Duathlon

I couldn’t conceive of doing the triathlon; can’t swim. But, I was intrigued to discover that there was a duathlon. No swimming; only running and biking. I had biked off and on for several years, but had only been running for about 6 weeks. Frankly, this in itself was quite a feat for me. The last 30 years were spent telling anyone who suggested jogging or running as a viable form of exercise or stress relief, just how much I despised it. There I was, though, stretching and pacing about with a group of a hundred of my peers preparing to run 2 miles, bike 18.5 miles and then run another 3.1. There were 500 plus other participants who would start off swimming one-half mile rather than run the first 2 miles. They were the triathletes.

I was prepared for a big “On your mark. Get set. GO!” or ”Runners, take your positions!” Instead, there was a low key announcement made over a bullhorn about 20 minutes after the event was scheduled to begin. So low key that only the movement of the crowd ahead registered for me a sure start of the run.

I was towards the back, but not for long. I quickly became the tail end. My initial strategy was to stay with those around me, but they had obviously been in training a couple more weeks than I had been. My anxiety increased as I struggled to find my rhythm. I gulped at the air, panting uncontrollably. When I finally shook my head and composed myself, I dedicated my focus to self encouragement. “Relax, focus, get the rhythm. There it is. Okay now, there’s a good chance, I say, a real good chance of coming in last here. That’s going to be okay. I’m here only to see how well I can do. I’m not competing with anyone. So, just relax and have fun.” It was apparent that I was way out of my league; but, I was feeling calmer and determined to stay the course.

The first run was one mile out and one mile back using the same path. With only the first ½ mile behind my back, several of my newfound mentors (I had to drop the notion of peers) were already returning. They were sprinting easily and chatting about who could even imagine what. I turned the corner exiting the park and felt the turmoil in the air as a dozen of them wind channeled past me. They were within minutes of transitioning to their bikes; but, I refused to dwell on that and continued to forge ahead.

A trick I had learned, though potentially dangerous, was to keep my eyes to the ground while I run. It is the only way I can concentrate without getting overwhelmed at the distance still left to be covered.

I raised my head searching for the one mile turnaround and to my surprise, see another lone runner still moving toward it. Hmmm. I look away, then back again. I do believe that his frame size increased with that glance. One more test confirmed that I was not only keeping up, but I was gaining on him. Now, this was exciting! My legs didn’t move any faster but my mind was fired up. ”Oh, yes. He is mine!”

He rounded the corner a quarter mile ahead of me. He started his journey back and saw me. As we passed face to face, the silence was broken by the competing gasps of our panting. I made my turn and felt an internal rush as I closed in for the take! He must have tried to keep up with the pros longer than I had because I passed him with ease. My personal victory soured a bit though as he mumbled “I suppose this means I’m it.” It was more of a statement than a question. Since I had just learned myself what it was like to give in to accepting last place, I offered “You’ll catch up with me on the bike!” Then I slowly yet proudly left him in my dust!

My triumph was short lived. I gazed ahead to see bikes whipping out of the park. These riders were runners and swimmers. The swimming heats were every ten minutes. (My group of runners started off with the first heat.) I turned back into the park with a half-mile stretch still ahead of me. The riders were intense. Some hollered words of encouragement. Embarrassed, my speed picked up, but not by much. By the time I got back to the transition area, few people were watching for runners coming back in. Most had forwarded their support to the swimmers and riders.

My friend, Denise, though, bless her soul, was there for me. She cheered me in, offered me water, led me to my bike, and excitedly sent me off again! Passing the first riding checkpoint on my way out, I heard someone yell, “Make sure you stay all the way to the right with that bike.” I didn’t have to look around. I knew who he was talking to. I nodded and dug into cycling. The hundreds of bikes that overtook me were stupendous to look at. The speed and ease of their ride was fun to watch. (Yes, I was envious; and clearly, even in my fogged state, knew this was my old cloppy bike’s last ride.)

