The Day the Skies Grew Empty

On the second weekend September of 2001, a community theater organization I was part of, Pocono Lively Arts, held auditions for a planned November production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The Sound of Music. In a chapter in my book More Fog, Please: 31 Years Directing Community and High School Musicals I wrote the following:

 We had callbacks for the production on Monday night, September 10. I was on the phone the next morning talking to a voice teacher about Anastasia Dietze, a young woman we were seriously considering for Maria, when my phone call was interrupted. It was my friend Judy Lawler. “A plane just hit the World Trade Center,” she told me. I told her I would call her back. Then the nightmare unfolded.

My son Stephen, who had been my lighting director for a number of years, was living and working in Westchester County, New York. I had no reason to think he might have been in Manhattan but I was not able to reach him by phone for many hours. Hearing from him, finally, that night, was a huge relief. I could hear the stress and anguish in his voice; New York had become his city.

(NOTE: It was during that phone call that Steve called my attention to the empty skies. I live below a major flyway; walking out onto my deck, I looked upward and saw only stars.)

One cast member’s father worked in one of the Twin Towers. His dad was late leaving for work that morning because he had to take David Wertz’s little brother to school. When the first plane hit, if he had not been late, he would have been at his desk instead of on the George Washington Bridge headed into Manhattan. He was able to turn around and was home by six o’clock. The family hadn’t heard from him all day and didn’t know where he was, or if he was safe.

Another high school student, Meghan Lastra, had a cousin who had just begun work at the World Trade Center; in fact, it was his first day. He was missing during our rehearsal period. We learned he had been uneasy about working there. His remains were finally recovered. We grieved with her family. Many people in our community lost loved ones that dreadful day.

Stroudsburg is within commuting distance of the New York City area; many residents work in and near the city. Children were kept overnight at several schools in the county, thanks to the generosity and kindness of many people who provided bedding, food, and comfort. Some parents never returned home. It was a very sad, tense time.

PLA members wondered what we should do about the show. Should we continue? My director’s note for this production of The Sound of Music reflects the feelings we all experienced:

 On September 11, we were making final casting decisions for this production. We had just spent an inspiring weekend hearing some one hundred fifty adults and children who were willing to share their time and talent in order to help present this show to the community. Then that Tuesday morning, as so many did, we wondered if this undertaking was meaningful at all in the harsh new world in which we all found ourselves.

The answer, of course, is yes. Without beauty, without music and art, civilization would indeed be totally changed. That all of us want to continue to create and re-create reinforces our very reason for being. Over the past weeks, all of us involved with this production have found a renewed appreciation for this story of love and courage. The story of Captain von Trapp and his family seems especially timely today, and I think, particularly for the children in the cast, our participation has given us a truly worthwhile experience.

As always, we are very grateful to the small army of volunteers who make this production possible – the remarkable people who work backstage, the musicians in the orchestra, the people who usher and help with tickets. Thanks to all of them, we can offer you an afternoon or evening of reliving this lovely American tradition, musical theater, by two of the finest of its creators, Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II. Community productions such as ours are a part of the very essence of this great country.

Many thanks to you, our loyal audience, for helping us to celebrate America in this special way.

Susan Jordan

September 11, 2001

  

YES, VIRGINIA, THERE ARE GOOD COPS

According to a September, 1957, article in Life magazine, many of the larger cities in America were dealing with major problems in their law enforcement agencies at that time: graft, kickbacks, racketeering of different kinds—the list goes on. In Miami, for instance, some members of a special squad assigned to investigate burglaries were suspended for—guess what? Committing burglaries.

Cincinnati, a city of slightly over a half million people in 1957, was a city with considerably less crime than many larger cities. Herbert Brean of Life profiled the Cincinnati Police Department in his lengthy, in-depth 1957 article entitled “A Really Good Police Force.” A major reason for the success of the CPD, and why it was considered possibly the best police force in the country, was its remarkable police chief, Stanley Schrotel, who served in that capacity from 1951-1967.

My “Augusta McKee Mystery Series” takes place in Cincinnati during the 1960s, a period during which I lived in that city. Not having any run-ins with the law, I knew very little about the Cincinnati Police Department until I began to write the books, at which time I came in contact with Lt. Stephen Kramer (ret.), who, when I started writing the series, was President of the Greater Cincinnati Police Historical Society and Museum. Thanks to him I have learned a lot in the past two and a half years, gaining a profound appreciation for Chief Schrotel, whose name comes up in many of my books in the series since one of my main characters is a homicide detective for the CPD.

