Karyn J. Powers's Posts - CrimeSpace2024-03-28T10:12:50ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyninghttp://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/60986724?profile=RESIZE_48X48&width=48&height=48&crop=1%3A1http://crimespace.ning.com/profiles/blog/feed?user=karyning&xn_auth=noA Breach of Etiqettetag:crimespace.ning.com,2014-04-19:537324:BlogPost:3885332014-04-19T00:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p>She awoke with intense pain, in her head, her back. Dense smoke filled the air and flames leapt along the wall across from where she lay. Ghostly figures moved around her. Were they shouting? She only heard whispers above the ringing in her ears. Warm blood ran down her face. It was hard to breath. The stench of melted plastic was intolerable.</p>
<p>The last thing she remembered was sitting across from that dreadful young executive. She could not comprehend that despite her seventy years of…</p>
<p>She awoke with intense pain, in her head, her back. Dense smoke filled the air and flames leapt along the wall across from where she lay. Ghostly figures moved around her. Were they shouting? She only heard whispers above the ringing in her ears. Warm blood ran down her face. It was hard to breath. The stench of melted plastic was intolerable.</p>
<p>The last thing she remembered was sitting across from that dreadful young executive. She could not comprehend that despite her seventy years of life and five decades in the city, her company was still considered a risk. “Since when is a four-generation, family business a bad investment?” she’d asked. He’d opened his mouth and the room exploded.</p>
<p>No one came to assist her. She struggled to her feet and looked past the broken wall to what had once been a warren of cubicles and glass offices. Burning confetti clouded her vision, but she saw light on the far side of the destruction. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her favorite wool jacket and realized she was looking through a gray snow storm into a brilliant blue New York sky.</p>
<p>“Out” she said and coughed. Grit clogged her throat. “We must get out.” Her host was beyond taking or giving advice now. She said a short prayer for him and climbed over the shattered beverage cart, and into the hall that ended in bright sunlight. Was it wrong to regret the loss of the water pitcher more than the man? She smacked dry lips and decided not to think about that now.</p>
<p>She would have to do for herself. She made it to the shattered windows and looked down on the city she loved. Directly below, the distant street was lost in a black billowing cloud. Heat from the dark cloud, warmed her face and hands. At once, she accepted her circumstance. </p>
<p>“The world is not what it used to be,” she said and stepped into the sky.</p>Diner Downerstag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-07-17:537324:BlogPost:2421432010-07-17T15:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">This morning my husband and I went to breakfast in a lovely mom and pop restaurant in our mid-sized, mid west town. As we were served, a group of five older adults settled into a large table nearby. Before they even had their coats off, they began exchanging obnoxious comments about the community in voices that carried throughout the little diner. While each barb was tossed out…</span></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">This morning my husband and I went to breakfast in a lovely mom and pop restaurant in our mid-sized, mid west town. As we were served, a group of five older adults settled into a large table nearby. Before they even had their coats off, they began exchanging obnoxious comments about the community in voices that carried throughout the little diner. While each barb was tossed out couched as humorous antic dotes, it was very clear they had no respect for the local population, landmarks, culture or arts. We finished our meal and left as quickly as was possible, but had my husband not been pulling me along out the door, here is what I wanted to stay and say:</span></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">Dear Visitors,</span></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">There must be some compelling reason that brings you to our town, when you clearly don't want to be here. Might I suggest you treat the visit more like an adventure than a jail sentence. That local paper you crumpled and tossed aside has a section promoting special events, read it through. Select one or two activities that fit your frightfully busy schedules and try to attend with an open mind. Our community theater did a phenomenal production of the musical <em><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">Rent</span></em> just last weekend.</span></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">The waitress that you threatened with a lousy tip is part owner of the business. She came back to this area with her special needs kids because this is a place that will nurture and support her family, while she finishes her master's degree in psychology. The meal she will serve you comes, in part, from local vegetable, meat and dairy farmers. And despite your rude comments, she will do her best to fill that pretentious, ala carte order you made; not for a good tip, but because she takes pride in her work.</span></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">If you make an honest effort to enjoy your new surroundings, you will be amazed at the wonderful people, places and things you'll find. If you don't even try, well, than dig in, eat up and don't let the screen door hit you in your back-side on the way out. Out of town, that is.</span></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"></p>Apocalypse Anniestag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-06-13:537324:BlogPost:2379712010-06-13T00:07:27.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font size="3"><font color="#000000"><font face="Times New Roman"><b>Every vacation destination that my three girlfriends and I have visited in the past seven years has suffered a natural or manmade disaster just before or just after our visit.…</b></font></font></font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3"><font color="#000000"><font face="Times New Roman"><b>Every vacation destination that my three girlfriends and I have visited in the past seven years has suffered a natural or manmade disaster just before or just after our visit.</b></font></font></font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">In 2004, we planned a vacation in Gulf Shores, Alabama. Hurricane Ivan arrived a month before we did. We went anyway and toured the aftermath before heading west to explore New Orleans.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">In 2005, we watched the destruction New Orleans by Katrina from our hotel in Cancun. We left the Yucatan and Hurricane Wilma took our place and stayed and stayed and stayed. Our beach side hotel was so severely damaged, it was never rebuilt.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">In 2006 they went back to Mexico and I stayed home. So did the Atlantic Hurricane Season, never mustering more than a light rain from an off-shore tropical storm.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">In 2007 it was a long weekend in Gulf Shores, followed by a short visit by Hurricane Umberto.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">In 2008, we went west and stayed in San Francisco. The 4.0 magnitude earthquake that struck just after 9 PM, on September 6 barely caused a ripple on the surface of our evening glass of wine. When we left, the Golden Gate Bridge was still standing.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">In 2009 we went back to New Orleans, but it has changed. The place has lost thirty percent of its population and ninety percent of its charm. Bourbon Street may be the birthplace of Jazz, but it is current occupants consist of a vast array of tawdry strip clubs and bikini bars. We drove west, along the southern coast line to visit Avery Island and tour Mobile Bay. Along the way we dined in strange and wonderful local seafood restaurants including <i>Bo Jangle’s Sushi Bar.</i>Now that region is fighting for its life against a manmade disaster in the form of the Deep Horizon Oil spill.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3"><font color="#000000"><font face="Times New Roman">This year, we’re heading to Key West, Florida. Our trip is planned for September, so there’s still time for you to enjoy the place, before our visit results in its total annihilation.</font></font></font></p>Goodbye, Max.tag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-02-21:537324:BlogPost:2278562010-02-21T22:51:54.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font color="#000000" face="Times New Roman" size="3">Wednesday I have to take my dog to the vet and have him put down.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font color="#000000" face="Times New Roman" size="3">Thirteen years ago, I traded my maiden name for the opportunity to bring this dog into our lives. It was June 1996, and Patrick and I were to be married in July.…</font></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">Wednesday I have to take my dog to the vet and have him put down.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">Thirteen years ago, I traded my maiden name for the opportunity to bring this dog into our lives. It was June 1996, and Patrick and I were to be married in July. I told Pat that I wanted a dog and he said he didn’t much like dogs. I offered that if he agreed to get one, I would take his name on our wedding day. Up to this point I was ready to keep my family name. Pat didn’t like the confusion a two-last-name family, so he took the deal and I set about finding a pup. A month after we were married I went to look at a black lab puppy that was for sale and came home with “Max.”