed by people walking by, and at least one styrofoam cross, appeared on or near that spot. It was interesting to watch it grow every day. As shocking as it was to know that such a crime of senseless violence could occur in such a peaceful town, it did my heart good to see that people cared enough to make a shrine for her.
Every day for the rest of that year, the pile of flowers kept on getting bigger. Then one day, when it was decided that the jury for Simpson's trial should be taken to see the scene of the crime, the whole display was removed. It was supposed that the jurors shouldn't see that, though I didn't really understand why. It was said that it might somehow "bias" the jury. I thought it made a pretty good statement.
I was hoping the flowers, baskets, crosses, and other memorabilia would be saved and put back after the jury completed their tour, but I was told it all got trashed. This made me sad, but I noticed another display had begun soon afterward. In time, it too became pretty large.
It was early the following year that the trial was concluded. Not a single person I knew was happy about it. The killer pleaded guilty. The charges were reduced to second degree murder. Why? Because the killer was provoked by his victim's attempt to defend herself. As you can best believe, it seemed the whole town was outraged.
I was pretty upset myself, and was compelled to add a basket of flowers to the new display. It seemed to me that it was the Orange County Rape Crisis Center who took issue with this more than anyone else. There is now a permanant marker on the spot, and on a nearby tree, courtesy of the OCRCC. They have an office across the street from there, next door to Amity Methodist Church.
It is now 14 years later, and there was a renewed interest in this case when it was announced that Tony Simpson would be eligible for parole. It looks like he didn't get it. A recent Google search on the name "Kristin Lodge-Miller" didn't show much in results. I was disappointed I couldn't even find the old newspaper stories I've read before. But I did find two articles by Dennis Rogers with the News and Observer, that I thought were quite relevant. One is dated Dec. 11, 2002, and the other May 10, 2003. I have sent an e-mail to Dennis Rogers asking for permission to post them here, and I am still awaiting his reply.
My friend Joy works as a volunteer at the Rape Crisis Center, and I support her efforts whole heartedly. Violence against women is not just a women's issue to me, but a citizen's issue. I get the feeling there is a lesson to be learned here that we haven't learned yet.
Does anyone else feel that way?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Remembering Sept. 11, 2001
Today is September 11, 2007. This is an anniversary of a day I will remember the rest of my life. In honor of this historic date, I have selected the following by Richard Dawkins. -- BW --
Religion's misguided missiles
Promise a young man that death is not the end and he will willingly cause disaster
Special report: terrorism in the US
Richard Dawkins
Guardian
Saturday September 15, 2001
A guided missile corrects its trajectory as it flies, homing in, say, on the heat of a jet plane's exhaust. A great improvement on a simple ballistic shell, it still cannot discriminate particular targets. It could not zero in on a designated New York skyscraper if launched from as far away as Boston.
That is precisely what a modern "smart missile" can do. Computer miniaturisation has advanced to the point where one of today's smart missiles could be programmed with an image of the Manhattan skyline together with instructions to home in on the north tower of the World Trade Centre. Smart missiles of this sophistication are possessed by the United States, as we learned in the Gulf war, but they are economically beyond ordinary terrorists and scientifically beyond theocratic governments. Might there be a cheaper and easier alternative?
In the second world war, before electronics became cheap and miniature, the psychologist BF Skinner did some research on pigeon-guided missiles. The pigeon was to sit in a tiny cockpit, having previously been trained to peck keys in such a way as to keep a designated target in the centre of a screen. In the missile, the target would be for real.
The principle worked, although it was never put into practice by the US authorities. Even factoring in the costs of training them, pigeons are cheaper and lighter than computers of comparable effectiveness. Their feats in Skinner's boxes suggest that a pigeon, after a regimen of training with colour slides, really could guide a missile to a distinctive landmark at the southern end of Manhattan island. The pigeon has no idea that it is guiding a missile. It just keeps on pecking at those two tall rectangles on the screen, from time to time a food reward drops out of the dispenser, and this goes on until... oblivion.
Pigeons may be cheap and disposable as on-board guidance systems, but there's no escaping the cost of the missile itself. And no such missile large enough to do much damage could penetrate US air space without being intercepted. What is needed is a missile that is not recognised for what it is until too late. Something like a large civilian airliner, carrying the innocuous markings of a well-known carrier and a great deal of fuel. That's the easy part. But how do you smuggle on board the necessary guidance system? You can hardly expect the pilots to surrender the left-hand seat to a pigeon or a computer.
How about using humans as on-board guidance systems, instead of pigeons? Humans are at least as numerous as pigeons, their brains are not significantly costlier than pigeon brains, and for many tasks they are actually superior. Humans have a proven track record in taking over planes by the use of threats, which work because the legitimate pilots value their own lives and those of their passengers.
The natural assumption that the hijacker ultimately values his own life too, and will act rationally to preserve it, leads air crews and ground staff to make calculated decisions that would not work with guidance modules lacking a sense of self-preservation. If your plane is being hijacked by an armed man who, though prepared to take risks, presumably wants to go on living, there is room for bargaining. A rational pilot complies with the hijacker's wishes, gets the plane down on the ground, has hot food sent in for the passengers and leaves the negotiations to people trained to negotiate.
The problem with the human guidance system is precisely this. Unlike the pigeon version, it knows that a successful mission culminates in its own destruction. Could we develop a biological guidance system with the compliance and dispensability of a pigeon but with a man's resourcefulness and ability to infiltrate plausibly? What we need, in a nutshell, is a human who doesn't mind being blown up. He'd make the perfect on-board guidance system. But suicide enthusiasts are hard to find. Even terminal cancer patients might lose their nerve when the crash was actually looming.
Could we get some otherwise normal humans and somehow persuade them that they are not going to die as a consequence of flying a plane smack into a skyscraper? If only! Nobody is that stupid, but how about this - it's a long shot, but it just might work. Given that they are certainly going to die, couldn't we sucker them into believing that they are going to come to life again afterwards? Don't be daft! No, listen, it might work. Offer them a fast track to a Great Oasis in the Sky, cooled by everlasting fountains. Harps and wings wouldn't appeal to the sort of young men we need, so tell them there's a special martyr's reward of 72 virgin brides, guaranteed eager and exclusive.
Would they fall for it? Yes, testosterone-sodden young men too unattractive to get a woman in this world might be desperate enough to go for 72 private virgins in the next.
It's a tall story, but worth a try. You'd have to get them young, though. Feed them a complete and self-consistent background mythology to make the big lie sound plausible when it comes. Give them a holy book and make them learn it by heart. Do you know, I really think it might work. As luck would have it, we have just the thing to hand: a ready-made system of mind-control which has been honed over centuries, handed down through generations. Millions of people have been brought up in it. It is called religion and, for reasons which one day we may understand, most people fall for it (nowhere more so than America itself, though the irony passes unnoticed). Now all we need is to round up a few of these faith-heads and give them flying lessons.
Facetious? Trivialising an unspeakable evil? That is the exact opposite of my intention, which is deadly serious and prompted by deep grief and fierce anger. I am trying to call attention to the elephant in the room that everybody is too polite - or too devout - to notice: religion, and specifically the devaluing effect that religion has on human life. I don't mean devaluing the life of others (though it can do that too), but devaluing one's own life. Religion teaches the dangerous nonsense that death is not the end.
If death is final, a rational agent can be expected to value his life highly and be reluctant to risk it. This makes the world a safer place, just as a plane is safer if its hijacker wants to survive. At the other extreme, if a significant number of people convince themselves, or are convinced by their priests, that a martyr's death is equivalent to pressing the hyperspace button and zooming through a wormhole to another universe, it can make the world a very dangerous place. Especially if they also believe that that other universe is a paradisical escape from the tribulations of the real world. Top it off with sincerely believed, if ludicrous and degrading to women, sexual promises, and is it any wonder that naive and frustrated young men are clamouring to be selected for suicide missions?
There is no doubt that the afterlife-obsessed suicidal brain really is a weapon of immense power and danger. It is comparable to a smart missile, and its guidance system is in many respects superior to the most sophisticated electronic brain that money can buy. Yet to a cynical government, organisation, or priesthood, it is very very cheap.
Our leaders have described the recent atrocity with the customary cliche: mindless cowardice. "Mindless" may be a suitable word for the vandalising of a telephone box. It is not helpful for understanding what hit New York on September 11. Those people were not mindless and they were certainly not cowards. On the contrary, they had sufficiently effective minds braced with an insane courage, and it would pay us mightily to understand where that courage came from.
It came from religion. Religion is also, of course, the underlying source of the divisiveness in the Middle East which motivated the use of this deadly weapon in the first place. But that is another story and not my concern here. My concern here is with the weapon itself. To fill a world with religion, or religions of the Abrahamic kind, is like littering the streets with loaded guns. Do not be surprised if they are used.
Richard Dawkins is professor of the public understanding of science, University of Oxford, and author of The Selfish Gene, The Blind Watchmaker, and Unweaving the Rainbow.
Religion's misguided missiles
Promise a young man that death is not the end and he will willingly cause disaster
Special report: terrorism in the US
Richard Dawkins
Guardian
Saturday September 15, 2001
A guided missile corrects its trajectory as it flies, homing in, say, on the heat of a jet plane's exhaust. A great improvement on a simple ballistic shell, it still cannot discriminate particular targets. It could not zero in on a designated New York skyscraper if launched from as far away as Boston.
