On the beaten pathtag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//32008-05-05T18:38:27ZA forum for lively discussion about interesting newspaper topics and a look at the behind-the-scenes workings of the Press-Republican newsroom.Movable Type 3.33It's not easy being greentag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4992008-05-04T17:20:05Z2008-05-05T18:38:27ZBy JACK DOWNS Design Editor The more I look at issues around global climate change and our first, few, feeble attempts to do something about it, the more I realize that green is a complicated color. Here's an example: You...Lois Clermont
By JACK DOWNS
Design Editor
The more I look at issues around global climate change and our first, few, feeble attempts to do something about it, the more I realize that green is a complicated color.
Here's an example: You are a green go-getter. You're reading this under the illumination of a compact florescent light bulb. In your driveway is a new flex-fuel car. And what's that in the back yard? Oh, it's a giant industrial wind turbine. Good choices, right?
Yes and no.
CFLs have one hitch: tiny amounts of toxic mercury. Unlike traditional light bulbs, CFLs need to be recycled properly, not just thrown in the dump. Problem is, the EPA hasn't figured out yet how to do that.
Still, I suggest you stick with CFLs, await recycling information and hope that future lighting technology will be environmentally correct for use and disuse.
Flex-fuel cars are vehicles that can use regular gasoline (everyone say BOO!) or a gas-ethanol mix (everyone say YAY). But should we be cheering for ethanol. Probably not, or at least not the way ethanol is being made in this country.
The original promise of ethanol was fuel made from waste and weeds. But as the New York Times reported recently that promise has been delayed, delayed and delayed again. In the meantime the United States has made the stupid and politically motivated decision to produce ethanol from corn. Not only is corn an inefficient tool for the purpose - sugar would be much better - by using a food crop for fuel we've helped create a global food crisis that threatens the nutrition needs of millions. Want more info on this? The Washington Post has done some fantastic reporting on the connection between U.S. energy policy and global hunger .
But even if we had efficient and ethical ethanol, the flex-fuel idea is a tough one to endorse. Flex fuel is about burning different, not burning less. Replace that car with a super-efficient hybrid, or better yet, a soon-to-be available plug-in hybrid, and you get your green status back.
And what about the wind turbine, specifically the large wind farms that are popping up throughout our region right now? Hey, the wind is free and clean, so that's got to be a green winner, right? Well, it's not that simple.
David Sommerstein of North Country Public Radio, in his very thorough piece "Wind Power: How "Green" is it?", demonstrates the complexity in that question. In fact, because of the way our electric grid and generating system works, it is very hard to pin down how much carbon we aren't pouring into the atmosphere because of all these towers and turbines.
So keep the wind turbine for now, but turn down your thermostat (or turn off your air conditioner), because conservation is probably a better long-term strategy.
And I still think you look good in green.
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An odyssey between Lake Champlain and the Caribbean Seatag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4952008-04-30T20:55:27Z2008-05-01T13:43:17ZBy ROBIN CAUDELL Staff Writer During my daughter’s freshman year at the College of Sante Fe, Nikki did a semester abroad in Belize. It was highly unusual for the college to allow freshmen to participate in the fledging program, but...Lois ClermontDuring my daughter’s freshman year at the College of Sante Fe, Nikki did a semester abroad in Belize.
It was highly unusual for the college to allow freshmen to participate in the fledging program, but they were so short of students, the program would be cancelled otherwise.
And, my daughter was desperate to depart an unusually dry New Mexico.
I always told Nikki she was a water baby. She was born on Pensacola Bay and subsequently lived along the South China Sea, Subic Bay, Chesapeake Bay, Atlantic Ocean, Lake Champlain and back to our ancestral homelands on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. She and the desert were not a good mix, but Sagitarians chart their own course. It was a battle she won at 2.
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Belize and the Philippines are in a dead heat for her favorite places in the world. In a heartbeat, she would pull up stakes and live in either place if she could figure the money angle out.
While in Belize, she participated in an ethno-ecological study examining milpa farming, a slash-and burn agricultural method, and its impact on the rainforest. She also participated in oceanographic tests documenting the impact of cruise ships on reefs.
A film major, she made a documentary on traditional healers, cuanderos, and interviewed Rosario Panti, great-granddaughter of renowned H’man, Don Elijio Panti.
I had the chance to visit her and learn about the country, its people and its culture.
One day, we traveled by bus to Belize City to embark on a 40-minute boat ride to Caye Caulker. On the way, we passed Ambergris Caye, where the then couple-wrecking, reality-series hit “Temptation Island” was being filmed.
After we showered at our beach cottage, we went in search of food. On this limestone-coral island, “Happy Hour begins” before noon. I had more than a little parental concern when Nikki, 18, ordered rum-and-cokes like OJ. As we sipped our drinks, the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea crested at our feet.
One evening after a delicious meal at our favorite restaurant, we sat on the beach. Nikki, an instant island hoop star, was soon off, and I watched tangerine flames lick the sunset sky. A Garifuna with dreds thick as Medusa’s coils carried a battered guitar. After we introduced ourselves, he said, “Welcome home, Sister.” My face misted. It wasn’t sea spray.
Flash forward: Mayor’s Cup Regatta 2007.
Nikki drove her car, Midnight, from the Eastern Shore to Plattsburgh for the first time. As we drove to Wilcox Dock, I blasted an advance copy of “Wátina” by Andy Palacio and the Garifuna Collective.
“Mom, this reminds me of Belize,” Nikki said. “We have to go back. I wish I could go to their concert with you.”
Nikki and I celebrated the Fourth of July at the Splash Party, a Lake Champlain cruise featuring the Blind Pig Blues Band. A thumping instrumental cover of the Staple Singers’ “I’ll Take You There” had me sliding on the dance deck. Nikki shimmied in a retro, yellow dress. We jammed with Dr. David Gorman and Judy Murphy-Gorman.
Later, when fireworks sparked dusk, “Doc” rested in Judy’s embrace. My baby girl’s curls caressed my cheek. We docked. Departing, I filled the night with strains of “Wátina,” which translates as “I Called Out.”
Flash Forward. Thursday, August 2, 2007. Higher Ground Music. South Burlington, Vt.
In my mind’s eye, I glided over the Caribbean Sea back to Caye Caulker listening to Andy Palacio & the Garifuna Collective. Uncharacteristic for me, I asked Andy to sign not only my CD but also a poster, which he inscribed to Nikki. I also had Garifuna icon Paul Nabor sign his album, “Paranda.” This elder’s energetic delivery and haunting voice touched my heart. His smile, my soul.
Flash Forward. Sunday, August 12, 2007.
Dr. David Gorman, a gynecologist with practices in Malone and Plattsburgh, chief of surgery and past president of the medical staff at Alice Hyde Medical Center, and two-time winner of the Mayor’s Cup Regatta, died at the Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. Prostate cancer surgery. Heart attack. Heart attack. 71.
