The Face of a Murderer

Almost twenty years ago, a woman named Bonnie Hector was murdered a few miles outside of our city.  She worked for Geico insurance company in a small office along a busy highway, but not in a densely-populated area.  The property was adjacent to the Fort Drum military base, and a trail ran along the back of the building.

It appeared that she had come out of the building at the end of the work day and was shot and robbed on her way to the car.  The evidence seemed to indicate that her assailant had come and gone on a bike via the trail behind the building.

A couple of days later, I went into a bargain store that I frequented at the time for basic household supplies.  I nearly always used my credit card there, so I was surprised for multiple reasons when the clerk said, “Do they usually ask to see your ID when you use your card?”

I thought this a strange question for multiple reasons:

            *I used the card there regularly and had never been asked for my ID.

*He was the clerk and should have been trained in the store’s procedure.  Why would he ask the customer?

*Did he not understand that running my card through the computer meant there was an automatic check on the validity of the card?

I sized him up making eye contact.  He was young…probably late teens, a good-looking black fellow, polite when he spoke, nothing stood out as being odd about him.  But, his question caused me to look at his name tag and notice that he had an unusual first name…Provard.  I had never heard that first name before, so it locked in my brain.

I told him that I was not asked for my ID, but that it was my understanding that the card was computer checked when it was run through the machine to make sure it was not stolen.

He put my purchases in a bag, handed me the receipt, and off I went.  The fact that the encounter seemed strange stuck with me.

Within a few days, Provard Jones was arrested for the murder and robbery of the woman from the insurance office.  It was then that it was revealed that it was not just the money bag from the day that had been stolen, but also, her purse….with her credit cards.

I was chilled to realize that the pleasant store clerk was a murderer, and that his question to me was an attempt to figure out whether he could safely use her credit cards.  The card I used that day was a Mastercard with a picture of Boldt Castle on the front.  Clerks sometimes commented that they hadn’t seen a card of that type with that picture before.  I wondered whether she had the same card with the same picture, and if that prompted him to ask me his question.

I called the detective on the case and told him my story.  It was not evidence, but it spoke to his callousness.  The case did not go to trial.  Mr. Jones took a plea deal and got 30 years to life.

I am thinking about this, because yesterday I was in a store and the clerk gave me the creeps.  He looked miserably unhappy and his face and voice were expressionless as he handed me the receipt and said, “Have a great day.”

I wonder what his story is.

            

Looking for Inspiration

I have a head full of ideas swirling around, and it seems as though some of them should crash into each other and precipitate out into an interesting story worth reading.  But no….

I actually got to this point a few minutes ago, and my cursor disappeared, and I could not type on the page. I had to do a restart. An omen?

In the interest of promoting aforementioned congealing of thoughts, I will list them.

*spending about 18 hours in a roomette on Amtrak has caused me to think very descriptively of the experience beginning with the sensation of being in such a small space that is overall blue in color from the seat cushions to the pleated curtains to the dark, dark blue of the night sky out the window.  I have never taken this ride so soon after Christmas before, and it was enjoyable to see the Christmas lights as we passed through towns and villages along the route.  There ought to be a mystery story set on the train, where so many strangers are in such proximity.

*sitting in the Amtrak terminal, I observe that the majority of the passengers on the auto-train are elderly.  I overheard someone wondering about average age.  I amused myself by trying to picture what various couples might have looked like on their wedding day forty or fifty or more years ago.  What secrets have their lives held?  With so many old folks in one place, is a medical emergency imminent?

*I am currently sitting on the balcony of a condo on Amelia Island.  The noise of the surf, the blue of the sky, the warm breeze of salt air are so very different from the setting I left a couple of days ago.  This is a wonderful spot for an adventure story or a romance.

*There are so many vile comments floating around on the internet about Obama and Trump.  The nation seems divided and itching for anarchy.  Perhaps it is a time to write social commentary.

*Gee….I feel sort of guilty and self-indulgent.  The condo is huge and beautiful….much more space than we need.  Do I deserve this comfort when there is such pain and suffering in the world?  Should I be writing something brooding and introspective?

Maybe I’ll go read a book.  It seems I don’t have the inspiration to write one.

Or perhaps, take a nap….a self-indulgent nap…..

Unanswered Cry, Breaking Heart

Recently I visited my newest grandchild for 10 days.  He was about 5 weeks old…still technically a newborn.  All babies cry…it is normal.  Those who don’t are either weak or sick.  They cry because they have no other way to communicate their needs.

One day as I held him and tried to comfort him I told him that his crying was “breaking my heart.”  I should not have said this in front of his two year-old sister, who got a horrified look on her face and said, “He is breaking Grandma’s heart!”  I tried to explain to her that I was just trying to say that it made me sad to see him cry, and that I was sad when she cried too.

But….I, of course, knew that his mother was near-by and was available to nurse him, if it was hunger that was causing the crying.  We would change his diaper, rock him, walk the floor with him and do whatever else we could to comfort him.

What really “breaks my heart” is the knowledge that there are many babies and children in this world right now, who are crying, and whose cries will not be responded to by a loving parent.

