A sad frightened man has a big story to tell

            Somewhere in a dark room, perhaps nursing a stiff drink, sits a man grappling with fear and flashbacks.

 

            He is one of two or three men still living who sent people to their deaths on 911 in an unexpected fashion.

 

            Lots of people.  Maybe hundreds or even over a thousand.

 

            You see, after the first plane hit the North Tower, folks began evacuating the South Tower sixteen and  a half minutes before United Airlines Flight 175 hit the second building.

 

            Security personnel, during this crucial sixteen and a half minutes, told office workers  to relax and return to their desks. Everything was under control. Relax.

 

            Those who followed this advice, for the most part, are dead.

 

            "Don't worry" P.A. Announcements were made throughout the  South Tower during that interval between jets crashing. 

 

            Survivors tell stories of guards on various floors giving instructions that created widows and orphans.

 

            Statistically, given the vast array of protective service employees who worked at the  World Trade Center that day, one of these guards or announcement-makers must have survived.

 

            So where is he?

 

            In a world in which media finds every name attached to a dramatic story, no one's talking. You won't find the name on the internet.

 

            Even after ten years.

 

            He's probably hoping he can take his story to his grave.

 

            But he should talk about it.

 

            He committed no crime. He probably was following orders or protocol.

 

            But there is a story there.

 

            What's it been like, all this time?  Is he in therapy?  Counseling?

 

            How's he dealing?  Is he driven to addiction?  Has he found peace?  Has he talked to God about it?

 

            I'm fascinated by  the drama and the psychological angle.

 

            How does one carry this burden?

 

            It would probably feel good just to let it all out and talk about it.

 

            It's a great story.

 

            Listen, friend, you and one of the most significant events in American history are  forever linked in a most tragic way.

 

            Not your fault.

 

            But let's at least hear your story.

 

            I'm sure you could use a hug.

 

            And I could use a big story before it disappears forever.

 

            Somebody knows who you are.  It's bound to materialize eventually.

 

            I'll find you and then maybe we'll talk.

 

            In any case,  I'm  headed to the  Big Apple now.

 

            I'm looking for a desperate man in a dark room, nursing a stiff drink.

 

            With the world on his shoulders.

 

David M. Lynch

Me and The Mick the Best of Buds

The garbage man is my secret buddy.

 

You see, like most people, I can not  invest the time required to put the trash out in front of my home according to the proper rules and requirements of our municipality.

 

Let's take those plastic trash liner bags.

 

Every few weeks, my mother-in-law engages in a purification ritual. It's her way of reminding us that we are slobs. It is known as The Great Periodic Cleaning Of Our Refrigerator.

 

She puts everything that needs to be thrown out into a single polyethylene  garbage bag designed to hold about three pounds of garbage. By the time she's done that bag is filled with lots of glass jars holding only remnants of various products that used to stare out at us from inside the refrigerator screaming moldy and disgusting. Each item tossed into that sack seems to have some kind of liquefied  property that adds to its weight exponentially.

 

That  groaning glad bag is the last thing the trash man wants to see when he pulls up in front of my house.

 

The modern refuse corporation sends a lone man out into the neighborhoods to drive the truck all by himself, getting in and out  house after house to load the trash. The days of the two or three man operation have gone the way of the Edsel and the Corvair.

 

Overcome with guilt upon setting out  two trash containers so heavy  that my son named them Rosie O'Donnell and Oprah, I got the idea of placing a $10 bill taped to each one.

 

Without complaint these items made their way into that metal monster that creeps into our cul-de-sac once a week.

 

                I extended my theory to yard waste. Sticks and shrubbery are required to be only 4 feet in length and wrapped in bundles not to exceed 18 inches in diameter.

 

                The problem is that I  am  way too clumsy  and to be honest with you too lazy to construct bundles so neatly. Who has time to create compact tubular masterpieces from yard waste?

 

                The bundles that I place on the tree lawn are more like giant grotesque scary-dream tumbleweeds you'd find in a Tim Burton movie.

 

                A strategically placed $10 bill taped to a branch ensures that my leavings will have disappeared by the time I return home from work.

 

                Am I abusing the overworked and underpaid waste management employee who visits my driveway apron once every seven days?

 

                No I am not. Quite the contrary, I have established a solid if subtly expressed friendship with my buddy Mickey the garbage man.

 

                Every now and then my morning departure and his morning arrival coincide and  he smiles a grateful knowing smile.

 

                His smile tells me that just about everybody on his route has a heavy bagging mother-in-law just like me. His smile tells me that everybody else in the neighborhood is as incapable of complying with the city's gift wrapping requirements for collected sticks and vegetation.

