STILL ON PATROL

Today's Rant: Stores Foolishly Discriminate Against Big People

I went out this morning before going to work to see if any bargains could be had in the post-Christmas sale period.  There were many "bargains", but none for me.  Were I someone who could wear a "Small" or a "Medium", there were many things gathering dust on "Sale" and "Clearance" tables and racks, but few, if any "Large", "Extra Large", or "2X" or higher.  

I would estimate that the "S" and "M" items constituted better than 80% of the clothing items available today.  Two simple reasons exist for this:  all of the "L", "XL", and "2X" and above items have been purchased already, and store buyers have not adjusted the ratios of sizes put out for consumption since at least the 1950's, or so it seems.

So what's new?  This has been the case for many years, as long as I have been buying my own clothes, yet store buyers still do not "get it" that there is a higher demand for larger sizes, primarily because Americans are growing larger.  Store buyers also do not "get it" that big people such as myself would like a little color in our lives, and should not be limited to black, brown, gray, or navy.

I have little sympathy for retailers who complain that they have not done well over Christmas, either this year or in the past.  Sure, a poor economy is a significant part of the impact on retailers.  But I believe it is also significant that retailers refuse to grasp their potential sales markets.  I was out there this morning with a little bonus money, looking to upgrade my wardrobe, but there was simply nothing to buy.  I am no big spender, but I suspect others like me have been similarly frustrated when viewing piles and racks full of "S" and "M" clothing.

So, my bonus money is resting quietly in my bank account, and will not serve as any contribution to the economy for the foreseeable future.

Rant over.

A High Honor

I am proud to have been honored, through my esteemed friend and colleague the Anglican Curmudgeon, a "Superior Scribbler" Award for this blog.  To have this honor come from a blogger who is wise, well-spoken, and very astute in his analyses of things Anglican and the world in general  is extremely rewarding and fulfilling for the work we all try to do.

I have been asked by several people "why blog?"  The answer is several reasons.  First, I love to write.  Second, I am opinionated, sometimes to the point of being obnoxious.  Third, it is a tremendous release to be able to put my thoughts down "on paper", as it were.

IMNSHO, blogging is one of the better internet inventions to have come around in a long time.  Bloggers are not limited by editorial policy as are writers in the mainstream media, and are free to state the truth as they see it without restriction of political ideology.  Barack Obama had figured out the power of Internet communication, and how public opinion could be shaped and moved electronically, knowledge that gave him what amounted to an insurmountable edge in winning the Presidency.  Ideology aside, we must tip our kepis to his management of this powerful resource.  And we must continue to use it to share our thought and ideas in the open marketplace of modern communication.

"Okay," they say, "but why about TEO so much when you've left the Church?"  Good question.  I've thought about this a lot, wondering why myself.  Why not just move on to another church and forget about the circus that is TEO?  Mainly, I think it is a way I can use my ability to write to warn people of where their church is going, and perhaps get them to walk away before more damage is done.  There are a great number of good Episcopalians - they have been failed, miserably, by their leadership, and the once-noble denomination is on the cusp of utter ruin.

So, Curmudgeon, again thank you very much.  I hope to live up to your confidence in me as we continue to exist in the blogosphere!

Something Good To Say About Modern Medicine

We hear an awful lot these days bad about modern medicine.  Health care costs are escalating beyond reason; access to health care is becoming more limited; health care practitioners make mistakes, sometimes fatal.  It is indeed unfortunate that today's media seems only to want to report the negatives when the positives are many and quite compelling.  Corinne and I had a personal experience with the Georgetown Community Hospital, in our home town,  just last week that provides evidence that not all of modern medicine is filled with horror stories. 

I got home Thursday evening to find Corinne curled up in bed, still wearing the clothing she had worn to work.  She was in considerable abdominal pain, and nothing, including throwing up several times, had brought relief.  It did not seem likely that her problem was the chili-cheese dog she had for lunch.  We quickly decided she needed to be seen at the local Emergency Room.

We checked in about 5:30 p.m.  Remember that time; it will be significant later.  We went through the usual registration and triage procedure, with Corinne still hurting and having to run twice more to the ER’s restroom while we waited.  I still wondered about the chili dog, but her pain, again, seemed to rule that out.

