memphis cop talks shop

 

We met at the Flying Fish in Memphis. (If you don't know it, look it up!) It was only because Ping wanted to take a picture with the tall, handsome policeman, but he and I became FB friends. I won't tell you his name, because he doesn't want his name or photo circulated on social media, to protect his family.

  I kept thinking about him, when recent events in Memphis were front and center in the news. So I texted him to find out how he was feeling—I mean talk about intersectional. And once a journalist. . . He called me on the phone.

   "I'm disgusted," he said. "That Scorpion Unit? They put that team together with a bunch of young officers, not seasoned officers. A bunch of young people hotdogging. It was like a big game to them. I mean, even with criminals, life becomes like a video game. You know Grand Theft Auto? A lot of these young guys live in an alternate universe. 

   "So much went wrong. I think the department let down those officers. Too many young hotheads. Stuff can go south real quick. For you to get five guys together, and they all went along and didn't see anything wrong—that's a deep problem. You didn't have to deliver one blow, if you're on the spot it puts you right in the same pot. 

   "I couldn't watch the whole video. I was emotionally torn up. A lot of officers lost faith in the department."

   As for the blowback, his days off have been canceled, and the officers are doubled up in the car. After 15 years on the force, he doesn't feel threatened.

   "A lot of officers have been assigned to the same areas forever. Even before this happened, a lot of the people, I trust them more than the officers. I look out for them, and they start to look out for you. I run into people that just want to vent—I'll let 'em do it. Really not much backlash here, not like other places.

   "Outside protestors showed up here, and there were thousands when they came. Once they left all the gas went out. After that they probably had a hundred people. We monitor. We have a pretty seasoned police department. We'll wait and see.

   "Memphis is the epicenter of foolishness—even before this. It's crazy right now." 

 

 

 

 

 

the ed report, january 22

  

Yesterday I visited Ed in his high end assisted living apartment. Check out the view from the roof (above) or the prices at The Watermark if you don't believe me. Barbara says we should move in there, though neither of us could afford it.

    He was lying in his overheated bedroom, and I was doing the Sunday crossword in the living room. I had two squares left to fill in.

    "What's Turkish currency?" I asked. "It's blank I blank A." 

    "Lira," Ed said, his eyes closed. Of course, he has been to Turkey, and I have not.

    "Like in Italy? How come?"

    "It was the common currency of Europe at one time," he said.

So there you go. He can't remember what day it is, but he remembers the currency of almost every country in the world.

 Ed's son Stephen came over after helping his mom and sister take care of the house in Carroll Gardens. He brought a hammer and a nail to hang a clock in Ed's bedroom as well as the living room, which Ed seldom goes in unless he has company. Stephen also got maintenance to fix the toilet, which started leaking again. And he found an extra nail and hung a picture Peter Meyer had made for Ed, featuring Ed, Peter, Barbara and me, a previous Time Inc. Gang of Four. 

   Ed looked at the picture and said, "Am in in that?"

   "Yes," Stephen said. "You are in every frame."

tested

 

So a week and a half ago I started feeling sick, then finally tested positive for the Covid, the day before I was supposed to go to California for my sister-in-law Lauri's memorial service. She had been bedridden for a long, long time, and was much more cheerful and tolerant about her illness than I was that day. I really wanted to go see my brother and niece and be present for Lauri. 

  Anyway, I went to sleep, and as I awakened I was dreaming of a priest with a net chasing two yellow butterflies around a sunny yard. And when I woke up a little verse stuck in my head.

    Dance little butterflies

    Dance in the sun

    For soon dark will come

    And the dance will be done

    Til the dawn.

I wrote the ditty down fast, and then began to wonder. The yellow butterflies seemed deeply symbolic, archetypal. So I googled "yellow butterflies meaning." 

    And came up with the following, which was total news to me:

 

Chasing a yellow butterfly in your dream symbolizes that you have lost someone you cared about.

If seen soon after the passing of a loved one, the yellow butterfly is a sign that the loved one is sending hope of a reunion in the afterlife.

In Roman culture a yellow butterfly symbolizes the finality of death. Family members may wear an accessory fashioned after the butterfly. 

In Greek folklore, yellow butterflies were a symbol of the soul.

In early Christian times, yellow butterflies depicted the soul and were a symbol of resurrection.

In Celtic tradition, a yellow butterfly if seen near a dying person was an omen of eternal happiness for that person.

Many Native American tribes viewed yellow butterflies as symbols of joyfulness and hope.

In Japan, yellow butterflies are seen as a symbol of rebirth or reincarnation.

In Indian culture yellow butterflies are carriers that transport the souls of those who have passed on to a blissful place where the process of transmigration is completed.

 

Go figure. 

And today, after 12 days and Paxlovid, and too late, I tested negative.

 

 

 

 

 

hannah's bday

 So this is pretty funny. Hannah and I had dueling Hannah's birthday parties on January one, she in Providence and I in New York. We communicated throughout the previous day and the morning about what we were serving. And it was pretty much the same. OK, her presentation was superior, but hey, where did she learn?

Hannah's. We both had the fruit platter, the crudites, the cheese, the chips.
 

Mine

Hers. Oddly, we had both bought fig jam and Rainforest crackers to go with the brie—a new thing for both of us. I woke up in the morning Googling up how to make a salami rose for your charcuterie board. I told Hannah, and she told Milla, and Milla made much better ones than I! But we both had them.

Mine

Hers. Hannah's fruit platter was better—because pineapple presentation, which I dispensed with this year. But the whole thing was pretty amusing.

the ed report, 2023

Ed and I met 40 years ago at Life magazine, where he was a reporter and then war correspondent. I was a writer who helped shape some of his showboating stories—like the one where the Coast Guard arrested him on a boat with Haitian refugees or the one where he took the surrender of Iraqi soldiers in the desert. He wasn’t around the office much, but when he’d come back from adventures we would foregather in the Irish pub we favored, drink beer and do NYT crossword puzzles together. He was better than I was, especially at the geographical clues. He took to placing expensive sat phone calls from war zones, and I would read the clues to him and tell him how many letters the word had.

    We saw one another often through his injuries, job migrations and retirement. So I should have known something was wrong when Ed stopped doing the crossword.

   What was wrong was a cancerous brain tumor. Yesterday I saw him in a high end assisted living place instead of a dive bar. He was lying in his overheated bedroom, and I was doing the Sunday crossword in the living room. I had two squares left to fill in.

    "What's Turkish currency?" I asked. "It's blank I blank A." 

    "Lira," Ed said. Of course, he has been to Turkey and I have not.

    "Like in Italy? How come?"

    " It was the currency of Europe for a long time," he said.

 

    For years I have hosted a New Year’s Day party in honor of my daughter’s birthday, and Ed always brought mac-and-cheese based on a recipe he got from Ronald Regan’s personal chef. This year he didn’t bring it: His son brought him, though, which was the best gift ever. I have a closer relationship with his wife and kids because of this illness, but I am still losing my bestie. Cheers, babe.

 

On New Year's Day, Donna Ferrato took the portrait of Ed, and the picture she made of the two of us 25 years ago. I took the one of Donna and Ed and his son, Stephen.