An Im-Possum-Able Situation

It all started at three a.m. on Friday. Mulder gave out one of his ferocious growl-barks that tells me that something is really wrong. I heard him hit the back gate with a crash, and I flashed back to his attack a few years ago on the idiot who tried to get into my house. But more likely would be that he found someone tagging our brick wall that faces the back alley. Before I could pull myself out of bed, Bailey dashed out of my room, adding her barks to the chorus.
When I stepped out into the backyard, sure enough, I could hear a hissing, like someone using a spray can. My pulse quickened in anger as I strode to the gate, ready to do battle with the little punk. Both dogs were at the gate, but Bailey wasn’t acting like the culprit was on the other side. She was looking at the top. I’m not sure if it was relief or disappointment that I felt that I wasn’t going to catch a tagger red handed. Instead, there was a small possum on top of the gate, too terrified to move. The only thing it could do was hold on for dear life as the gate jolted under Mulder’s assaults and hiss at them.

I picked Bailey up and brought her into the house, with Mulder obediently following me, albeit grudgingly. From the kitchen window, I saw the little possum finally move on towards the neighbor’s house. When the little guy was out of sight, I released the dogs and went back to bed, thinking that everything was okay. Boy was I wrong.

I had a heck of a time going back to sleep until my alarm went off. Then I fell asleep, getting 10 minutes of REM at a time. Why couldn’t this have been my Golden Friday? I groggily showered, fed the dogs, and got ready for work. Just as I was leaving my room, Bailey came prancing into my room. She only prances like that when she has a new toy or a treat. I looked closer at what she had in her mouth. The baby possum. No!

She dropped the body at my feet, and I heard a sound that broke my heart: a painful mewing. It was still alive but not moving. What the hell was I going to do with it? I ran out to get gloves and paper towels, still not sure what I was going to do. I hoped it would still be there on my bedroom floor when I got back, that it hadn’t been “playing possum” and would be hiding somewhere in my room. Or that Bailey wouldn’t have grabbed it again and brought it up on my bed so she could play with it some more. It was still there.

I gingerly picked it up and cradled it in my hands, the pragmatic part of me glad that it was still alive so that any ticks or fleas wouldn’t jump off. I’d never looked closely at a possum, and OMG they are cute! It alternated between crying, hissing at me, and panting, kind of like the sounds I was making. It had a puncture wound on its neck and another on its lower spine. I recognized Mulder’s handiwork there. Both areas were bleeding profusely, and it was obvious that it was mortally wounded. I knew I should have just snapped its neck, but then it made eye contact with me and mewed again. It was suffering, but I couldn’t do it. Instead, I wimped out and dropped it in the garbage can outside. I figured that it would be dead in a few minutes. I was late for work and there was still blood on the floor to clean up. I needn’t have worried about the blood… Bailey kindly licked it up for me. Barf.

I couldn’t shake the thoughts of the possum all day at work, and when I got home, I told my sister about it. Together we went out to the garbage can and peeked at it. It was still alive. WTF? This time it was me that let out the pathetic mewing. I asked Janice to get me something to kill it with, and she brought me a breaker bar – a long narrow tool that I use to cut through roots, hard dirt, or cement. Perfect.

I begged the possum’s forgiveness and apologized over and over as I slammed the blade of the breaker bar down on its neck, figuring that beheading it would be a quick and thorough kill. Wrong. It took a few strikes to completely sever it.
I’ve “dispatched” mice that have been caught in traps in my office at work, and with the quick kills, I didn’t feel like a murderer. I’d simply put them out of their misery. But this one was different. Maybe it was that it had been in my room, crying in pain. Maybe it was because we’d made eye contact. Maybe because I’d held it in my hands. Whatever the reason, this one took a piece of my heart with it.

Janice, ever quick with a joke to lighten things up, pointed out that I’d fulfilled one step in the homicidal triad: animal torture. The other two in the triad are bedwetting, and fire starting. In turn, I pointed out that I’d nearly peed my pants when I had to kill it. And, I am the BBQ maestro and play with that fire … so I’ve fulfilled all three parts of the triad. Mwahahahahah!