That is precisely what a modern "smart missile" can do. Computer miniaturisation has advanced to the point where one of today's smart missiles could be programmed with an image of the Manhattan skyline together with instructions to home in on the north tower of the World Trade Centre. Smart missiles of this sophistication are possessed by the United States, as we learned in the Gulf war, but they are economically beyond ordinary terrorists and scientifically beyond theocratic governments. Might there be a cheaper and easier alternative?
In the second world war, before electronics became cheap and miniature, the psychologist BF Skinner did some research on pigeon-guided missiles. The pigeon was to sit in a tiny cockpit, having previously been trained to peck keys in such a way as to keep a designated target in the centre of a screen. In the missile, the target would be for real.
The principle worked, although it was never put into practice by the US authorities. Even factoring in the costs of training them, pigeons are cheaper and lighter than computers of comparable effectiveness. Their feats in Skinner's boxes suggest that a pigeon, after a regimen of training with colour slides, really could guide a missile to a distinctive landmark at the southern end of Manhattan island. The pigeon has no idea that it is guiding a missile. It just keeps on pecking at those two tall rectangles on the screen, from time to time a food reward drops out of the dispenser, and this goes on until... oblivion.
Pigeons may be cheap and disposable as on-board guidance systems, but there's no escaping the cost of the missile itself. And no such missile large enough to do much damage could penetrate US air space without being intercepted. What is needed is a missile that is not recognised for what it is until too late. Something like a large civilian airliner, carrying the innocuous markings of a well-known carrier and a great deal of fuel. That's the easy part. But how do you smuggle on board the necessary guidance system? You can hardly expect the pilots to surrender the left-hand seat to a pigeon or a computer.
How about using humans as on-board guidance systems, instead of pigeons? Humans are at least as numerous as pigeons, their brains are not significantly costlier than pigeon brains, and for many tasks they are actually superior. Humans have a proven track record in taking over planes by the use of threats, which work because the legitimate pilots value their own lives and those of their passengers.
The natural assumption that the hijacker ultimately values his own life too, and will act rationally to preserve it, leads air crews and ground staff to make calculated decisions that would not work with guidance modules lacking a sense of self-preservation. If your plane is being hijacked by an armed man who, though prepared to take risks, presumably wants to go on living, there is room for bargaining. A rational pilot complies with the hijacker's wishes, gets the plane down on the ground, has hot food sent in for the passengers and leaves the negotiations to people trained to negotiate.
The problem with the human guidance system is precisely this. Unlike the pigeon version, it knows that a successful mission culminates in its own destruction. Could we develop a biological guidance system with the compliance and dispensability of a pigeon but with a man's resourcefulness and ability to infiltrate plausibly? What we need, in a nutshell, is a human who doesn't mind being blown up. He'd make the perfect on-board guidance system. But suicide enthusiasts are hard to find. Even terminal cancer patients might lose their nerve when the crash was actually looming.
Could we get some otherwise normal humans and somehow persuade them that they are not going to die as a consequence of flying a plane smack into a skyscraper? If only! Nobody is that stupid, but how about this - it's a long shot, but it just might work. Given that they are certainly going to die, couldn't we sucker them into believing that they are going to come to life again afterwards? Don't be daft! No, listen, it might work. Offer them a fast track to a Great Oasis in the Sky, cooled by everlasting fountains. Harps and wings wouldn't appeal to the sort of young men we need, so tell them there's a special martyr's reward of 72 virgin brides, guaranteed eager and exclusive.
Would they fall for it? Yes, testosterone-sodden young men too unattractive to get a woman in this world might be desperate enough to go for 72 private virgins in the next.
It's a tall story, but worth a try. You'd have to get them young, though. Feed them a complete and self-consistent background mythology to make the big lie sound plausible when it comes. Give them a holy book and make them learn it by heart. Do you know, I really think it might work. As luck would have it, we have just the thing to hand: a ready-made system of mind-control which has been honed over centuries, handed down through generations. Millions of people have been brought up in it. It is called religion and, for reasons which one day we may understand, most people fall for it (nowhere more so than America itself, though the irony passes unnoticed). Now all we need is to round up a few of these faith-heads and give them flying lessons.
Facetious? Trivialising an unspeakable evil? That is the exact opposite of my intention, which is deadly serious and prompted by deep grief and fierce anger. I am trying to call attention to the elephant in the room that everybody is too polite - or too devout - to notice: religion, and specifically the devaluing effect that religion has on human life. I don't mean devaluing the life of others (though it can do that too), but devaluing one's own life. Religion teaches the dangerous nonsense that death is not the end.
If death is final, a rational agent can be expected to value his life highly and be reluctant to risk it. This makes the world a safer place, just as a plane is safer if its hijacker wants to survive. At the other extreme, if a significant number of people convince themselves, or are convinced by their priests, that a martyr's death is equivalent to pressing the hyperspace button and zooming through a wormhole to another universe, it can make the world a very dangerous place. Especially if they also believe that that other universe is a paradisical escape from the tribulations of the real world. Top it off with sincerely believed, if ludicrous and degrading to women, sexual promises, and is it any wonder that naive and frustrated young men are clamouring to be selected for suicide missions?
There is no doubt that the afterlife-obsessed suicidal brain really is a weapon of immense power and danger. It is comparable to a smart missile, and its guidance system is in many respects superior to the most sophisticated electronic brain that money can buy. Yet to a cynical government, organisation, or priesthood, it is very very cheap.
Our leaders have described the recent atrocity with the customary cliche: mindless cowardice. "Mindless" may be a suitable word for the vandalising of a telephone box. It is not helpful for understanding what hit New York on September 11. Those people were not mindless and they were certainly not cowards. On the contrary, they had sufficiently effective minds braced with an insane courage, and it would pay us mightily to understand where that courage came from.
It came from religion. Religion is also, of course, the underlying source of the divisiveness in the Middle East which motivated the use of this deadly weapon in the first place. But that is another story and not my concern here. My concern here is with the weapon itself. To fill a world with religion, or religions of the Abrahamic kind, is like littering the streets with loaded guns. Do not be surprised if they are used.
Richard Dawkins is professor of the public understanding of science, University of Oxford, and author of The Selfish Gene, The Blind Watchmaker, and Unweaving the Rainbow.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Why we make fun of Miss SC
I think we ought to give Miss Teen South Carolina a break.
It was quite a phenomenon I've observed, how quickly the videos have been submitted to YouTube since the story first came out in the news. It seemed like everyone was getting in line to make fun of her.
Today, the 1st of September, I find YouTube has a considerably large collection of videos on the subject of what a stupid blonde ditz she is. I admit I found some of them to be really funny, and I was even compelled to read some of the comments made. The comment that most got my attention was on how we have taken advantage of the fact that it's a lot safer to make fun of a person who is white, especially if she is female and blonde.
I believe the reason blonde jokes have become so popular is because it is no longer PC to make fun of ethnic groups, as my generation has had so much fun doing while we were growing up.
As Kris Kristofferson says, " Cuz everybody's gotta have somebody to look down on" (Jesus was a Capricorn)
But if we want to make fun of someone for being stupid, I think we ought to shift our focus a little bit. What about the 1/5 of Americans who can't find the USA on a world map? Does that seem to bother anyone as much as it does me?
We were so busy laughing at Miss SC, that no one appears to be trying to answer the question she was asked, except as another joke.
Why is it that 1/5 of the American people (that's 20%) cannot find their own country on a map?
Had someone asked that question of me, I'm not sure I could answer it either, though I'm more inclined to blame poor education rather than a shortage of maps.
Still, I'm sure we need to find the answer to that question.
I consider this a wake-up call for us.
It was quite a phenomenon I've observed, how quickly the videos have been submitted to YouTube since the story first came out in the news. It seemed like everyone was getting in line to make fun of her.
Today, the 1st of September, I find YouTube has a considerably large collection of videos on the subject of what a stupid blonde ditz she is. I admit I found some of them to be really funny, and I was even compelled to read some of the comments made. The comment that most got my attention was on how we have taken advantage of the fact that it's a lot safer to make fun of a person who is white, especially if she is female and blonde.
I believe the reason blonde jokes have become so popular is because it is no longer PC to make fun of ethnic groups, as my generation has had so much fun doing while we were growing up.
As Kris Kristofferson says, " Cuz everybody's gotta have somebody to look down on" (Jesus was a Capricorn)
But if we want to make fun of someone for being stupid, I think we ought to shift our focus a little bit. What about the 1/5 of Americans who can't find the USA on a world map? Does that seem to bother anyone as much as it does me?
We were so busy laughing at Miss SC, that no one appears to be trying to answer the question she was asked, except as another joke.
Why is it that 1/5 of the American people (that's 20%) cannot find their own country on a map?
Had someone asked that question of me, I'm not sure I could answer it either, though I'm more inclined to blame poor education rather than a shortage of maps.
Still, I'm sure we need to find the answer to that question.
I consider this a wake-up call for us.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The Golden Rule
THE GOLDEN RULE (it's true in all faiths)
BRAHMANISM -- This is the sum of duty. Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you.