I decided not to use the odometer or stop watch on my bike. I didn’t need any discouragement; I wanted to finish this ride without regard to time and place. I’d ridden 30 miles on my bike before. Now that I had plenty of time ahead of me to think, I calculated that that had been 15 years prior. I wondered why I hadn’t added any training into my regimen for the cycling piece of this event. It would have been a good idea.

We rode the perimeter of the lake. It took me over an hour. I was alone most of the time except for the occasional group of riders who had swum in the later heats and sped past.

Three quarters of the way through the ride, I broke the intensity by wondering when the last time was that I had been out riding like this. “I should take advantage and enjoy the beauty of the land.” That did nothing for my speed and instead, led my mind to pine for the presence of my husband.

I buckled back down just as an athlete whizzed by me. “I think the last turn is at the bottom of the hill!” she shouted back. Yes! I peddled faster downhill, cruised around the corner and there it was! I choked back my extreme weariness at the enormous grand finale climb. “Concentrate, concentrate, you can do this! One spin of the wheel at a time!” It was an unbelievable feat reaching the top of that hill! There was one more mile, but an easy last mile.

Denise called out to me in glee and helped me park my bike. I couldn’t really talk. Mostly I just grunted and sucked down water. This was the last stage and before I could give it any thought, I started my final run. My legs were wobbly, but they were moving. I was torn between the excitement and settling back down. There was still much work to be done. I must have looked like hell because someone mistook my inability to function socially with negativity and chided me for not smiling and thanking him for his support.

I trotted through some trees on a dirt path leading out to the road. The final piece of this event was across the dam overlooking the lake. It was a narrow path for runners going both directions, but a befitting finale. As I started across the bridge there were a good many people returning. I was amazed at the number of people who had quit running altogether and were just walking fast. It had never occurred to me that I would see this. I had had no intention whatsoever of letting up. Granted, my run wasn’t that much over a fast walk... I went farther across the bridge. More and more people were walking. Gosh darn it. It just seemed like a good idea. I’d been moving for almost two hours now. No. No. And then I just did it. I slowed to a fast walk at the 2 mile marker. The sign itself seemed to scream at me to "Stop!" Horrified, I walked for only a few minutes and then took off again. Gratefully, I was in a running state when I heard someone say “Hey, I thought you said I would catch up with you on the bikes.” I shrugged as he passed going the other way and elated in my head “Oh, my God! I stayed ahead of him!” That took me a ways more, but I had lost my gait and had slowed down, making it harder to pull it all back together. I was feeling pain and weariness like I’d never felt before.

Back down the path through the trees and out into the gauntlet of the finish. Cheers led me to the line of completion, timing me at 2 hours and 14 minutes. Denise congratulated me! I walked around in a daze; dirty, breathless and exhausted.

I ranked 98 out of 100 in the duathlon. (There was another gentleman who dropped out during the ride.) Denise drove me home where I slept for the rest of the day (noon on). I didn’t run the rest of the year. It took everything I had that day. There’s a good chance, I say, a real good chance I needed more than 6 weeks of training.

A Little "Big Easy"

Sitting home tonight is downright boring! We're just 18 hours off the plane and ready to go back!

We left Ohio for New Orleans early Saturday so we'd have plenty of afternoon to explore. The plane rides were short, on time, and smooth sailing! We scurried to the Marriott Hotel at the edge of the French Quarter. We threw our belongings in the room, changed from winter to summer attire, and hit the streets.

There is no easing into the Big Easy. It hits you hard and fast. We found our way to Jackson Square with its entertainers and taro card readers, then down Decatur St., on to the French Market with its beignets, muffulettas, whilst jazz and blues waft through the air.

The muffaletta sandwich originated in New Orleans. It can be ordered as a whole or a half. Sitting outside at The Gazebo Cafe, Brian and I decided we would share a whole sandwich and accompany it with some onion rings and cheese fries. Good grief! There was enough food for 4 starvin’ folk! The muffuletta alone started with a 10" round foccacia bread. Sliced horizontally in half, the bread was then stuffed with meat and cheese and an olive oil salad of green and black olives, carrots and bits of cauliflower. Coupling that with an earthy live version of The Animals' "House of the Rising Sun" made it one delicious way to delve into N'awlins!