Functions of the Police

As many of you know, I have just finished my BS in Occupational Safety and Health and am about halfway through with my BS in Criminal Justice.  The class du jour is Juvenile Delinquency, and one of the texts is Juvenile Justice in America by Bartollas and Miller.  Last night, just before turning my light out, I read the most amazing sentence about the duties of the police (enforcing the law and maintaining order), and this morning, I had to pull the text out and see if I’d imagined it:

 

            The maintenance of order function involves such tasks as settling family disputes, directing traffic, furnishing information to citizens, providing emergency ambulance service, preventing suicides, giving shelter to homeless persons and alcoholics, and checking the homes of families on vacation.

 

Huh?!  In what utopia would this be?  Thinking that this must be an ancient text, I checked the publication date, but it’s the 6^th edition, 2011. 

 

In 2000 I spent 6 months of hell as a 911 operator in Santa Clara, California, a suburb of about 100,000 people – certainly not a big city, but not a small town, either.  Granted, I’m partial to my beautiful city and think very highly of our police force, but in my wildest dreams I cannot imagine them performing some of the functions listed in that sentence.  Sure, directing traffic and furnishing information to citizens are pretty standard.  And attempting to talk someone down from a suicide attempt is conceivable, but the others items on the list?  I don’t think so.

 

‘Settling family disputes’ would be a stretch – breaking up a domestic argument by separating the participants would be conceivable, but our officers are not therapists or family counselors.  I remember an ugly incident between my sister and her spouse that resulted in the police being called; when the police arrived, they said it was a civil matter – they could not get involved. 

 

In places like Sunnyvale, California, where the Police Department and Fire Departments are combined, I can see providing an injured party a ride to the hospital, but certainly not to be considered ‘ambulance service.’  Would this be something done in a rural area? 

 

I can see in rural areas or very small towns the police checking on the homes of people who are on vacation, but that wouldn’t fly in most areas. 

 

But the ‘duty’ in that sentence that really blew me away was ‘giving shelter to homeless persons and alcoholics.’  The closest I can come to imagining this was back as the 911 operator when I got a call from some kids who had come from out of the area to visit the amusement park, Great America.  They assumed that there would be plenty of hotels or motels and hadn’t made any reservations.  Unfortunately for them, in the middle of Silicon Valley, hotels are usually booked to capacity during the week.  Thankfully it was a slow night in the Communications Center, so it was the 911 operators who called around to hotels and found a room for the kids, and one officer, who was going off duty offered to give them a ride to it.  But to give shelter to the homeless?  Really?  And alcoholics?  ROFL! 

 

I’d love to hear if anyone has ever seen or heard of a police department that performs these functions.  Speak up!

 

 

Evil, Evil Balloons

BOOOOOM!

 

In the spring of 2007 I was a witness to the aftermath of people doing something stupid.  Okay, maybe not stupid, just ill-advised without consideration to the possible outcomes of their actions…

 

I had just been promoted and was working in my office late on a Saturday night.   The explosion came without any warning, sending my heart to my throat.  What the hell?!  There was only one other person in the building, so I let him know that I was going out to investigate.  I noticed a few things:  there was a party going on at the hall across the street – a wedding reception, it turns out – and some bushes on fire on the corner.  I went back into my building and let my coworker know what I’d seen; he called 911 and relayed the information (he’s in charge of the electric utility system, so I know he did a whole lot more than just call 911, but this is MY story, not his – sorry Mike).

 

When I went back to the front of my building, I noticed something worse: there was smoke coming from the roof of the party hall.  I yelled to Mike again to give him an update and dashed out to go help.  There weren’t many people outside, so I guessed that people did not know that their building was on fire.  The power was out in the building, but the majority of the people were in the back lawn area.  I corralled the first person I found.   Fortunately, he, too, knew a little bit about building search and evacuation, so we teamed up and cleared the building. 