Mahabharta 5: 1517
BUDDHISM -- Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful.
Udana-Varga 5: 18
CHRISTIANITY -- All things whatsoever you would that men should do to you, do you even so to them; for this is the Law and the Prophets.
Matthew 7: 12
CONFUCIANISM -- Surely it is the maxim of loving kindness; Do not unto others what you would not have them do unto you.
Analetcts 15: 23
ISLAM -- No one of you is a believer until he desires for his brother that which he desires for himself.
Sunnah
JUDAISM -- What is hateful to you, do not to your fellow man. That is the entire Law; all the rest is commentary.
Talmud, Shabbat 31a
TOAISM -- Regard your neighbor's gain as your own gain and your neighbor's loss as your own loss.
T'ai Shang Kan Ying P'ien
ZOROASTRIANISM -- That nature alone is good which refrains from doing unto another whatsoever is not good for itself.
Dadistan-i-dinik 94: 5
Courtesy of Elizabeth Pool
Old Farmer's Almanac 1985
BRAHMANISM -- This is the sum of duty. Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you.
Mahabharta 5: 1517
BUDDHISM -- Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful.
Udana-Varga 5: 18
CHRISTIANITY -- All things whatsoever you would that men should do to you, do you even so to them; for this is the Law and the Prophets.
Matthew 7: 12
CONFUCIANISM -- Surely it is the maxim of loving kindness; Do not unto others what you would not have them do unto you.
Analetcts 15: 23
ISLAM -- No one of you is a believer until he desires for his brother that which he desires for himself.
Sunnah
JUDAISM -- What is hateful to you, do not to your fellow man. That is the entire Law; all the rest is commentary.
Talmud, Shabbat 31a
TOAISM -- Regard your neighbor's gain as your own gain and your neighbor's loss as your own loss.
T'ai Shang Kan Ying P'ien
ZOROASTRIANISM -- That nature alone is good which refrains from doing unto another whatsoever is not good for itself.
Dadistan-i-dinik 94: 5
Courtesy of Elizabeth Pool
Old Farmer's Almanac 1985
Thursday, July 26, 2007
My Breadmen's Poem
This is a poem I wrote about drinking coffee at Breadmen's.
I'm talking about the "old" Breadmen's, when it was on the other side of Rosemary Street.
I was heavily under the influence of caffeine at the time I wrote this.
This poem is dedicated to Chris, who was everyone's favorite waitress back in the 1980's, and was my inspiration.
The Waitress
with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon an incarnation
while I sat in contemplation
over various situations
as I've often done before.
Ah, distinctly I remember
it was in that cold December
as I warmed my frozen members
over many cups of soothing caffeine
in it's popular liquid form.
While I sat there, slowly sipping
late at Breadmen's, thoughts were ripping
through my aquired, tired concepts
behind that glass and wooden door.
Fancy unto fancy thinking
restless souls with eyes a-blinking
continuing my coffee drinking
wondering what I've come here for.
Mysterious and curious
if not altogether serious
slowly sinking in delirious visions
of love, and death, and war.
Suddenly the fog departed
as if something or someone started
beaming through my broken hearted dreams
of old forgotten lore.
Yet I sat there not believing
what my eyes were there perceiving
phantoms of my mind were leaving
as reality spilled upon the floor.
For the lovely creature I was beholding
smiling sweetly, standing, holding
pot of coffee. (thoughts unfolding!)
Silently I watched her pour.
For I could not help believing
that no living human being
ever yet was blessed with seeing
a waitress of who's eyes could pierce
the darkness of one's inner core.
"Waitress," says I "I implore you
have an urgent question for you
lovely person I adore you.
Tell me truly what it is we've come here for?"
"For surely there's a purpose being
for our lives, a search for meaning
a reason to go on believing?"
Quote the Waitress
"Want some more?"
Silent now, I sat there sipping
something in my mind was slipping
I decide I should be skipping
this idea of asking such profound
questions anymore.
But the waitress still is serving
still is serving behind that glass and wooden door.
To myself, say "What the heck?"
I leave a tip and pay my check
then turn and open up the door.
Though my caffeined brain could not unfold
the ancient mystery yet untold
as I step into the dark and cold
I wonder still of what it is
I'm really searching for?
Cetainly there's something more!
In that night of late December
one thing that I must remember
is that certain glowing ember
in those eyes I so adore.
The smile of her lovely face
that passes on through time and space
the questions of the human race
and further mysteries to explore.
Return again another night
into that most familiar sight
with friends who say that it's allright
to contemplate what is in store.
Thus quote the Waitress,
"Want some more?"
I'm talking about the "old" Breadmen's, when it was on the other side of Rosemary Street.
I was heavily under the influence of caffeine at the time I wrote this.
This poem is dedicated to Chris, who was everyone's favorite waitress back in the 1980's, and was my inspiration.
The Waitress
with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon an incarnation
while I sat in contemplation
over various situations
as I've often done before.
Ah, distinctly I remember
it was in that cold December
as I warmed my frozen members
over many cups of soothing caffeine
in it's popular liquid form.
While I sat there, slowly sipping
late at Breadmen's, thoughts were ripping
through my aquired, tired concepts
behind that glass and wooden door.
Fancy unto fancy thinking
restless souls with eyes a-blinking
continuing my coffee drinking
wondering what I've come here for.
Mysterious and curious
if not altogether serious
slowly sinking in delirious visions
of love, and death, and war.
Suddenly the fog departed
as if something or someone started
beaming through my broken hearted dreams
of old forgotten lore.
Yet I sat there not believing
what my eyes were there perceiving
phantoms of my mind were leaving
as reality spilled upon the floor.
For the lovely creature I was beholding
smiling sweetly, standing, holding
pot of coffee. (thoughts unfolding!)
Silently I watched her pour.
For I could not help believing
that no living human being
ever yet was blessed with seeing
a waitress of who's eyes could pierce
the darkness of one's inner core.
"Waitress," says I "I implore you
have an urgent question for you
lovely person I adore you.
Tell me truly what it is we've come here for?"
"For surely there's a purpose being
for our lives, a search for meaning
a reason to go on believing?"
Quote the Waitress
"Want some more?"
Silent now, I sat there sipping
something in my mind was slipping
I decide I should be skipping
this idea of asking such profound
questions anymore.
But the waitress still is serving
still is serving behind that glass and wooden door.
To myself, say "What the heck?"
I leave a tip and pay my check
then turn and open up the door.
Though my caffeined brain could not unfold
the ancient mystery yet untold
as I step into the dark and cold
I wonder still of what it is
I'm really searching for?
Cetainly there's something more!
In that night of late December
one thing that I must remember
is that certain glowing ember
in those eyes I so adore.
The smile of her lovely face
that passes on through time and space
the questions of the human race
and further mysteries to explore.
Return again another night
into that most familiar sight
with friends who say that it's allright
to contemplate what is in store.
Thus quote the Waitress,
"Want some more?"
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Patsy Cline - A Tribute
To pay a tribute with another tribute seems to work with me.
Patsy Cline was Debbie's favorite.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Message from Terry Roth
Terry Roth is a person living in Quebec who has known the Allore family since when Theresa was still alive, and has been following her murder case ever since. He was kind enough to offer me feedback and corrections on my criticism of the Surete du Quebec.
Terry writes;
The SQ is to blame for a few things - but not everything. You have to understand that in 1979, there was no SQ - there was the provoncial police and local authorities involved. The locals were the ones investigating these cases (with the help of provincial coroner who did the autopsy and reported results.)
But there were 3 police "entities" involved - the local police (led by Leo Hamel), the provincial police (albeit distant) and a "detective" named Roch Gaudrault.
This is the crux of this case. Roch Gaudrault. (pronounced Rock Good-row) - this guy was a blithering fool who had no desire in solving murder cases as much as he wanted to just close files. At the time of the disapparance he deduced a drug-overdose theory - and went with that theory through the finding of the body 5 months later. The autopsy showed NO traces of any drugs in her body - which Roch explained that it was due to the body being in water and ice for 5 months. We bought that. What could we do. We were young and the police said thats the way it was.
I never believed that myself- Theresa did not do drugs...and why she would decide to take drugs (she was an honor role student who had early-semester good marks and no problems) want to OD and kill herself 3 miles from her dorm....well it was just a crazy reason.
A few years ago, John decided to look into this case further and found the following:
-There were TWO other girls whose bodies were found around the same time - similar origins, paths roads - in an area which is a quiet rural college town...they had like 1 murder every 20 years in that area - all of a sudden 3 at once. But why didn't we hear about it at the time? Because all 3 fell into different local jurisdictions (police forces) - there was no SQ to tie them together.
But there WAS a common denominator. Roch Gaudrault was the detective in all 3.
As a matter of fact, he was the main murder detective of the entire area. In his career - thats all he dealt with - 3 murders of young girls. How many did he solve? zero.
Now lets look a little closer at this guy...and his so-called "investigations" at the time.....yup you got it - all 3 cases were scant investigations ...poor evidence retrieval....poor interviewing...unexplainable lost time ...useless travelling to places which had nothing to do with the case, etc.
So lets go back and look at the evidence and re-examine it ....okay ? we have forensics today...DNA...etc. Oh my ...look what happened - all the evidence was destroyed 5 years after the crimes!!!