Bourbon Street, of course, was the highlight of the night. A group of us started with a spectacular dinner at the Red Fish Grill. Never have I tasted such a succulent blend of textures and spices as was prepared for my Hickory Red Fish dinner. Even my husband who is a definite hamburger and fry guy, enjoyed every bit of his Wahoo!

The rest of our party headed back to the hotel while Brian and I made our first nocturnal sojourn through this historic district. It was Saturday night and eight of the 14 blocks of Bourbon Street's French Quarter was lighted and coming alive! The balconies were becoming crowded with patrons dangling beads they were anxious to distribute. (The custom is a reward of beads for any girl daring enough to expose her breasts.) Tempting as it is to think about getting into the spirit of things, it is only fleeting. Surely, this would come back to haunt me.

Ever seen the walking, dancing Kool-Aid pitcher? I pointed at a corner bar and with a now needed raised voice asked Brian "Is that a walking hand grenade?" By golly, it was! Apparently an explosive advertisement for a popular shot drink sold amongst a carrier of red, white and blue test tubes. Seems to me there might be something wrong with that, but maybe I'm just 30 plus years out of step.

On another corner a man walked curiously around an elegant statue. Statue? No - mime. He touched her hand chattering with amazement to his wife. I interrupted by telling him he's not supposed to touch. "She's a mime and you should probably drop a dollar in her box to make up for your faux pas!" I proceeded then to take a dollar out and dramatically pay for her performance. She took my hand and sprinkled what I guessed to be mime dust in my hand with illustrated instructions to blow it in the wind. The man and woman enjoyed it all with wonder. They were from New Jersey, she said. "Obviously a long way from the cow pasture!"

A fresh stretch of balcony and I watched as a young woman arched her back to the boys above and exposed, might I say, some very large and voluptuous “tits” (street jargon). I'm grabbing Brian, "Did you see her?!" as she was showered with beads. He missed her! We walk by and I heard her shouting up "Show me your beads!" I tried to turn Brian. "Oh my gosh, she's doing it again!" He saw only her reward. Too much fun!

Music or sexy young women beckoned at each doorway. Back down the road and its getting louder and more raucous. A sign went up in the middle of it all. "Repent! Repent! Your sins!"

Restroom time encouraged us to enter a jazz house. I asked and was directed to a couple doors being loosely guarded by a man and woman. The lady opened the door and followed me in. The meaning of her presence didn't come to me until I came out of the stall. A squirt of some of the worst smelling soap at my hands while my attention was being drawn to a tip jar. A suggestive dollar hung over its edge. Rummaging for change reminded me of an experience in Mexico that was downright blackmail. If you didn’t have any tissue of your own, you were at their mercy!

One last pass through the party. The boys were leaning way over cat calling to all the girls to "show us your tits"! Those needing to repent were telling those wanting them to, to mind their own business. A girl's mechanical legs looked destined to swing in and out of Big Daddy's window for eternity. Novelty shops brightly advertised the voodoo and masks and vampire blood and boas. The music was down right energizing!

Next morning at breakfast, the chatter spanned beyond Bourbon Street.

You can gamble at Harrah's. It's right up the street from the Marriott. In fact, one of the instructors at the convention had been there and won $15,000 on a penny slot! What?! Apparently, if you play all options, it costs $4.00 to "pull the arm". That might be 400 pennies, but the potential is 1,500,000 of them! While he was waiting for his money, he hit a bonus $900 on another penny slot machine! Unbelievable.

A movie is currently being filmed right outside the Marriott on Canal Street. The production crew would block off the road and send a trolley down the stretch with people waving and screaming for no apparent reason. 12 Rounds is currently the name of it. My husband is sure that he was captured crossing the street at the perfect time and is destined to be a superstar.