 

As usual in Santa Clara, the Fire Department arrived within three minutes of having received the 911 call.  We’d already cleared most of the building, and I was attending to a woman who had a burn on her hand.  And on her dress.  Her wedding dress.  I felt a tug on my arm and looked up at a man whose eyes were wide with shock or fear, I’m not sure which.  He pointed to a wire on the ground, and my heart was once again in my throat.  It was a power line.  They most certainly are not supposed to be on the ground.  I hurriedly escorted people away from the line and got the fire department to the area.  The line wasn’t moving, and I knew the power was out in the building, but one rule to live by when dealing with electricity is that if you don’t know for absolutely certain that a line is dead, you must assume that it is live.  Someone touching it could get fried. 

 

Everything finally clicked in my head, and I felt stupid for it having taken me so long to put it all together.  Something had taken the power line down.  The burned remains of Mylar balloons were on the ground.  Ah ha!  The culprit!

 

It didn’t take the Fire Department long to extinguish the fire on the roof (it wasn’t too bad) and the bigger fire in the bushes.  I continued to help the bride make sure that all of her guests were safe.  During that time, she told me what had happened.  The reception was breaking up, and everyone thought it would be beautiful to release the Mylar balloons and watch them soar away.  Except that’s not quite what happened. 

 

None of the guests noticed the overhead power lines. 

 

When the balloons were released, they went directly into the lines.  I won’t get technical here, but what happens when Mylar balloons contact power lines is a great big BOOM.  In this case, the strand of line between two poles burned away from their connections at the poles and dropped.  One end landed on the hall’s roof, catching the roof on fire, and then dropped down into the party.  It hit the bride’s hand and then her dress.  The front of her dress melted and shriveled up; it looked like burned plastic.  The other end of the line burned at the next pole and dropped into the bushes, catching them on fire.

 

It was amazing that the minor burn on the bride’s hand was the extent of the medical injuries.  But from what I saw, the incident may have been the beginning of a different type of fatality.  Granted, I didn’t know the wedding couple, but my impression of their dynamics was not a positive one.  During the entire incident, the only thing the groom did was summon the limo and snivel about how long the bride was taking to get her hand looked at by the Fire Department.  And then he started yelling when she just wanted to be sure her guests were safe, ordering her to get into the limo.

 

It had been a beautiful, clear, cloudless night.  I couldn’t help but feel that since it wasn’t possible to have lightning strike, having a power line drop was the next best thing.  A more distinct sign of a doomed marriage couldn’t exist. 

 

But the wedding isn’t the reason for this blog.  The Mylar balloons are.  Yes, they are pretty, and yes, they hold the helium nicely, but they are the bane of overhead power lines.  Laws require that these balloons are tied to a weight to keep them from flying away.  Unfortunately, the people who buy the balloons don’t recognize the hazard these represent and will, like the wedding party, let the balloons go. 

 

My neighborhood had a power outage this last weekend.   It was caused by… you guessed it… those evil, evil Mylar balloons. 

 

They should be outlawed. 

Book Review: Michelle Gagnon’s Don’t Turn Around

Michelle Gagnon’s Don’t Turn Around

Noa, a victim of the broken foster care system, has ingeniously broken free from “the system” through her computer hacking abilities and has set up a nice life for herself…until she wakes up in a warehouse, wearing only a hospital gown and an IV. Using her street smarts and a spunk I wish I had, she escapes, but those who were holding her aren’t just going to let her go. The chase is on.

Believing that she cannot trust any authority figure, she works with her “hacktivist” friends and makes a chilling discovery: A new disease is afflicting adolescents, and there are people who would do anything to stop it – including experimenting on unwilling subjects.

When it comes to reading, I want something that will take me away from reality. I want to be someone else, be somewhere else. So when I review a book, these are the questions I ask:

• Did I identify with the protagonist, antagonist, or other character?
• Did I ‘buy in’ or believe the story could really happen?
• Did the world envelope me?
• Did my heart race?
• Could I put the book down… or did I have to keep turning pages?
• Did I think about the book when I wasn’t reading?
• Was the ending satisfying or full of #$%$?