Hmm now why would the coroner destroy evidence of unsolved crimes? Maybe a lack of space? (You should see their building - no lack of space there!)
...but look...there was a signature to have the evidence destroyed...and it was by none other than ...Roch Gaudrault
Now I am not saying that Roch had anything direct to do with these crimes...but I do say that he is:
a) Too stupid to have carried out proper investigations or
b) he knew the killer and was covering up for him
Now it could be a) but also personally I think b)
We bring that to the SQ and they do not want to re-open this up UNLESS we have DIRECT evidence to support any of it AND the main reason? If we bring an ex-detective under investigation due to botched work or corruption....EVERY case that existed at the time that he investigated (break-ins, assaults, attacks, etc) or people who were sent to jail, would be coming out of the woodwork
See our point?
Terry Roth
After reading this, I conclude that I have chosen the wrong target of ridicule in my SQ / Frankensten story, and sent this reply to Terry;
Hey Terry - Thanks again!
This is a good history lesson for me. I should be blaming this Roch guy instead of the SQ. Perhaps he should be the Constable in my story. This is a very good account you have given me. I appreciate how well you have explained all the circumstances. Now I have an idea of the political situation. It is regrettable that the family and friends of Theresa have been the victims of such politics.
I could never get over the sheer stupidity it must take to not recognize a murder when it is obviously so. (Oh yeah, people who OD always do that. Take off their clothes and go crawling through the snow to die.) I sure had fun making fun of that!
I was so outraged when I read the part about John and Theresa's father being told to "Go home and forget about it." What a cruel thing to say to a man who just identified his daughter's remains. (Hey, I was pissed!) I had to work that quote into the story.
Thanks again, Terry. You have been very helpful to me. I owe you big time!
And so I stand corrected. My apologies to any good citizens of Quebec I may have offended by making fun of your police force. It looks like a case of one bad apple spoiling the whole bunch.
Terry writes;
The SQ is to blame for a few things - but not everything. You have to understand that in 1979, there was no SQ - there was the provoncial police and local authorities involved. The locals were the ones investigating these cases (with the help of provincial coroner who did the autopsy and reported results.)
But there were 3 police "entities" involved - the local police (led by Leo Hamel), the provincial police (albeit distant) and a "detective" named Roch Gaudrault.
This is the crux of this case. Roch Gaudrault. (pronounced Rock Good-row) - this guy was a blithering fool who had no desire in solving murder cases as much as he wanted to just close files. At the time of the disapparance he deduced a drug-overdose theory - and went with that theory through the finding of the body 5 months later. The autopsy showed NO traces of any drugs in her body - which Roch explained that it was due to the body being in water and ice for 5 months. We bought that. What could we do. We were young and the police said thats the way it was.
I never believed that myself- Theresa did not do drugs...and why she would decide to take drugs (she was an honor role student who had early-semester good marks and no problems) want to OD and kill herself 3 miles from her dorm....well it was just a crazy reason.
A few years ago, John decided to look into this case further and found the following:
-There were TWO other girls whose bodies were found around the same time - similar origins, paths roads - in an area which is a quiet rural college town...they had like 1 murder every 20 years in that area - all of a sudden 3 at once. But why didn't we hear about it at the time? Because all 3 fell into different local jurisdictions (police forces) - there was no SQ to tie them together.
But there WAS a common denominator. Roch Gaudrault was the detective in all 3.
As a matter of fact, he was the main murder detective of the entire area. In his career - thats all he dealt with - 3 murders of young girls. How many did he solve? zero.
Now lets look a little closer at this guy...and his so-called "investigations" at the time.....yup you got it - all 3 cases were scant investigations ...poor evidence retrieval....poor interviewing...unexplainable lost time ...useless travelling to places which had nothing to do with the case, etc.
So lets go back and look at the evidence and re-examine it ....okay ? we have forensics today...DNA...etc. Oh my ...look what happened - all the evidence was destroyed 5 years after the crimes!!!
Hmm now why would the coroner destroy evidence of unsolved crimes? Maybe a lack of space? (You should see their building - no lack of space there!)
...but look...there was a signature to have the evidence destroyed...and it was by none other than ...Roch Gaudrault
Now I am not saying that Roch had anything direct to do with these crimes...but I do say that he is:
a) Too stupid to have carried out proper investigations or
b) he knew the killer and was covering up for him
Now it could be a) but also personally I think b)
We bring that to the SQ and they do not want to re-open this up UNLESS we have DIRECT evidence to support any of it AND the main reason? If we bring an ex-detective under investigation due to botched work or corruption....EVERY case that existed at the time that he investigated (break-ins, assaults, attacks, etc) or people who were sent to jail, would be coming out of the woodwork
See our point?
Terry Roth
After reading this, I conclude that I have chosen the wrong target of ridicule in my SQ / Frankensten story, and sent this reply to Terry;
Hey Terry - Thanks again!
This is a good history lesson for me. I should be blaming this Roch guy instead of the SQ. Perhaps he should be the Constable in my story. This is a very good account you have given me. I appreciate how well you have explained all the circumstances. Now I have an idea of the political situation. It is regrettable that the family and friends of Theresa have been the victims of such politics.
I could never get over the sheer stupidity it must take to not recognize a murder when it is obviously so. (Oh yeah, people who OD always do that. Take off their clothes and go crawling through the snow to die.) I sure had fun making fun of that!
I was so outraged when I read the part about John and Theresa's father being told to "Go home and forget about it." What a cruel thing to say to a man who just identified his daughter's remains. (Hey, I was pissed!) I had to work that quote into the story.
Thanks again, Terry. You have been very helpful to me. I owe you big time!
And so I stand corrected. My apologies to any good citizens of Quebec I may have offended by making fun of your police force. It looks like a case of one bad apple spoiling the whole bunch.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Rick Pics
In loving memory,
Richard E. Widman
Jan 20, 1958 - Dec 30, 1984
Saint Peter's Church Cemetery
Waldorf, Maryland
Thanksgiving Weekend 1985
Dear old Dad with Dogs
Major and Spoondog
Me and Spoondog
Dad and Brother Jack
with Dogs
Friday, June 22, 2007
My Brother Rick - Part 2
When the long awaited autopsy report arrived, it failed to answer all the questions.
First there was the confusing use of the word "natural" as to the cause of death.
Directly over that line is the statement that chlorofluorocarbon was found in the lungs.
My first question was, "On what planet is it natural to die by inhaling freon?"
The second, yet more important question was.
"How did the freon (or cfc gas) get into his lungs?"
or --"What was the source?"
I had to obtain my own copy of the medical examiner's report, because my mother couldn't explain to me what it said. It cost me 10 dollars.
My brothers cannot explain to me how they think it happened, and show a reluctance to talk about it.
"Don't you want to know why Rick died?"
It never occured to me, before then, that there was another answer to that question besides, "Hell Yes!"
So I'm on my own if I want to figure this out.
The first person I called, after I have carefully read through the autopsy report when it arrived in the mail, was Steve Moriarty.
Steve plays vocals and lead guitar for Storm Front, a local Rock-n-Roll band I'm sure you've heard of by now.
But he also does a lot of work on his job with refrigerators and air conditioning, and I know him to be knowledgable of things such as this new word I had to learn to pronounce.
"Chlorofluorocarbon" I was reading carefully.
"Oh yeah, that's freon." he says.
I asked him about the possiblity of accidently inhaling enough of it to kill you, and he tells me that you would pretty much have to be inhaling it on purpose to do that.
By privilege of friendship of the family of Joshua Mann (another departed friend I plan on writing about) I met with Dr. Sam Sheps as he was visiting from Vancouver, and asked him to read and interpret my copy of the autopsy report, to which he complied.
The first thing the good doctor explained to me is the legal use of the term "natural cause."
"If it were me," he says, "I would have used the word 'accidental', but what it means is that they believe there is no need for an investigation."
Thanks! Sure am glad someone explained THAT to me!
Dr. Sheps explains further that it is the medical examiner's job to determine the cause by the body itself, not by the scene where the body is found. He does not have to explain how it got there, only that it was there. The crime scene investigation is not assigned if the police find no evidence of "foul play" on the scene.
So why the hell doesn't anyone ever finish answering for me the obvious question?
"The source, and how it got there?"
I am confronted with the possibility that my dear little brother may have been a huffer.
I don't believe this, and I can argue that no container was found near the body, but I have to ask myself another important question.
How objective can I be in my personal investigation, when it involves my close family members?
Had Rick have lived 3 more weeks before he died, he would have been 27 years old.
Rick and I share January birthdays, his on the 20th and mine on the 25th. I was 29 when he died, and about to hit the big Three-0.
Rick and I sometimes had one birthday party for both of us, having our birthdays in the same week. I thought it was fun to celebrate our birthdays together.
Nearly every childhood memory I have includes dear brother Rick.
What a sharp severance from one's childhood that was for me.
My Christian friends, and my New Age friends, tell me considering all the wonderful testimonies I have described from his memorial service, that perhaps he did so many good things for so many people that God decided to reward him with an early trip back home. Cindy said the same thing. To tell the truth, I was able to draw comfort from this thought for a long time.