Flash Forward. Jan. 19, 2008.
Andy Palacio, Belizean musician, deputy administrator of the National Institute of Culture and History and Garifuna activist died. Massive and extensive stroke to the brain. Heart attack. Respiratory failure. 47.
When I learned of their deaths, I thought about the last time I saw them. The way each of those days began. How they ended. How they touched my life.
I attended Doc’s funeral at St. Peter’s Church. After his graveside service, Judy stood in a path near me. The gravestone of her first husband, Dr. Richard Murphy, was before her. Doc’s grave was behind her. Her wavy-dark tresses blew in the wind.
When Simeon Chapin of Vermont-based Cumbancha Records sent me a press-release in April about tonight’s Andy Palacio Tribute Concert at Higher Ground, something bubbled in me. This.
Simeon told me to interview Ivan Duran, founder and producer of Stonetree Records, who released Palacio’s first record. Ivan said:
“I worked for Andy for almost 15 years. I would come back to Belize every summer. I studied music in Havana, Cuba. One of those trips coming back, I met him at the bar. I offered to make an album. He really liked the idea. Up until then, he had not produced a full-length album. We started talking here. Later, I started my own label, Stonetree Records. That’s when our collaboration began. And over 10 years, the most important breakthrough happened last year with ‘Wátina,’ which I produced ... which became a real, big international success, especially in Belize.
“It transformed the music scene here. For the first time, a local production had received so many great international reviews. That seemed to affect the local perception toward our own artists. This is an album recorded in a very small village in southern Belize with local instruments, local musicians. Everything was 100-percent Belizean. The fact it made it to the charts and became #1 on the European World Music charts, it made headlines back home. In a way that single project did a lot more to preserve Garifuna music than the years of lobbying and attempts to educate people. It’s interesting how this thing just happened, something you cannot plan for just people picked it up really quickly.
“Last year was one of the biggest years in Belizean music history. That makes Andy’s death so much more difficult and painful for all of us. It was 10 years. We were starting to see the real fruits of all that work and, just, tragedy struck. The country was in shock for many days. Andy had the biggest funeral than any person ever had in this country. He is truly a national hero and more important, a popular hero. It was the first time a non-politician was honored, a simple artist. That is very significant in a place where politics rule.
“Now with Andy, his death made us feel not only the music, the entire Garifuna Collective, feel a sense of urgency. We cannot let this whole project down. What they accomplished last year, if we don’t follow it up, people will forget. We’re very much focused on continuing the works and finding younger talent. Andy was the first to admit talent is everywhere here in the Garifuna culture. It will take a little bit more time. We are ready to work and plan to continue the work that Andy started. This year, I plan a tribute album with his music and local and international artists we will bring to Belize to record this album in his memory. Then, we will work with younger musicians and singers.”
Grief laced Ivan’s voice. I could not cut his testimony to Andy and their work together.
Tonight at Higher Ground, I will attend Andy’s “Tribute Concert” presented by Cumbancha & Putumayo World Music Series.
I will dance.
Remember Doc.
Let Andy’s compatriots — the Garifuna Collective, Umalali: The Garifuna Women’s Project, Aurelio Martinez from Honduras, and Lloyd Augustine, Belize’s hottest punta-rock singer — transport me back.
“Welcome home, Sister.”
E-mail Robin Caudell at:
rcaudell@pressrepublican.com
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It's not a phone booth; it's a restroomtag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4912008-04-21T13:31:23Z2008-04-21T19:02:41ZBy GERIANNE WRIGHT Staff Writer I’m behind the times, I’m not “with” it. I don’t own an iPod, a Blackberry, a Wii, Me or You. I barely own a cell phone. I pay as I go, contributing to Richard Branson’s...Lois Clermont
By GERIANNE WRIGHT
Staff Writer
I’m behind the times, I’m not “with” it. I don’t own an iPod, a Blackberry, a Wii, Me or You. I barely own a cell phone. I pay as I go, contributing to Richard Branson’s Virgin empire.
But I doubt there’s anyone who could come up with a legitimate answer when I ask what could possibly be so important that you’d have to bring your cell phone into the bathroom stall with you?
II walked into the women’s room in Hawkins Hall at Plattsburgh State the other day, and there in a stall sat a student, pants around her ankles, yammering on her cell phone. People were coming and going, using the bathroom for its intended purpose, toilets were flushing all around her. Yet there she sat, talking as though she were anywhere else in the world.
“Um, Sally, where are you, Niagara Falls?”
“Oh, no, I’m sitting on a toilet in a public restroom. Just a minute, I have to put the phone down while I pull up my pants.”
Aside from the fact that it’s unsanitary – I doubt the perpetrators use hand sanitizer on their cells afterward – it’s just plain rude. Not to those around them. It gives fellow patrons something to focus on other than the job at hand, although I have to say, I keep thinking these Chatty Cathies are talking to me when they first break the solemnity of solitude that some of us crave in a restroom.
“Hey, hi, it’s me!”
“Oh, hi. … Excuse me for not getting up.”
“I’m not talking to you…I don’t even know you.”
Good thing. I’d rather not be acquainted with people who think so little of my sense of propriety.
Or at least who give no thought to the person on the other end. Put yourself in their shoes, which, hopefully, aren’t sitting in front of a toilet bowl somewhere else on the planet. How would you like to know that the person you’re talking to is carrying on a conversation after dropping trou? Now there’s an image you’ll have a hard time erasing the next time you see them in public. And how’d you like to be the next one to use that phone should you need to borrow it to make a quick call. Let’s just hope she washed her hands.
I know it’s hard to find a minute to yourself to make a phone call. Oh, wait, no it’s not. You can’t go anywhere anymore without seeing everyone around you carrying on conversations with a cell phone or one of those goofy-looking ear pieces stuck to the side of their heads. You’ve got to wonder who the hell they’re talking to and who were we not talking to before everyone had cell phones? But even all the people you see walking along with cell phones as appendages aren’t nearly as disturbing as the bathroom-stall-as-phone-booth scenario.
What’s next? Bringing your laptop in to write a blog?
Tough decisions about coverage of car-fire deathtag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4852008-04-10T15:46:04Z2008-04-10T19:15:42ZBy LOIS CLERMONT News Editor Covering the car-fire death of a Plattsburgh man presented us with all kinds of ethical challenges. We first heard something had happened when the call went out over the scanner Wednesday afternoon. Photographer Mike Betts...Lois Clermont
By LOIS CLERMONT
News Editor
Covering the car-fire death of a Plattsburgh man presented us with all kinds of ethical challenges.