We were put in room 1 in the ER, a room familiar to us through visits of several family members over the years.  The tests started in pretty short order.  Blood and urine were taken, the doctor came in and did an examination, and then Corinne received the news that she needed a CT scan, which meant she had to drink the chalky pint of “berry-flavored” contrast fluid.  She held her nose and forced it down over a fifteen-minute period, and then we settled in to wait the hour while it circulated enough for the CT scan to work.  Thankfully morpheus had worked his magic and her pain was eased enough to catch a few winks.

She was whisked to Radiology and back, and within minutes we had confirmation – Corinne had a “hot” appendix that needed to come out.  It had not ruptured, but it was clearly the reason for her problem.  By now we were in the neighborhood of 9:00 to 9:15 p.m.  A surgeon was called, the OR crew and anesthesia were called, and by the time another hour had passed, Corinne had gone into surgery and I was enjoying the rare phenomenon of having the waiting room all to myself - no one treating a hospital visit as a family outing, and no "Nickelodeon" on the TV.

Another hour or so along, a nurse from the Medical-Surgical floor came in and said they were getting room 103 ready for Corinne, and I could wait there if I wanted.  When I got there, the nurses were moving furniture to provide me with one of those chairs that folds out into a bed, getting the room warmed up, and getting all the other medical accoutrements ready for the patient’s arrival.

Within a few minutes, the stretcher from OR rolled into the room, and there was Corinne.  She was conscious enough to help move herself into the bed and to talk a little bit.  I looked at the clock in the room and saw the time – 12:30 a.m.  So, in the space of seven hours, Corinne had checked into the ER, gone through a battery of tests, been diagnosed, had a laparoscopic removal of her appendix, and was resting comfortably in her room.  The nurse checked her incisions, which were three tiny (less than ¾”) cuts that had been GLUED shut – not even any stitches.

I arrived at the Hospital about 9:30 a.m. the next morning after catching a few hours in my own bed with our dogs, and Corinne had already been cleared by her doctor to go home.  We had to wait a few minutes for the discharge papers to be completed, but we were home by noon – well less than 24 hours after reaching the E.R. Thursday night.  Corinne was a little sore and groggy, but not nearly what one would expect after an abdominal surgery only a few hours before.

Modern medicine can be pretty amazing stuff.  Not too many years ago, someone with abdominal pain would have a doctor poke around on them, make an educated guess whether it was an appendix or not, and proceed to surgery, which required a 4 to 5 inch open incision on the belly.  There was a high percentage of "false positives", i.e., surgeries without a true appendix problem.  Hospitalization would last 3 to 4 days, and the patient would have a slow, painful recovery.  Now, Corinne’s story is not the least bit unusual.

I enthusiastically offer my praise for Georgetown Community Hospital.  The staff is caring and professional.  GCH has a great deal of the upper-end medical technology in house, and the skilled practitioners to use it, which allows us to tell stories such as these.  And, GCH continues to build relationships with larger hospitals such as University of Kentucky

to allow access to more specialized programs as those become necessary.  Georgetown is truly blessed to have this facility.  And many other communities in this country are similarly blessed, a truth for which we should all be thankful.

Remembering September 11, 2001

We were on vacation in North Carolina with two other couples when the news of the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks came rushing in.  Corinne and I had enjoyed an early walk on the beach, and had just come back in when we saw ABC's coverage of the second plane hitting the towers.  After the initial shock and my brain began working, I immediately thought of my nephew, Chris, who lived in Manhattan at the time.  I knew Chris did not work in lower Manhattan, but was nonetheless very concerned for him.  It turned out he was in Dallas for a meeting, and with the airlines down he and some friends rented a car and drove back.  Chris ended up working as a volunteer in a Citibank branch very close to Ground Zero, and recorded these thoughts and observations on September 17, 2001:

I spent from 4pm Sunday to 1am Monday at our branch on Hudson and Franklin Streets, about 10 blocks north of World Trade Center, or "ground zero" as the press has taken to calling it. We were one of three round-the-clock shifts at this and one other branch near WTC (three were destroyed/condemned as a result of the destruction down there) handing out sandwiches, coffee, water, eye drops, handi-wipes and as many "thanks, guys" as we could manage.

After spending about nine hours downtown, here are my impressions of the City:

Firefighters: Shaken to the core. They had the first funerals Saturday, including that of the FDNY Chaplain, who died while giving last rites to a fallen firefighter. One hundred sixty-eight firefighters were promoted today, all deserving, but for the worst reasons possible - the deaths of so many of their peers. "Silent heroes" doesn't even begin to encompass it.