In his Life article, Brean suggested that even some law enforcement officers don’t understand what the basic purpose of police work is: first, by constant surveillance to discourage misconduct by individuals, and second, to further discourage the potential wrongdoer with the knowledge that there will be swift and sure retaliation if he is apprehended.

Going one step further, the policeman’s job is to not simply “to help obtain a conviction, but to gather all facts, whether they incriminate or exonerate.” It is as much a cop’s duty to be sure that a suspect is not deprived of his rights as it is to obtain a conviction against him. “The policeman is the guardian of everybody’s rights, including the criminal.” This philosophy was successfully put into practice in Chief Schrotel’s Cincinnati. (Quotes from Brean’s article.)

It appears one reason this worked was because the community supported and cooperated with their police officers because they trusted them. It wasn’t unusual for an alert citizen to tip off the police about a crime in progress with the expected outcome the arrest of the perpetrators. It didn’t hurt that at that time in the city’s history, there was surprisingly little criminal activity. No organized crime, gambling, or houses of prostitution. (Note: all of that was available in Newport, Kentucky, just across the Ohio River, but that’s another story. You can read about that in my novels The Case of the Disappearing Director and The Case of the Purloined Professor.) As I remember Cincinnati, it was a place I never felt unsafe as both a college student and later, a young wife and mother. Remember, we’re talking decades ago.

One of Schrotel’s top priorities was described by Brean as “policing the citizen without arousing his antagonism.” According to the Life article, Schrotel was sensitive to any hint of police brutality, because he believed those most affected by it were the officers themselves. When a member of the CPD used force of any kind, he had to fill out a complete report, countersigned by his superior, as to the reasons for the incident. The perpetrator would also be taken to General Hospital for an examination if that was deemed appropriate, and photographs might be taken for use by a defense attorney. Schrotel wanted to avoid any sense of the “bully boy” authoritarian figure among his force. He himself was a quiet-spoken, erudite, and unfailingly polite man, addressing everyone as “sir” and “ma’am.”

Who was this remarkable “Top Cop,” anyway? A native Cincinnatian, he joined the force before he was twenty-one in 1934, during the Depression. He rose quickly through the ranks, eventually becoming a colonel, much to the consternation of the “old guard” members (Brean described them as “thick-necked, tobacco-chewing district captains and lieutenants who believed in toughness”), who viewed with suspicion the young man who set records with every exam he took. His grade on the Chief’s exam was 99.33. In 1951, at the age of 38 he became the youngest chief in CPD history.

Colonel Schrotel also proved himself capable in the field, solving a difficult murder and robbery case and later cleaning house in the department itself by putting an end to graft involving towing details. He suspended 45 police officers on his first day in office. He believed the effectiveness of a police force is dependent on the quality of its officers, not on heavy-handed tactics.

In addition, Chief Schrotel was known for his keen attention to detail, working tirelessly to improve procedures as much as possible in order to avoid wasted or duplicated effort.

A biography provided by Lt. Kramer has this to say about Chief Schrotel: “[He] wanted Cincinnati Police Officers to view themselves as the best in the nation.  Over a period of a few years, he did everything in his power to assure there was no better educated, trained, equipped, and dressed law enforcement agency in the country. 

“Furthermore, he treated individual officers as valuable assets. Once he met an officer, he would remember his name forever. Patrol personnel would often find him lurking, at any hour of the day or night, when they were responding to calls for service or initiating vehicle stops and the like. Sometimes he would watch from a block away and would call up the officer’s captain the next day with a report that the officer needed counseling or that he had done a good job.  He read every report and seemingly knew every detail about every incident, offense, or policeman.”

Over the years of his time as chief, many new practices were adopted, all to the betterment of the force. Chief Schrotel earned his law degree from Chase College of Law in Cincinnati in 1950, while he was working in the CPD. He was considered one of the finest police officers in the country, and a number of cities attempted to hire him. But Cincinnati was his home and he never left.

When he retired in 1967, after fifteen and a half years, one of his legacies was the importance of education for police officers. By 1978, over 60% of the force had some college, and 22% held master’s degrees.

This is my favorite story provided by Lt. Kramer about Colonel Schrotel, and what kind of police officer and man he was. Keep in mind, this was in the early 1950s-late 1960s.

