I was a dinosaur kid. I could name any plastic figure in the class room since kindergarten. My favorite was Triceratops. (Three horns, plated skull and walked on all fours)

My silly childhood story.

When I was young, maybe 10, I remember being in the yard chasing one of our puppies. I playfully crawled on top of the dog house to tease him when I caught a glimpse of a large shape above me. So large and unlike anything I’d ever seen that it startled me. It was a pterodactyl. (Giant flying dinosaur, beak, crest in the back of its head and a long deviled tail.)

It flew right above me, only 30 or 40 feet from the ground. I remember wondering if maybe I should seek shelter or risk being carrier off, but I just couldn’t pull myself away.

It had the largest wing span I’d even seen and what I thought was a long tail. I was paralyzed with amazement and imagination as I watched it pass out of sight. I ran shouting and crawling with excitement into the house.

I found my mother and after expending every last gasp of breath in my little body in telling my mother about seeing a live dinosaur I finally paused to breathe.

That’s when she explained to me that what I saw was a blue heron. With a lean body, large wing span and long stocky feet that when in flight drags behind the bird, giving it an appearance of a tail. My mind slowed down to ponder the reasonable explanation while my heart instantly collapsed into denial. After a moment, I converted back over to reality and laughed at myself.

Nearly two decades later I still remember those few minutes I truly believed I saw a real dinosaur. At that instance in time, dinosaurs really existed (again). I wouldn’t trade the foolish experience for anything in the world because it’s helped to keep my imagination young.

I know that I’m not the only one that has ever had a bad break-up. One only has to turn on daytime television to see a deluge of tales of relationship horror and woe. Thankfully, I’ve never had a break-up worthy of sullying the air waves or being made into a full-length feature film.

After examining these often stunning portrayals of human drama, I’ve made a few observations.

Sometimes we think we know people. We spend years in a relationship under the misconception that we actually “know” the one we’re with.

It isn’t until after the breakup that we learn their true nature. Unfortunately, it’s a lesson often learned the hard way. The gloves come off, the mud starts flying and it all goes down hill from there. If we’re lucky, it stops somewhere short of all-out war.

That once rational, loving person you were fully prepared to spend the rest of your born days with, suddenly shows their true colors. The layers of care and concern peal away to reveal something else entirely. Whispered sweet nothings turn into threats and accusations.

That is the saddest point, I think. When love decays to the point where we see nothing that we once valued and respected in the former object of our affection.

Things come to an end. Sometimes things just don’t work out no matter the efforts made by the parties involved. Change is a part of the human experience. And part of being an adult is dealing with that. It certainly doesn’t make dealing with the change any easier when we allow cooled passions to be replaced with boiling hot hatred.

When the credits roll in life and on TV, I am left wondering (like Rodney King) – Why can’t we all just get along?

Our editor is constantly urging the Evening Sun staff to blog more. Creative writing can be wonderful, but I loathe participating in the slow de-evolution of the English language vis-a-vis the Internet.

The word ‘blog’ sounds like something a toilet does when it’s been clogged and overflowing onto the bathroom floor, but it originally stood for “weblog.” (Pronounced web-log, not we-blog). The first two letters however became too weary and were dropped because people were, literally, too lazy to lift a finger.

In suit with such monumental laziness and disregard for class and style follows a slew of recreated pseudo-words that tumble forward like dominos - lol, brb, afk, b4, cya, ic, idk, jk, lmao, ne1, nm, np, obtw, omg … and it never stops. I hate it. I feel like I fell through a time warp and found myself text messaging with a cave man who just vomited on a dictionary. Seriously, there are well trained monkeys who can communicate with a few carefully selected letters … I’m absolutely thrilled to be part of such a category.

That being said, one barreling constraint that strangles both imagination and integrity at the same time is censorship. Imagine if one could really just write … nothing else, no filter, nothing. Brutal directness, made for a grateful audience who’s getting sick of shifting through the daily media who-ha that crams up our airwaves. Pulling out that stubborn string of politically correct half truth smothered in a rope of persuasion yanking its benign audience towards this cause or that product. Telling the truth for its own sake would be like running naked through the middle of town, but far more taboo. And that’s why I appreciate blogging.