As the number of "missing, presumed dead" among this relatively small group of public servants continues to seemingly spiral endlessly upwards, their shock seems to deepen. Don't get me wrong, these (mostly) men continue to pour water onto the rubble, clamber over the wreckage and search for signs of life, but they're sleep-walking through their 15-17 hour shifts, mindlessly chewing the food that volunteers or restaurateurs hand to them during their rare breaks. After a few minutes of rest, they shoulder their gear and walk back to the smoking pile that was WTC. I don't know how they do it.

My local firehouse on the Upper East Side lost nine men, all of them family men. The neighborhood has started a fund for the families, but no amount of money can replace fathers, husbands, brothers, sons.

Cops: Angry, frustrated, weary, determined. I spoke to a lieutenant for about 30 minutes. They lost some officers, but not nearly as significant a number or percentage as the firefighters. They want to "get their hands dirty" in the rescue and recovery efforts and stop playing traffic warden and babysitting people like me across downtown. They know that while there's any (dwindling) hope, they need to stay out of the way of the iron workers and heavy equipment operators while they lift, listen, dig, lift, listen, dig, but it doesn't assuage their feelings of frustration and anger.

Reservists: Shocked, frustrated, angry. There are Air Guard and Army Reserve members from all over NY and NJ, mostly civil engineering and military police units. The guys who we spoke to have been called out for duty during times of crisis and after natural disasters, but nothing like this. Most of them are not engaging in their specialties due to the presence of so many civilian specialists on site. Most have been engaged in site security, traffic control and the like. Many are firefighters, cops, construction tradesmen, etc. and they want to contribute in ways that are more in line with their skills, but will do their duty as ordered. They know that it's necessary duty but it's not what they want to do in order to, like the rest of us, feel useful.

Workers (for lack of a better description): They're working as long as the firefighters, usually wielding cutting torches, operating cranes and other heavy equipment, restoring power, water and phone service or waiting to relieve those on duty. Most would sell their souls for four hours of uninterrupted sleep but won't leave the site until they're forced to.

Most are hard-core New Yorkers, the kind who yell "Pontvin sucks!" at Rangers games, who heckle Boston and Philly fans mercilessly because, well, they can, the guys who go shirtless at Jets games in December and who think that the Islanders *might* pull out a winning season sometime - the guys who people like me shy away from on the subway as though we'll catch something from them, as though I'm really better than them. That's been proven wrong every day since Tuesday, September 11, 2001. These guys are past anger and are simply determined to clean up, rebuild and tell those responsible, well, you can imagine it better than I can write it.

Residents: Rebounding remarkably well. They all look up and see a cloud of smoke instead of two 1000 ft + towers, shake their heads and go on with life as best they can. People are going out to dinner, picking up their cleaning, walking their dogs, getting drunk, going to the bank and everything else that they usually do.

Naturally, everyone talks about where they were "when it happened", who they knew in the WTC area when the planes hit, who got out and who's missing and what they think we should do, both at home and overseas in order to make sure this doesn't happen again. Firm resolve underlies the words and expressions of all of the residents, even the happy drunks who passed by to chat on their way home from dinner.

This city will rebuild and recover. Our nation will adjust to the new reality and will eventually be victorious in this new war. And I can't think of a time when I've been more proud to be an American - or a New Yorker.

And I don't know when I've ever been more proud of Chris.

If remembering those who died in those tragic attacks, or those brave souls who worked, hoping against hope, for hours to try to find them or save them, never knowing if or when the whole pile of rubble would collapse, doesn't bring a tear, or as in my case, many tears to your eyes, then I simply do not know what to say to you.  We must never forget.

A Tribute to My Parents

We celebrated last night at a gathering of family and friends my parents' 60th wedding anniversary, as well as the fact that they both turned 80 within the past year.  My sister and I presented a program of photos and reminiscences of their lives, their years together, our many moves (thanks to the C&O Railroad) and the many experiences achieved by these two.  Working on telling their story was a very powerful time of reflection for me, both on my parents and on their entire generation and what they have meant to this country.