</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">Max loved food, toys that squeaked and me, in that order. I never took him to formal classes, but in time, he learned the usual tricks. He also learned to love Pat. Pat tried to remain aloof, but Max wouldn’t have any of that. He wasn’t much of a kisser, but he could nudge like nobody’s business. He figured out that if one of us was at the computer that meant we were seated at just the right height to scratch behind his ears. I think Pat didn’t even realize he was doing it. The man who didn’t like dogs would finish a bit of research or correspondence and look down to find that he was absently petting one.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">When Max was two, we brought home Moose, a yellow lab pup who we knew would grow up to be several inches taller than Max and pounds heavier. Since we knew we would have a monster on our hands, I made sure to get Moose into obedience classes and practiced with him every day. Not to be left out, Max mastered every command that Moose learned and was quicker to perform them. My attentions stayed with Moose, and Max turned to Pat. Soon I had to ask Max to move if I wanted to sit next to my husband on our studio-sized sofa.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">At age seven, Moose started to limp and within three months was gone to a brain tumor. Max, white of muzzle and a little slower on the tennis ball, seemed happy to be an only dog again. His solo status lasted twelve months. We brought home a female fox-red lab and named her Ruby. Max tolerated her and due to me being responsible for the new puppy’s house breaking and obedience classes, he became even closer to Pat.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">This winter, at age four, Ruby is finally settling down and we’ve enjoyed finding both dogs stretched out on the sofa. Since she is mellowing and needs less constant attention, I’ve tried to reestablish Max and my original closeness, but he is truly Pat’s dog.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">That is why last Saturday I was shocked to hear my husband’s strained voice over the cell phone asking me to come home from running errands immediately.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">“Max bit off the end of my thumb,” he said.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">I made him repeat that and nearly caused an accident getting back to our cottage. When I got there, I found Ruby wandering in the back yard, Max at the bottom of the short stair case leading to the main floor of our home, and Pat with his hand under the kitchen faucet.</font></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">He took it out from under the water long enough for me to see daylight where the end of his left thumb ought to have been. I got the dogs into their crates and his hand into a wrapping of gauze and tape and we sped off to the closest emergency room.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">Pat spent five hours there, including one in surgery to repair a “traumatic amputation.” Between IV’s, X-rays, antibiotics and a tetanus shot, he told me how it happened. The dogs and he were out in the back yard. Pat called Max over to clean some discharge out of his eyes. We both do this on a regular basis, and Max even rubs his face on our pant legs to take care of the problem himself. Pat held Max’s collar in his right hand and reached down with his left to wipe the dog’s face. Max didn’t growl, didn’t pull away, instead he turned his head toward Pat’s left hand and snapped. In one bite, he severed tissue and bone.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">For the past week, Pat has been taking some serious medication to control the pain in his hand, but they don’t make anything strong enough for the pain in his heart. Max doesn’t understand why his best buddy won’t scratch him behind the ears any more. Pat can’t bring himself to pet the first dog he ever learned to love.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">Max is under a ten-day quarantine by our local health department and except for medical reasons, can’t leave the property for even a short walk. I’ve taken him to the vet to get checked and so far he has not displayed any additional aggressive behavior or any signs of serious illness. Nevertheless, he will be going to the vet for the last time on Wednesday. We have young children living on either side of our property. They love to pet Max and Ruby through the chain link fence. We don’t know what caused Max to bite his best friend and we can’t allow him to hurt anyone else. Pat has gone out of town. He had a trip with his brother scheduled and left today. He won’t get back until late Wednesday night.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">So for the next few days, it’s just me and the dogs. Today, I took Ruby to the dog park for an hour and then spent another in the back yard with Max. I knelt beside him and scratched all his favorite places. I buried my face in his fur. Except when he’s wet from swimming in the river, I love his unique scent.</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font color="#000000" size="3" face="Times New Roman">I don’t know how to write a good ending for this because there isn’t one. Wednesday I have to take my dog to the vet and have him put down.</font></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"></p>A Womb with a Viewtag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-01-26:537324:BlogPost:2255062010-01-26T21:43:24.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
My first poem of the New Year.<br />
<br />
A Womb with a View<br />
<br />
Will I whistle when I walk<br />
give off a hum as breezes<br />
cross the hollow drum where<br />
parts will be departed?<br />
<br />
Can I shun the ordinary<br />
everyday handbag I carry<br />
and stash my cash where<br />
now my organs play?<br />
<br />
I only ask to delay choosing<br />
the day you get to<br />
run with scissors through<br />
my personal playground<br />
<br />
Finally, how long will I<br />
have to pretend I accept<br />
that the end result of this<br />
is something God intended?<br />
<br />
<br />
Karyn J. Powers<br />
01/25/10
My first poem of the New Year.<br />
<br />
A Womb with a View<br />
<br />
Will I whistle when I walk<br />
give off a hum as breezes<br />
cross the hollow drum where<br />
parts will be departed?<br />
<br />
Can I shun the ordinary<br />
everyday handbag I carry<br />
and stash my cash where<br />
now my organs play?<br />
<br />
I only ask to delay choosing<br />
the day you get to<br />
run with scissors through<br />
my personal playground<br />
<br />
Finally, how long will I<br />
have to pretend I accept<br />
that the end result of this<br />
is something God intended?<br />
<br />
<br />
Karyn J. Powers<br />
01/25/10A Clark Kent Autumntag:crimespace.ning.com,2009-12-02:537324:BlogPost:2213372009-12-02T03:10:42.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
I grew up on Saturday morning superheroes. No matter what the crisis, no matter how evil the villain, there was always someone in tights and a cape that would swoop in to save the day. Nobody wanted to see Clark Kent unless he was ripping open his shirt to reveal Superman. I really connected with that image of knowing what to do and how to act under pressure.<br />
<br />
In a large, neurotic family, I had plenty of opportunities to act in the midst of chaos. For a long time I thought crisis was the norm…
I grew up on Saturday morning superheroes. No matter what the crisis, no matter how evil the villain, there was always someone in tights and a cape that would swoop in to save the day. Nobody wanted to see Clark Kent unless he was ripping open his shirt to reveal Superman. I really connected with that image of knowing what to do and how to act under pressure.<br />
<br />
In a large, neurotic family, I had plenty of opportunities to act in the midst of chaos. For a long time I thought crisis was the norm and a cape and tights were the uniform of the day. Its one of the reasons I became a lifeguard and then a lifeguard and first aid and CPR instructor. Protocols beat paralysis all to pieces.<br />
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Gradually calm replaced chaos and I came to the realization that the only people who thrive in that environment are police and fire fighters and there’s a reason they retire at age 55. I grew to appreciate the peace and quiet of a relatively normal life.<br />
<br />
Last year the chaos returned. My aged father’s body began to fail him and over the course of eight months he went from an independent octogenarian to a regular visitor to the critical care ward of his local hospital. It was a two hundred mile commute to his bedside and every visit was an emotional roller coaster. He would get better and talk of going home, he would get worse and not talk at all. When he finally became stable it was a different kind of hell, because he was only healthy enough to be moved to a nursing home. He died on Thanksgiving in 2008.<br />
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There was little time to feel guilty about the peace his death brought as I discovered a personal health issue that required immediate surgery and a two-month recuperation. Between the grief and the infections sometimes it took a superhuman effort just to get through the day.<br />
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A year has passed and it has been nice to leave my cape and tights in the closet. I’ve had a Clark Kent kind of autumn and loved every minute of it.A Night at the Theatertag:crimespace.ning.com,2009-10-09:537324:BlogPost:2159742009-10-09T04:00:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
We just returned from a night at the local renovated opera house. There we saw a much-anticipated national comedian who delivered a wonderful show that was everything we hoped it would be …however (you knew that was coming).<br />
<br />
Ten minutes into the main act an aroma that can best be described as late-season-bottom of the-gym-locker-sweat-soaked-sneaker announced itself. It was so strong I missed the punch line of one of the performer’s best efforts. There were three young men sitting behind us,…
We just returned from a night at the local renovated opera house. There we saw a much-anticipated national comedian who delivered a wonderful show that was everything we hoped it would be …however (you knew that was coming).<br />