I admire bloggers for this one great reason, the Internet is a child of the digital revolution and near enough to the edge of that frontier to allow freedom of expression to thrive. A frontier without social pressures or corporate control (yet), a place where anyone can remain anonymous for better or worse. Blogs may be a lot of things, but many represent one of the few places left were we can turn the page to that of an open, honest (and often crazy) thought. 

Would it really kill us though if we wrote ‘I’m laughing out loud’ instead of ‘lol’? Technology is supposed to make us smarter not dumber.

Out of all the things I’ve wanted or tried to be in my life, the country boy calm still finds me at the core. I remember so many intimate moments with the natural world that surrounded my childhood. It’s a place where I discovered my only true sense of spirituality. I love the little things.

Moon

I see the moon and imagine its pull over some distant shore. The tide reaches to meet the stars and falls in a peaceful lullaby. The silver reflections of light shatter like stretched glass across the glistening moonlight dunes.

Wind

To watch the wind that never stops traveling pass through my small corner of the world. An eerie calm laced with the chatter of leaves as the trees become entangled by the restless air. Nature’s serenade played since the dawn of man puts me at ease with its endless tune. Her tall shaken instruments rustle with each breathe and their trunks creak in chorus.

Rain

Air so tense that at any moment it could shatter. A shadow cast across the valley as if god himself peered from behind the hill. The deafening calm peeled away by a shock wave of thunder so loud it shakes loose the heart. A sudden strike of ghostly light illuminates miles of countryside in a pale reflection.

Sure they didn’t have torches or pitchforks, but after hearing a few choice comments from the members of the public gathered at the Guernsey Memorial Library on Thursday night, it wasn’t difficult to imagine them as the angry mob that always seems to form at the end of a classic horror movie. 

The crowd of approximately 40 people was gathered for last night’s library board meeting. I understand their anger. The State Comptroller’s office released the results of an audit that found Director Melanie Battoe had $15,000 in questionable purchases, many of which she tried to justify at Thursday night’s  meeting, however her explanations did little to appease the angry crowd. I expected to hear some tough questions. I expected to hear some people demanding to know whether or not the director would be fired. I did not however expect to see a police presence on hand to control some rowdy individuals. The shouting and angry accusations didn’t quite seem to fit in a building where I was always taught to use my indoor voice. 

Actually, I heard a lot of choice items I didn’t expect. I definitely didn’t expect to hear people shouting that the library director should be taken away in shackles or lynched, but I heard both suggestions. Personally, if I had been on the board, I probably would have thrown some people out, but the board did their best to listen to all of the shouting, questions and complaints. They even listened to one complaint so out of place that I thought it must be a practical joke. The gentleman who was speaking however seemed anything but jovial. 

Yes there were some questions about where some money was spent, and about conflicts of interest with Battoe’s husband handling the library’s computer service and there were comments on the status of employer-employee issues that have been going on for some time. But when one member of the community became irate because Battoe had barred him from the computers for looking at obscene web sites, I have to say, I’m not the only one who seemed a bit surprised. 

I guess everyone has their own priorities, and in this instance, everyone is going to form their own opinions, but I hope we as a community will be intelligent enough to drop the mentality of an angry mob, put down the pitchforks and start looking for ways to ensure this type of oversight doesn’t happen again.

People think that Oxford is always comparing itself to Norwich. That’s just not the case. The true rivalry is with Greene. At least it was when I was in school back in the days before time. You can imagine, then, my dismay when I learned during tour of Greene’s waste water treatment facility earlier this week, that Greene’s *&%# really doesn’t stink.

I’ll admit it. I wasn’t looking forward to the tour. But I needed to gather information for a story, so I sucked it up and made the call to the Village of Greene’s Superintendent of Public Works Bob Nowalk.

I was kind of hoping he’d tell me not to come down. Instead, he offered to make time in his schedule later that day to give me a full tour. How could I have said no? (No, really. How?)