The picture that Michelle Gagnon paints of the foster care system is, unfortunately, a reality. Not all foster care systems are that bleak, but there are problems that seriously need to be addressed worldwide. Noa is a character that I could get behind, rooting for her at every twist and turn. Her hactivist friend, Peter, comes from a well-to-do family, but even though he has pretty much every physical thing he could want, his life isn’t perfect either. These two come from completely different backgrounds and circumstances, but I can identify with both of them on different levels. I am totally in their corners.

I must admit that I rarely read a book more than once (Adams’s Watership Down is the only book that I’ve read more than twice), but I was so intrigued by the setting and circumstances in Don’t Turn Around, that I read it again. The second time was just as exciting as the first time, too. Another rarity for me: I finished it in one weekend (and my weeds in the front yard can attest to the fact that I didn’t do anything else the whole weekend except read). The ending, though, was greatly disappointing to me – only because I wasn’t ready for it to end! Yes, everything was tidy, no loose ends – normally what I would consider a very satisfying end, but I cannot wait for the sequel. Hurry up, Michelle! I need it now!

Contact your local independent bookseller to get your copy of Don’t Turn Around. Support your indies!

Or, if you simply cannot wait, you can get a copy from Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/dp/0062102907

To keep up to date on Michelle Gagnon, check out her site on the web at http://www.michellegagnon.com

Michelle also blogs on two sites:

http://www.killzoneauthors.blogspot.com/

http://adr3nalin3.blogspot.com

My Dogs, My Heroes, My Heart

I cannot deny it. My dogs are spoiled rotten. But there is a reason, a really good one. It’s not just that Mulder is so gorgeous that he takes my breath away. And not because my stress level drops when I get home and see his toothy grin in the window, head bobbing back and forth because his tail is wagging his entire body. And it’s not just Bailey’s undeniable spirit or that she’s always ready to give comfort and warmth. No, it’s much deeper than that.

Let me tell you the story…

We had just moved into our house a few months earlier. It was one of those wonderful California fall nights, warm enough to have the doors and windows open. I think it was the first time since we’d moved in that I was actually home alone. Well, somewhat alone. I was playing my favorite MMORPG game, Final Fantasy XI, with dozens of my closest friends in the world (/cheer Soymilk and Pocket Aces Linkshells in Carbuncle!). I was in the front bedroom that we made into an office; the window looked out onto the porch. Of course, it was dark out, so I couldn’t see anything outside… but I would have been nicely framed in the window for anyone walking by… or coming up to the front door.

When the dogs started barking, I ignored them. I really didn’t need to know each time a leaf fell on the lawn or a squirrel ran by. But then Mulder appeared at my side. He’s a big Chow Chow and German Shepherd mix. His bark – when he really means it – commands attention. I turned and looked at him and knew that it was serious. I quickly told my friends in the game that I was going afk (NOT advisable for the healer of the group to suddenly take off in the middle of a battle), and followed Mulder out of the room and towards the front door.

Suddenly Mulder was in the air, leaping at the screen door. My eyes were riveted to the handle of the screen. The lock had been broken, and the door was opening. Mulder hit the door with a crash that was loud enough to wake the neighborhood. I caught my first glimpse of the person: close to 6 feet, maybe 180 pounds, wearing a dark hoodie, gloves, and jeans. I couldn’t see his face, just a vague impression of scruffy stubble that was, perhaps, intended to be a moustache.

The intruder, showing a glimmer of intelligence, turned and tried to run. He was slowed down a great deal by the dog that was attached to his ass. With a heave, he managed to get over the porch railing and high tail it away. I was quite disappointed by his escape: he somehow avoided all of the cacti. When I looked at Mulder, I was amused to see a large scrap of jean in his mouth. Good boy!

So there you have it. Mulder earned his kibbles (and walks, and toys, and treats, and absolutely anything else his heart desires). Bailey, bless her heart, prudently stood on the couch and barked a warning to all other potential intruders.

I didn’t call the police about the incident. “Why?” you ask. Because I’d heard too many stories about dogs being taken into “custody” after saving their owners. Oh, hell no. This dog was not going to leave my side. Wait, maybe it’s more like I’m not leaving his side. Another reason was that I wanted the guy to tell all his friends to stay away from this house.