We first heard something had happened when the call went out over the scanner Wednesday afternoon. Photographer Mike Betts headed over to Sharron Avenue and called from there to say he could see the charred car and told us police said someone had died.
Our crime reporter, Andrea VanValkenburg, was at County Court, so I sent Rachael Osborne over to start reporting the story. She hadn’t been there long when a distraught woman pulled up and told Rachael she had heard her brother had died. She was shouting about someone trying to kill him.
Rachael asked the woman what her brother’s name was. Keith Primard, she was told. Rachael heard police confirm to the woman that it was her brother who had died.
Rachael called to tell us what she had heard and seen, and it wasn’t long before we had tracked down information about Keith and had talked with his brother, Gary, who told us that neighbors had threatened his brother and that police had been called to the apartment several times.
In the meantime, over at County Court, Andrea heard District Attorney Andrew Wylie get a call where he used the words “homicide” and “suspicious.” He left right away for Sharron Avenue. We sent Andrea there, too.
It sure looked like we were dealing with a murder.
The Internet has changed the whole media playing field. It used to be we would work all day to get a story ready for publication in the next day’s newspaper. TV and radio could get it on the day it happened; our only option was to try to be more detailed and complete the next day.
Not anymore. Now that we have a Web site, we can get news as fast — often faster because of our larger and more widespread staff — than any other media outlet in the North Country.
We had a story posted on our Web site an hour and 15 minutes after Wednesday’s car-fire death. It said a man named Keith Primard had died in a car explosion and that police were investigating it as a possible homicide.
We updated the story several times during the day, adding comments from Keith’s sister and brother, some neighbors and more details from what we could observe.
Mike Betts shot still photos and video, and those were posted along with the story.
The problems started later in the day. First, we began to hear that the death might have been a suicide.
Now, we don’t normally cover suicides because we believe they are personal family tragedies.
We make exceptions for two circumstances:
— If the person who dies is a public figure. If an elected public official and other well-known person commits suicide, it elevates the story out of the personal domain and into a wider public interest.
— If the suicide is done in a very public way that draws widespread attention. A car explosion in the City of Plattsburgh is very unusual, and the place was swarming with police cars, ambulances and firetrucks. Word spreads quickly. In fact, within hours, teenagers were texting each other that it was a gang-related slaying.
But by 9 p.m. Wednesday, we were in a tough spot. We had the story ready to run across the top of Page 1, with a huge headline, photos and video promo. It included several quotes about Keith Primard having been worried about neighbors and people talking about drug problems in that area. It read like a murder story.
But was it actually a suicide?
The City Police weren’t giving us much help. We talked with the police chief and other officers Wednesday night, looking for some guidance. Sometimes police will tell us something off the record that can help us make good decisions. If they had said, off the record, that they suspected suicide, we would not have reported that but would have known to downplay the story.
In the end, we decided to do that anyway, for the sake of caution and sensitivity. We moved the story lower, introduced the possibility of suicide and cut a number of good quotes.
About 9:30, I had two phone calls from family members, one swearing at me and the other shouting, both angry that we had used Keith’s name on our Web site when his brother in Florida hadn’t been notified yet. We had no idea that he hadn’t been reached. His sister had given us the name, and the brother who lives here hadn’t mentioned in our conversations about Keith during the afternoon that there was any problem.
I said I felt bad about the situation but it was a little late, since the story had been on the Web for about six hours by then and the name had been picked up by other media.
The angry relative threatened to come down to the Press-Republican the next morning and straighten things out. Then he called City Police and told them we were harassing the family with phone calls.
We had talked with Gary Primard twice in the afternoon and once in the evening. But we know reporters from other media called the family, too, so they probably were feeling pretty stressed by 9:30.
City Police were understanding that we were just trying to do our job. It’s not an easy one, at times like this. We have to make decisions quickly and hope they don’t hurt anyone needlessly.
Does global warming bug you?tag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4822008-04-02T13:42:29Z2008-04-02T20:36:51ZBy JACK DOWNS Design Editor Brimming oceans wash away Manhattan; monster hurricanes strike deep into the continent; vast droughts parch the South and West; killer heat waves bake the nation. The apocalyptic predictions of global climate change have the feel...Lois Clermont
By JACK DOWNS
Design Editor
Brimming oceans wash away Manhattan; monster hurricanes strike deep into the continent; vast droughts parch the South and West; killer heat waves bake the nation.
The apocalyptic predictions of global climate change have the feel of a Hollywood blockbuster - a cast of billions, great special effects and a plot line just strange enough to make it all feel unreal.
http://www.news.cornell.edu/releases/Feb00/AAAS.Pimentel.hrs.html
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Not ready to join AARPtag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4782008-03-28T22:43:46Z2008-03-28T22:47:32ZBy GERIANNE WRIGHT Staff Writer OK, I’ll admit that I’m getting a bit long in the tooth. I haven’t been in Plattsburgh long enough to recognize items in the weekly “Look Back” column yet, but I’m getting close. That still...Lois Clermont
By GERIANNE WRIGHT
Staff Writer
OK, I’ll admit that I’m getting a bit long in the tooth. I haven’t been in Plattsburgh long enough to recognize items in the weekly “Look Back” column yet, but I’m getting close.
That still doesn’t make me eligible for membership in the AARP. According to the association’s Web site, membership is extended to “people age 50 and over in the United States” or, apparently, anyone who will pony up the $12.50 annual dues.
That’s not me. At least not yet, anyway, but AARP wants to hedge its bets and court me a few years early.
The other day I found their invitation to join in the mail. They had a card already made up with my name on it, and if I sent in the $12.50 dues, they’d replace it with an official membership card, which endows me with all the rights and privileges afforded the silver-haired set.
The only problem is, I’m not old enough to be in the AARP, so if I were to pony up and pay the dues, any time I’d flash that card I’d be getting benefits under false pretenses. I’d also be adding a few years on my age, and although I have no problem admitting I’m 47, I certainly have a problem admitting I’m three years older before I cross that threshold for real.
I have to admit, I still get a charge out of being proofed when buying wine, only to find out some establishments proof everyone as a matter of course. This last time I told the zygote proofing me that she didn’t have to burst my momentary bubble by telling me they proof everyone. I just wanted to drink in the intoxicating feeling of being flattered, even if it was short-lived and unearned.
I did not feel flattered or intoxicated at being asked to join an association for the retired set. I felt I might want to get intoxicated, but that’s not the same thing.
Unlike a lot of my contemporaries, I still have young children at home, one of whom is a very active 2-year-old. How can I be a card-carrying member of the AARP when I’m still carrying a diaper bag, and no, it’s not for Depends.
The AARP is a great organization that lobbies hard for its members and provides great member benefits. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll probably sign up when the time comes, if only to get better rates at hotels.