 

                Mickey is  grateful that someone is thoughtful enough to slip him something extra for his trouble. Somebody cares about his aching back.

 

                Please don't swing by my home looking for a free 10 spot in the morning. My habits are mostly unpredictable and you'll probably find nothing.

 

                But just  in case it is one of those days that I want to let Mickey know that I appreciate his extra hard work, let Alexander Hamilton smile on this laborer  in overalls.

 

                Mickey and I are friends and I want to keep it that way.

Marby and Me trumps Marley and Me

Years ago a singer named Bobby Vinton had a huge hit with a song called Beautiful Brown Eyes. Vinton sang the praises of a wonderful girl who lacked the blue eyes typical of classic beauties of that era.

 

I must confess that there is a Beautiful Brown  Eyes in my life as well. Her name is Marby.

 

Five years ago on the day that my mother passed away I was feeling pretty low. My son and daughter drove 75 miles west to find a golden retriever puppy. Marby was the runt of the litter and had been struggling to nurse. It seems that there were  a lot more pups in the  litter than pumps at mother nature's nursing station.

                They dubbed her  "Marby" as a tribute to my unusual middle name "Marlborough".

My kids fell in love with her as she struggled without success while constantly maintaining a positive attitude. She may have been striking out, but according to the kids, she had a smile on her face.

Ever since that day  she came into our house, Marby has given us a message of unconditional love.

 

Wherever I am, Marby wants to be there. Whatever I'm doing, Marby wants to do what I am doing.

 

Marby cannot say a word but she communicates in forms of pure poetry. She expresses her love frequently through subtle contact. Whenever I am at rest, she doesn't just  sit near me. She expresses love by sitting on my foot, or resting her chin on my knee, or just standing next to me with her shoulder pushing against me.

 

Marby is such a gentle soul that she rarely shows  aggression.

 

Marby wants to be friends with every single living creature, from the smallest bug to the most hulking delivery man.

 A few of the other dogs in the neighborhood are not interested in this retriever who always bears the olive branch, but Marby never gives up with her message of peace and play.

 

But that's her personality. Just like the puppy who couldn't  fight her way past her bigger and stronger brothers and sisters, she continues the quest with a smile.

 

Occasionally her Gandhi-like ovations toward potential friends gets her into trouble.

 

She's a smart dog and she realizes that skunks carry a devastating weapon. Despite this, she believes that she just needs to find the right approach and soon she'll be having afternoon tea with Mr. black and white.

 

I've explained the bitter truth to her. There are people with whom you can not negotiate. Yet she still looks at me with those brown  eyes so idealistic that I know she will continue to try to convert the neighborhood terrorists.

 

It's okay, Marbs. As we share a tomato juice bath at 2:30 in the morning, your beautiful brown eyes tell the whole story.

 

I'll never love blue eyes again.

Rapper Sings New tune to Make Us Take Action

            Today I heard a rap artist  on the radio who didn't sound like a typical rap artist.

 

            He had just returned from Somalia.

 

            Children are dying in unprecedented numbers in Somalia from starvation.

 

            Last month in Somalia, thirty thousand tiny innocents succumbed to a painful demise in a state of malnutrition.

 

            The rapper lost his penchant for talking about  police brutality.  Far from his mind was another ditty about the next booty call.

 

            What captured his imagination was the image of a tall tribesman who carried himself with tremendous dignity.

 

            He was almost regal.

 

            However, in his arms was his beautiful three year old daughter, stomach distended and arms and legs of seemingly only bones.

 

            She was dying.

 

            Her eyes looked at her father with hope.

 

            Hope her father couldn't fulfill.

 

            Despite his regal bearing, his eyes couldn't hide a quiet despair.

 

            Despair because his beautiful child was dying on his watch.

 

            A dad should never let a daughter die, said his eyes.

 

            He looked straight ahead because to look down into his daughter's angelic face would have been too much to bear.

 

            Yesterday, I ate more calories than that little girl had eaten in four weeks.

 

            How can I justify my next mocha at Starbuck's?

 

            How can I order extra Guacamole at Chipotle?

 

            How does our part of the world not hear the roar of suffering echoing off the sky and descending upon us here in America as we try to organize our tweets and plan menus for cousin Julie's baby shower?

 

            The rapper implored, "Do Something!"

 

            No matter how small.

 

            Do something.

 

            One less latte.

 

            Get the economy wash at Joe's Auto-Bubble instead of the deluxe.

 

            Here's one.

 

            God forbid.  Skip lunch. 