<br />
Ten minutes into the main act an aroma that can best be described as late-season-bottom of the-gym-locker-sweat-soaked-sneaker announced itself. It was so strong I missed the punch line of one of the performer’s best efforts. There were three young men sitting behind us, but the angle was wrong. Unless one of them played in the NBA and had managed to get his feet under our seats and to the right, they were not the source.<br />
<br />
Fifteen minutes into the act, the smell got stronger and into my peripheral vision crept two tiny feet, wrapped in black woolen stockings and resting on the ledge of the balcony wall in front of me. Such petite tarsals and metatarsals belonged in fairy tales, being proffered to princes or daintily traipsing across mud-sodden cloaks. They should not however have come equipped with the ability to tan the very leather that should have encased them. I unwrapped a mint and with the help of Lifesavers, was able to regain my focus on the show.<br />
<br />
That was until the knee massage began. At first I thought the woman was compensating for the tight quarters and restrained joints. Then I realized that the hand in circular motion on her left knee was not her own, but rather belonged to her companion seated to her right. This hand moved to a beat heard only by its owner, one of those few gifted percussionists who could channel Ricky Ricardo. I did my best to keep my eyes front, on the man I had shelled out hard-earned cash to watch, but the show on my right was as compelling as a car crash. When the hand slipped from the knee to regions south, I had to raise my own and use it as a blinder.<br />
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The director of our local arts association is often quoted on the benefits of live theater; how it builds community, breaks down barriers, and gives one with a sense of life beyond one’s own. The next time I see Jim, I’m going to let him know some barriers especially those in the community of the audience need to stay unbroken.<br />
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And to my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Balcony One, Row A, Seats One and Two, kids: get some foot powder and a room.Written in Stonetag:crimespace.ning.com,2009-08-02:537324:BlogPost:2090802009-08-02T21:55:51.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
I recently spent some time in a small country cemetery staring at graves with my name on them. Until I saw it written in stone, I held fast to the assumption that ours was a rare and unique clan. Turns out we’re as common as table salt, if you know where to look.<br />
<br />
In a small churchyard, in the bluff country above Winona, Minnesota sit smooth red granite monoliths side-by-side with ancient white obelisks and rough-cut black marble markers. Each as unique as the person buried below, but linked by…
I recently spent some time in a small country cemetery staring at graves with my name on them. Until I saw it written in stone, I held fast to the assumption that ours was a rare and unique clan. Turns out we’re as common as table salt, if you know where to look.<br />
<br />
In a small churchyard, in the bluff country above Winona, Minnesota sit smooth red granite monoliths side-by-side with ancient white obelisks and rough-cut black marble markers. Each as unique as the person buried below, but linked by the same five letters that spell out our family name. The oldest stones are barely legible with moss and lichen thriving in their inscriptions. The youngest, my father’s, still glows with its show-room finish. Some stones like his, reflect long lives, while others span a single day.<br />
<br />
I never before entertained the thought of a family plot as my final resting place. Not because I doubt my own mortality, but rather because we grew up deliberately disconnected from anyone beyond our nuclear family. My father was illegitimate, unsafe and unwelcome in his stepfather’s home. He survived to adulthood through the kindness of relatives and with just cause, raised us with little or no contact with his side of the family tree. It surprised me, then, to find that his final wishes included such a permanent proximity to the clan that rejected him. Maybe it was dad’s way of having the last word on what constitutes legitimate family. And that last word is written in stone.Nanowrimo Update; I'm a Weeeener!tag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-11-30:537324:BlogPost:1695442008-11-30T19:18:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
This was my first National Novel Writing Month attempt. Despite or maybe because of the challenges of the last month I was able to complete the 50,000 word challenge and posted 60, 261 to their official word counting site on the 18th. There's a knot between my shoulder blades that is not going to go away without professional help. My three year old yellow labrador retriever has stopped speaking to me. The dust bunnies in the house have officially declared themselves a new species and my husband…
This was my first National Novel Writing Month attempt. Despite or maybe because of the challenges of the last month I was able to complete the 50,000 word challenge and posted 60, 261 to their official word counting site on the 18th. There's a knot between my shoulder blades that is not going to go away without professional help. My three year old yellow labrador retriever has stopped speaking to me. The dust bunnies in the house have officially declared themselves a new species and my husband has been subjected to 1,487 "What if's...."<br />
<br />
Now the editing begins.Canada Jim, RIPtag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-11-28:537324:BlogPost:1692302008-11-28T04:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
My father passed away today at 10:50 AM. He was a man who taught me to respect the rights, opinions and property of others, and that hate should be reserved for the evils of mankind, not the people. He welcomed everyone at his table and shared what he had. He was an explorer who embraced curiosity and decried blind obedience (except when he was trying to eat a meal with six children under the age of 11). He loved all women, but committed his life to just two.<br />
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A man born in a home for unwed…
My father passed away today at 10:50 AM. He was a man who taught me to respect the rights, opinions and property of others, and that hate should be reserved for the evils of mankind, not the people. He welcomed everyone at his table and shared what he had. He was an explorer who embraced curiosity and decried blind obedience (except when he was trying to eat a meal with six children under the age of 11). He loved all women, but committed his life to just two.<br />
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A man born in a home for unwed mothers, abused by malevolent step father, whisked away by an uncle to Canada at the age of 3 only to be blown back to Minnesota on the brink of adulthood by the dust storms of the late 30s. A man who fought the Military Industrial Complex at every turn and helped six students gain conscientious objector status during the Vietnam war, but who was a World War II veteran himself, and who loved and embraced his two sons and one of his four daughters when they chose to serve their country.<br />
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He was a college professor who was often mistaken for an itinerant share-cropper as he crossed the campus and traveled the world in overalls, suit coats with ripped-out lining, and ball caps without logos. A man who when informed that his cap was just stolen from the pew while he knelt at Christmas Midnight Mass in Mexico City, only shrugged and said, "They must have needed it more than I."<br />
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A white man who taught African American Studies and Black History for 30 years and who lived long enough to see a Black man elected President of the United States of America. He was a poet and a writer who instilled a love for reading and writing in his children and grandchildren. He was a man who walked in others shoes until he couldn't walk any more, who stood up for the oppressed and mentally ill until he couldn't stand up any more, who treated each person with dignity and respect, even when he felt age and disease had robbed him of his.<br />
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James LeRoy Lafky, rest in peace.nanowrimotag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-11-13:537324:BlogPost:1660642008-11-13T02:23:32.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
I have joined the National Novel Writing Month contest and accepted its challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days. It is day 12 and I just hit 30,411 words. Taking a stab at Suspense/Romance. Keeping the cast tight and the tension high. Following the Donald Moss School of "What's the worst thing that could happen...write it down. Now what's the worst thing that could happen next. Take your characters there." Got to go; plotting a firetruck-suv car chase in beautiful down town Minneapolis,…
I have joined the National Novel Writing Month contest and accepted its challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days. It is day 12 and I just hit 30,411 words. Taking a stab at Suspense/Romance. Keeping the cast tight and the tension high. Following the Donald Moss School of "What's the worst thing that could happen...write it down. Now what's the worst thing that could happen next. Take your characters there." Got to go; plotting a firetruck-suv car chase in beautiful down town Minneapolis, MN.<br />
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Keep your keyboard dry and your whistle wet, ya'll. Later.Canada Jimtag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-10-12:537324:BlogPost:1624962008-10-12T23:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
March has become October. My father's broken leg has become a life-sentence in a health care facility. Home is a place he visits, a poet without words.