“Colonel Schrotel altered the practice, or at least the tradition, of black officers being assigned to only black neighborhoods and expected to interact only with black violators. Lillian Grigsby, a black female hired as a Policewoman in 1947, was assigned to a black neighborhood one day and looking for truants and wayward children. She ventured into the downtown area and spotted three white Northern Kentucky boys coming from a movie theater and rounded them up. One of their fathers complained to the Chief and Colonel Schrotel asked him to come to his office. Before he arrived, he also asked Policewoman Grigsby to sit in on the meeting. Policewoman Grigsby feared that she would be made to apologize to the boy’s father—or worse. When the father arrived, registered his complaint, including that she was a female and black and should not be arresting his son, Colonel Schrotel looked at her and then at the man and simply told him that she was not a black officer, or a female officer. She was a Cincinnati police officer, trained as a Cincinnati officer, and paid to locate violators such as his son, regardless of the neighborhood or color of their skin. Thereafter, black officers were assigned to all neighborhoods. And, still later, he directed that districts deploy mixed race double-cars.”

There are good men and women out there, many of them already serving as police officers in this country. They need to be given the opportunity to “protect and serve” in the right way. They need our support and appreciation. And they need professional, respected leadership to guide them. The history of Chief Schrotel and the Cincinnati Police Department is proof that policing can be the vocation it should be.

Colonel Stanley Schrotel

Police Chief, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1951-1967

 

The Diva and the Detective

Augusta Iris McKee, former opera singer, professor of music on two college campuses in 1960s Cincinnati, sometime stage director, is a strong-minded, tender-hearted, savvy lady in midlife. She loves nice clothes and stilettos. Augusta has never married, and doesn’t expect to be.

That changes when she meets Homicide Detective Malcolm Mitchell on the campus of Cliffside College, following the murder of one of her voice students. He’s the best-looking man she’s ever laid eyes on. While that first meeting is confrontational (he’s at least as strong-willed as she is, and he’s a cop), something sparks between them. As they grow to know each other, Augusta discovers important information that leads to the arrest of the killer. The friendship becomes a romance.

Augusta is seven years older than Malcolm. She’s much more sensitive to that fact than he is; after all, they’re both mature adults. But it is the 1960s, and it’s not something that happens often. Augusta finds herself involved in Malcolm’s cases sometimes in ways she didn’t expect or intend. That can be a cause of friction.

In their most recent adventure, The Case of the Chrysanthemum Murders, once again Augusta has slightly overstepped while attempting to be helpful.

***

Augusta headed down the steps, purse in hand, to find Malcolm standing in the entrance hall, his arms folded across his chest, looking none too pleased.

“That phone call was from Jim Edmonds. He just had a discussion with the Boone County coroner’s office about a visitor they had this afternoon.”

He took a step toward her, fists at his waist. “It seems a very attractive older woman was there asking a lot of questions about Anton Portnov’s death. Would you know anything about that, Augusta?”

“He called me an older woman?”

“A very attractive older woman. Good Lord, Gus. What the hell were you doing over there? You promised me you wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Do you think of me as an older woman? I’m not that much older than you, Malcolm Mitchell.”

“Augusta!” He took her firmly by the shoulders and stared directly into her eyes. “This isn’t about you. You just interfered in an ongoing homicide investigation; do you realize that?”

“I tried to call you before I drove over there. I couldn’t imagine what harm it would do.”

“Let’s see.” Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest again and leaned against the door frame. “This woman told the clerk she was manager of the string quartet Portnov had been part of at one time.”

“Well, I just thought maybe I could play on their sympathy and they might let something slip. I’m sorry, Mal. I promise it won’t happen again.” Oh, dear. The last thing I wanted was to annoy him. “I tried to present myself as a sympathetic friend of the quartet and of Anton’s. I honestly thought it might be helpful.”

She saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth and relaxed.

“You’d do better to stick with fiery gypsies like Frasquita in Carmen.” He laughed and shook his head. “Come on, I want to get to the opera pavilion early.”

He extended an arm. “By the way, for a ‘not that much older woman’ you look great to this not that much younger guy. Love that dress.”

“Mal, I am sorry about driving over to the coroner’s office.” She slipped an arm through his. “I won’t do anything again without talking to you about it first.”

“Very well, Mrs. Mitchell.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll let you off this time with a warning. I’m too busy to visit you on Sundays anyway. You know that’s a punishable offense, though.”

“Let’s blame it on the Frasquita part of me. She tends to be impulsive.”

“She’s also irresistible.” He grinned again as they headed for Augusta’s car.

**

All of the “Augusta McKee Mystery Series” books are available on Amazon, paperback and Kindle. Book 5, The Case of the Chrysanthemum Murders, will be LIVE May 24-25! Watch for it! https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07KBCWS24?ref_=dbs_r_series&storeType=ebooks

 Covers by Taylor van Kooten. Poster by Katy Schultz Burton

This Is a _______Time to Be Alive

This is a terrible time to be alive. The coronavirus may be the most frightening thing many of us have ever experienced. In my long lifetime (fourscore and two years) I’ve seen the development of the atomic bomb, known the fear of a polio epidemic, survived all the childhood diseases for which there are now vaccines,  witnessed the destructive effect of the Vietnam War and its mishandling by our government, experienced the fright of the Cuban missile crisis, and watched the true horror of 9-11 unfold.