One thing I am sure thankful for out of this episode in my life is in the comfort of knowing that my dear brother had a good send off.
That means more to me than I can say.
Honest, I'm just making an attempt here.
Although I continue to live with an unanswered question, I've had the opportunity to say good-bye to him the best way I could.
I have pictures from my visit to the grave on the following Thanksgiving Weekend, in 1985, when I took a trip to the cemetery with my Dad and my brother Jack, and our dogs, to see the monument that had been placed there. I'm still learning how to put pics in a blogger, so I can't promise right away.
I wish for all my departed friends to have such a final tribute. All of them, except for Debbie, have had a burial or a cremation, leaving a place we can go and visit to remember them.
All we've come up with so far for Debbie is a parking lot in downtown Carrboro.
Special thanks to Randy Danziger and Tom Sisk, who have provided me with more clues than anyone else.
Bill W -
First there was the confusing use of the word "natural" as to the cause of death.
Directly over that line is the statement that chlorofluorocarbon was found in the lungs.
My first question was, "On what planet is it natural to die by inhaling freon?"
The second, yet more important question was.
"How did the freon (or cfc gas) get into his lungs?"
or --"What was the source?"
I had to obtain my own copy of the medical examiner's report, because my mother couldn't explain to me what it said. It cost me 10 dollars.
My brothers cannot explain to me how they think it happened, and show a reluctance to talk about it.
"Don't you want to know why Rick died?"
It never occured to me, before then, that there was another answer to that question besides, "Hell Yes!"
So I'm on my own if I want to figure this out.
The first person I called, after I have carefully read through the autopsy report when it arrived in the mail, was Steve Moriarty.
Steve plays vocals and lead guitar for Storm Front, a local Rock-n-Roll band I'm sure you've heard of by now.
But he also does a lot of work on his job with refrigerators and air conditioning, and I know him to be knowledgable of things such as this new word I had to learn to pronounce.
"Chlorofluorocarbon" I was reading carefully.
"Oh yeah, that's freon." he says.
I asked him about the possiblity of accidently inhaling enough of it to kill you, and he tells me that you would pretty much have to be inhaling it on purpose to do that.
By privilege of friendship of the family of Joshua Mann (another departed friend I plan on writing about) I met with Dr. Sam Sheps as he was visiting from Vancouver, and asked him to read and interpret my copy of the autopsy report, to which he complied.
The first thing the good doctor explained to me is the legal use of the term "natural cause."
"If it were me," he says, "I would have used the word 'accidental', but what it means is that they believe there is no need for an investigation."
Thanks! Sure am glad someone explained THAT to me!
Dr. Sheps explains further that it is the medical examiner's job to determine the cause by the body itself, not by the scene where the body is found. He does not have to explain how it got there, only that it was there. The crime scene investigation is not assigned if the police find no evidence of "foul play" on the scene.
So why the hell doesn't anyone ever finish answering for me the obvious question?
"The source, and how it got there?"
I am confronted with the possibility that my dear little brother may have been a huffer.
I don't believe this, and I can argue that no container was found near the body, but I have to ask myself another important question.
How objective can I be in my personal investigation, when it involves my close family members?
Had Rick have lived 3 more weeks before he died, he would have been 27 years old.
Rick and I share January birthdays, his on the 20th and mine on the 25th. I was 29 when he died, and about to hit the big Three-0.
Rick and I sometimes had one birthday party for both of us, having our birthdays in the same week. I thought it was fun to celebrate our birthdays together.
Nearly every childhood memory I have includes dear brother Rick.
What a sharp severance from one's childhood that was for me.
My Christian friends, and my New Age friends, tell me considering all the wonderful testimonies I have described from his memorial service, that perhaps he did so many good things for so many people that God decided to reward him with an early trip back home. Cindy said the same thing. To tell the truth, I was able to draw comfort from this thought for a long time.
One thing I am sure thankful for out of this episode in my life is in the comfort of knowing that my dear brother had a good send off.
That means more to me than I can say.
Honest, I'm just making an attempt here.
Although I continue to live with an unanswered question, I've had the opportunity to say good-bye to him the best way I could.
I have pictures from my visit to the grave on the following Thanksgiving Weekend, in 1985, when I took a trip to the cemetery with my Dad and my brother Jack, and our dogs, to see the monument that had been placed there. I'm still learning how to put pics in a blogger, so I can't promise right away.
I wish for all my departed friends to have such a final tribute. All of them, except for Debbie, have had a burial or a cremation, leaving a place we can go and visit to remember them.
All we've come up with so far for Debbie is a parking lot in downtown Carrboro.
Special thanks to Randy Danziger and Tom Sisk, who have provided me with more clues than anyone else.
Bill W -
Thursday, June 14, 2007
My Brother Rick
Yours Truly is number 4 out of 5 Widman brothers. That means I am the second youngest. The Widman brothers are, from the oldest to the youngest, Ted, Jack, Bob, Bill, and Rick. When Rick died, I became the youngest living Widman brother.
On December 30, 1984, I got a phone call from my brother Bob, telling me my brother Rick has died. I will remember that phone call the rest of my life. Soon afterward I was driving to Washington, DC with tears in my eyes.
The whole family was in shock. Rick was the last person anyone had thought would be the first to die in the family. He was the youngest and the healthiest of all of us. My parents were still living then, and it was at their apartment in Forestville, MD, where I met with my brothers, two of which had wives and children. It's amazing how many people could fit in my parent's apartment.
It was December 31, 1984, the next day after the death, but we all seemed to forget it was New Year's Eve. We didn't celebrate it that year. We all seemed to be occupying ourselves with trying to accept the death of brother Rick. I know I was.
We still didn't know why he died.
The body was at the state coroners office in Baltimore to be autopsied.
I was actually considering going there to see it. My family members did not seem to approve of that, so I waited impatiently for the day of the viewing.
I found myself having a strong need to see the body. Perhaps it was like Thomas, who had to see the crucifixion inflicted wounds on Jesus to believe he was alive, I had to see the body of my brother to believe he was dead.
I am reminded that most normal people have an aversion to dead bodies.
My Mom did most of the talking, as my brother Bob would fill in.
On the night of December 29, Rick was at my parents place having dinner. He was his usual sweet cheerful self, happily chopping veggies to make a salad. He had brought his tool box along to do a little plumbing repair before helping with dinner.
Rick has been living in an apartment in the same complex as my parents since he married Cindy. They were married for one year. It was walking distance between them. Cindy was out of town visiting relatives for the holidays, leaving Rick to have the apartment to himself.
Cindy was the next family member we were expecting to show up.
After dinner, Mom says, Rick had asked her for my address, which she had written down for him. Then Rick told my parents (who never did drive or own a car) that he would come and take them to church in the morning. (the next day was Sunday) Then he picked up his toolbox and went home.
It was not usual for Rick to be late, and if he ever was, he would surely call. Mom called his number and got no answer. Then she called her church friends to come and take her and my Dad to church. They went by Rick's apartment and saw his car and his motorcycle still parked in front. They went on to church. On the ride back the vehicles were still there. When they got home they called again. No answer. They knew something was wrong. My parents decide it's time to get the key Rick gave them and go over there.
My poor parents. They were already crazy enough. Why did they have to be the first to discover what was found?
Mom continues the story. When they opened the door the radio was playing. The tool box was by the door. The piece of paper with my address written on it was on a table. Rick was found laying on the floor of the bedroom. He was fully dressed in the clothes they saw him in last. His shirt was neatly tucked in. He was clean and well groomed. He looked like nothing was wrong. But he was dead.
Brother Bob interjects, "Not a hair out of place."
After a screaming fit, Mom called Bob, who was living in Baltimore. He came right over. Bob was the third person to enter the apartment that day. The discovery wasn't easy for him either, but at least he had warning. Bob asked my parents when will the police get here.
"You mean you didn't call anyone but me?"
"We didn't know who else to call."
Bob takes charge of everything after that. He called the police to report the death. He called everyone in the family, including me. He talked to the police, trying to get them to not question my parents so much, as they were not in good shape to answer questions.
No one had a clue as for the cause of death. We could only wait for the autopsy report.
The day of the viewing comes. Ted's wife, Sandy, is a relative I made friends with as soon as I met her. She is the mother of my favorite niece, Julie, who was 3 years old then. It was Sandy who came in the morning to take us to the funeral home.
The funeral home staff were very courteous and professional. Cindy was the first to go in the room where the casket lay. I see her stroke his hair. I was right behind her.
I'm sorry if this sounds morbid, but I was relieved to see what was in the casket. Yes, that's him all right. Now my mind could accept the reality that my brother was dead. I too stroked his hair, touched his cheek, his hands.
This is taboo in some cultures, but I didn't care. To the Jewish, to touch a dead body made one ritually unclean. My family was Catholic.
Brother Ted comes up beside me. His mood is strangely playful. He points to Rick's hands and says to me, "Did you ever see his fingernails so clean?"
He pats the chest and says, "They really stuffed him good, didn't they?"
I look at my brother with a tear stained eye and say, "Your sense of humor never wanes."