Both of my parents were without a doubt products of their upbringing - my mother born in east Texas to an oil man father who was there in the early development of those prolific oil fields, and my father born in the hills of eastern Kentucky to a hard-nosed railroad man who often had to travel many miles to reach his job.  These were demanding, uncompromising people.  Hard work and accomplishment in school and doing what you were told as a child were expected, and not considered praiseworthy events.  Words like responsibility meant something very real and were a touchstone in their everyday lives.

As children we were not doted upon as many of today's children are.  Yet we never wanted for what we needed and they provided for us in ways we only now can truly appreciate.  To the extent the family budget allowed, we were indulged in keeping up with childish fashions of the day and with having some of those status things adolescents so crave.  At the same time we were ingrained with a sense of responsibility and the need to strive for success, albeit in different forms and settings than had marked our parents' lives.  Overriding all of that, though, was the sure knowledge we were loved and cared for even when perhaps our parents were not overtly demonstrative of that emotion.

Their generation as much as any other in our common history made America into much of what she could be today.  They fought a world war in a time when world power and domination was not looked upon as an American birthright.  They took this nation from a time of economic ruin of the Depression to unprecedented economic success and influence on the world stage.  They provided a setting of opportunity for accomplishment and productivity for their children and grandchildren that has heretofore been unknown in the history of mankind.  It has to be frustrating to them to see how so many of us have wasted these opportunities on the kind of silliness and self-indulgent nonsense so many politicians and business leaders of our generation have perpetrated.

I am exceedingly proud of my parents and all that they have accomplished in their lifetime.  I am extremely lucky to still have both of them and to be able to share with them and learn from them.  They remain an example of a certain dignity and sense of responsibility and hard work to which I can and should strive every day.  And I thank God for the family He has provided for me.

Tragic Death of a Young Man

The young 20-something stepson of a good friend of mine died this week in a senseless, heartbreaking tragedy.  Out of respect for the family's privacy, I won't identify names or locations, but this story bears telling.

The young man was at a party at a friend's house.  The weather was mild, and the fun had spilled outside.  Late in the evening, 4-5 males, members of a Salvadoran gang, tried to crash the party but were made to leave by the host.  About one hour later, one of the now-angry gang members fired a 9 mm pistol across a field behind the house, striking my friend's stepson in the abdomen. The perpetrators have since been arrested.

A guest at the party who had EMT training reacted quickly and recognized that the femoral artery had been nicked, thus needing immediate pressure.  The young man was airlifted to a trauma center, where over the next few days several surgeries were attempted to save his life.  Unfortunately, the combination of extreme blood loss, and trauma and shock from the injuries, eventually took this young man home to the loving arms of God. 

It would be easy and somehow cheap at this time to use this tragedy to make some argument about gun control, or immigration reform, or even about alcohol use in young people.  I am certain someone somewhere has or will do so.  To me, though, this kind of senseless death is about a much deeper and more powerful thought and emotion.

This kind of story is a parent's worst nightmare.  Whether it be a traffic accident, a shooting, or any other kind of senseless death of a young person, we are aware these kind of things can and do happen while at the same time we convince ourselves that it will never happen to our own.  I have not seen my friend since this happened, as he lives a long distance away.  Yet I can feel the pain and deep sorrow in his e-mails, which are normally ebullient but now are quietly subdued in the eloquence of his pain.  When I do see him, I will hug him hard.

You see, there but for the grace of God go so many of us.  Our children are in their 20's and we know they are often out late at night, sometimes in lousy weather.  One works for a mental health association and works part-time as a bartender, so we stay concerned about who or what she will encounter.  This week as we have received periodic reports, I have tried to imagine the shock, pain, horror and grief being experienced by my friend, but know that I cannot do so.  I can only pray that Corinne and I end our lives being buried by our children and do not experience the opposite.

Although you don't know the people of whom I write, if you can make room in your prayers for this young man as he journeys home to God, and for his parents and step-father as they grieve and try to come to grips with this senseless loss, please do so.  If you are a parent, please also give your kids an extra hug tonight.

For the Love of Dogs

There are times when I feel truly ashamed that I am not capable, as a human being, of the utter love and devotion expressed daily by our dogs. 

As you can see to the left, we have three boxers, Pandora, Titan and Apollo, and a dachshund, Magnolia, or "Maggie" for short.  With our two cats and our younger daughter's two cats who have recently moved back in with us along with her, you can imagine that our house is a zoo.  Believe it or not, they all get along pretty well.