Attempting to understand an unseen enemy which attacks at random and with no purpose other than to replicate itself? Such is the stuff of science fiction. And at my age I feel I’m constantly in the crosshairs … elderly and health compromised people seem to be where most of the deaths occur. I’m fortunate to be in good health. I live in isolation with a cat. I’m grateful for the second heartbeat in my house, and swing between varying stages of stress. Sleep doesn’t come easily. I try to stay busy during the day.

Hearing some of my fellow citizens discuss this worldwide pandemic in somewhat dismissive terms is almost equally disturbing. “Only a two percent death rate,” they clamor. “Open up the country.” That two percent rate as of April 29 translated to over fifty-eight thousand American souls lost in less than two months. More than died in the Vietnam War over a decade.

This is an eye-opening time to be alive. This event is laying bare the serious problems in this country I love. Hero worship of athletes and entertainers has been replaced. The health care professionals, and I’m sure volunteers, are now our heroes. It’s a disgrace that they have to struggle so hard to get the ammunition they need. People we never really gave much thought to are appreciated as vital to every day life: truck drivers, grocery store employees, delivery people, to name a few. The divide between the haves and the have nots is painfully obvious. Over the years the rich continue to get richer, while more and more people live from paycheck to paycheck … and some don’t even have that. The government was woefully unprepared for this event—dismissive of it at times—and we’ve been attempting to play catch-up ever since.

This is a bewildering time to be alive. After reading about the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic it surprised me that so little documentation exists in the form of literature and music from that era. People who lived in that time were more overwhelmed than we are. We have an abundance of information (and misinformation). They had no idea what they were facing, what it was, how long it might last. From their experience we can learn. I fervently hope we will.

Yes, there are the nay-sayers, the people who are convinced it’s some kind of hoax, a ploy by who knows whom. Conspiracy theorists who defy death, convinced “the Rona” can’t get them.

This is an amazing time to be alive.  There is a great outpouring of concern and love among I believe the vast majority of Americans. Small and large kindnesses. I’ve experienced many of these personally, and I am very grateful for them. Women spending long hours at sewing machines providing face masks for health care workers, friends, family. Volunteers providing free meals—at a local church, daily. Pick up at curbside, no questions asked, anyone is welcome. First responders providing some fun for children’s birthdays, since no birthday party can happen except for people living in the house. Sirens and lights and a short parade to the birthday child’s house, sometimes with balloons.

I see people putting the technology we enjoy to excellent use: providing diversion and encouragement through the arts. Coronavirus humor abounds, much of it appearing on Facebook. Another positive use of technology. More entertainers coming up with brilliant parodies. “Virtual” meetings by use of technology, a way to connect as we continue to be “socially isolated.” A better expression I’ve heard is “physically isolated.”

All of this, as I see it, signs of hope for the future. We’ll survive this. We can wish that changes for the better will come as we learn more about ourselves. I’ve urged my young friends to keep journals of this time.

I’ve found it difficult to concentrate and attempt to write, but this essay is a start. In Doctor Zhivago, Boris Pasternak gives Yuri this thought: “How wonderful to be alive. But why does it always hurt?”

This is a painful, wonderful time to be alive. And hope never dies.

Brave New World

“Oh brave new world, that has such people in it!” – William Shakespeare

Everywhere I look, I see heroes.

The medical people on the front lines. Battling the foe as best they can—as only they can—under-equipped, not nearly enough ammunition. Putting their lives on the line for their patients, whose numbers increase exponentially. Terrified they may bring this unrelenting virus home to their families. Saving lives, grieving when lives are lost. Exhausted. Some of the bravest people I’ve ever seen.

The people who valiantly work to keep society functioning. First responders. Linespeople who keep the electricity we so desperately need flowing. Media people, who try to keep us informed. More than a few now broadcasting from their homes. Pharmacy and grocery employees. Sanitation workers. Delivery people. Truck drivers. Restaurant employees. Those people who have been deigned not to be worth fifteen dollars an hour. People we all suddenly realize we couldn’t manage without.

Members of the military, called to do battle with an unseen enemy. A local Vietnam veteran, Jim Sargent, said it best: “Last year we Vietnam Veterans were honored at the Pocono Cinema in East Stroudsburg. This year I'm here in my own bunker (my house) watching, and trying to avoid the enemy. Vietnam vets aren't used to that, we are used to facing danger and taking on the foe and defeating our enemy. How times have changed, but still some feelings are the same, alone, not being with the ones you love, sometimes eating out of cans! just saying!!!”