 

            Try this also.  Pray that God will help them.  Pray that God will let them know that you are praying for them and to have some sense of peace in that and in God's love for them.

 

            Oh yes. Back to the doing something.

 

            Contact Catholic Relief services at 1-888-277-7575 or go to their website at crs.org and send money in any amount.  At least do something.

 

            Did I ever think I could learn anything from a rap artist? No.

 

            But in this instance the rapper made me think about that Dad holding his daughter.

 

            Make that little girl your child in your heart and then do something.

 

            Sorry Mr. Starbuck, rap man and I are going without today.

 

            How about You?

 

 

David M. Lynch

Dunderheaded Decision Dashes Dramatic Dream

    Obama's team played  the role of the ogre last week because some eleven year old boys couldn't authenticate their birth certificates.

    Poetic  injustice.

                Only Shakespeare could have assembled so much irony and tragedy in this drama that began on the grassy plains of  Africa.

                New York City philanthropist Richard Stanley had a far-fetched dream years ago: introducing boys in Uganda to Little League baseball.

                Stanley's millions led to ball diamonds and even a baseball academy.

                Build it and they will come.

                And indeed they did. American baseball came to Uganda and suddenly orphaned and impoverished boys really had something to smile about.

                Joy in the land of sadness.

                An ESPN interview caught one youngster fantasizing  out loud on camera that his goal was to one day pitch for the Yankees (Indians fans will forgive such blasphemy when it's uttered by this idealistic innocent).

                Buoyed by the uniforms, equipment,  and coaching made possible by Stanley's generosity, the ragtag Ugandan All-Star team did something amazing.

                Remember, these boys were rough. The Bad News Bears of Buwama.

    They won.

                They rocked and shocked the world of Little League baseball.

                Kids who had never been more than a mile outside of their own villages had traveled all the way to Poland to defeat the team from Saudi Arabia who enjoyed all the comforts that Saudi oil sheiks could provide.

                Orphans defeat billionaire children.

                As a result, the Ugandan team was poised to travel to South Williamsport, Pennsylvania.

                The first team from Africa ever to participate in the Little League World Series.

                I want the movie rights to this story.

                I think.

                You see, every good drama has to have a villain to enter the scene just when the hero is on the brink of unexpected greatness.

                Enter Obama's  State Department.

                Birth certificates that were good enough for the Polish government and World Series  officials were lacking when reviewed by American bureaucrats.

                The State Department says they were concerned about inconsistencies in reported birth dates for some of the lads.

                No kidding. It's Uganda, you nincompoops. These kids come from villages struggling to find drinkable water.

                They are recovering from the national genocide that saw their relatives macheted to death by the thousands.

                The legacy of Idi Amin.

                Memo to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton:  Uganda doesn't have a Bureau of Vital Statistics down the street with birth information stored on a hard drive.

                The birth records in Uganda are even sketchier than those you might find in, well, for example, Hawaii. Sound familiar?

                Here's the bottom line. The greatest feel-good story of the year has come to a screeching halt.

                The boys of the Serengeti are not coming to Pennsylvania.

                Don't you think this president, who is in desperate need of some positive PR, could have intervened to save the dreams of some little boys in Africa?

                Someone please ask the following at Obama's next press conference.

                Mr. President, do you think questions regarding a birth certificate should derail a great opportunity for  sincere young men striving for remarkable achievement?

                The Birthers were wrong.

                And so is the State Department.

                Crushing the hopes of children is bad diplomacy.

                And dumb politics.

                Keep playing boys.

                After all, the President is up for re-election next year.

               

Lewis-less Telethon a Cause for Sadness this year

A little kid in only the second grade at St. Ann's elementary school in Cleveland Heights received a packet with a letter from Jerry Lewis thanking that little boy for volunteering to knock on doors throughout the neighborhood asking for donations for the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

 

A second grader! I'm guessing the MDA folks didn't really know the young age of this boy but he was so thrilled to receive what seemed like a personal letter from Jerry Lewis that he dutifully set forth ringing doorbells and collecting contributions to benefit kids struggling with muscular illnesses.

 

That little boy continued this relationship with the MDA well into high school and people throughout the Coventry and Fairmount section of Cleveland Heights looked  forward to his appearance on their doorstep every year as fall approached.

 

As this lad grew in  maturity and physical stature, he gained a greater appreciation for Jerry Lewis appearing on the famous Labor Day telethon. It was as if Jerry held up his end of the bargain every year.

 The youngster would walk tirelessly along the sidewalks in Cleveland Heights and his good friend Jerry would seal the deal by bringing in millions of additional dollars through his hard work on the iconic marathon television appeal. Way to go Jerry!