March has become October. My father's broken leg has become a life-sentence in a health care facility. Home is a place he visits, a poet without words.Citizen Police Academy-Gun Fight at the OMG Corraltag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-03-07:537324:BlogPost:1287782008-03-07T06:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
Tonight we went through a very basic training session in the use of simunitions for police training tactics. I wanted to start this post with some stats about how often the typical law enforcement officer draws their weapon in the line of duty, but that's not a statistic that is easy to put your hands on. Use of force, especially deadly force is a not tracked in a uniform manner. When a department collects this info, statistical updates don't ususally end up in the monthly community policing…
Tonight we went through a very basic training session in the use of simunitions for police training tactics. I wanted to start this post with some stats about how often the typical law enforcement officer draws their weapon in the line of duty, but that's not a statistic that is easy to put your hands on. Use of force, especially deadly force is a not tracked in a uniform manner. When a department collects this info, statistical updates don't ususally end up in the monthly community policing newsletter.<br />
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For a city under 40,000, our police force has a pretty good training program. They have training glocks that fire small soap-based dye rounds, safety helmets with 200 degree range of vision shields and more head cover than Darth Vader. They also have neck/throat shields, and the typical groin cups. Officers usually wear their own vests for body armor. One room in the lower level of the safety building holds a large free standing square of hinged 12 by 8 foot sheets of plywood. These "walls" can be configured to resemble various room layouts. For training to respond to an office building or school crisis, the local housing authority allows law enforcement to train in a couple abandoned warehouses that are awaiting "redevelopment."<br />
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Tonight, though, it was Joes Vs Pros in a domestic disturbance response. Citizen Police Academy members paired up and were sent in as "responding officers" to a domestic disturbance where loud voices were reported and physical violence was suspected. The Pros played the domestic disturbers, leaving us Joes to be the Police. My partner and I were as Mutt and Jeff as they come. He; a few years my senior and a peace and justice advocate with military experience. Me a life-long TV law enforcement junkie from Gunsmoke to CSI.<br />
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Our training officer was a compact man with a high n' tight hair cut, and a look-you straight-in-the-eyes approach. It was clear we were going to get a scaled down version of the usual trainging they do, but there was nothing scaled down about the safety precautions. We were first asked about any weapons we might be carrying, then asked to empty our pockets and finally wanded with a metal detector before we left the "safe room" for the "Live fire" room. If we left for any reason, we had to repeat this safety check before being allowed to do the simnitions activity.<br />
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When it was our turn, my partner and I followed the instructor to the training room. We donned our helmets, were given our weapons and told to enter the room. Guns could be at our sides or barrel-down, held against our stomachs. When we entered there were two men fighting in the corner. I yelled at them to break it up said we were police. One pushed the other down and pulled out a gun. He aimed and started shooting at the man he had been fighting. I think I got out the words, "Put it down," then I just opened up.<br />
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My partner shot about the same time. I fired three to five rounds and hit the man twice in the back and once high in the side just below the arm pit. I could tell my hits from my partner's because his bullets were made of blue dye and mine were orange. The shooter collapsed and I turned my attention on the other fellow, pointing my gun at him and shouting, "Gun? do you have a gun?" I guess "Show me your hands." wasn't the first thing I was thinking of. The training officer yelled that it was over and we surrendered our weapons. We got high marks for our shooting and for treating the other subject as dangerous, until we knew otherwise.<br />
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Afterwards I couldn't recall how many shots I had fired until the training officer showed me the marks. I didn't even hear my "partner's" weapon discharge. Nor could I recall exactly how far he was to my right. Tunnel/funnel vision in every sense.<br />
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This was our last training program. Next week is graduation. I have been promised a dvd of my tazing. I saw it on the TO's lap top. I haven't decided if it will end up on this site. All I can say is thank God I'm a girl, cause I sure screamed like one!Hand-held Lightningtag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-02-29:537324:BlogPost:1273562008-02-29T07:00:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
Tonight I took a three-second ride on a hand-held bolt of lightning known as the Taser® X26. Three seconds is nothing. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Done. Barely enough time to read these sentences. It’s no time at all unless it is counted off while 50,000 volts of electricity are coursing through your body.<br />
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According to their web site, the Taser® X26 is the most popular electronic control devise used by law enforcement today. Its chunky, pistol-shaped plastic housing is…
Tonight I took a three-second ride on a hand-held bolt of lightning known as the Taser® X26. Three seconds is nothing. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Done. Barely enough time to read these sentences. It’s no time at all unless it is counted off while 50,000 volts of electricity are coursing through your body.<br />
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According to their web site, the Taser® X26 is the most popular electronic control devise used by law enforcement today. Its chunky, pistol-shaped plastic housing is designed to be aimed and shot like a hand gun. The standard model includes a laser site and a flashlight and a cartridge of compressed nitrogen that can spit two barrel-shaped, barbed probes up to thirty-five feet. The probes remain attached to the weapon by fish line-like filaments that aren’t strong enough to land a respectable Wisconsin Bluegill, but will have a human being flopping on the deck in… well, in three seconds.<br />
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The pain is unique. I know a little bit about pain. I misspent my youth as a clumsy tom boy and a large chunk of my adulthood in the martial arts. At differing times and places I’ve broken my right wrist, middle finger, middle finger knuckle, and thumb; my right ankle, two toes on my left foot (twice), my nose (twice, once with nun chucks), and had two screws removed from the end of my right femur without the benefit of anesthetic.<br />
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If you’ve ever been shocked by static electricity, an electric fence or a bad cord connected to a kitchen appliance that’s a place to start. Imagine shuffling through an acre of shag carpet and backing into a stop sign-sized door knob. You’re getting closer. Couple the full-body shock with full-body muscle clench and hold that pose while you count, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.” Three seconds can last forever.Night of the Living Deadtag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-02-24:537324:BlogPost:1259692008-02-24T06:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
Anyone who doubts the existence of zombies need only venture out into the winter hinterlands of central and northern Wisconsin. In tin-sided buildings the color of dried mustard, they cluster in communion with the seven deadly sins. Under the guise of progress they profess to enrich the Native Americans of our state through the tawdry tourist attraction that is Indian Gaming.<br />
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The drive in is a metaphor for the failed promise of our state’s casinos. A wide four-lane highway delivers us to a…
Anyone who doubts the existence of zombies need only venture out into the winter hinterlands of central and northern Wisconsin. In tin-sided buildings the color of dried mustard, they cluster in communion with the seven deadly sins. Under the guise of progress they profess to enrich the Native Americans of our state through the tawdry tourist attraction that is Indian Gaming.<br />
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The drive in is a metaphor for the failed promise of our state’s casinos. A wide four-lane highway delivers us to a well-maintained county trunk, but the farther we get from the exit, the rougher the ride. The smooth concrete road bed only lasts long enough to ensure we are committed to the destination. In less than ten miles the shoulders are gone and the concrete is replaced by aging asphalt.<br />
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Gone too, are the bright colorful billboards that promised wealth and happiness. Now the only reason I notice the pitted metal sign designating our next turn is because the ice and snow on the roadway make it hazardous to drive the posted speed limit. Leafless woodlots suffocate the roadway with only the occasional low ranch-style home to prevent a feeling of complete isolation.<br />
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And yet when we arrive, the casino parking lot is full. I cruise the lanes looking for a spot to park and feel as though I am the only one who didn’t know the short cut to this place.<br />
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That sense of being an outsider stays with me for the rest of the afternoon. Awake among the living dead, I walk the bruised and battered carpet. It’s hard to say what is hazier; the air quality inside these corrugated walls or the connection between singing slot machines and the revitalization of a tribal community.<br />