I drove very slowly all the way from Norwich to Greene. I used my extra travel time to practice breathing through my mouth.

As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered. Both of the lift stations Bob showed me, as well as the treatment plant itself, were virtually odor free. I don’t mean this in the way that advertisers say those excruciatingly painful hair removal products are “virtually pain free.” It really did not smell.

I was left thinking: “Why the heck not?” After all, you only need to drive down Route 12 through Oxford at the right (or wrong) time to know that our *&%# DOES stink.

While Bob provided the technical explanation, siting Greene’s anaerobic process vs Oxford’s aerobic process, I struggled with it until he brought it down to terms I could more easily understand.

“If you stir the *&%#,” Bob said, “It’s gonna stink.”

One thing we’ve always been good at in Oxford is stirring it up.

The fair was in town last week, and I’m fairly certain I was one of only a few people who not only had the chance to attend nearly everyday of the festivities, but also got paid to do it. Few people other than the carnies who manned the rides had a similar opportunity.

If working at The Evening Sun over the past two years has taught me anything, it’s that you never know what you might end up doing for tomorrow’s paper. Thursday morning, I had no idea that I was going to get to spend a day going on rides, playing games, looking at animals and sitting in the grandstand. (If I had, I would have brought some sun block and some Dramamine.) But despite a serious case of motion sickness and a slight sun burn, I left the fair with a new found fondness of all that the event has to offer.

When I attended the fair as a child, I’ll admit, I rarely left the rides and entertainment of the mid-way. I ignored everything else the fair had to offer, including the grand stand shows, the animal competitions and the exhibits and displays in the buildings around the fair grounds.

It’s taken a few years for me to see and appreciate the real offerings of the fair, but after exploring the exhibition halls, seeing the 4-H displays, petting some of the animals and watching young children present the animals they were so proud of, I’m sure I won’t be able to hear about the fair without thinking about all the hard work and dedication that children and adults put into making it what it is, a celebration of the agricultural roots of the community.

I came in to work this morning to discover that we had acquired a new member of the Evening Sun staff since I left the office yesterday.  It shouldn’t have surprised me, really. It’s not the first staff change that has happened over night in my three weeks here. I tried not to feel too out of the loop as I was introduced to Sohnny (the “h” is, apparently, silent.)When I first learned that this latest addition to the Sun family had come to us by way of the Chenango County Fair, I was a little concerned. I found it hard to believe that my co-workers had failed to heed the police chief’s friendly reminder not to pick up any carnies this year. (I can only assume that there was a reason he chose to issue the warning, but I am, alas, in the dark as to happenings at last year’s fair.)I’ve heard that Chenango County’s population typically fluctuates around this time each year. Apparently we lose a few when some of our own decide to run off with the fair and gain a few when carnies choose to stay. But I’ve never witnessed it before and I certainly never thought it would happen to us.Sohnny’s presence in the office will be an adjustment for all of us. Jessica has assured me that it won’t mean any more responsibility for me, but we’ll see.I’ve already noticed that Sohnny can be a little higher maintenance than some, but not all, members of our staff. I mean, no one had to help me settle into my workspace on my first day. And I’m not sure how I feel about him sleeping here.He seems a little stressed right now, but that will probably change as he adjusts to his new environment. I wonder if he’ll gets used to us watching his every move.It makes me glad I’m not the one in the goldfish bowl. But for him, it probably feels like home.

Sex crime accusations are difficult to quantify with physical evidence and so destructive in their charge that it is often enough to convict one’s character on mere implication. 

The word “rape” pulls at the very chords of our emotions with a resonance so deep, it inherently produces prejudice. It takes concentration and effort to pull ourselves back from these natural impulses. 

Maybe it’s because I’m a man, but often I have felt the power of a sexual accusation perturbs people enough that in many cases the defendant must prove himself innocent. Sometimes though I wonder if that’s a good thing.

In our system, however, the complications of a such a crime can be very difficult to figure out. In many cases victims don’t even report their abuses, fearing an embarrassing and public confrontation that may not necessary lead to justice. Other times the assailant is a close friend or loved one (boyfriend, for example) and a victim becomes personally torn. Often it seems these cases involve a sinister cocktail of drugs, alcohol, dysfunction and bad circumstance. Each of these factors contribute a wilder and wilder number of spiraling variables.