But back to my point.  Apollo, one of two male pups we kept from Pandora's litter of nine in March 2006, had awakened each of the last two mornings with hives on his body, today more than yesterday.  He wasn't itching or showing any distress, but because he has had a history of immune-system wonkiness, Corinne decided to be at the Vet's when they opened this morning to have him checked out.

When she left with Apollo, the reaction by Titan and Pandora was incredible.  Titan was frantic, running to every door and window looking for his brother and periodically running to me with the unmistakable look on his face expressing "what happened to Brother?"  Pandora, ever the mother, paced the whole time and if she could have wrung her paws, I've no doubt she would have.  This continued for the entire 45 minutes Corinne was gone.  When she returned with Apollo, the joyful reunion of boxers, and even Maggie, too, was a sight to behold.  We're not sure what provoked the reaction, but the vet doesn't think he's in any danger.

As we go about our daily lives I wish we all could take a lesson in this kind of unconditional, unremitting love.  Too often we all function as slaves to our own personal agendae with little concern or comprehension of what maybe going on in others' lives, and certainly without expressing our interest or feeling.  God's lessons of love, caring and compassion are walking around us on four legs all the time, if we could only take the time to notice.

Musings on Family and Oak Island

I haven't posted in over a week, because I've been in North Carolina and have had no computer access.  No excuse, I know, but to get some mental rest it was a necessary thing to temporarily wean myself from the electronic world.

The trip was initially to attend the Christening of my grand-niece, Olivia Ann, whom I got to meet for the first time.  I discovered that she may well be the nicest person in my entire family, for she put up with handling and being passed around to dozens of strangers with complete equanimity.  Unlike a lot of us, Olivia only makes noise when her diaper is full or she is hungry.  Otherwise she is a smiling, laughing, delightful little human being of whom I was delighted to make her acquaintance.

At dinner Saturday night, an incredible spread created by my sister, I had the pleasure to introduce the North Carolinians in attendance to the best bread pudding in the world, i.e., mine.  It was fun to watch the curiosity turn into utter delight.  I think the recipe's on here somewhere but if not I will post it.

Corinne and I then ventured on to my sister's condo on Oak Island, just south of Wilmington.  We had not been to the ocean since 2002 and only realized how much we had missed it when we arrived.  The weather was great early in the week, and I managed to avoid my traditional first-day-on-the-beach sunburn. 

We turned a rainy Wednesday into a cool trip to the North Carolina Aquarium at Fort Fisher.  The highlight of the visit was getting to see a live loggerhead turtle, and talk to one of the volunteers about the turtle sanctuary and preservation program.  We learned that the loggerheads, who hatch from beach-laid eggs, crawl across the beach, swim out to the Gulf Stream, and then begin a 25-year odyssey that takes them on a wide, circular course to the shores of Spain, Portugal, and Africa, and back to lay the next generation of eggs.  Only 1 of 1000 hatchlings reach full adulthood and return to the beach of their birth to lay eggs or fertilize them in the case of the males. 

One turtle, who was a late hatchling who got stuck in the bottom of the nest, was raised at the Aquarium, and spent some time at the Newport Aquarium in Kentucky, until he got too big for any tank either place had.  They then attached GPS and other tracking devices and set him free in the ocean.  To their amazement, he did not start the circular course, but struck out straight across the ocean to join the circle where others of his age would have been.  The genetic imprint, even in their tiny brain, is completely amazing.

The rest of the week was an exercise in understanding coastal weather patterns.  Forecasts called for rain and clouds.  At the beach, though, it was clear and sunny.  Saturday I went inland to run some errands, and within three miles of the beach it was pouring the rain.  None on Oak Island, though. I chose to believe God was smiling on us.

Corinne also learned about "valet shelling" as I came to call it.  She had fussed for the seven years we had gone to Oak Island about not being able to find a conch shell even while seeing others walk down the beach with huge ones in hand.  This week, we were just a short way into the water, when Corinne shouted.  I though a crab had grabbed her toe, but she was pointing in the direction of our beach chairs.  No further than six feet from her chair lay a beautiful, intact conch, freshly deposited by a wave.  She dashed to grab it before another wave took the gift back, and clutched it tightly the rest of the afternoon.