But seeing those initials with my name after them is hard to swallow, especially when my 2-year-old is running around underfoot. The organization would do better to wait until I was reaching my 60th birthday and then invite me to join as a 50-year-old.
That’s flattery I could sink my false teeth into.
More severe weather events are in our futuretag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4742008-03-19T13:35:56Z2008-03-20T02:59:26ZBy JACK DOWNS Design Editor With winter reluctantly giving way to spring, I've been thinking about what our winters, and overall weather, will be like in the North Country over the next 10 and 20 years as global warming gradually...Lois Clermont
By JACK DOWNS
Design Editor
With winter reluctantly giving way to spring, I've been thinking about what our winters, and overall weather, will be like in the North Country over the next 10 and 20 years as global warming gradually but inexorably takes hold.
In some ways, we live a charmed weather life in our corner of the Northeast: tornadoes are very rare and seldom fatal; hurricanes peter out long before they get here; mud slides are almost unknown; avalanches are rare, remote and small; floods are isolated and usually well predicted. Sure, we have snow and cold, but we're ready for it.
But that charm may be wearing off.
"Quirks & Quarks."
Klaassen and 10 other scientists were interviewed as part of an eye-opening episode "Canada in 2050 - Our Future in a Changing Climate."
For more visit: http://www.cbc.ca/quirks/archives/07-08/nov24.html
I'm not predicting a summer of twisters and a winter of ice storms. But both those dangerous events will become more likely in the North Country over coming decades as more and more heat energy is added to the atmosphere.
So as winter melts away and memories of the Ice Storm of 1998 fade, I suggest you think about your emergency supplies of bottled water, canned food, candles and batteries.
The weather is changing.
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The beer that won't be deliveredtag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4702008-03-13T18:44:11Z2008-03-13T18:45:22ZBy JOE LoTEMPLIO Staff Writer Well, I guess I’m probably not going to get my case of beer. Yes, Eliot Spitzer owes me a case of beer going back 10 years....Lois Clermont
By JOE LoTEMPLIO
Staff Writer
Well, I guess I’m probably not going to get my case of beer.
Yes, Eliot Spitzer owes me a case of beer going back 10 years.
The story stems from the 1998 election, when Spitzer was running for attorney general.
At the time, then-Plattsburgh Mayor Clyde Rabideau was running for lieutenant governor on the Democratic ticket, and I was covering his bid.
I traveled across the state with Rabideau on various occasions as he attended party functions and campaign events.
We often bumped into Spitzer, who was also on the campaign trail, and chatted about the news of the day.
In the brief time I got to know Spitzer, he was incredibly impressive. He talked a mile a minute, and his knowledge covered just about everything, which made him seem more like a regular guy rather than a blow-hard politician.
In one breath he could be ranting about state spending and the next he’d be describing how he cut his foot on one of his young daughter’s toys that was lying around the house.
With a young child of my own at the time, I certainly could relate.
When Spitzer came to Plattsburgh for a brief stop that spring, he met with then-Editor Jim Dynko and myself, and during that meeting he referred to incumbent Republican Attorney General Dennis Vacco as the “Jerry Springer” of law enforcement.
An ironic comment now for sure.
At the time, it was harsh criticism, and papers across the state picked up the story.
A few days later, a Spitzer campaign staffer called me and asked if they could use my story in their campaign brochures.
I said, “Sure, for a case of beer.”
I was kidding but was kind of surprised when the flak excitedly agreed to the deal as if he just got a whale of a bargain.
A few weeks later, at the Democratic Party convention in Rye, Spitzer had the hotel room across the hall from me.
As I was entering my room late one afternoon, he stepped out into the hallway from his room.
When I saw him, I reminded him that he owed me a case of beer. He had no idea of what I was talking about, of course, and joked that it should be a case of scotch instead.
Not minding the upgrade, I agreed wholeheartedly with a wink and a nod.
Spitzer, as we know, went on to get elected attorney general and began his rising political career.
From time to time, he would visit the Press-Republican for Editorial Board meetings and I would always kiddingly remind Marc Violette, Spitzer’s press man, about my expected bounty.
Spitzer would laugh it off when we met, saying was still trying to figure out a way to get my beer.
I was surprised when he remembered again when he was last here a few months ago.
In the wake of all that has happened to the former governor this week, I am willing to forgive his debt and let him keep the brew.
These days, he certainly might benefit from it more than I could.
A green future for outdoor recreationtag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4692008-03-10T17:10:41Z2008-03-11T19:05:27ZBy JACK DOWNS Design Editor Here are two news tidbits for you: Some of the big investment banks are downgrading coal-company stocks, predicting a long-range slump in the carbon-heavy industry. New York is trying to decide how many miles of...Lois Clermont
By JACK DOWNS
Design Editor
Here are two news tidbits for you:
Some of the big investment banks are downgrading coal-company stocks, predicting a long-range slump in the carbon-heavy industry.
New York is trying to decide how many miles of snowmobile trails to allow on state land in the Adirondack Park.
Random headlines? Maybe not. For me, these two stories converge on a question: How should we _ as individuals, families and society _ invest in the future of outdoor recreation?
Right now, our answers are full of contradictions.
We bemoan the obesity epidemic, yet when we build boat launches with public funds we only think about power boats and make no provisions for kayaks and canoes.
We are rightly concerned about the now irrefutable impacts of global warming, yet we promote the energy-intensive downhill-ski industry with state-sponsored tourism marketing.
We worry about the impact of air pollution on children with asthma, yet we push for ATV trails on public lands.
For me the answer is clear. The future of outdoor recreation is green. As individuals, families and society, it is time for us to choose healthy, environmentally defensible recreation over motor sports and energy-gorging pastimes.
No, I don't want to ban snowmobiles or outlaw personal watercraft. I just want us to consider our decisions and thoughtfully move in the right direction.
On a personal level, be conscious of how your recreation decisions impact your health, your family's health, your planet's health. Bird watching is better for you, and all of us, than NASCAR watching.
And on a societal level, putting our tourism and development efforts into energy-intensive recreation is like opening a Hummer factory as the price of gas hits $4 a gallon.
There's no future in it.
Now, before all you ATVing, snowmobiling, motorcycling, powerboaters push the send button on that e-mail about your new fuel-efficient and emissions-reduced engines, step back and consider: How does your ATV compare in insurance costs to hiking boots. How does your dirt bike compare in carbon footprints to a mountain bike? How does your personal watercraft compare in noise output to a canoe?
Answer me that.
A day at State Police barrackstag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4672008-03-06T13:38:17Z2008-03-06T13:39:49ZBy ANDREA VANVALKENBURG Staff Writer PLATTSBURGH — And I thought I knew what being a state trooper was all about. I knew law-enforcement was a dangerous, yet much-needed job, one that brings authorities into a daily world of uncertainty —...Lois Clermont
By ANDREA VANVALKENBURG
Staff Writer
PLATTSBURGH — And I thought I knew what being a state trooper was all about.
