Breaking Hearts

It’s another snowy day in February, and once I had got over gloomily wondering why it was that bears could hibernate for three months or so and humans start to fall apart after a couple days in bed, I got to work. The first order of things, as usual,
is to go to the computer and smash the hearts and hopes of that throng of people who wrote me last night. Lively people, strangers with intriguing names and offers of help and companionship, people that might be old lovers or friends, or might not. This morning Buddy Lane offered us hope for all, Lenora Eldridge, who sounds as if she might be a jazz singer, wants to open minds to the world, Martin Haywood (who probably lives in West Hollywood and drives an old Porche) tells me erections are still possible, and Carmela Smith tells me that she is looking for me. I’m right here, as usual. About to be ruthless and hit the empty switch on my spam file. And with it comes a whole tide of regrets, about what it was that Carmela was trying to tell me and what Buddy’s message of hope was. Maybe he’s the guy that has been studying bears, and has the secret. I could use the rest.

Progress of a sort? An update on 98 King Street

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In December, we carried a story on 98 King and the proposal the Valley CDC made for the Community Preservation Awards (CPA) program to convert this derelict building to a 8-unit SRO. Since then, the proposal for seed money has been approved, the building has changed hands, and the CDC has been "buttoned up" with an initial $5,000.00. Completion of this conversion to SROs is scheduled for a long way off—2011. I wonder if it's going to stay like it is today for two years? Here's hoping it
doesn't take that long.

Read the full earlier article here

Crack is Back Part Three : The Death of a Dealer

A crack pipe purchased for 99 cents at Pop's Liquor

The first article I wrote for Kirbyontheloose was “Crack is Back” in March of 2008.read it here. It was a two-part story of a young woman who was beat up at a local rooming house and thrown out of the window by her boyfriend, a drug user. I interviewed her, and she put me on to the story about how available crack pipes were in local convenience stores and liquor stores. In the process of writing the story, I learned who supplied the crack cocaine to her boyfriend. “Jim” lived a short distance away from the rooming house in subsidized housing on Michaelman Avenue. He ran crack parties, the landlord knew he was there and knew that dealing was going on; they called the police, but never managed to get witnesses to testify in support of an eviction order, and the police never raided the place or made an arrest. The tenants suffered. Evidently he was a small fish. On June 8, 2008, he died of an overdose.

There was no notice in either the Gazette or the Union of his death. It’s a pattern around here. Drug deaths go unreported. I ordered up what I could get, a medical examiners report, and a police report. At first I thought I would just print the reports as is, but professionals are hamstrung by the requirements of the form: they rarely are compelling reading, but they did start me thinking and talking to people. And visiting the spartan medical examiners office in Holyoke was a sobering experience. You don’t want to end up in one of their drawers or be another file folder in their files. Read the full article

Bad week at Kirbyontheloose

 Why we need two ambulance services in Northampton

It was the way bad ghost stories always start, a dark stormy night. It had snowed all day, the storm was winding down, and everything was freezing solid. I was looking over my wife’s shoulder when she was making some changes in a family newsletter when I began to feel dizzy and upset to my stomach. I have felt this way before. So I asked her to help me get upstairs and in bed, and get the blood pressure machine. Two sets of error readings, a third reading of 55 over 28. A new world’s record. As my doctor later said, “These numbers are not compatible with life.”

I called 911, and about five minutes later, the fire department ambulance arrived. My wife looked out the window and said they were shoveling our driveway. A minute later they were in the house. One of the guys slipped a cuff on me, and asked me some questions to see how I was doing. I think they had to do with how oriented I was, like who’s the president and who are you and what’s your address and so on. I don’t know how I scored. They said the AmB-Care was a couple minutes away, and was better equipped to handle me. A few minutes later there were a whole crowd of people in my bedroom and I was answering more questions. Then I went down the front stairs in a chair, and pretty soon I was staring at the overhead lights in the ambulance. As my wife left the house to ride with me, one of the firemen asked her if she had locked the door. She had, but many people in emergencies like this go off and leave their houses open and pots on the stove. The story ended happily, and we were back home before midnight. When it was all over I had three liters of saline in me, and the command to see my doctor ASAP.

About three months ago someone was complaining to me that our fire department ambulance service was a frill and competing with AmB-Care.  I’m always ready to savage the establishment, but I thought I would check it out. I started out over at Dunkin' Donuts talking to AmB-Care people, who are frequently there refueling. Was the Fire Department taking away their business? Evidently not. One of them suggested I talk to the owner of AmB-Care, who is in Connecticut, and he said no, it’s an ideal situation, that the two services can back each other up. So there it was, and the story never got written, until now. Thank you, Fire Department, and thank you, AmB-Care. We are fortunate, hell, I am fortunate to have you both on the job.



Bottom falls out under blogger

I was sitting down at the keyboard early this week when there was a tremendous crash and I found myself lying on the floor. Our office chair, which I think we bought at Danco many years ago, had finally collapsed without giving written notice. One of the four spars that hold the casters had broken off. For two days the wreck lay in jumble while we thought about buying a new one. $99.00 for a piece of Chinese-made junk? Today I called Amherst welding and described the problem, couching it a bit apologetically as a job too small for them. "Not at all," said the cheerful voice at the other end of the line. "This is our bread and butter. Bring it over."

Amherst Welding, formerly Fran’s Welding. is almost in Pelham, but not quite. Enter their shop and you are back in the glory days of American machinery, Big blue Millermatic welders, a huge South Bend lathe, industrial drills and grinders. No unnecessary lighting, the Butler building grimy and romantic, a working man’s paradise. The boss analyzes the problem, asked where I was from.

“Northampton?” he said. “Well, let’s see if we can keep you from making two trips." Five minutes later there was the sound of a grinder, then the hiss and flash of blue light from the welder; a couple minutes later he was back with our chair in one piece, a nice clean weld securing the missing caster. $15.00.

This is the new age, everybody. We’re not rich any more, if we ever were. Repair, don’t replace. Put your money in the pocket of American craftspeople. It has always bothered me how average Americans became corrupted by low-cost imports. They ditch everything old, buy Chinese and are indifferent to the world of sweatshops that grew when American industries moved their equipment overseas. BUY AMERICAN friends, the jobs and equipment will come back.

Chair All Repaired