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I’m here to see a national comedian and anticipate and get ninety minutes of good humor Better than good; my sides ache and I am still chuckling when the lights come up. I fall in with the exiting herd and my smile lasts as long as it takes to re-enter the building proper. And I’m not the only one riding on this mood swing. Voices drop, eyes dull and within minutes the living become the living dead.<br />
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My companion wants to game for a little while and we agree to rendezvous in half an hour, but I can’t force myself to stay in the building. I retreat to the parking lot and try to remember one of any of the twenty funny stories I just heard. Too late, they have been tamped down by the sadness of this place. I retreat again, this time to my car. The key in the ignition brings the engine to life and its confident rumble loosens the knot between my shoulder blades. In a few minutes my companion climbs in and we’re off.Cruel Thieftag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-02-06:537324:BlogPost:1227192008-02-06T05:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">"Winter"</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">cruel thief</font> <font face="Times New Roman" size="3">steals</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">light</font> <font face="Times New Roman" size="3">from the day…</font></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3" face="Times New Roman">"Winter"</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3" face="Times New Roman">cruel thief</font> <font size="3" face="Times New Roman">steals</font></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3" face="Times New Roman">light</font> <font size="3" face="Times New Roman">from the day</font></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3" face="Times New Roman">warmth</font> <font size="3" face="Times New Roman">from the hearth</font></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3" face="Times New Roman">songs</font> <font size="3" face="Times New Roman">from the meadow</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3" face="Times New Roman">joy from the soul</font></p>
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<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3" face="Times New Roman">Karyn J. Powers</font></p>
<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><font size="3" face="Times New Roman">02/05/08</font></p>
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<p></p>CPA Week III A Trip to the 911 Dispatch & Big Housetag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-02-01:537324:BlogPost:1218322008-02-01T19:57:35.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p>Last night we spent an hour in the 911 dispatch center and an hour touring the jail. Both were very exciting and scary for different reasons.</p>
<p>I was a child when Ed Sullivan's show aired, but I remember the plate spinners who kept 20 plates spinning on thin wooden dowels three feet off the table tops. Watching them always left me breathless. That's how I felt two minutes after we arrived at the 911 Dispatch Center.</p>
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<p>Our's is a 911 dispatch that serves a county that is 95…</p>
<p>Last night we spent an hour in the 911 dispatch center and an hour touring the jail. Both were very exciting and scary for different reasons.</p>
<p>I was a child when Ed Sullivan's show aired, but I remember the plate spinners who kept 20 plates spinning on thin wooden dowels three feet off the table tops. Watching them always left me breathless. That's how I felt two minutes after we arrived at the 911 Dispatch Center.</p>
<p/><p/><p>Our's is a 911 dispatch that serves a county that is 95 miles from end to end. There are multiple policing jursdictions from village constable up to state patrol. The fire and EMS services also have overlapping jursdictions. Some even jump county borders because they have better response times than the neighboring counties.</p>
<p>There were 6 operators working last night. Two handled the large metro area's 911, one handled 911 calls for the second largest metro area, and one handled deputy calls for squads operating outside that area. and the last two handled police officer communications for squads operating in the city.</p>
<p>The 911 operators were hired after a long screening process and 14 weeks of training. They work 12 to 16 hour shifts of four days-on, two-off; five days-on, two-off that allow them a weekend off once every three months.</p>
<p>Their work stations are a kidney shaped tables that change height with the touch of a button. This allows them to stand and move back and forth in the room, but while we were there they rarely move outside of the glow of their monitor screens.</p>
<p>The screen configuration was left to right; one large screen of rectangles representing automated pagers. Dispatchers could click and send an automated request for service to on-call volunteer fire or ems, the second was a layered location screen that could be the whole county, or with the click of the mouse, could go to satilite imagery to compliment GPS coordinates generated by the units that had computers. The third screen was a standard communication screen for translating map coordinates into addresses and worked the same way in reverse. That screen was also used for reading their data banks. They could immediately respond to officers in the field who needed more information on traffice stops, to share data about the number and kinds of calls from any one location, or to share updates on road conditions, hydrant locations, etc. The last screen showed the current call history for the night, who had what call, and what was the status of the response to that call.</p>
<p>Piled in the limited space beside the key boards and under the monitors were rolls of laminated maps. These old-school tools included maps for undeveloped or newly developed corners of the county, and border counties' info (to assist officers if they were responding to a call for mututal aid).</p>
<p>The burnout rate is high. Our host will retire this year with the dubious distinction of being the first dispatch employee to retire without a medical disability. He is a self-procalimed fitness nut who takes full advantage of the Employee Assistance crisis counseling as needed. He also admits to calling back families to check on the status of a victim days or weeks after an incident, just to get some closure.</p>
<p/><p>I'll save the jail narative for later.</p>
<p/>Citizen Police Academy Week IItag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-01-25:537324:BlogPost:1191202008-01-25T04:49:20.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p>Last week we were welcomed by the chief and toured and received an overview of the department. This week it was drugs and police dogs.The general lecture on street drugs was one that is easily available on the internet, but it felt different when the facts and figures and street prices were tied to the streets I drive on every day.</p>
<p>The police dog was amazing. All I can say to anyone up against a Belgian Malinois police dog and who is silly enough to judge these animals by their size…</p>
<p>Last week we were welcomed by the chief and toured and received an overview of the department. This week it was drugs and police dogs.The general lecture on street drugs was one that is easily available on the internet, but it felt different when the facts and figures and street prices were tied to the streets I drive on every day.</p>
<p>The police dog was amazing. All I can say to anyone up against a Belgian Malinois police dog and who is silly enough to judge these animals by their size is... " I hope you have a plastic surgeon on retainer." They don't match up to a German shepherd in size but the speed of their attack and their ability to launch straight at a target more than make up for a few inches or lbs. Try stopping a 50 lb medicine ball with teeth that slams into your arm or leg, or the back of your neck. Yikes! I saw a French police training video where one of these pups pulled a driver out through the driver's side window of a delivery van, even though the dog's feet weren't on the ground until the driver was ass-over-tea kettle out the window.</p>
<p/><p>I turned in a release form with a request to do a ride-a-long with a k-9 cop. I hope it goes through! Next week we're headed to jail. Happy trails!</p>Citizen Police Academy (CPA)tag:crimespace.ning.com,2008-01-16:537324:BlogPost:1126022008-01-16T19:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
Todays mail included a notice that my application was accepted for the local Citizen Police Academy. Timely, since yesterday at 4:30 in the morning a cabby was robbed at gun-point across the street and three doors down. For the next eight weeks I'll be getting lots of information on general police procedures, specific community policing policies and tours of the county jail and in-take areas. There's a segment on gangs and local drug use, the canine patrol, some time in a squad car and a chance…