I knew law-enforcement was a dangerous, yet much-needed job, one that brings authorities into a daily world of uncertainty — tumultuous situations, abrupt violence, car accidents, traffic stops and the potential for danger around almost every corner.
I knew state troopers serve and protect.
I knew they would go out of their way to lend a helping hand to those in need.
But come to find out, there was a lot I didn’t know, or fully realize at least, and I’m sure there’s still plenty I don’t.
After spending a few hours at the Plattsburgh State Police Barracks recently, I left with a bigger respect for the men and women in the gray and purple uniforms.
They are fathers and mothers, community volunteers and military veterans, trusted friends and husbands and wives who have devoted themselves to protect their community, even if it means risking their safety and potentially their lives.
I never fully realized the daily life and routine of troopers, officials, investigators and dispatchers until I had a brief glimpse into their world, one that changes in an instant and is marked by seemingly constant crisis and service.
Seeing the dispatchers man the communications center, with a steady flow of calls, visits and inquiries exhausted me. And I was only watching them.
In the limited time that I was there, the icy roads sent numerous drivers off the roads, into trees and other vehicles. So troopers were dispatched.
They aided drivers, waited for wrecker crews and directed traffic.
In the meantime, an alleged drug offender was in custody being processed.
Investigators were rushing around handling a heavy caseload.
Something had to be transported to headquarters, so in came another trooper. But another accident sent him back out on yet another call.
Two people stopped by for employment fingerprinting.
One man needed to drop something off.
Another walked in after falling on ice, wanting to make sure that highway crews take care of a slippery walkway.
Then there were a few calls about the weather.
There were complaints about a bad check and an area hotel reporting damaged property.
Then the next mission. Locating someone who was about the flee the area. Check the bus station and a friend’s house.
There were calls about a domestic incident in progress. A few more were dispatched out. They had just returned.
With each complaint and call, the dispatchers somehow remained calm and handled the action with surprising ease.
They were sitting, standing and bustling around the station: logging each call, giving messages, making appointments for routine patrol-vehicle maintenance, printing out reports, calling towing crews, calming frantic callers, confirming information and dispatching troopers in and out.
And I thought I had busy days at work.
As I was about to leave, I was talking with the dispatchers about how unbelievably busy they were.
Their response?
This is just an average day; you should see when it’s really busy.
I think the brief glimpse into their daily life surprised me more than anything.
There’s always someone to help and something they need to do.
And to each of them — the troopers, dispatchers, investigators and officials — a heartfelt thanks for everything you do every day.
It’s something that I never fully realized and something I will never forget.
Daughter strong during tough family timestag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4632008-02-29T20:47:06Z2008-02-29T20:47:58ZBy STEPHEN BARTLETT Staff Writer PLATTSBURGH — I’m in awe of children’s resistance and ability to cope with and adapt to emotionally trying situations. I’ve read the literature stressing children need security, love and guidance to blossom beautifully in life,...Lois Clermont
By STEPHEN BARTLETT
Staff Writer
PLATTSBURGH — I’m in awe of children’s resistance and ability to cope with and adapt to emotionally trying situations.
I’ve read the literature stressing children need security, love and guidance to blossom beautifully in life, but still, their ability to persevere, often more efficiently than adults, amazes me.
My daughter, Darby, is 13. She grows more independent each day, transforming into a young woman emotionally, mentally and physically, contending with all the internal and external factors associated with that and all the while excelling in school and falling into her comfort zone socially.
Many wouldn’t know her little brother, Samuel, fought to be born and came into this world a question mark, under 4 pounds and struggling with extremely poor heart function.
She learned he had 1p36 Deletion Syndrome and would be viewed by some as inferior, even though to her Samuel was simply the beautiful baby boy she fell in love with. Of course, he was different; for her, there was no one else like him out there.
Over the summer, Darby was with Samuel’s mother, Shannon, and I in Boston as he underwent open-heart surgery, successfully, but not without trying moments.
She watched a baby who barely opened eyes and was fed through a tube grow into a strong little dude who pulls her hair, yells at her occasionally and laughs and smiles at her often.
If that weren’t enough, Darby learned Shannon and I were separating. She’s dealt with the impact of that news and moving into a smaller home with her father, no longer perfect.
While I apologized for my failings, I’ll never erase that memory. Friends say admitting, followed by change, is an excellent learning moment for a child. Sure, but I still can’t rid the unpleasant taste from my mouth.
Early into the school year, Darby experienced her first personal disappointment in grades, not doing as well in math as she’d have liked. Her teacher said she didn’t seem focused.
I explained the situation and told Darby not to beat herself up, especially given what she’s gone through. It’s okay to lose focus.
She’s since brought her grade up and has stepped back into the shoes of a child, or I should say, young woman, who is comfortable around and laughs around her father and stepmother.
Heck, I’m sure she doesn’t tell me everything and still hurts over the struggles with Samuel and the splitting of her parents. And while Shannon and I kept communications lines open and ensured she knew we were always in her corner, I’m overwhelmed by her strength.
That’s why it’s especially troubling to run into children who are suffering extreme turmoil and who are broken, with no one to hold them tight and help them feel safe amid the fear, uncertainty and hurt they’re experiencing.
But that’s another discussion.
E-mail Stephen Bartlett at:
sbartlett@pressrepublican.com
Optimistic visions; pessimistic realitytag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4582008-02-26T19:26:54Z2008-02-26T19:29:37ZBy JOE LoTEMPLIO Staff Writer Things I’d like to see in the North Country but doubt I will. I’d love to see the “booze cruise” return to Lake Champlain. For a quarter of a century, colorful Captain Frank Pabst sailed...Lois Clermont
By JOE LoTEMPLIO
Staff Writer
Things I’d like to see in the North Country but doubt I will.
I’d love to see the “booze cruise” return to Lake Champlain. For a quarter of a century, colorful
Captain Frank Pabst sailed merry customers around the lake at midnight, offering a fine steak and fine spirits.
The cruise was immensely popular and became a rite of summer for many.
The captain also offered family outings for those not interested in imbibing.
But the city bought Pabst out in 2001, spent a ton of money cleaning up the waterfront area and brought in a new boat from Burlington for cruises.
The new cruises were expensive, however, and lacked the old Juniper charm.
The Spirit of Plattsburgh was gone after about a year, and now we have nothing.
Too bad the Juniper was sold and dismantled and shipped out of the area for good.
Maybe Pabst, a magician when it comes to acquiring vessels, can find a tub somewhere and resurrect the booze cruise and other tours of the lake.
Speaking of the waterfront, I’d love to see the hotel plans come to fruition.