So this unfortunately leaves me with little hope of rationalizing my way into a fair decision (the only guilt-free kind), and often I feel contempt towards the idea of giving the accused the benefit of the doubt (also known as reasonable doubt). I believe in the notion of innocence until proven guilty because it’s really the only way we can even attempt to have a fair and just system.

How do we really know what happened, though? If an intoxicated woman says no but then gives contradictory body language or consents physically after expressing an oral objection, is that rape? I guess it depends on if the woman files a complaint afterward or not. What if a woman is threatened and consents from fear of death? What if there is some hideous reason for her to fabricate such an accusation out of revenge or to save some sense of perverted dignity? What if in a moment of intense anger , fear or impaired judgment, a claim is made that a person feels they can’t retract without serious consequence? What if drugs and alcohol are involved and a defendant or victim can’t remember the details of consent and contact? What if a victim passes out and was taken advantage of (date rape) or just said she was because she can’t recall? 

All these scenarios will yield very little physical evidence, especially if a defendant claims the sex was consensual. So basically you create a social stigma of casting additional suspicion upon the accused then you might with other offenses. I know I’m guilty of raising the justice bar just a little because I don’t really believe there are many women out there who would traumatize themselves unnecessarily by enduring the rape kit and follow up examination … Not to mention that creating a false claim is a crime and assuming an accusation might be false is sort of like not giving the victim the benefit of the doubt when it comes to fraud. 

It’s a difficult issue that’ll continue to plague critical thinking jurors for a long time. I feel deep sympathy for both sides. Imagine a prosecutor being a woman’s only hope for justice in a “he said/she said case.” A vindicated rapist and a victim deprived of the ability to have a normal life. Can you imagine being convicted on an accusation or misunderstanding? Have you seen how sex offenders are treated by our justice system and the public? A verdict derived from foggy circumstance and debatable physical evidence - but often that’s what the public demands of our system. People are creatures of feeling and when it’s too close to call, a lot of us go with our instincts. (Which rarely favor a defendant.) 

I wish I had an answer to this one, but I don’t. Just take it a case at a time. Fight the urge to lynch an accused person because what we’re really doing is hanging reason and justice out to dry. While at the same time, we’re embracing the difficulty of prosecution and offering sincere sympathy to a victim who may be utterly lost in our system of reasonable doubt.

At the end of a successful boys’ basketball season last February, one in which Norwich’s varsity finished 15-6 and the junior varsity went 19-1, head coach Mark Abbott suggested we have a sit-down – or as it turns out – a phone conversation to discuss a little thorn in his side.
Earlier this week, I had Abbott on the line to gather information about another story that will appear later this week in The Evening Sun, and we eventually segued to this “pet peeve” of Abbott.
Just to get unaware readers up to speed, through a large portion of the 1990s, Abbott presided over a sensational winning basketball program that won two state titles. While that success may never again be matched, a number of good Norwich teams have taken the court since that time including a 2001 sectional champion.
Even Norwich’s so-called down years usually yielded double-digit victories, and through it all, Abbott’s teams have embraced and welcomed the support of adults in the community. The real issue, Abbott says, is student support. “We just don’t get the students to games, and I don’t know why,” he said. “You go to Seton, Chenango Valley, and even Vestal…they all have big student cheering sections, and for whatever reason, we do not.”
Behind the home bench, seating of adults and assorted fans is nearly elbow to elbow, and across from the visitor’s bench, adults typically fill that section. The section across from the home bench, designated primarily for students of the home school, is now a mix of adults and students, with the attendance of the collective study body becoming more and more sparse. “It’s not like our teams do not do pretty well,” Abbott said, “and we’re probably going to have big crowds again this year.”
As local fans will soon find out, the current crop of Norwich varsity basketball players are immensely talented, dedicated, and quality citizens and students. Abbott hopes to see more students at games next year, and he knows his players wish for the same thing.