Todays mail included a notice that my application was accepted for the local Citizen Police Academy. Timely, since yesterday at 4:30 in the morning a cabby was robbed at gun-point across the street and three doors down. For the next eight weeks I'll be getting lots of information on general police procedures, specific community policing policies and tours of the county jail and in-take areas. There's a segment on gangs and local drug use, the canine patrol, some time in a squad car and a chance to try the simunitions training. I am looking forward to it all. I know it is a safe and genteel look at the law enforcement experience, designed for building community support and understanding. That's O'kay with me. I want to experience it all and make some contacts. More news to come!Frailtiestag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-12-11:537324:BlogPost:1032052007-12-11T05:23:15.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in"><font face="Times New Roman">Frailties</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">The first time he came apart</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">he left us all at once and forever</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">only sneaking back…</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in"><font face="Times New Roman">Frailties</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">The first time he came apart</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">he left us all at once and forever</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">only sneaking back to collect</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">his things while we were away.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Slowly we gathered him up</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">one marriage, one grandchild, one</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">funeral at a time he came</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">together again in a new way.</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Now he leaves us bit by bit</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">One hip, one knee,</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">one phrase, one memory</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">and try as we may</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in"><font face="Times New Roman">we can not keep him together.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-INDENT: -4.5pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Karyn J. Powers</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-INDENT: -4.5pt"><font face="Times New Roman">30 November 2007</font></p>The Holiday Lettertag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-12-08:537324:BlogPost:1020212007-12-08T04:58:38.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">December 2007</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Happy Holidays to You and Yours,</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">We’ve come to the end of another good year and we hope that this note finds you in good…</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">December 2007</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Happy Holidays to You and Yours,</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">We’ve come to the end of another good year and we hope that this note finds you in good health and good cheer. We’ve just shoveled out from the season’s first snow, now there are only 400 more snow storms to go. I’m still with the county and Pat’s at the station and it feels like we’ve been working since the birth of our nation. We’re still on 4<sup>th</sup> Ave in our cottage-style home, though we traveled a bit, both together and alone.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">The first week in April found us out of the house, when we went to Orlando to visit the Mouse. While Pat went to training for the CMN telethon, I accidentally put a big hurt on tiny Mary Lou Retton. In a bright, crowded hallway at Coronado Springs, my shoulder bag lap-top bagged the poor little thing. She was gracious, forgiving and really quite sweet and you can tell Coach Karolyi that she stayed on her feet.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">The last week in April, I had much better luck when I scored third place with a poem at UW Writers’ Workshop. I also got two chances to pitch my new book, and an agent from New York asked for a much closer look. Off went 50 pages of my mystery tale, but the next month brought a letter, saying “No thank you. No sale.”</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">In mid-May, Pat took his brother and headed for Vegas. They were back after one week to make up their lost wages. June-July-August always pass as a blur, as I manage 50 teen summer workers around here. Somewhere in the midst of those fast passing days, there were weddings and cookouts, and we caught a few rays.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Since I’ve mentioned the cookouts, I should mention the grill, the flaming propane tank and the nice fireman named Bill. Now no one was injured, and the house wasn’t burned, but to handle a fire extinguisher we sure have learned. Who knew turkey burgers could be so exciting, just add a gas leak and a spark for igniting.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">September found us back in the City of Sin where Wisconsin played UNLV and went home with a win. They play football in the desert just once every five years, and at 104° it will drive you to tears. This was the third time we’ve seen these teams play, but we decided to be cool and indoors we stayed. We unloaded four tickets in no time at all to four happy young men we met in the hall. With cool drinks in hand, we sat in a lounge watching a giant plasma screen with Bose surround-sound.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">At the end of October we held our Halloween Bash; with spooky treats, knock-knock jokes; and a piñata to smash. We invited our neighbors, our kin-folk and friends, who brought a mini-vampire, a fairy, and two skeletons.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">On the eve of the start of my 50<sup>th</sup> year, I went to St Louis, courtesy of my Patrick, my dear. How many husbands would send off their wives to spend a week studying the taking of lives? He sent me to the first-ever Forensics University for people who like to write murder mysteries.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">I learned how to hold, how to load, how to shoot a 22 automatic and a 9 millimeter, to boot. I learned about poisons and toxicology, and sat through an after-lunch power-point autopsy. I got to meet detectives, a judge, a SWAT nurse, and an FBI agent with cuffs in her purse. At dinner I met an ATF G-man who lived undercover in the hills with the Klan. It was four glorious days for perfecting my skills, after which Pat and I went to a lawyer and made out our wills. Now there is no correlation between those events except to say that’s how November was spent.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">That brings us to December, to the end of the year, to the end of this missive to the ones we hold dear. </font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">We wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Love and Best Wishes,</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Karyn and Pat</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p>Goof-Proof Murder from Forensics Universitytag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-11-05:537324:BlogPost:896072007-11-05T01:04:20.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p>How many times have you killed somebody, only to realize a few hours, days or weeks later, that you missed one stink'n detail and now the whole pile of caca is smoldering on the doorstep (of your keyboard) while you waste a lot of time and energy backtracking to cover your (antagonist's) ass and (metephorically) hiring a silk-shark to keep the local police force (your agent/editor) at bay?</p>
<p>You should'da been at Forensics University in St Louis! Imagine sitting at the bar with a board…</p>
<p>How many times have you killed somebody, only to realize a few hours, days or weeks later, that you missed one stink'n detail and now the whole pile of caca is smoldering on the doorstep (of your keyboard) while you waste a lot of time and energy backtracking to cover your (antagonist's) ass and (metephorically) hiring a silk-shark to keep the local police force (your agent/editor) at bay?</p>
<p>You should'da been at Forensics University in St Louis! Imagine sitting at the bar with a board certified cardiologist, who happens to spend his down-time writing expert forensics reference books for crime writers? Lined up next to him are an active ATF agent, a decorated retired police detective with street time in Homicide, Vice, and Drug Interdiction, a Judge, a Trauma Nurse, and a fist full of Edger-etal, Award winning authors. The sound of laughter turns your head and you wave as the director or the St Louis Crime Lab and the St Charles County Medical Examiner stroll by. This is not a virtual experience. They are there, in the flesh, to answer your questions about poisons, pistols, pests, puss, and lust.</p>
<p>The conference opened with a trip to an indoor gun range and ended with a Murder Planning breakfast buffet. Somewhere in the middle were sessions on police procedures, search warrents, forensic entimology, forensic anthropology, weapons and tactics, casting impressions and a nice, after-lunch-autopsy powerpoint.</p>
<p>Sisters in Crime, through the mammoth efforts of their St Louis Chapter, and the mentoring and mothering of some great writers who took time away from their families and trade craft made this program possible. And they will do it again. Start watching their web sites, joining their list-serves and asking for the 2008 date. When it is announced, draw a circle around that day and set your sights on Forensics U.</p>Forensics University Hits the Bulls Eyetag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-11-05:537324:BlogPost:885962007-11-05T00:17:15.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p>"See how the design of the gun seduces your finger, drawing it toward the trigger? For your own safety and the safety of those around you, you must resist its temptation."</p>
<p>In a small, paneled classroom at the Bulls Eye Shooting Range, in St Louis, MO. we are learning the proper way to handle a handgun from a man who depends on his skills with such weapons for more than his daily bread. In the course of teaching us the difference between a single action, double action and automatic…</p>
<p>"See how the design of the gun seduces your finger, drawing it toward the trigger? For your own safety and the safety of those around you, you must resist its temptation."</p>
<p>In a small, paneled classroom at the Bulls Eye Shooting Range, in St Louis, MO. we are learning the proper way to handle a handgun from a man who depends on his skills with such weapons for more than his daily bread. In the course of teaching us the difference between a single action, double action and automatic pistol, we learn he has recently been living under a death threat from a local gang for putting one of theirs behind bars. He's not complaining. He did what he had to do, and accepts the situation as a consequence of fighting back.</p>
<p>"The word 'predator' has gotten a bad rap in our society," he explains. While showing us the strengths and weaknesses of each weapon. "The (animal) world has always been predator or prey. If you accept that, then what do you want to be? If you're not prey, you're a predator. If you take what you want and I have something you want. I have to be a bigger, badder (sic)predator than you so you will leave me alone and go on to the next guy."</p>