The conference sponsors came to New Orleans to help stimulate the economy. Touched by the people, their culture, and recent plight, they embraced a local high school; contributing heavily to their lives and their education. It was a moving and soulful demonstration of extended community.

A late comer to breakfast found a seat next to me. I turned to look and smiled broadly as I recognized her as the girl with the great tits.

Phew! At least it wasn't me this time!

Skunked!

If you've ever flown, you have an airline story. If you've tried to fly these last couple weeks, you have horror stories of being left stranded for hours when Skybus chose to drop out of the race without notice, or the FAA decided to crack down for real on MD80 planes that had ties spaced 1/4" too far apart around some wires warranting failed inspections.

I've been fortunate enough to have a job that has had the fringe benefit of travel. I've been places I may never have ventured to on my own. Chicago is definitely my kind of town! Vancouver is an unbelievable experience. You can't vacation better than Los Cabos, Mexico where I celebrated my 50th birthday drinking Sammy Hagar's tequila in Sammy Hagar's bar, Cabo Wabo!

After a 15 year hiatus, my husband, Brian, and I returned to New Orleans for an extended business weekend.

The trip down went without a hitch. I try hard to listen and watch as the stewardess' drone on about passenger rules and regulations while using visual instructions to show how to buckle and unbuckle a seat belt. Definitely, you cannot smoke on a plane. Who doesn't know that? No matter where you are, you can no longer smoke unless specifically designated. Not my rule, but one the federal government is expected to enforce. And enforce they will if you smoke on a plane; especially if you try to put your cigarette out in the restroom's trash compartment forcing the stewardess to extinguish the fire that is ignited. I recall wondering who in the world would attempt to smoke in a plane this day and age. Well, I don't know who it is, but heard a first hand account of someone who's plane was forced down due to these very circumstances. Everyone suffered from it with a whopping 18 hour delay to their destination. Now, that's a bad day; though a great travel tale!

But, back to my adventure. On the way home from a terrific time in New Orleans (A Little "Big Easy"), there were three of us traveling together. We were informed that New Orleans still had staffing problems so we needed to be 3 hours early to get processed. Within 30 minutes of our arrival, we were sitting at our gate already informed that though our plane to Memphis was on time, we'd be delayed an hour for the final leg to Columbus. Two hours plus was left at our disposal. Our traveling companion, Tim, used that time to identify a suspicious character and scope out his activities. I preferred to slink down in my seat and catch up on emails. I did see the gentleman in question on the plane though as I was boarding. Dark, sinister eyes looked hard into mine. Tim had gotten to me!

Once in Memphis we were elated to see that our connecting flight was not delayed after all! We scurried through the unusually quiet halls of an airport to our new gate. A few minutes before we were to board is when it began. First the expected 40 minute delay, then another hour. More disconcerting than the detainments was when the customer service agent asked "Does anyone see any planes in the air?" And in her next breath our flight was cancelled altogether.

They drove their herd of commuters to various customer service counters to discuss available options. Separated from Tim, we were finally being helped by a young lady who immediately informed us, without a smile, that she was not clocked in and only stopped to help. Tim flew by hollering that he'd just gotten booked on a plane taking off in a few minutes to Columbus via Cincinnati. Excited, I asked our agent if we, too, could get on that flight. After a few precious minutes of silence except for the occasional tapping of keys, I inquired what our odds were. She could get us from here to Cincinnati, but not on to Columbus. Disappointed, I asked what's next. Well, come to find out we had already been booked by another agent for a new flight. I was going direct to Columbus, while Brian detoured through Detroit. "That's not good," I said (surely with exasperation). "We need to travel together." And perhaps with just a bit more frustration, I might have accusatorily asked "Who would separate us?" This merely elicited the story that she was not clocked in but had merely stopped by to help. She transferred me to the Detroit agenda and printed off our tickets just as Tim was back to say that the miracle flight he had gotten had left the gate before he could breathlessly arrive. The agent next to us sympathized immediately and re-ticketed him on our flight. "First Class!" he exclaimed with glee. Heading to our new gate together, I looked at our tickets. Heck, Brian was in first class also! Cool, but wait! What's this? Row 18? Our teller knew full well Brian and I were husband and wife! Even though the seat was obviously available for Tim, she blatantly chose to keep us apart.