I never replaced the screen door, although I did put a strong lock on it. The screen is bowed from where Mulder hit it. It amuses me.

Mulder, my beloved, and Bailey, my heart: You can have anything. I will give you the world.

Death Row Inmate Stanworth

Dennis Stanworth has been called an evil man. In 1965 and 1966, he committed some atrocious crimes in California and was sentenced to death.

• August 12, 1965. Approximately 5:30 pm.
o Richmond, CA, outside a shopping center (Contra Costa County).
o 20 year old nursing student.
o Forced his way into her vehicle, threatened her with a knife.
o Bound, stripped, raped, choked into unconsciousness, threatened to kill her.
o Afterwards, he told her that he was sorry and was glad that he’d not killed her. He promised that he would never do it again.

• November 4, 1965. Approximately 8:30 pm.
o El Sobrante, CA, outside a shopping center (Contra Costa County).
o 24 year old married mother of four.
o Blitz attacked her with ice pick, pulled her into a vacant field.
o Bound, stripped, raped, robbed, threatened to kill her.

• May 13, 1966. Approximately 9 pm.
o Richmond, CA, outside school parking lot (Contra Costa County).
o 17 year old high school student.
o Forced his way into her vehicle, threatened her with a knife.
o Bound, stripped, beat, forced oral copulation, threatened to kill her.

• August 1, 1966. Morning.
o Along a highway in Pinole, CA (Contra Costa County).
o Susan, 14, and Caree, 15, high school students.
o Picked up hitchhiking teens, drove to secluded area, kept girls under control with a gun.
o Shot Caree in the head. Shot Susan in the head and raped her dead body.
o Bodies found on August 3. Susan was still alive, although comatose.

• August 3, 1966. Approximately 8:15 pm.
o Pacifica, CA, outside a shopping center (San Mateo County).
o 18 year old girl.
o Forced his way into her vehicle, threatened her with a knife.
o Robbed, bound, beat, choked, raped.
o Left the girl on the beach and stole her car.

The stolen car was his undoing. He was caught within a few hours. While in custody in San Mateo County, Stanworth voluntarily admitted to his crimes. He asked for the Contra Costa County authorities to come, and he again admitted what he had done. On August 18, 1966, Stanworth was indicted in Contra Costa County with the following:
• 1 count of murder
• 1 count of kidnapping to commit robbery with bodily harm
• 4 counts of kidnapping
• 3 counts of forcible rape
• 1 count of sexual perversion
• 1 count of robbery
• 1 count of assault with intent to commit murder

When Caree died from her injuries on September 12, 1966, without having regained consciousness, a second indictment was handed down for another murder, and removed the count of assault with intent to commit murder.

Stanworth first submitted pleas of not guilty by reason of insanity, but when two psychiatrists certified that he was completely sane, he changed his pleas to guilty. Because this was a capital murder that qualified for the death penalty, he had to have a sentencing trial with a jury. He attempted to get this waived, but the request was denied. The jury “fixed the penalty on each of the murder counts at death and one the kidnapping count at life imprisonment without possibility of parole” (People v. Stanworth, 71 Cal.2d 820, p.1).

Stanworth fought the courts on the mandatory death sentence appeal. He asserted again and again that he was guilty, the trial was fair, and the sentence was correct. He begged the courts to kill him. He remained on Death Row.

So why do I bring up this history? Because just a few days ago, Stanworth called the police to report that he had killed his 90-year-old mother “on or about” November 6, 2012. The police investigated, and sure enough, a body was found outside the house that Stanworth shares with his wife and father-in-law in Vallejo, CA. What?! How could he be there … he was on Death Row, right? Wrong.

In 1972, California decided that the death penalty was unconstitutional and commuted the sentences of those on Death Row to life. This is where things become confusing. Because the sentences did not specify life without parole, he was eligible for parole. However, according to the aforementioned appeal, the kidnapping penalty did specify life without parole. Regardless, in 1990, he showed remorse at the parole hearing and was granted parole.