<p>He raps his chest and his knuckles sound off against a chest plate hidden under his dress shirt. "I don't live in fear, but I am always aware. I live in the moment. So while I may be measuring the threats around me 24/7, I also see more sunsets, appreciate (your) smiles and live... in the moment."</p>
<p>He has our complete attention.</p>
<p>I am the first person he calls up to demonstrate that I have been listening. He places an empty gun on the folding table and directs me to pick it up. I do so in the manner that he taught us and although he is pleased, my jaws ache from gnashing the gum I chew to relieve my tension. When five of us have passed this first test he hands us off to an associate who leads us to the tiny office that shares a glass wall with the indoor range. While we receive our "eyes and ears," (safety glasses and headsets) the concussions from shooters next door assail our bodies. The sound proofing is doing its job, but the displaced air still gets through. I pretend calm, but chew harder. Someone is firing off a cannon in there as every third of fourth round feels like pillow bumping my chest.</p>
<p>For all my success in the classroom, I fumble while trying to load the 22 's magazine. While I wait for the range master to work his way back to my shooting station, I try to open my senses to the moment. The space is tight and ten stations take up no more than twenty five feet across the front of the seventy-five foot long bay. Battered fiber acoustical tiles are secured to the walls and ceiling. Several feet of tumbled rubber batting extend toward me from the back wall. Everything is designed for containment, yet water has found a way in to stain the tiles over my head.</p>
<p>I lean back and bump into the range master coming to assist me. He quickly sets things right and all at once, I have a loaded weapon. The man in the paneled room was right; it is tactile seduction. The back of the gun fits snug against the webbing between my right thumb and index finger. I keep that finger pointed along and just above the trigger guard, while wrapping the rest of my hand around the raised cross-hatching on its grip. As instructed, I press my left palm against the butt's left side just below and behind my right thumb, wrap left fingers over right and press the tip of the left thumb into the tip of the right. I am deliberate and calm, but my right index finger quivers with anticipation.</p>
<p>I take a few deep breaths and try to acknowledge the seriousness of my actions, but damn it, all I want to do is fire the gun. So I do. Tiny holes appear in the paper human silhouette ten feet down range. My first three shots punch through the red at seven, five and four-o-clock, three inches below the x in the center of the bulls eye. I like that so much my next shot is an inch into the black and the next- four inches below that. I pause, re-sight and begin again. Two more shots in the red, a quarter inch below the x. I remember to breath and squeeze the trigger again, but nothing happens. I am done with the 22.</p>
<p>The 9 millimeter is next and its weight and recoil are substantial. After two low shots; six and four inches below the red, I adjust my stance and empty the rest into the red in three sets of two's, plus one, so close they overlap and tear into each other. And then the slide locks. The magazine is empty and my body is feasting on adrenalin.</p>Tanka 5.0tag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-10-10:537324:BlogPost:800652007-10-10T01:35:49.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><font face="Times New Roman">Tanka 5.0</font></p>
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><font face="Times New Roman">Cold merciless rain</font></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><font face="Times New Roman">strips the shapely…</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><font face="Times New Roman">Tanka 5.0</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><font face="Times New Roman">Cold merciless rain</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><font face="Times New Roman">strips the shapely branches bare</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><font face="Times New Roman">Autumn has no shame</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><font face="Times New Roman">so I gather her garments</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><font face="Times New Roman">and hide them from the neighbors</font></p>Flat-Earth Airlinestag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-09-08:537324:BlogPost:712662007-09-08T03:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p><em>If man were meant to fly....</em></p>
<p>I think the Flat-Earth society has taken over commercial air transportation. I am willing to stipulate that I am one of the way-too-impatient, way-too-intollerant, gnat-on-crack-attention-span-blessed common folk. That being said, it seems to be a sad state of affairs when the best thing you can say for flying coach is that you survived.</p>
<p>The airline employees are not to blame. They work hard, with little support. They face a frustrated…</p>
<p><em>If man were meant to fly....</em></p>
<p>I think the Flat-Earth society has taken over commercial air transportation. I am willing to stipulate that I am one of the way-too-impatient, way-too-intollerant, gnat-on-crack-attention-span-blessed common folk. That being said, it seems to be a sad state of affairs when the best thing you can say for flying coach is that you survived.</p>
<p>The airline employees are not to blame. They work hard, with little support. They face a frustrated client base every day and do the best they can. It is not the ticket seller's fault their corporate headquarters down sized the flight crews, sold off half the fleet and pocketed any and all gov bailout monies to bolster third quarter returns. It's not the gate attendants' fault that the dotcom travel agencies oversell flights, create ghost carriers, and leave the real people to apologize to JQP.</p>
<p>I blame on the greedy CF'NO's and Human Resource overseers who know we have to fly, and will put up with just about anything to go and return in one piece. I don't mind the heightened security measures. Heck, I'd strip to my jockies and fly in a hospital gown (as long as the first class customers join me!). But I truly believe that at the theme of the annual <em>Air Carriers Corporate Customer Service Retreat and Fox Hunt</em> is "Let them eat cake!"</p>
<p>They have us by the seat cushions, people. Is resistance futile?</p>Vacation Diary Day #1 "Called 911"tag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-09-07:537324:BlogPost:699122007-09-07T00:40:09.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<div>We are both okay. The house is fine. Around 6 PM, I went out on the front porch and lit the grill to cook some turkey burgers. Pat brought the burgers out and we chatted. Suddenly flames started shooting out where the hose connected to the propane tank nozzle. While Pat was getting the fire extinguisher, I burned three fingers trying to turn off the gas through the flames.</div>
<div>We couldn't get the fire extinguisher to work, so I dragged the unit down four steps to the edge of the…</div>
<div>We are both okay. The house is fine. Around 6 PM, I went out on the front porch and lit the grill to cook some turkey burgers. Pat brought the burgers out and we chatted. Suddenly flames started shooting out where the hose connected to the propane tank nozzle. While Pat was getting the fire extinguisher, I burned three fingers trying to turn off the gas through the flames.</div>
<div>We couldn't get the fire extinguisher to work, so I dragged the unit down four steps to the edge of the side walk to get it way from the house. I ran back into the house and called 911. Pat got a pot of water and threw it on the fire. He told me the fire was out so we didn't need 911 assistance, but the dispatcher wanted the fire fighters to check the scene anyway, So they came out with a nice big fire truck, but no siren, and Pat disappeared into the basement.</div>
<div>I met the fire men who inspected the unit and declared it nonfunctioning until the connector hose is replaced. They also told me it is against city ordinance to operate a gas grill on a porch, but they said no ticket, just a warning. They wished us good luck with our vacation and went on their merry way.</div>
<div>I came back into the house hyped up on adrenaline and angry because Pat left me to face the music alone. He said he went into the basement to fold clothes because it was better than yelling at me for calling 911 even after the fire was out.</div>
<div>We were both a little stressed.</div>
<div>Tomorrow we fly to Sin City. The main reason we're going is to watch the WI and UNLV football teams get heat exhaustion along with 40,000 other WI fans. We also have front row tickets to Jay Leno for tomorrow night. Saturday noon, we meet some of the 30 friends we're traveling with to draft our fantasy football league teams, (better late than never); and Saturday night is the game. Sunday we're watching the Packers game in the sports book at the Excalibur Casino and Monday we come home.</div>
<div>So we will do all of those fun things, but we don't have to gamble now. We just won the "our-propane-tank-didn't-explode-and-blow up-the-house" lottery.</div>
<div>I can't wait to see what day #2 of our vacation brings.</div>
<div><img title="" alt="" src="http://cdn-cf.aol.com/se/smi/0201d20638/08"/></div>
<div>Karyn</div>