I told the agent at the new gate what had happened. She chuckled and said she would see what she could do. We settled in for another wait. There was one announcement only about the threat level of the airline sector being Orange. Brian and I quietly discussed whether that was new or if it had been orange for a long time. Maybe we always just heard when it turned orange which is High but not when it lowered. We were already uncomfortable because of the suspicious character earlier in the day.

I sat first class with Brian on the way to Detroit. Just being on the move was the true highlight here. Did it mean we would be home any sooner? Even though we flew over and bypassed Columbus to get to Detroit, we were now only a 4 hour drive instead of an 8 hour drive should we need to change our plans. Take 2 through another series of delays. Meantime I inquired at the counter about the seating arrangements for the last leg home. The agent said she could move us together in the back of the bus (I'm now in row 25) but there was nothing up front. I decided to let Brian stay in first class for his comfort. It was a short ride.

Last to board, I was taken aback to see my 2 travel companions sitting with no one next to them. In fact, there were 8 seats open in first class. I just shook my head. Really now, what was the point?

It was noted in the paper a day or so later that enhanced security had been put into place that day we returned when pipe bombs were found on an arriving gentleman passenger in Florida. This served to cause a ripple throughout the airline schedules.

I might have said at the time that I had been skunked by the customer service agent who wasn't clocked in. But, yesterday, my dog decided to sniff the derrière of a real live skunk. I've a whole new respect for the terminology.

Like I said though, everyone who has ever flown has a story to tell.

Going Dutch

"Grandma, I'm so hungry!" The savory warmth coming from the chicken stewing atop the old coal stove was more than this little one could take. Great-Grandma Sadie turned with hands stuffed in the front pockets of her cotton house dress contemplating my mother. She smiled and surprised her beloved granddaughter with a thick slice of home baked bread spread with sweet butter; topped with strawberry jam.

Picture this peanut of a girl seated too high for her feet to touch the ground and her torso barely tall enough for her chin to clear the heavy wood table. Her eyes widened and arms raised high towards her Grandma to accept her treat. She tipped her head up to allow the delicious fruit topping to drip down to her tongue then smear across her wide mouth as she stretched the bread and took a big bite. Uncle Dick meandered in, ruffled her hair lecturing "Eat the crust Patty. It'll put curl in your hair." "Uncle Dick! I already have curly hair!"

Grandpa Jim and Sadie's daughter, Grandma Helen lived on a farm. Every summer we would set up tables outside and invite family over for a huge picnic. The cousins would barrel towards the spacious front yard and team up for a rowdy game of softball. Even though my sisters and I were barely, if at all, in our teens, no one was excluded from the pick. I never saw balls hit so far or fly so high as I remember in those days.

Grandpa Jim had a bell he would clang to call us back to the house. At its beaconing, victorious or not, we would all run sweaty, hot and laughing up the hill ravenous for some grub! Grandma Helen served some of the absolute best shredded barbecue beef sandwiches stirred hot straight out of the oven. A delicious mainstay complimenting plates piled high with succulent pot luck choices of potato salads, devilled eggs, baked beans, Jello salads and lots of pies and cakes.

The pot that stewed the chicken and made memorable sandwiches landed third generation to my mother 40 years ago. To this day Patty remains a fearless and marvelous cook! When we were growing up, more often than not, Great-Grandma Sadie's old dutch oven held center stage at our family's Sunday dinner table. The lid with crusted sauce or jus along its edge, held in the heat of our main course while bread was warmed and drinks were poured and set at the table. The six of us would anxiously await the ceremonial lifting of the lid to inhale the evening's meal of pork and scalloped potatoes, roast with carrots, onion and potatoes, venison, squirrel or rabbit. We would then dig in and do what was cherished the most; share in each other’s lives.