After we all had our turn at the casket, I stood facing my Dad. Then I wrapped my arms around him and cried. It was the only time I ever cried in public as an adult. I was not at all embarrassed about it. I felt I had a perfect right to do so. When I was finished, I asked, "When was the last time I cried on your shoulder, Dad?" To my surprise, he remembered. I was a little boy then, and I remembered too when he gave a brief description of the event.
It amazes me that Dad couldn't remember what he had for lunch yesterday, but he could remember that.
After the viewing there is a memorial service in the chapel, which fills up to standing room only. It made me feel good to see so many people show up. I volunteered for pallbearer duty, and participated in common eulogy. The eulogy was started by the priest. Then Cindy, then me, then a lot of other people came up to offer some words. I always knew Rick was a great guy, but it still was nice to hear other people say so. It did my heart a lot of good to hear all the wonderful praise for my dear little brother. I still think often of such beautiful testimonies I have heard.
The day of the funeral arrived. We rode in an Airstream hearse. I didn't know they made a hearse like that. There were enough seats for the pallbearers and family members. The casket rode in a compartment inside the body of the vehicle, underneath where we sat. Cindy would not stop crying. She was on crutches since she came back from her trip. It was explained that when Cindy was called to inform her about Rick's death, she ran out the door and fell down the steps, injuring her ankle.
The hearse parked in front of the church. The funeral home attendants open the compartment and slide out the casket. The pallbearers on my side politely offered me the front position, which I accepted.
Lord, the thing was heavy. Even with all the help carrying the casket, my forearm muscles ached from the weight. I will always remember the procession down the aisle of the church.
I have renounced the Catholic faith long ago, but I still appreciate the beauty of a Catholic church. They were singing "Morning has Broken," by Cat Stevens. (I learned later that he was not the actual author.) I appreciated that song a lot more than I would have any Catholic hymn. As we slowly progressed down that long aisle, all the people were standing and singing, and facing us. I made eye contact with all the faces I went by. I could read sympathy in every pair of eyes.
Prior to that time, I had made plans to legally change my name to Wildman. I was going to add a letter "L." I decided that if that's what everyone wanted to call me, then I would make it official. It was then and there that I canceled that plan. The name "Widman" had new meaning to me. It was the name I shared with my brother Rick, and I was proud of it.
I was also proud that we looked so much alike. People I didn't know seemed to recognize me as a brother of the deceased. That pleased me.
Maryland state law requires a death certificate for a burial. The death certificate required a line filled in under "cause of death." The certificate arrived to us saying, "cause of death -- pending." We would have to wait for the lab results to come back for that information, but at least we were ready for the burial.
Another arm aching tote from the hearse to the grave, and the casket is placed on the nylon web that lowers the casket down into the vault. The priest gave the final prayers, then it started to drizzle.
There was a long ritual of hand shakes and introductions. I thought it was partly because of my face that everyone wanted to shake my hand. There was a pride I never felt before when I'd say "Bill Widman" as I extended my hand. Then we went back to the parking area of the cemetery, in time to get out of the rain.
Why does it always rain at funerals?
This time we go to Sandy's car instead of the hearse. Before getting in the car, we notice Ted is not with us. Sandy went back to get him. She found Ted trying to open the casket, saying "I gotta get him out!"
Back at the funeral home, I'm sitting with Ted in the smoker's lounge, worried about him. His eyes had that vacant and far away look. He lit a cigarette but just held it. I took it from his hand when it burned all the way down. Sandy was with me. We kept talking to him, trying to bring him back. It took a while.
When Ted was ready to talk again, he told us that the impact did not hit him until he saw everyone walking away from the grave site, leaving the casket there. He was not accepting what had happened. He wanted to deny it. When he could no longer do that, he lost it.
Sandy and I had a long conversation about how different people respond differently to the same thing, especially when it's the death of a loved one. I have seen examples of that already, and I would see a lot more later. It became a subject of study for me.
to be continued...
On December 30, 1984, I got a phone call from my brother Bob, telling me my brother Rick has died. I will remember that phone call the rest of my life. Soon afterward I was driving to Washington, DC with tears in my eyes.
The whole family was in shock. Rick was the last person anyone had thought would be the first to die in the family. He was the youngest and the healthiest of all of us. My parents were still living then, and it was at their apartment in Forestville, MD, where I met with my brothers, two of which had wives and children. It's amazing how many people could fit in my parent's apartment.
It was December 31, 1984, the next day after the death, but we all seemed to forget it was New Year's Eve. We didn't celebrate it that year. We all seemed to be occupying ourselves with trying to accept the death of brother Rick. I know I was.
We still didn't know why he died.
The body was at the state coroners office in Baltimore to be autopsied.
I was actually considering going there to see it. My family members did not seem to approve of that, so I waited impatiently for the day of the viewing.
I found myself having a strong need to see the body. Perhaps it was like Thomas, who had to see the crucifixion inflicted wounds on Jesus to believe he was alive, I had to see the body of my brother to believe he was dead.
I am reminded that most normal people have an aversion to dead bodies.
My Mom did most of the talking, as my brother Bob would fill in.
On the night of December 29, Rick was at my parents place having dinner. He was his usual sweet cheerful self, happily chopping veggies to make a salad. He had brought his tool box along to do a little plumbing repair before helping with dinner.
Rick has been living in an apartment in the same complex as my parents since he married Cindy. They were married for one year. It was walking distance between them. Cindy was out of town visiting relatives for the holidays, leaving Rick to have the apartment to himself.
Cindy was the next family member we were expecting to show up.
After dinner, Mom says, Rick had asked her for my address, which she had written down for him. Then Rick told my parents (who never did drive or own a car) that he would come and take them to church in the morning. (the next day was Sunday) Then he picked up his toolbox and went home.
It was not usual for Rick to be late, and if he ever was, he would surely call. Mom called his number and got no answer. Then she called her church friends to come and take her and my Dad to church. They went by Rick's apartment and saw his car and his motorcycle still parked in front. They went on to church. On the ride back the vehicles were still there. When they got home they called again. No answer. They knew something was wrong. My parents decide it's time to get the key Rick gave them and go over there.
My poor parents. They were already crazy enough. Why did they have to be the first to discover what was found?
Mom continues the story. When they opened the door the radio was playing. The tool box was by the door. The piece of paper with my address written on it was on a table. Rick was found laying on the floor of the bedroom. He was fully dressed in the clothes they saw him in last. His shirt was neatly tucked in. He was clean and well groomed. He looked like nothing was wrong. But he was dead.
Brother Bob interjects, "Not a hair out of place."
After a screaming fit, Mom called Bob, who was living in Baltimore. He came right over. Bob was the third person to enter the apartment that day. The discovery wasn't easy for him either, but at least he had warning. Bob asked my parents when will the police get here.
"You mean you didn't call anyone but me?"
"We didn't know who else to call."
Bob takes charge of everything after that. He called the police to report the death. He called everyone in the family, including me. He talked to the police, trying to get them to not question my parents so much, as they were not in good shape to answer questions.
No one had a clue as for the cause of death. We could only wait for the autopsy report.
The day of the viewing comes. Ted's wife, Sandy, is a relative I made friends with as soon as I met her. She is the mother of my favorite niece, Julie, who was 3 years old then. It was Sandy who came in the morning to take us to the funeral home.
The funeral home staff were very courteous and professional. Cindy was the first to go in the room where the casket lay. I see her stroke his hair. I was right behind her.
I'm sorry if this sounds morbid, but I was relieved to see what was in the casket. Yes, that's him all right. Now my mind could accept the reality that my brother was dead. I too stroked his hair, touched his cheek, his hands.
This is taboo in some cultures, but I didn't care. To the Jewish, to touch a dead body made one ritually unclean. My family was Catholic.
Brother Ted comes up beside me. His mood is strangely playful. He points to Rick's hands and says to me, "Did you ever see his fingernails so clean?"
He pats the chest and says, "They really stuffed him good, didn't they?"
I look at my brother with a tear stained eye and say, "Your sense of humor never wanes."
After we all had our turn at the casket, I stood facing my Dad. Then I wrapped my arms around him and cried. It was the only time I ever cried in public as an adult. I was not at all embarrassed about it. I felt I had a perfect right to do so. When I was finished, I asked, "When was the last time I cried on your shoulder, Dad?" To my surprise, he remembered. I was a little boy then, and I remembered too when he gave a brief description of the event.
It amazes me that Dad couldn't remember what he had for lunch yesterday, but he could remember that.
After the viewing there is a memorial service in the chapel, which fills up to standing room only. It made me feel good to see so many people show up. I volunteered for pallbearer duty, and participated in common eulogy. The eulogy was started by the priest. Then Cindy, then me, then a lot of other people came up to offer some words. I always knew Rick was a great guy, but it still was nice to hear other people say so. It did my heart a lot of good to hear all the wonderful praise for my dear little brother. I still think often of such beautiful testimonies I have heard.
The day of the funeral arrived. We rode in an Airstream hearse. I didn't know they made a hearse like that. There were enough seats for the pallbearers and family members. The casket rode in a compartment inside the body of the vehicle, underneath where we sat. Cindy would not stop crying. She was on crutches since she came back from her trip. It was explained that when Cindy was called to inform her about Rick's death, she ran out the door and fell down the steps, injuring her ankle.