There are parents who are not loving, who really didn’t want this child.

There are parents who are self-absorbed.  The child is not their priority.  Perhaps, video games or their cell phone or drugs or going out to drink are more important.

There are loving parents who cannot respond.  Perhaps they are lying dead in the rubble of Aleppo or some other war-torn spot.  The child will cry over and over until too weak to cry and may die unheeded and uncomforted.

A few years ago, a single mother in my city died in her apartment shortly after giving birth.  She had no local family, and apparently, no friends.  No one checked on her after her discharge from the hospital.  Her baby starved to death before anyone found them.  It made me sick at heart to think of people in adjacent apartments who might have heard the crying baby and just assumed it was normal fussing, rather than realizing it was a desperate cry for life itself.  Compassionate people, who would have helped, drove by on the busy street in front of the apartment oblivious to the need.

I cannot solve the problems in Syria or Africa or even in my own city.  I can only deal with the needs that God allows me to see…the crying He allows me to hear, but there are times when the burden of the crying children in this world weighs on my heart and “breaks” it.

Manipulation

I absolutely abhor manipulation.  I think it is disrespectful and arrogant, and I have a very broad definition of it.

I have sometimes been criticized for being too “honest.”  I tend to tell people the truth…whether or not they want to hear it.  I also tend to be animated when I speak, and I am sometimes misinterpreted as being adversarial when that is not my intent.  This is coming to mind now, because yesterday while discussing a topic about which I feel strongly, the person to whom I was speaking said, “I am not the enemy here.”  I didn’t think that she was.  I had no intent to be accusatory. The topic was one about which I felt strongly and thought she did too.  I suspect, however, that because of the type of work she does, she often finds herself in an adversarial position.

The same person was later explaining her approach in some situations where she purposely does not say what she is really thinking and puts on a tone of voice other than her normal one.  I understand doing that to be less threatening, but I wonder at what point does that cross over into manipulation?  I wonder if the people with whom she “makes nice” know that she is playing a game with them.  When people do that to me, I find myself laughing inside.

When I was in nursing school back in the dark ages, we were taught how to speak to doctors in situations where we thought they were missing something.  How do you make a suggestion to this person whose place in the hierarchy is above your own?  What we were taught smacks of manipulation to me.  It means, “I see something you don’t see, but I can’t offend you by telling you that, so instead I am going to play this silly game where I pretend to be dumb and just asking an innocent question.”

I like to come at people head on and put all my cards on the table.  I think that shows that I respect them as equals.  If I have an agenda and I am being sly in the way I present it, that seems to me to be arrogant.  I think it says that I don’t respect them, so I am leading them without them recognizing that they are about to do what I want, rather than having an open discussion that leads to a mutual understanding and plan of action.

When I was a young woman, I decided that flirting was manipulative.  This did not get me many dates, but dating wasn’t my objective.  I wanted a life-long relationship based on respect and honesty.  If I can make a man do what I want by flirtation, am I not showing that I am superior to him?  That is no basis for working through a life-time of challenges.

I have worked with men in some settings without any difficulty and in others where I apparently was supposed to defer to them and not express my opinions too vigorously.  I know some men like flirtation.  Do some also like manipulation?

I suppose there is a balance between being so deferential that it is manipulative and being so open that it is offensive.  I tip toward the latter. 

I am also a very poor liar and would be a terrible poker player.

Nasty Women

A lot has been said recently about “Nasty Women,” and there seem to be many women proud of being labeled with that term.

I really hate it when the meaning of a perfectly good word is hijacked and made to mean something else!  I wish women would fight against being labeled with “nasty” rather than accepting it as a badge of honor.

A couple of years ago, it became popular to quote Sheryl Sandberg who had expressed the idea that the same characteristic which in boys is called leadership is called bossiness in girls.  I like the idea of refusing to be labeled bossy, just because one is assertive and full of ideas.

One of my granddaughters once called me and asked me what it means to be Type-A.  Her mother had told her that she and I were both Type-A people.  I said, “Well, some people might accuse us of being bossy.”  I heard her giggle, so I’m sure that has happened to her.  “But,” I continued, “I think it means we are people with lots of ideas who are willing to work hard to make our ideas come about.”

Yes….I admit to being Type A, and I am sure that as a child I was accused of being bossy.  As an adult, I have been accused of being assertive, too quick to give my ideas, opinionated, etc.  I will admit to all of that, but I refuse to call myself “nasty.”  There need to be some people like us in the world, and some of them are bound to be female.  I recognize this is sometimes uncomfortable for males, but I think they need to get used to it.

I am a nurse, and if we are not by nature assertive, we need to learn to be.  If you are a nurse, you do not stand back and wait for someone else to act when you see someone in distress.  I was once in an auditorium with hundreds of people when a woman stood up and shouted, “Somebody do something.”  An elderly woman sitting near her had stopped breathing.  I did not wait for anyone else to respond.  I dove over several people in the row, dropped her dentures in the lap of the nearest person and resuscitated her.