Like many, I’m not holding my breath to see construction anytime soon. The city is now in a legal battle with Syracuse developer James Monahan, and it does not appear that anything will break soon.
Mayor Donald Kasprzak says there are three or four local developers interested in a hotel project at the site, but nothing can be done until the issue with Monahan is resolved.
A hotel at that site would be fetching and could transform the entire downtown area. While former Mayor Daniel Stewart may have been a little lax on finance issues, he did have a vision for the waterfront that is exciting.
It’s just too bad the plans got stalled in the manner they did. Now the empty parking lot has become the butt of many jokes, and who could argue with that?
I’d love to see all michigans be sold for no more than $1.
Michigans are the North Country’s signature food, and I think a buck is not only a fair price but would enhance the whole image of the product.
Some restaurants offer dollar michigans from time to time, but given business costs in this state, it is doubtful the dollar price would ever be permanent.
I would love to see the city bring back ice to the Crete Memorial Civic Center. With Lake City Stars Arena for sale and its future in doubt, the need for another ice rink has become pressing.
The Plattsburgh State Field House has limited offerings for youth hockey and other groups since it must, understandably, cater to its own teams and groups first.
The city operated an ice rink at the Crete from 1974 to 1999, and it was known in hockey circles as not a bad rink.
But you don’t make money in the ice business unless you have a host of amenities, and the
Crete didn’t have that.
Given the poor financial climate of the city, it is highly doubtful the city would ever again venture into a money-losing operation of an ice rink.
In a slightly different category, I’d love to see the Plattsburgh State men’s and women’s hockey teams, and the men’s basketball team win national championships, which they certainly could.
The men’s hockey team is bouncing back to national power form and has played high-level hockey all year long, bringing back memories of 1987, 1992 and 2001, when they won the national championship.
Speaking of the 1987 championship, it’s been more than 20 years since it was vacated by the NCAA for violations. I say it’s time to reinstate the title that was earned on the ice and say the penalty has been paid for what basically was minor violations.
Plattsburgh State women’s hockey has to be the best bargain in all of sports. Admission to their games is free, and they have some of the most entertaining talent in the land.
The skills of junior Danielle Blanchard are amazing, and I can’t understand whey they usually get fewer than 200 people to their games.
While Blanchard is dazzling on the ice, so is guard Anthony Williams on the hardwood at Memorial Hall.
With great speed, ball-handling skills and smarts, Williams is clearly head and shoulder above most of the other players in Division III.
If you get a chance to see him or Blanchard play, take it.
You won’t regret it.
January’s sense of humortag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2008:/weblog3//3.4322008-01-13T17:03:36Z2008-01-13T17:04:40ZBy GERIANNE WRIGHT Staff Writer When I walked out of the house this morning, I had this feeling, like the hope of spring was in the air, but you know, in the back of your mind, it’s actually just one...Lois Clermont
By GERIANNE WRIGHT
Staff Writer
When I walked out of the house this morning, I had this feeling, like the hope of spring was in the air, but you know, in the back of your mind, it’s actually just one of January’s cruel jokes. We ought to be used to January’s sick sense of humor. It is, after all, named for the two-faced Roman god, Janus.
But it was hard to find anything funny about January 1998 — sick or otherwise — when a tomb of ice encased the region and gave us future bragging rights akin to Buffalo and the Blizzard of ’77 (and ’79 and ’84 and ’88 and, oh, you get the picture).
The Ice Storm, as it came to be known — in caps and with the article in front — brings back immediate images and impressions for those of us who lived through it. The Press-Republican’s special series on the storm, replete with personal narratives, has everyone giving a collective nod in remembrance: the stories were the same; the number of days without power one of the only variables.
I remember going to work the morning of Jan. 7, 1998. It was gray and rainy, kind of cold but not bitterly cold. By noon, people were leaving their offices at Plattsburgh State, where I also hang a part-time hat. Ice scrapers were brandished, and we all worked to hack our cars out of the half-inch thickness that had already coated everything. Keith Tyo, who was director of public relations at the time, and I shared amusing comments back and forth as we worked on our vehicles, which were parked next to one another. We joked about how typical it was for weird weather to hit when students weren’t on campus.
We wouldn’t be laughing for long. In fact, it was a blessing the students were on their winter break. Having 5,000 students slip-sliding their way across campus wouldn’t have been pretty.
You could actually call it serendipitous that the college was on winter break at the time. College facilities were used to provide food and shelter to emergency personnel and volunteers. The Angell College Center was used to house forest rangers, fire and rescue personnel, electrical and tree-trimming crews and Civil Air Patrol cadets.
College employees who were without power used bathroom and shower facilities in Memorial Hall and laundry facilities in various buildings.
The Field House was a base operation for a mobile field kitchen. Members of the Southern Baptist Convention Disaster Relief from Virginia set up in the gym and prepared meals for the American Red Cross; the National Guard then delivered meals to various shelters throughout northern New York.
Meanwhile, I had a 2-year-old and a 4-month-old at home. We had concerns when the power went out that we’d have to all snuggle together that first night, but we were among the fortunate in the city to have our power restored relatively quickly. I took the video camera outside to take images from the front and the back, showing how eerie our Oak Street neighborhood looked. I was amazed that you could see CVPH clearly over the tree line because suddenly, there was no tree line.
The girls were oblivious to what was happening. Margaret, my 2-year-old, only knew she wasn’t going to Sibley Hall, where she attended day care. Like the rest of us, she grew a little stir crazy.
My husband, P-R Design Editor Jack Downs, strapped on his crampons and walked to work over the ice-encrusted sidewalks and debris in the streets. The paper had to get out even if it wasn’t going to be delivered. We wondered out loud how 12-year-old paper carriers were going to be able to get the job done, but after the initial onslaught, they did it and did it admirably.
When we were finally able to emerge Jan. 12, the first thing Jack and I did was go to CVPH to donate blood. We didn’t know what else we could do to help; that seemed to be one thing we actually could do. Several other people had the same idea. And sitting around the waiting area of the blood bank, we began to hear the stories we’re reading right now, 10 years later.
Like the Kennedy assassination and 9/11, The Ice Storm of ’98 is one of those icons burned in your brain. You’ll be able to pull out dates, times and circumstances at will and picture with absolute clarity what you were doing and where.
January may be a cruel month, but up here, it serves as a reminder of the resiliency of spirit and the indomitable pluck of an entire region.
'Tis the season for sign stealingtag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2007:/weblog3//3.3952007-10-18T15:04:26Z2007-10-18T15:06:00ZBy JOE LoTEMPLIO Staff Writer It seems that the New England Patriots are not the only ones stealing signs these days. As happens every campaign season, candidates are screaming foul, accusing people of stealing their precious campaign lawn signs. After...Lois Clermont
By JOE LoTEMPLIO
Staff Writer
It seems that the New England Patriots are not the only ones stealing signs these days.