The hearse parked in front of the church. The funeral home attendants open the compartment and slide out the casket. The pallbearers on my side politely offered me the front position, which I accepted.
Lord, the thing was heavy. Even with all the help carrying the casket, my forearm muscles ached from the weight. I will always remember the procession down the aisle of the church.
I have renounced the Catholic faith long ago, but I still appreciate the beauty of a Catholic church. They were singing "Morning has Broken," by Cat Stevens. (I learned later that he was not the actual author.) I appreciated that song a lot more than I would have any Catholic hymn. As we slowly progressed down that long aisle, all the people were standing and singing, and facing us. I made eye contact with all the faces I went by. I could read sympathy in every pair of eyes.
Prior to that time, I had made plans to legally change my name to Wildman. I was going to add a letter "L." I decided that if that's what everyone wanted to call me, then I would make it official. It was then and there that I canceled that plan. The name "Widman" had new meaning to me. It was the name I shared with my brother Rick, and I was proud of it.
I was also proud that we looked so much alike. People I didn't know seemed to recognize me as a brother of the deceased. That pleased me.
Maryland state law requires a death certificate for a burial. The death certificate required a line filled in under "cause of death." The certificate arrived to us saying, "cause of death -- pending." We would have to wait for the lab results to come back for that information, but at least we were ready for the burial.
Another arm aching tote from the hearse to the grave, and the casket is placed on the nylon web that lowers the casket down into the vault. The priest gave the final prayers, then it started to drizzle.
There was a long ritual of hand shakes and introductions. I thought it was partly because of my face that everyone wanted to shake my hand. There was a pride I never felt before when I'd say "Bill Widman" as I extended my hand. Then we went back to the parking area of the cemetery, in time to get out of the rain.
Why does it always rain at funerals?
This time we go to Sandy's car instead of the hearse. Before getting in the car, we notice Ted is not with us. Sandy went back to get him. She found Ted trying to open the casket, saying "I gotta get him out!"
Back at the funeral home, I'm sitting with Ted in the smoker's lounge, worried about him. His eyes had that vacant and far away look. He lit a cigarette but just held it. I took it from his hand when it burned all the way down. Sandy was with me. We kept talking to him, trying to bring him back. It took a while.
When Ted was ready to talk again, he told us that the impact did not hit him until he saw everyone walking away from the grave site, leaving the casket there. He was not accepting what had happened. He wanted to deny it. When he could no longer do that, he lost it.
Sandy and I had a long conversation about how different people respond differently to the same thing, especially when it's the death of a loved one. I have seen examples of that already, and I would see a lot more later. It became a subject of study for me.
to be continued...
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT - Part 2
While the website was getting it's makeover, I met with some friends to discuss plans for our observance of the 10 year anniversary of Debbie's departure from us. A lot of ideas were tossed around, and we seem to have settled on this one.
We are planning a candlelight vigil (tentatively) in the parking lot across from Jade Palace in Carrboro, on the night of November 30, 2007, into the early hours of December First.
This year Nov 30 falls on a Friday, the week after Thanksgiving, rather than on Thanksgiving Weekend. It seems to me that this will be a good time for everyone. Debbie was last seen alive in that parking lot in the early morning hours of December 1, 1997.
If no one has a better plan, I say let's plan on this.
Bring candles and pink ribbon.
Thank you;
Bill W
We are planning a candlelight vigil (tentatively) in the parking lot across from Jade Palace in Carrboro, on the night of November 30, 2007, into the early hours of December First.
This year Nov 30 falls on a Friday, the week after Thanksgiving, rather than on Thanksgiving Weekend. It seems to me that this will be a good time for everyone. Debbie was last seen alive in that parking lot in the early morning hours of December 1, 1997.
If no one has a better plan, I say let's plan on this.
Bring candles and pink ribbon.
Thank you;
Bill W
Monday, June 04, 2007
That's all for now
Bill Widman said...
Okay Everyone
I have now said everything that I wanted to say about Debbie.
I wanted to say something about Carl Fox, but John Allore, and a commenter of his, beat me to it.
Now those of you still inclined to pick up your torches and pitchforks and resume the chase may do so with my blessing. Should such an event occur, you can be sure I'll be writing about it.
But please remember the First of December.
Now someone else can have a turn.
Come on now, it's not that hard. Really.
BTW - Joy has suggested a candlelight vigil in the parking lot in Carrboro where Debbie was last seen, on Dec 1, or sometime Thanksgiving Weekend.
Another suggestion was for September 21, the birthday of DK.
Now it would just please the hell out of me if I was to find a comment in here from someone else when I come back.
If not, then I suppose I'll start writing about my brother, Rick Widman, who died at young age for reasons which, after explained, leave important questions unanswered.
I might also add my observations on how different personalities respond differently to the same thing, especially when it's the death of a loved one.
Then maybe I could explain why I'm not seeing much response in here. If someone else can explain it for me, I really wish you would.
"The wise do not pretend to know what the ignorant are sure of."
Bill the Wildman
Okay Everyone
I have now said everything that I wanted to say about Debbie.
I wanted to say something about Carl Fox, but John Allore, and a commenter of his, beat me to it.
Now those of you still inclined to pick up your torches and pitchforks and resume the chase may do so with my blessing. Should such an event occur, you can be sure I'll be writing about it.
But please remember the First of December.
Now someone else can have a turn.
Come on now, it's not that hard. Really.
BTW - Joy has suggested a candlelight vigil in the parking lot in Carrboro where Debbie was last seen, on Dec 1, or sometime Thanksgiving Weekend.
Another suggestion was for September 21, the birthday of DK.
Now it would just please the hell out of me if I was to find a comment in here from someone else when I come back.
If not, then I suppose I'll start writing about my brother, Rick Widman, who died at young age for reasons which, after explained, leave important questions unanswered.
I might also add my observations on how different personalities respond differently to the same thing, especially when it's the death of a loved one.
Then maybe I could explain why I'm not seeing much response in here. If someone else can explain it for me, I really wish you would.
"The wise do not pretend to know what the ignorant are sure of."
Bill the Wildman
My Eulogy To Debbie
Bill Widman said...
MY EULOGY TO DEBBIE
What can I say about Debbie Key? That her favorite color was pink. Her favorite place was the beach. That she loved the Pittsburgh Steelers and Patsy Cline.
She loved children and animals with profound adoration.
She loved the changing of the seasons, to see the coloring of the leaves in autumn, the first snow of winter, the first flowers of spring, and the magic of summer nights.
She was in love with life, and worshipped every day of it. Her joy and enthusiasm were freely shared with everyone she encountered.
How about her triumph after being stricken with Guillain-Barre Syndrome? Confined to a wheelchair for a time, she demonstrated a great zeal for life when it was challenged, and a spiritual fortitude that helped her overcome her affliction. Debbie continued going to concerts, and doing the things she loved during that time.
What has impressed me the most about Debbie is how she has touched the lives of so many people I have known for decades. She had a heart of gold, and her loyalty to her friends was boundless. Debbie wanted everyone to be happy. She put a lot of effort into it, and often succeeded.
I regret that I didn't get to know her as well as many of my friends, but I'm thankful to everyone who has shared their personal stories with me. I can see that she's made quite an impact. There is no doubt in my mind that she was indeed a very special person, a gift.
I always enjoy my visits to David and Chris, especially when they feel up to talking about their very special friend. David told me about how when Debbie was at their house in 1996 during Hurricane Fran, taking refuge from the storm, and she was able to persuade a lost and frightened cat into their house. Some say that Debbie could talk to animals, especially cats, and it was certainly well known that she had a great love for them. They named the cat Poupon, because he was grey, and the cat continued to live at their house until he died, not too long ago.
Whenever I talk to my friends about Debbie, I often hear the word "bubbly" used to describe her. She possesed a great talent for cheering people up, making people laugh, and inspiring people to get off their butts and have fun. Indeed, she was famous for this.
Officer Bob, as he is best known, perhaps the most popular member of the Carrboro Police Dept., once described Debbie to me as, "not a malicious bone in her body."
But Debbie was a human, not an angel, (maybe she is now) and she did have her faults. She had a tendency to drink too much, and a tendency to assume that everyone was good. These things led to her demise.
It was the Sunday night of Thanksgiving Weekend, the night before December 1, 1997, when the friends she usually hung out with at Sticks and Stones were with their families. It was then when Debbie tried to make a new friend and, perhaps for her first time, failed.
I want her killer brought to justice as much as anyone else, but not before paying tribute to the life she has lived. The many blessings she has shared with us should always be remembered. What I want to emphasise most of all is that Debbie Key is not just a "murder victim," but a special friend to us all.
Rest in peace, dear Debbie Key
Sep 21, 1962 - Dec 1, 1997
MY EULOGY TO DEBBIE
What can I say about Debbie Key? That her favorite color was pink. Her favorite place was the beach. That she loved the Pittsburgh Steelers and Patsy Cline.
She loved children and animals with profound adoration.
She loved the changing of the seasons, to see the coloring of the leaves in autumn, the first snow of winter, the first flowers of spring, and the magic of summer nights.
She was in love with life, and worshipped every day of it. Her joy and enthusiasm were freely shared with everyone she encountered.