On another occasion in an auditorium, a friend tapped me on the shoulder and said that something was wrong with his elderly mother.  It was a similar scenario.  Interesting to me was the fact that this same man later made accusations against me regarding my tendency to express opinions too quickly.  Well, you know, you can’t have it both ways.  You can’t expect me to jump in and save your mother’s life in one setting and then sit mutely and let the men have their say first in another.  I refuse to believe that makes me “nasty.”

I realize there are women in the world who think it is their role to always defer to men.  I am not one of them.  I am fortunate to have a husband who enjoys the challenge of being married to me.  This was, of course, no accident.  I had some specific criteria for a husband and would have stayed single if I hadn’t met someone who met the criteria.  I was looking for someone strong enough to meet me as an equal.  Being able to steamroll my husband and always get my way would have been no fun at all.  Being married to someone who thought he was supposed to constantly dominate me and get his way would have been a blood bath.  It is much more interesting to be able to discuss and debate and compromise.

I recognize that as a follower of Christ, I have an obligation to be gracious in what I say and the way I say it.  That has always been a challenge for me.  My mind works rapidly in assessing and coming up with solutions.  It is hard for me to watch a group stumble bumble around when the answer is so obvious to me.  I have always wished people would take advantage of me rather than feeling threatened by me.

Now about the word “bitch” which has also been hijacked to mean pretty much the same as “nasty woman.”  That is a perfectly good word for a female dog.

Let’s stop the name calling and appreciate people for their abilities.

My Early Life of Crime

Last night at church, the pastor made the comment that if you have ever told a lie, you are a liar; and if you have even stolen anything, you are a thief.  His point was that we are all guilty before God.  I certainly agree with that premise.  I know I have lied in my lifetime, although it is always my intent never even to tell what someone might call “a little white lie.”  I thought to myself, that I was unaware of ever stealing anything….then I remember that my career as a thief began very early in life.

When I was less than six, there were multiple times when we temporarily moved in with my mother’s parents.  Sometimes the reason was that we were between houses.  Sometimes my grandmother was ill, and we moved in so that my mother could care for her.  In any event, I was well acquainted with my grandparents’ neighborhood, and I am sure most of the neighbors knew me.

I was very little…may about 3 when I visited a neighbor regularly who had grandchildren of her own.  This meant she had a supply of toys which I enjoyed.  My favorite item at her house was a dirty, ratty, beat-up old doll, which for reasons no one quite understood, I fell in love with and called Becky.

One day after visiting there, I returned home to Grandma’s house in possession of Becky.  I hadn’t exactly stolen her, as I had left my beautiful new doll in her place.  My mother was horrified that I had stolen Becky and marched me back to the neighbor’s house to return her.  The neighbor lady told my mother that if I loved that doll enough to leave my lovely new doll in her place, then I certainly could keep it.  I think the new doll went back home with me too.  But, nothing compared to Becky.

Becky was so loved and played with so vigorously that she eventually became what my mother considered to be a health hazard, so she put her in the garbage.  I dug her out of the garbage.  I don’t remember all of this, but apparently, a cycle of in the garbage and retrieved from the garbage went on for some time.  When I was much older, my mother admitted that she had finally dismembered Becky, to get rid of the filthy thing.  I’m sure if I had known this at the time, my heart would have been broken.  My mother was not in the least a hard-hearted person, so I guess she must have been desperate. 

Fortunately, this did not set me on a path of crime in general and thievery in particular!

A Veteran's Day Story for My Grandchildren

During the Revolutionary War, when the American Colonies were trying to establish their independence from England, the American soldiers were not career soldiers.  They were farmers who had guns and who answered the call to protect this land.

Your great, great, great, great, great, great, great Grandfather was Sergeant Nathan Chapin.  He was born in Springfield, Massachusetts in 1735, so during the Revolutionary War he was in his forties.  On July 5, 1777, he was captured by the British while fighting in the Battle of Ticonderoga.  He and other prisoners were ordered to go to Crown Point (about 10 miles away) to cut hay.  They were given provisions which included scythes for cutting the hay, and for whatever reason, they were also supplied with rum.

They were only accompanied on this work detail by one guard, who apparently liked rum, and they were very generous with him.  He had so much rum that he fell asleep, and they were able to escape.

A group of nine men, guided by Sgt. Nathan Chapin and using only the moss on the trees as a compass, found their way back to Springfield (a distance of about 200 miles) to the great joy of their family and friends.  Sgt. Nathan Chapin lived to be 95 years old.

Sgt. Nathan Chapin was the son of Japhet Chapin and his wife Thankful Dickinson.

The genealogy is:

Sgt. Nathan Chapin (1735-1830)

Deacon Japhet Chapin (1762-1833)

Deacon Japhet Chapin (1796-1888)

Lawson Chapin (1833-1864)

William Chapin (1860-?)

Willard Chapin (1895-1983)

Richard Chapin (1917-2014)

William Chapin (1943-still living)

Your mother/father

You

The information for this story comes from The Chapin Book published in 1924.  It lists the descendants of Deacon Samuel Chapin who arrived in the Massachusetts Colony in approximately 1632.