I am confused here with these findings. If the parole board had done any of the checking that they are required to do – even just reading the appeals decision, as I did, they would have seen that this was his methodology. He apologized to his first victim and swore he would never do it again. Yet he did. He testified in court that he admitted his crimes to the San Mateo County and Contra Costa County authorities because “I couldn’t live with it no more. I just … I just had to get it off my chest. I knew it was wrong and I just had to tell somebody.”

Whatever the reasoning for the Board’s ineptitude, and the governor’s for going along with it, Stanworth found himself free after only serving 23 years on Death Row for 12 felonies, including two first-degree murders.

Stanford University law professor Robert Weisberg is reported in the papers as having said, “Paroling a murderer who has served a long sentence is empirically a pretty safe proposition. The recidivism rate for lifers on parole is pretty low.” He does add a caveat to that: Inmates with sex crime backgrounds do not fall into that category.
Those that were on Death Row and had their sentences changed to life are called “The Class of ’72.” There were 107 inmates on that list, and 42 ended up getting paroled. Of those, according to figures that are 10 years old, only 12 had been charged and/or convicted of new crimes. Two of those, Darryl Kemp and Robert Lee Massie, killed again. Now you can add Stanworth to that list.

For us writers, this case is a fantastic source of ideas. But for all citizens, this is a very scary situation. What are your thoughts?

Where Do Your Ideas Come From?

This is another of those dreaded questions that authors get asked.  Do you remember the ‘80s movie, Arthur with Dudley Moore?  He was sitting in the back of his car – was it a Rolls? – and starts laughing.  He said, “Sometimes I just think funny things.”  Or at least that’s how I remember the movie.  Anyway, that’s kind of the same thing with a lot of writers.  Sure, there are some who are methodical, some who do extensive research, or whatever, but it’s the everyday things that trigger ideas. 

 

Personally, my brain never stops.  I might see something happen, say, a stupid driver cuts off another car on the freeway.  My mind starts playing with it… What was the person thinking – or perhaps simply not thinking – to make him do something so reckless?  Or what would have happened if the driver of the other car wasn’t paying attention and hit him?   So my mind starts playing with the different scenarios, and depending on my mood, it can be really dark or light and funny. 

 

But most of the time, my ideas come from Hellifino.  A lot of writers, comedians, inventors, and such spend a great deal of time in Hellifino.  Hellifino is a place of volcanoes where ideas just come bubbling up to the surface, demanding attention.  Sometimes the ideas that burst out are brilliant and bright, demanding attention, getting ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaaahs’ with their over-the-top spectacle.  Others just ooze out and creep on their dark bellies to hide under the surface and ferment, waiting for just the right time to spring out on the unsuspecting with claws and dripping fangs tearing into the writer’s psyche.  Those are the ones I like. 

The Dreaded “About Me”

About Me: Does anyone else hate that field as much as I do? What in the world should I put there? What do I want people to know?

Should I put stuff about my work? I love my work, but would anyone else even want to hear about it? I’m lucky to have a job that I enjoy. I’m passionate about safety, so being able to spend each day making sure that the workers are safe is awesome. But as much as I love it, I’m looking forward to the day I can retire in eight years… okay, seven years and eleven months, but who’s counting? I have other things I want to do.

I could put all kinds of stuff about my family, but I’d probably get in trouble and they’d stop talking to me, so I’d better not. Hmm. I’ll have to give that some more thought. That could be kind of fun… I’m lucky to have a lot of siblings. For the most part, we all get along well. A few hickups here and there. I just got back from a cruise with two of my sisters. When’s the next one, girls?! But better yet, I have a son who is the light of my life. When I’m 100, he’ll still have to put up with being my little boy.

The other shining lights in my life are my doggies. I can’t imagine life without them. Every ounce of love I give them comes back tenfold. My heart melts every time I look at them. (My wallet melts every time I go shopping for them, too.)

Writing is another of my loves. At work I “get” to write analytical or procedural @#%$%#; at school it’s those blasted essays and term papers; but then it comes down to the wee hours of the night when my imagination is brimming, and the blank pages start filling up with the terrible ordeals that I make my characters handle. Now THAT is some fun!

So what can I possibly write in that dreaded “About Me” column? I don’t have a clue. Do you?