As happens every campaign season, candidates are screaming foul, accusing people of stealing their precious campaign lawn signs.
After covering local politics for 22 years, I’ve heard all of the complaints.
“Two dozen of my signs were taken in one night. I could see one or two, but not that many. That means someone was out to get me.”
“My signs were all stolen or damaged, and my opponent’s were not touched.”
“I saw someone that looked like my opponent touching one of my signs.”
Those are just a few of the regurgitated complaints we hear every year.
Fact is, campaign signs disappear or get damaged every year for a variety of reasons.
Yes, some of them fall victim to dishonest candidates and some of their supporters, but most of them, I dare say, are trashed by people who just hate campaign lawn signs, period.
Others think they might make a nice souvenir until they wake up sober.
Some are just trashed for the heck of it.
Candidates always come to me convinced they have a worthy news story of how their signs were specifically targeted.
This year is no different.
During the primary season, Mike Kelly and Bill Provost say they chased Andy Brockway all the way to Beekmantown after they allegedly saw Brockway take one of Kelly’s signs in Ward 2.
Brockway, of course, denied it, setting up the famous he-said, he-said scenario.
James Calnon complained that 16 of his signs were stolen in one night in Ward 4.
I sympathize Mr. Calnon, but 16 is a pittance compared with some stories I’ve heard in years past.
Some candidates claim they’ve had as many as 250 signs stolen in one campaign season.
The mother of Steven Williams, a candidate in Ward 2, complained that her son’s signs were being desecrated.
No doubt these incidents are disturbing to candidates, and that is understandable, considering all the money and time they put into campaigning.
Stealing or destroying campaign signs is not right, and people should show more respect and decent behavior, even if they are drunk.
But the bottom line seems to be that losing signs or having them destroyed appears to be one of the prices to pay for participating in our political system.
As Winston Churchill once said, “Democracy is the worst form of government there is. But it’s the best one we’ve come up with so far.”
Typus Manualis — The virtues of the common typewritertag:blog.pressrepublican.com,2007:/weblog3//3.3772007-09-17T15:42:21Z2007-09-17T15:44:09ZBy NEALE GULLEY Reader/Designer Alrighty. Where to begin? Does it matter? It’s only a blog, after all. JK. JK. You know, that stands for “just kidding,” in the Web-type vernacular. I don’t want to be disrespectful. But why am I...Lois Clermont
By NEALE GULLEY
Reader/Designer
Alrighty. Where to begin? Does it matter? It’s only a blog, after all.
JK. JK.
You know, that stands for “just kidding,” in the Web-type vernacular. I don’t want to be disrespectful.
But why am I telling you this? You’re already here.
Well, this is the first blog I’ve written in all my 25 years on Earth. I know, an impressive feat by modern standards. I guess I’m on the dark side of what all the fancy newspapers call “the digital divide” — one of those guys who doesn’t own a cell phone and still uses rabbit ears for TV reception. This despite working with thousands of dollars in cutting-edge computer software for a living. Maybe I’m sticking it to the man, and I am the man. Perhaps.
I like to keep my overhead down. But in light of the facts, I don’t want to catch flak from any old-timers out there who may feel inclined to describe me as “in possession of a youthful sense of brazen entitlement” to modern technology; because, like most of you, I’ve still got the grit to go it alone. Just last week I wrote a letter of consolation to a good friend, and put it in one of those funny looking blue boxes lining the street. Damned if I know what will happen next, but it seemed like the right thing to do, under the unfortunate circumstances, to add that personal touch.
And now, heck, I’m drafting this Web log at 2 a.m. on an electrified typewriter that’s nearly as old as I am — a sound akin to machine gun fire emanates from my second-floor apartment on Margaret Street. Dogs are barking and there’s a car alarm sounding in the distance.
Typewriter=danger=sexy.
Some months ago, I got it into my head to get my hands on one of these dinosaurs.
It has been my experience that many of you are now thinking, “What the hell would make you go in that direction?”
I know, everyone’s so smitten with the ease of all this. But seriously, when given some thought, it’s possibly the same reason people like vintage cars, real plants instead of fake ones, black-and-white movies, live music, LPs, wooden siding, film photography, the radio, Battle of Plattsburgh, or in some extreme cases, a newspaper instead of a blog.
There may be those among us who are not following this intricate association of cultural symbols. Very expensive telephone surveys have probably been conducted on the topic of America’s capacity for nostalgia, and the numbers indicate that many of you would just as soon give up all that old stuff.
But I must say, if you are thus far enjoying any of this nonsensical rambling, you have a right to know that absolutely none of it would have been possible without my newly refurbished Olympia Electronic Compact II, High Recoil Edition, circa when men were men and children were to be seen and not heard.
I even replaced the baby seal skin ribbon with a more humane, synthetic brand. For me, it is bringing the fun back to the writing process.
Now back to the subject of grit. Cojones, if you will. It is a characteristic virtually annihilated by wussy computers. Take for example, that everything I’m putting down here cannot be edited on the fly. It requires a much greater leap of faith to be opening my mind willy-nilly to the record, in so unfettered a way as this. There is no longer the possibility of restructuring my lines so that they make any logical sense. I am wholly responsible for knowing how to spell (and it is no easy thing to do in this age of automatic spell-checking). Perhaps most significantly, there is no animated dog or paper clip character politely demanding to help me reset my margins because, in the eyes of one of Microsoft Corp.’s virtual minions, my “humor” column is shaping up to look like a legal document. Well maybe so, but I don’t need it rubbed in my face. Not by that, thing.
So my story (and I am sticking to it) is that it is sometimes the aesthetic which is overlooked in favor of the purely practical. For me it has something to do with an effort to recreate the visage of a bygone time and place. I’m paying practical (or else impractical, for you pundits) homage to all the indisputable examples of greatness which burgeoned in the age of the typewriter; for example, many of you fine readers out there. And since the majority of awe-inspiring masterpieces were written first by hand, followed closely by the ancient typewriter (typus manualis, as I understand it), and only very recently on a computer, I consider myself among the elite.
At last I can sit down here, in my nostalgic root-cellar headquarters, surrounded by the scent of curing thyme and freshly butchered leg of lamb hanging from every corner of the ceiling, at my freshly greased typing machine, and get it on with very little down time. In fact, What you might call clumsy and arcane, I call liberating. Hot damn! The whole table is shaking in agreement.
During my daughter’s freshman year at the College of Sante Fe, Nikki did a semester abroad in Belize.
It was highly unusual for the college to allow freshmen to participate in the fledging program, but they were so short of students, the program would be cancelled otherwise.
And, my daughter was desperate to depart an unusually dry New Mexico.