Where Are The Lightbulbs?

I hear her muttering under her breath through the phone "I bought them. I remember them being scanned at the store. They definitely went into the bag. From here I can even see the bag I brought home. Yep, there’s the napkins. Where are the light bulbs?"

“Okay,” she hollers at her husband. “You can take your shoes off now. I can’t find the lightbulbs!”

I’m chuckling! Thank goodness it isn’t just me! I had once questioned if that might be the case, but not anymore. Nope! I’m talking to my friend, Denise, and I hear an echo of my own all too familiar mumble of confusion. She is desperately searching for something she just had in her hands a few minutes ago! I’m screaming inside!

Am I delighting in her despair? Absolutely not! But, I do let out a big sigh of relief! For example, I’m preparing last night for a big day at work. I’m in charge of our Operation Feed Campaign and our cookout finale was today.

I had a list of ‘day before’ items I very conscientiously picked up last night; cheese, lettuce, and twelve 12-count packages of buns. Got ‘em. Left the buns in the back of the car spread out in a single layer because every one knows if you stack fresh buns, they become smashed and misshapen.

I didn’t make my 10pm bed check last night making me very, very tired this morning. The dog was out of luck. No morning walk this day. Checking the garage, I smiled inside. Dear, sweet, Brian had loaded the car…but, wait. Where are my 144 buns? Oh, there they are; all squished together in two huge white bags! Frustrated, I grabbed the bags and relieved them one dozen at a time; inspecting each one almost moronically. They were laid gingerly back into single file; all ten of them. Ten? No way! I bought 12 of them last night! I counted 12 into my basket. I told the check out lady with confidence to charge me for 12. I put them in the cargo area, in a single layer and there were 12. What the heck happened to packages number eleven and twelve? I ran upstairs to interrogate Brian who was still in an early morning daze. He assured me that he had not sat down and eaten two dozen buns.

This isn’t the only time something like this has happened here lately. Earlier this month there was a bake sale and I was baking to my hearts content. Yum! One week into the South Beach diet and I had five dozen cookies, two German chocolate cakes, 18 yellow and 18 devil’s food cupcakes cooling on the table. My son descended from the room no mere mortal could tolerate to enter, absolutely starved. (The wafting odor of cupcakes fresh from the oven is a great way to drag a guy out of his teenage solitude.) Discovering these treats were totally off limits though took the lift out of his grin and his room door quickly again said Do Not Disturb!

I iced the german chocolate cakes and yellow cupcakes with Hershey's chocolate frosting. Butter cream icing was the perfect topper for the 18 devil’s food still fresh from the oven. I whipped up a bowl and went to the table to complete my evenings work but instead screamed “Logan!! Get down here!!!”

He was convincing enough that it wasn’t he who stole and devoured 6 of my devil’s food cupcakes. I tried to believe it was the dog. But, Randy surely would have left tell-tale signs of sloppy saliva trails, or at least a few crumbs smashed into the carpet. These cupcakes had paper holders. All had completely vanished without a trace. To further throw me off their scents', Logan staunchly defended our beloved pet while accusing me of never having made more than 12 in the first place. Hmm.

All I can do is chock up the cupcakes alongside the missing buns. Darn that Denise though! She called back to say she had found her light bulbs!

Written By Teri Lee

Grand Juror #193

Over the years cops and robbers have dominated television viewing. With only one week served on the Grand Jury, I realized that the stories will never end. They are being scripted as you read this and if you read it again, a fresh scenario will be hanging in the sidelines to be drafted. One week. They had said it would be the most interesting service we could do for our country. These expectations were met with swift intensity.

The Grand Jury is different than a single trial or waiting in a room to be called for a myriad of cases during a set time. Members of the Grand Jury are privy to all of the county’s felony cases that have been reviewed and filtered for probable cause. This creates a daily docket of 30-50 cases in my county alone. The Grand Jury hears the bare minimum of evidence to confirm probable cause, then votes. Seven out of nine ayes’ will indict the suspect and move him/her on through the judicial system. During a brief orientation, the question was posed whether or not we would just be rubber stamping decisions already made. The answer was yes, 99% of the time.