<br/><br/><br/><div><hr style="MARGIN-TOP: 10px"/></div>Dog Daystag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-07-07:537324:BlogPost:531562007-07-07T04:05:20.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">My eighteen-month old pup, Ruby, is a better killer than any I have yet to manufacture. She acts without hesitation, commits to every effort and never displays guilt or morale conflict. Last month’s rabbit picked the wrong corner of the yard for an exit. Tuesday’s chipmunk stayed too long at the bird feeder. July 4, that grackle just misjudged an excited yellow lab’s vertical leap. As the bodies pile up, I‘m stuck…</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">My eighteen-month old pup, Ruby, is a better killer than any I have yet to manufacture. She acts without hesitation, commits to every effort and never displays guilt or morale conflict. Last month’s rabbit picked the wrong corner of the yard for an exit. Tuesday’s chipmunk stayed too long at the bird feeder. July 4, that grackle just misjudged an excited yellow lab’s vertical leap. As the bodies pile up, I‘m stuck following her around the yard like one of Tony’s Soprano’s henchman; gloves, plastic bag or newspapers, and a shovel.</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">If ever I wanted a character study of the emotional disconnect of a disassociative-psychopath, I only have to try to get her to part with a fresh kill. “Ruby, drop it. Drop it now,” I say.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">She doesn’t, choosing instead to dance out of my reach, a grin flashing in the moon light. Ruby’s smile is really just her way of sucking in air around a still-warm body. I know this. I also know that Charlie Manson, on his worst day, looks a little saner than she does with a mouth full of chipmunk. I can still see that grin marred only by a tiny tail drooping out over her lower lip.</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">I’m trying to learn something from all this mayhem. I want those tiny souls to have relinquished their lives for a greater good. My Darwinian nature says that there will be fewer slow rabbits, and that chipmunks will eventually develop better bird feeder exit-strategies. (I’m hoping the grackle thing was a fluke.) My spiritual side is up in arms. Karma doesn’t usually flow one way for very long. I keep picturing the Jurassic T-Rex running amok in my neighborhood, a dog house dangling from his lips by poor, unfortunate Ruby’s chain.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman">Maybe I can take some of that murderous élan and channel it into a best seller. Maybe I can get Ruby to become a vegan. Based on the way she explodes out the back door each night, the odds of the former far exceed the latter.</font></p>The Angel of Ass-Whoop at Grill-Fest (adult language)tag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-06-15:537324:BlogPost:486502007-06-15T04:30:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><font face="Times New Roman">Tuesday night I chaperoned the Mayor’s Youth Action Council (MYAC) event called “Grill-Fest.” There were more than 300 teens and young adults at one of our community parks. The MYAC kids scheduled a skateboard and BMX bicycle stunt contest at the skateboard park and five bands at the shelter. I taught them about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">planned spontaneity</i> by having them set up a…</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><font face="Times New Roman">Tuesday night I chaperoned the Mayor’s Youth Action Council (MYAC) event called “Grill-Fest.” There were more than 300 teens and young adults at one of our community parks. The MYAC kids scheduled a skateboard and BMX bicycle stunt contest at the skateboard park and five bands at the shelter. I taught them about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">planned spontaneity</i> by having them set up a volleyball net, a croquet court, and toss a bunch of Frisbees on the grass.</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><font face="Times New Roman">The crowd moved back and forth from the music to the skate-park to the volleyball and Frisbees. Alas, croquet attracted no one. We emptied 5 huge bags of charcoal into a super-sized grill and provided the utensils for anyone who wanted to cook out without the hassle of firing up their own. I wandered back and forth between the venues as did seven of the MYAC members. They were just flabbergasted at the flow. My job was to be the Buzz-kill and make eye contact with those people who seemed a little too well-oiled for their age, or bent upon bothering each other or strangers.</font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><font face="Times New Roman">Other than a few nasty spills on the skate-park half-pipe, it turned out to be a very nice night. I handed out band aids and ice packs, and was <span style="mso-no-proof: yes">in the middle of congratulating myself on the night’s success when five middle school-aged grinders started bashing on a beautiful oak shelter door with their skateboards. The door was closed and locked to keep them out of an off-limits area filled with band members personal items. It mattered not that they had been escorted out of the room twice prior to the door getting locked. They felt slighted and showed their righteous anger by smashing their wheels and hardware into the newly refinished hardwood. The day started at</span> <span style="mso-no-proof: yes">5:30 AM</span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes">, so I was on my last nerve, as the saying goes, when they acted out. They received a reaction that they may believe was a tad extreme based upon their effort, but I was tired, and hot so I gave it to them with both barrels.</span></font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes"><font face="Times New Roman">The perfect moment-within-the-moment occurred as I escorted them out of the park. They were calling my gender, family history, sexual preference, and judgement to question when a beautiful, abeit, scantilly clad blonde young lady; pierced and tattooed in all the right/wrong places joined me on the road and addressed the boys. And I quote:</font></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes"><font face="Times New Roman">“It’s about fucking respect, you little pricks. Show the woman some respect and shut-the-fuck-up, you ass holes.”</font></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes"><font face="Times New Roman">“Thank you,” I said.</font></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes"><font face="Times New Roman">When compared with the passion she displayed in my defense, it seemed inadequate, but it was all I had. She thrust out her chin, and acknowledged my thanks with a bob of her head, before disappearing back into the crowd. Whatever the boys said after that didn’t register in my memory. I was buoyed in the same manner as the two hot air balloons that launched smack in the middle of the park, smack in the middle of our event. The angel of ass whoop had descended upon me and yea, though I walked in the valley of trash-talk, I feared no evil. (Except maybe her).</font></span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><font face="Times New Roman"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes">That night I couldn’t sleep because I had let myself get too dehydrated during the long day. My body informed me of this fact by cramping not just in a single muscle or immediate muscle group, but skeletally, structurally clamping down on blood flow and ramping up the pain. Side to side, front or back, it didn’t matter. I sucked down water until my hair was damp, but it was too late to stop the cascade. At</span> <span style="mso-no-proof: yes">2 AM</span> <span style="mso-no-proof: yes">I ended up in a reclyner downstairs. Every ten minutes or so I would get up and shuffle around to keep the blood flowing. I finally fell asleep around four. I didn’t go into work until after ten, but the world seemed to manage without me.</span></font></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes"><font face="Times New Roman">I have scheduled some half-days the last week of the month so I can play in the garden or write. If I can’t stop the speeding train that is my typical summer, I can at least arrange to spend some time in the observation car and enjoy the view.</font></span></p>Summer Time and the Living is anything but...tag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-05-26:537324:BlogPost:440382007-05-26T04:24:00.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p>I will be taking a break from my intermittent comments for a while. My day job is about to take over my life. For the next few weeks I am prepping 45 summer workers for 8 to 10 week jobs. It is one of my favorite times of the year. All potential-no regrets, but it sucks the creative juices out of me. I hope you all have a great Memorial Day weekend. As a slightly conflicted, liberal who has worked for the military-industrial complex, I leave you with Churchill's, "Never give in; never,…</p>
<p>I will be taking a break from my intermittent comments for a while. My day job is about to take over my life. For the next few weeks I am prepping 45 summer workers for 8 to 10 week jobs. It is one of my favorite times of the year. All potential-no regrets, but it sucks the creative juices out of me. I hope you all have a great Memorial Day weekend. As a slightly conflicted, liberal who has worked for the military-industrial complex, I leave you with Churchill's, "Never give in; never, never, never in nothing great or small large or petty,never give in <u>except to convictions of honor and good sense</u>..." and add:</p>
<p>Never forget those who have fallen or those who put them in harms way.</p>Poetry with 4th Graderstag:crimespace.ning.com,2007-05-13:537324:BlogPost:357592007-05-13T03:27:55.000ZKaryn J. Powershttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/karyning
<p>I recently spent a morning writing poetry with fourth grade students from Hawthorn Hills Elementary School. My goal was to get them to give their senses a voice. Mother Nature cooperated with a beautiful day. We began outside with a five-senses scavenger hunt. Seven teams of five went out to the playground to "collect" and record what they saw, felt, heard, smelled and (imagined) they tasted.</p>
<p>Their task was to write down the best description of their sense-by-sense experience before…</p>
<p>I recently spent a morning writing poetry with fourth grade students from Hawthorn Hills Elementary School. My goal was to get them to give their senses a voice. Mother Nature cooperated with a beautiful day. We began outside with a five-senses scavenger hunt. Seven teams of five went out to the playground to "collect" and record what they saw, felt, heard, smelled and (imagined) they tasted.</p>
<p>Their task was to write down the best description of their sense-by-sense experience before we returned to the class room to construct five-line poems. The teams recited their poems and then as individuals, each constructed another five line poem using the best lines that they heard or new lines that were triggered by the readings.</p>
<p>Forty kids from the same school, out on the same school grounds they have seen every day for at least the length of this school year, created forty unique poems.</p>