I always told Nikki she was a water baby. She was born on Pensacola Bay and subsequently lived along the South China Sea, Subic Bay, Chesapeake Bay, Atlantic Ocean, Lake Champlain and back to our ancestral homelands on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. She and the desert were not a good mix, but Sagitarians chart their own course. It was a battle she won at 2.
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Belize and the Philippines are in a dead heat for her favorite places in the world. In a heartbeat, she would pull up stakes and live in either place if she could figure the money angle out.
While in Belize, she participated in an ethno-ecological study examining milpa farming, a slash-and burn agricultural method, and its impact on the rainforest. She also participated in oceanographic tests documenting the impact of cruise ships on reefs.
A film major, she made a documentary on traditional healers, cuanderos, and interviewed Rosario Panti, great-granddaughter of renowned H’man, Don Elijio Panti.
I had the chance to visit her and learn about the country, its people and its culture.
One day, we traveled by bus to Belize City to embark on a 40-minute boat ride to Caye Caulker. On the way, we passed Ambergris Caye, where the then couple-wrecking, reality-series hit “Temptation Island” was being filmed.
After we showered at our beach cottage, we went in search of food. On this limestone-coral island, “Happy Hour begins” before noon. I had more than a little parental concern when Nikki, 18, ordered rum-and-cokes like OJ. As we sipped our drinks, the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea crested at our feet.
One evening after a delicious meal at our favorite restaurant, we sat on the beach. Nikki, an instant island hoop star, was soon off, and I watched tangerine flames lick the sunset sky. A Garifuna with dreds thick as Medusa’s coils carried a battered guitar. After we introduced ourselves, he said, “Welcome home, Sister.” My face misted. It wasn’t sea spray.
Flash forward: Mayor’s Cup Regatta 2007.
Nikki drove her car, Midnight, from the Eastern Shore to Plattsburgh for the first time. As we drove to Wilcox Dock, I blasted an advance copy of “Wátina” by Andy Palacio and the Garifuna Collective.
“Mom, this reminds me of Belize,” Nikki said. “We have to go back. I wish I could go to their concert with you.”
Nikki and I celebrated the Fourth of July at the Splash Party, a Lake Champlain cruise featuring the Blind Pig Blues Band. A thumping instrumental cover of the Staple Singers’ “I’ll Take You There” had me sliding on the dance deck. Nikki shimmied in a retro, yellow dress. We jammed with Dr. David Gorman and Judy Murphy-Gorman.
Later, when fireworks sparked dusk, “Doc” rested in Judy’s embrace. My baby girl’s curls caressed my cheek. We docked. Departing, I filled the night with strains of “Wátina,” which translates as “I Called Out.”
Flash Forward. Thursday, August 2, 2007. Higher Ground Music. South Burlington, Vt.
In my mind’s eye, I glided over the Caribbean Sea back to Caye Caulker listening to Andy Palacio & the Garifuna Collective. Uncharacteristic for me, I asked Andy to sign not only my CD but also a poster, which he inscribed to Nikki. I also had Garifuna icon Paul Nabor sign his album, “Paranda.” This elder’s energetic delivery and haunting voice touched my heart. His smile, my soul.
Flash Forward. Sunday, August 12, 2007.
Dr. David Gorman, a gynecologist with practices in Malone and Plattsburgh, chief of surgery and past president of the medical staff at Alice Hyde Medical Center, and two-time winner of the Mayor’s Cup Regatta, died at the Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. Prostate cancer surgery. Heart attack. Heart attack. 71.
Flash Forward. Jan. 19, 2008.
Andy Palacio, Belizean musician, deputy administrator of the National Institute of Culture and History and Garifuna activist died. Massive and extensive stroke to the brain. Heart attack. Respiratory failure. 47.
When I learned of their deaths, I thought about the last time I saw them. The way each of those days began. How they ended. How they touched my life.
I attended Doc’s funeral at St. Peter’s Church. After his graveside service, Judy stood in a path near me. The gravestone of her first husband, Dr. Richard Murphy, was before her. Doc’s grave was behind her. Her wavy-dark tresses blew in the wind.
When Simeon Chapin of Vermont-based Cumbancha Records sent me a press-release in April about tonight’s Andy Palacio Tribute Concert at Higher Ground, something bubbled in me. This.
Simeon told me to interview Ivan Duran, founder and producer of Stonetree Records, who released Palacio’s first record. Ivan said:
“I worked for Andy for almost 15 years. I would come back to Belize every summer. I studied music in Havana, Cuba. One of those trips coming back, I met him at the bar. I offered to make an album. He really liked the idea. Up until then, he had not produced a full-length album. We started talking here. Later, I started my own label, Stonetree Records. That’s when our collaboration began. And over 10 years, the most important breakthrough happened last year with ‘Wátina,’ which I produced ... which became a real, big international success, especially in Belize.
“It transformed the music scene here. For the first time, a local production had received so many great international reviews. That seemed to affect the local perception toward our own artists. This is an album recorded in a very small village in southern Belize with local instruments, local musicians. Everything was 100-percent Belizean. The fact it made it to the charts and became #1 on the European World Music charts, it made headlines back home. In a way that single project did a lot more to preserve Garifuna music than the years of lobbying and attempts to educate people. It’s interesting how this thing just happened, something you cannot plan for just people picked it up really quickly.
“Last year was one of the biggest years in Belizean music history. That makes Andy’s death so much more difficult and painful for all of us. It was 10 years. We were starting to see the real fruits of all that work and, just, tragedy struck. The country was in shock for many days. Andy had the biggest funeral than any person ever had in this country. He is truly a national hero and more important, a popular hero. It was the first time a non-politician was honored, a simple artist. That is very significant in a place where politics rule.
“Now with Andy, his death made us feel not only the music, the entire Garifuna Collective, feel a sense of urgency. We cannot let this whole project down. What they accomplished last year, if we don’t follow it up, people will forget. We’re very much focused on continuing the works and finding younger talent. Andy was the first to admit talent is everywhere here in the Garifuna culture. It will take a little bit more time. We are ready to work and plan to continue the work that Andy started. This year, I plan a tribute album with his music and local and international artists we will bring to Belize to record this album in his memory. Then, we will work with younger musicians and singers.”
Grief laced Ivan’s voice. I could not cut his testimony to Andy and their work together.
Tonight at Higher Ground, I will attend Andy’s “Tribute Concert” presented by Cumbancha & Putumayo World Music Series.
I will dance.
Remember Doc.
Let Andy’s compatriots — the Garifuna Collective, Umalali: The Garifuna Women’s Project, Aurelio Martinez from Honduras, and Lloyd Augustine, Belize’s hottest punta-rock singer — transport me back.
“Welcome home, Sister.”
E-mail Robin Caudell at:
rcaudell@pressrepublican.com
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