 

I was that little boy.  I  feel like I grew up watching my pal Jerry.

 

Imagine my excitement several years ago when I actually had the opportunity to serve as a co-host for the telethon on the local television affiliate carrying the broadcast. I was flown to California to meet Ed McMahon. It  felt like a family reunion.

 

I was in  a state of shock  just a couple of weeks ago when a news item came across the wire with very little fanfare.

 

The Muscular Dystrophy Association announced quietly that Jerry Lewis, scheduled to host the telethon for the very last time this coming Labor Day, was scratched from the lineup entirely. His swansong appearance would now be no song whatsoever.

 

That is a crying shame.

 

Jerry Lewis began conducting local telethons for the MDA in 1952. In 1966 he began the national telethon which has become as associated with Labor Day as labor unions. The national fundraiser broadcast throughout the world  has raised just under Two and a Half Billion Dollars for Jerry's Kids.

That's $2.5 Billion with a B!

 

And now, just before what would surely have been the largest television audience in the telethon's history has a chance to say goodbye, the MDA instead says  "never mind" to Jerry.

 

Lewis has certainly had his critics over the years. Many have decried his use of sentimentalism to guilt contributors into fattening the tote board totals.

 

Jerry had a great answer for that. He told the world that if his efforts gave hope to one little boy or girl in an effort to walk again, he didn't care how emotional the pitch had to be. His goal of helping children was too important to be sidetracked by those who didn't like his methods.

 

I liked your methods, Jerry.

Few doubted the sincerity of what was in your heart when you intoned "You'll Never Walk Alone" at the close of broadcasts over the recent years.  The children you helped over the decades knew you were right there with them every hobbled step along their journey.

 This is one little boy who will miss you.

Don't Turn Your Back on the Lonely

This is a column about the most rampant and deadliest human affliction.

 

I'm not talking about starvation or homelessness or cancer or drug addiction.

 

I'm talking about loneliness.

 

Loneliness is not about being alone. Loneliness is about facing life's challenges and feeling like no one in the whole world gives a damn.

 

It's a feeling of sadness and despair that your difficulties are ones that you suffer in a stifling vacuum, with no human compassion available to serve as an ointment for your painful wounds.

 

Mother Theresa tells the story of an old man crumbled up against the curb in an alley in Calcutta. He had been left for dead, his body covered with pustulating abscesses, fecal matter, and maggots.

 

This poor dying soul was too weak to do anything other than lie there in the street waiting to die.

 

Tiny Mother Theresa took the man up into her arms, showing no revulsion  at his disgusting condition and the putrid stench that emanated from his body. Instead, she looked at him with the very deepest love and took him back to her home for the dying.

 

She and an assistant gently bathed him, treated his wounds, and dressed him in a fresh linen robe.

 

He died after just a few hours. However, Mother Theresa noted the look of complete joy in this man's faded blue eyes as she held him in her arms, his last breath about to fade away.

 

He was happy because somebody loved and cared for him as he faced his final torture.

 

Mother Theresa told audiences hundreds of times that the real suffering in the world came in the form of loneliness  defined as contemplating your harshest reality and knowing that absolutely no one  cares.

 

I remember sitting in a dimly lit room in my Mom and Dad's house just a few years ago as my mother was dying from a painful and unstoppable cancer of the liver. It was three o'clock in the morning and she lay in a hospital bed that had been brought to the house where her children and children's spouses and grandchildren kept a 24-hour vigil by her side to make sure that someone was with her.

 

We tried to meet all of her needs but most importantly she knew there was always someone there with her as she dragged her cross to Calvary.

 

I remember that in that overwhelming silence in the middle of the night she opened her eyes just slightly and enough to realize that I was there.  She smiled a very gentle and subtle smile that expressed joy in knowing that the affliction of loneliness at least would never be hers to suffer as she soldiered on.

 

Hospitals.  Nursing homes.   Prisons.  Halfway houses.    The back pews in an otherwise empty church.  A park bench around the corner from you.   The Social Security office.  The place where you work. Maybe even your own home.

 

These are places where you can easily find people who need  a word of encouragement and compassion and love.

 

You may not be Mother Theresa, but you can help to dilute the pain of loneliness.

 

 Maybe you think you should mind your own business and turn away and go on about your day.

 

I'm asking you to do something a little braver.  Talk to  the outcast.  Make an effort to find people who are facing challenges and show them that you care.

 

Would you pass the old decrepit   lice-infested man in Calcutta?

 

Lift him up and take him to your home. Bathe him and dress his wounds.

 

None of us are lonely if we truly have each other.