How about her triumph after being stricken with Guillain-Barre Syndrome? Confined to a wheelchair for a time, she demonstrated a great zeal for life when it was challenged, and a spiritual fortitude that helped her overcome her affliction. Debbie continued going to concerts, and doing the things she loved during that time.
What has impressed me the most about Debbie is how she has touched the lives of so many people I have known for decades. She had a heart of gold, and her loyalty to her friends was boundless. Debbie wanted everyone to be happy. She put a lot of effort into it, and often succeeded.
I regret that I didn't get to know her as well as many of my friends, but I'm thankful to everyone who has shared their personal stories with me. I can see that she's made quite an impact. There is no doubt in my mind that she was indeed a very special person, a gift.
I always enjoy my visits to David and Chris, especially when they feel up to talking about their very special friend. David told me about how when Debbie was at their house in 1996 during Hurricane Fran, taking refuge from the storm, and she was able to persuade a lost and frightened cat into their house. Some say that Debbie could talk to animals, especially cats, and it was certainly well known that she had a great love for them. They named the cat Poupon, because he was grey, and the cat continued to live at their house until he died, not too long ago.
Whenever I talk to my friends about Debbie, I often hear the word "bubbly" used to describe her. She possesed a great talent for cheering people up, making people laugh, and inspiring people to get off their butts and have fun. Indeed, she was famous for this.
Officer Bob, as he is best known, perhaps the most popular member of the Carrboro Police Dept., once described Debbie to me as, "not a malicious bone in her body."
But Debbie was a human, not an angel, (maybe she is now) and she did have her faults. She had a tendency to drink too much, and a tendency to assume that everyone was good. These things led to her demise.
It was the Sunday night of Thanksgiving Weekend, the night before December 1, 1997, when the friends she usually hung out with at Sticks and Stones were with their families. It was then when Debbie tried to make a new friend and, perhaps for her first time, failed.
I want her killer brought to justice as much as anyone else, but not before paying tribute to the life she has lived. The many blessings she has shared with us should always be remembered. What I want to emphasise most of all is that Debbie Key is not just a "murder victim," but a special friend to us all.
Rest in peace, dear Debbie Key
Sep 21, 1962 - Dec 1, 1997
If the SQ were in a Frankenstein Movie
Bill Widman said...
For those who are familiar with the work of John Allore (of "Who Killed Theresa?" fame) I want to share a story I wrote for him.
I call it--
"If the Surete du Quebec were in a Frankenstein Movie"
Although this story takes place in a village in Germany in the 19th century, the police speak in an accent curiously resembling French Canadian.
A grief stricken man with tears in his eyes carries the lifeless body of a little girl into the village square, followed by villagers murmering to one another. The man walks directly to the police station, where he lays down the dead child and pleads with the Constable, who just happens to be standing outside.
"My little girl, she's been murdered!" cries the father.
"Oh I don't know about that." says the Constable, "Could be suicide. Maybe she was taking drugs."
"MURDERER! MURRR-DER-ER!" screams the crazy old lady we see in every Frankenstein movie. "It's that wicked Dr. Frankenstein and his evil experiments! He's the one who brought this upon us!"
"Lets all get our torches and pitchforks and find the monster who did this!" shouts the village drunkard.
"Now hold on there!" shouts the Constable. "We can't be sure if any of this has really happened!"
"What about all them graves that were dug up in the cemetery?" demands the drunkard.
"We don't know anything about that either!" says the Constable.
"FIND THE MONSTER! KILL THE MONSTER!" everyone shouts.
"Listen good people!" the Constable shouts. "If you must go running off into the hills with your torches and farming implements with the intention of klling some monster you hope to find out there, then I'm afraid I will have no choice but to look the other way!"
The angry mob storms off into the hills.
Up in the hills a big ugly monster is seen running for his life by two hunters carrying rifles. One of them shoots him, only to get his neck broken by the monster who continues to run. The other hunter decides not to do the same thing himself, but runs likity-split to the village instead.
Outside the police station two officers see a madman with a rifle running and screaming toward the entrance. "I'm afraid it will become very hard to ignore this." says the first officer. "Then we must make extra effort to do so." says the second officer.
Inside the station, the hunter meets the Constable, huffing and puffing from the long run. "Well, what is it, Man?" says the Constable.
"Aurgh! Monster! Big! Horrible! Aurgh! Killed my friend! Aurgh! Shared the scit out of me! Aurgh!"
"Don't know what you're talking about." says the constable. "I suggest you go home and try to forget about it!"
The villagers arrive brandishing their torches at the top of the hill, with their pitchforks, axes, and other implements of destruction, just in time to see the monster duck inside the windmill, which they proceed to set on fire. They gather around to watch it burn down, making sure the monster does not escape.
In the morning the police are there among the smoking remains of the windmill, where they find the body of the Frankenstein Monster.
"Looks like they killed him, Sir." an officer reports.
"Oh I don't know about that." the Constable says. "Could be suicide. Maybe he was taking drugs."
For those who are familiar with the work of John Allore (of "Who Killed Theresa?" fame) I want to share a story I wrote for him.
I call it--
"If the Surete du Quebec were in a Frankenstein Movie"
Although this story takes place in a village in Germany in the 19th century, the police speak in an accent curiously resembling French Canadian.
A grief stricken man with tears in his eyes carries the lifeless body of a little girl into the village square, followed by villagers murmering to one another. The man walks directly to the police station, where he lays down the dead child and pleads with the Constable, who just happens to be standing outside.
"My little girl, she's been murdered!" cries the father.
"Oh I don't know about that." says the Constable, "Could be suicide. Maybe she was taking drugs."
"MURDERER! MURRR-DER-ER!" screams the crazy old lady we see in every Frankenstein movie. "It's that wicked Dr. Frankenstein and his evil experiments! He's the one who brought this upon us!"
"Lets all get our torches and pitchforks and find the monster who did this!" shouts the village drunkard.
"Now hold on there!" shouts the Constable. "We can't be sure if any of this has really happened!"
"What about all them graves that were dug up in the cemetery?" demands the drunkard.
"We don't know anything about that either!" says the Constable.
"FIND THE MONSTER! KILL THE MONSTER!" everyone shouts.
"Listen good people!" the Constable shouts. "If you must go running off into the hills with your torches and farming implements with the intention of klling some monster you hope to find out there, then I'm afraid I will have no choice but to look the other way!"
The angry mob storms off into the hills.
Up in the hills a big ugly monster is seen running for his life by two hunters carrying rifles. One of them shoots him, only to get his neck broken by the monster who continues to run. The other hunter decides not to do the same thing himself, but runs likity-split to the village instead.
Outside the police station two officers see a madman with a rifle running and screaming toward the entrance. "I'm afraid it will become very hard to ignore this." says the first officer. "Then we must make extra effort to do so." says the second officer.
Inside the station, the hunter meets the Constable, huffing and puffing from the long run. "Well, what is it, Man?" says the Constable.
"Aurgh! Monster! Big! Horrible! Aurgh! Killed my friend! Aurgh! Shared the scit out of me! Aurgh!"
"Don't know what you're talking about." says the constable. "I suggest you go home and try to forget about it!"
The villagers arrive brandishing their torches at the top of the hill, with their pitchforks, axes, and other implements of destruction, just in time to see the monster duck inside the windmill, which they proceed to set on fire. They gather around to watch it burn down, making sure the monster does not escape.
In the morning the police are there among the smoking remains of the windmill, where they find the body of the Frankenstein Monster.
"Looks like they killed him, Sir." an officer reports.
"Oh I don't know about that." the Constable says. "Could be suicide. Maybe he was taking drugs."
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT - Part 1
Bill Widman said...
10 Year Anniversary
This year, on December first, will be the 10 year anniversary of Debbie's departure.
I think an observance is due to commemorate the occasion. What do you think?
Here's what I had in mind.
Does anyone remember that jogger who was killed on Estes Dr. back in the early 90's? It was near Phillips Middle School. What I remember best about that was the arrangement of flowers on that spot that kept getting bigger as more people went by. I remember the day the jurors for the killer's trial were taken to the location, and they cleared all the memorabilia away so as not to "bias" the jury with the display. Then the very next day the flowers and baskets began to appear and grow again.
Well now I was thinking we could make one of those, right here, on this website. Maybe we could get people to send in pictures, stories, and other Debbie memorabilia and arrange it together on a page. Let us make a shrine to Debbie.
If anyone else has any ideas, please don't keep me waiting.
Bill the Wildman
10 Year Anniversary
This year, on December first, will be the 10 year anniversary of Debbie's departure.
I think an observance is due to commemorate the occasion. What do you think?
Here's what I had in mind.
Does anyone remember that jogger who was killed on Estes Dr. back in the early 90's? It was near Phillips Middle School. What I remember best about that was the arrangement of flowers on that spot that kept getting bigger as more people went by. I remember the day the jurors for the killer's trial were taken to the location, and they cleared all the memorabilia away so as not to "bias" the jury with the display. Then the very next day the flowers and baskets began to appear and grow again.
Well now I was thinking we could make one of those, right here, on this website. Maybe we could get people to send in pictures, stories, and other Debbie memorabilia and arrange it together on a page. Let us make a shrine to Debbie.
If anyone else has any ideas, please don't keep me waiting.
Bill the Wildman
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