All-in-all it was a good week, except that the theory that vacation will recharge one's enthusiasm for work and the real world is completely wrong.  Nevertheless, I am trying to catch up on the week's happenings and will get back in the blogging saddle soon.

Wildlife Rehabbing is Rewarding But Can Be Tragic

This has been a tough weekend at our house.  Corinne is a wildlife rehabilitator, with a special interest and love for raccoons.  Over the four years she has done this, she has successfully raised, often from before their eyes open, over 40 orphaned raccoons to the point where they can be released back into the wild.  Corinne feeds them with syringes and baby bottles, then to baby rice cereal, and ultimately to our left-overs.  Usually the most difficult task is letting them go, especially ones like the 'coon we named "Chuck" a couple of years ago, who was an exceptionally bright little guy.

This year, though, something has accompanied Corinne's little charges.  Something insidious and deadly.  Something as yet unidentified.  Of the nine babies she's taken in this year, six of them have now died.  One or two were weak and injured so their death, while sad, was not unexpected.  The rest, though, were healthy, loud, and active until their silent killer took them, one by one, as we helplessly tried to give them fluids, antibiotics,and mostly love and prayer.

We think it may be distemper, and thankfully our dogs and cats have been vaccinated.  Another local rehabilitator has lost at least 14 to Parvo, which thankfully we haven't seen.  We vaccinated these little guys, but it must have come too late, for they seem to have borne the virus long before coming to our home.  Regardless, it is almost too sad to bear, looking at their little faces looking up to Corinne's asking, "Mama, why do I feel so bad?  Help me."  And yet there was little we could do to help them or save them.

Perhaps it's our own fault for letting ourselves get so attached.  Corinne always names them after movie or TV characters - the two you see in these photos are Denny Crane and Shirley Schmidt from Boston Legal.  We previously lost Alan, Brad, and Denise from that same show.  But the little bandits are simply so endearing, particularly the ones whom are bottle-fed and see Corinne as the first living contact when they open their eyes.  Our daughters and I call her the "Coon Queen."  Look at the picture on the wall behind her in these photos and you'll see why.

If you read this and know Corinne, or even if you don't, send her a thought or prayer.  E-mail me at stillonpatrol@hotmail.com and I'll give you her e-mail or phone number.  She's still very upset over losing these raccoons.  She may stop being a rehabilitator because the grief is too much to bear, and I will not blame her if she does hang it up.  But if she does, she leaves an exemplary record of doing what I believe is God's work - caring for the helpless, hungry and cold abandoned baby animals.  Even the ones who do not survive have a short time of love, warmth, food, and shelter, which is more than they otherwise would have had.  I think Corinne's earned a star in heaven for this good work.

Memories of Beverly Hills Supper Club

The memorial services yesterday for the 165 victims of the Beverly Hills Supper Club fire, which occurred 30 years ago on May 28, 1977, brought back memories for everyone who was in any way touched by that horrendous tragedy.

I lived in northern Kentucky at the time - I was in college at the University of Kentucky, but home for the summer.   Dad worked for CSX out of Cincinnati at the time.  May 28, 1977 was birthday #20 for me, and Dad offered to take the family and my girlfriend out to dinner wherever I chose.  One possibility he offered was the BHSC.  We had been there before and saw Dionne Warwick in the Cabaret Room.  I remember being packed in like sardines to see Ms. Warwick and enjoying the show quite a bit.

This night, though, the headliner was John Davidson, of whom I was no particular fan.  We opted instead for dinner some place I cannot remember and a movie I cannot recall, although I'm certain it was a nice evening.  Later on, my girlfriend and I were out alone, having dropped my parents home.  We were driving on I-75 N and I distinctly remember seeing the bright orange outline of two large fires - the larger of the two was to the west, and turned out to be large rolls of brown paper burning at the Duro Paper Bag Co. in Ludlow, KY.  The smaller fire to the east was the BHSC in Southgate.

Faulty aluminum wiring conspired with no sprinkler system, overcrowding in spite of fire regulations, and chained/locked exits to kill 165 people that night.  Many others were burned or suffered injuries and smoke inhalation.  A significant number of bodies were found piled in front of a locked set of exit doors near the Cabaret Room - they had been at John Davidson's show.  We could have been among them had I been interested, or had a different entertainer been there that night.

So yesterday and today, I, too, remember the victims of the BHSC fire and give thanks to not have been among them.  May they rest in peace.