Educators, who have learned how to provide classes/lessons on line with very little time for preparation. Kids, who are working hard to try and keep some semblance of “normalcy” in their lives in many ways. High school students, especially seniors, who have been forced by circumstances to forego the high school musical they’d been working so hard to present. Being unable to participate in spring sports programs. Seniors may not have that special moment of being handed a diploma. College students continuing their studies online, with no way of knowing when they will be able to return to their campus.

Parents and sometimes grandparents, who have in particular young children at home and work hard to keep them busy, entertained, and distracted. Family activities: thousand piece puzzles. I’m sure board games. Arts and crafts. Story time. Lesson time. If they can, outdoor activities—but only with the family.

Volunteers. Maybe thousands of people sewing masks for hospitals. Two local women, friends, who were costumers for shows I directed. Both of them have multiple doctors and nurses in their families. Both of them are also trained in the medical field, so they are acutely aware of the risks their family members take every day. People helping at food banks. People making sure school children still get their free breakfast and lunch. I’m sure many more that I don’t even know about.

Artists—musicians, actors, graphic artists, who post whatever they can to encourage and divert us. Friends locally: two wonderful men who have a piano and organ in their living room, giving us nightly devotionals of hymns. Pianists who post music they love, sometimes daily. Professional artists who give “living room concerts.” Professional organizations that have opened their treasure trove and offer free views of their work, such as the great Metropolitan Opera. The Vienna State Opera. Many others. Professional artists posting online performances. Some reading to kids. Offering whatever they can to help.

Our kind and generous friends and family who check in periodically to see if they can pick up grocery or other items for us, especially those of us seniors who are being urged to stay in as much as possible. Our social media friends, who post humor on Facebook or send us emails. Who encourage and reach out through that medium, letting us know they are thinking of us.

Sadly, there are those who continue to treat this worldwide pandemic with skepticism. Who don’t follow the requests/directives to “socially distance” themselves. Who blithely clean the shelves of items such as hand sanitizer and toilet paper, some with an eye to hoarding in order to sell for a profit. An American black market. A disgrace. Other egregious behavior, but I don’t want to dwell on that.

I wrote this to salute my friends, neighbors, members of my local and national, and even worldwide community, who are displaying all that is best about the human spirit.

My thanks to all of you. You give me hope.

Jake's Journey, Revisited

It was truly a thrill to have my book Man with No Yesterdays honored by being named a Finalist in the prestigious Wishing Shelf Book Awards for 2019. Writing this book was an experience I’ll never forget—it took me into the darkness of the Vietnam War, and the confusion and fear of a young soldier losing the memory of most of his life experiences.

An Amazon Reader Review for Man with No Yesterdays begins by calling the book “a fascinating read,” then elaborates on the premise: a man who suffers from total retrograde amnesia, recalling only bits and pieces of his early childhood, who comes to believe he will never remember more.

Could it happen? Theoretically, it could. Traumatic brain injury can leave the victim with little or nothing in the way of personal memory, as well as loss of the ability to speak, move, reason. Best case scenario, the patient slowly recovers most if not all of his life and returns to a normal, or very nearly normal, life.

Jake Cameron, my character introduced in Memories of Jake whose story is told in considerably more detail in Man with No Yesterdays, suffers a T.B.I. due to a helicopter crash in Vietnam. Jake quickly regains his ability to function in the world, but nearly all of his personal history has apparently been locked away for the remainder of his life. He doesn’t remember anything about his years as a Green Beret in Vietnam, even after meeting men he served with.

How would a man react to this awful dilemma? Jake first tries to regain his memory, spending time at home with his family, looking at photos, listening to their memories of him. As weeks and months pass and very little is revealed to him other than a few early childhood moments, he begins to face the possibility he may never remember the man—and the warrior—he once was. So who is he now? 

Throughout the book I strove to reflect on the daunting difficulties our warriors faced in Vietnam, both in country and after returning home. As a novelist, my aim in writing the novel was to address a “what if” situation: what if a young man who had fought valiantly in Vietnam lost all memory of himself and even began to wonder why he had become a warrior? What then? How would he move forward to create some kind of life for himself? And for Jake, this is complicated further when he vividly recalls one childhood memory that rocks him to his core.

Literary columnist and author Dave Astor referred to Man with No Yesterdays as “A harrowing, humane, and inspiring book.” If you are intrigued, the link to order the book on Amazon is included below, and it’s available in paperback and Kindle.

https://www.amazon.com/Man-Yesterdays-Susan-Moore-Jordan-ebook/dp/B0779P46L6/