With shameful honesty, I thought these two weeks would be R&R (rest and relaxation); an opportunity to take it easy while listening to some interesting cases. That first day I headed across the walkway nine stories above early morning High Street. Dawn masked the city as dirty, deserted; almost barren. I used to work downtown though and knew a hubbub of activity would ignite a melting pot of cultures and personalities soon enough. There was such a festive air…in my mind.

It didn’t take long to change my mind and gain a new respect for lawyers, in particular prosecuting attorneys. The ones we met came into the court room chatting it up about their weekends, their animals, cooking and the weather. In general they were giving the impression of normalcy. Five hours later you wondered how could they do it day in and day out. It’s one thing to watch Ironside or the Judge or Law and Order. It’s completely different to go through 50 drug related cases in 1-1/2 hours. I’ve lived a sheltered life.

Profiling this assembly of intriguing jurors would have been impossible. One worked for the government and quite obviously had unattained aspirations of becoming a lawyer. When the opportunity arose, his intense interrogation of an 81 year old woman who had suffered a troubling and embarrassing scam was unconscionable. He and Marta exchanged hurt and suspicious glances when they were told their line of questioning was inappropriate.

Lucille spoke but once that first week and it was to say she was highly offended that people were being referred to as suspects or bodies or victims. She wanted to personalize each case with individual names used throughout the testimonies.

The default leader of the pack was a driver by occupation. All summoned jurors are assigned a number from 1 to somewhere around 300. The rule of serving during a Grand Jury 4 month session is that once your number is called, you must serve a minimum of 2 weeks. The option is then available to stay through the end of that session. Clifford was called within the second month. His employer’s policy allowed his people to remain a juror once instated until the session end. By the time I got there, Cliff was 10 weeks seasoned. He helped us to understand the process. When asked what case had affected him the most, it was during our stint when we were shown a picture of a man who had most of his head blown off.

Yes! There is murder in the city. One of our first cases was a suspected serial killer justifying his actions to an ex-girlfriend whom he blamed. How could he possibly kill someone he loved? Internet chatrooms became a gold mine for his release.

Another murderer sitting in the county jail decided he needed his dad to make threats on his brother’s life. Said murderer didn’t think his brother was doing a good enough job intimidating the witnesses of the crime he had committed.

Horrendous sexual abuse, tragic domestic violence, passing bad checks, stealing, robbery at gun point, drugs, fires; it was all happening inside this community of 1 million. There were times I thought my head might explode!

The 1% of the time that this was not a rubber stamp position, was a domestic violence case. It was an opportunity to hear both sides of the story. The involved parties contradicted each other and a Grand Jury majority chose 7-2 to indict, which in essence would allow the courts to determine who was telling the truth. I awoke wide-eyed deep in the night when the pieces fell into place. I should have voted nay.

Conversely, there was a guy who stole his neighbor’s big screen TV. He stashed it in his girlfriend’s car then spent the next 30 minutes arguing with her because they couldn’t find the keys. He left on foot in a huff to add to his loot only to get caught cutting out the window screen at the apartment of an acquaintance. She yelled and threw a plate at him. Heading back, he ran into a man with a dog. Tough and in his face he demanded the man’s money.

“I don’t have any money. I’m walking my dog.”

“I’m going to go get my piece and then you will give me your money!”

The would be robber left. He came back with an obvious screwdriver ‘gun’. The dog walker popped him in the nose and took off. Our gangsta headed home with blood dripping down his face only to find the police at his door.

Tell me that isn’t a great sideline story for TV!

Written by Teri Lee
February, 2008

Music City

Music City! Nashville, Tennessee! I love traveling and discovering the world first hand. I’m not a country and western kind of gal and Brian just isn’t that kind of guy; but, they tricked us and we had ourselves a ball!

We drove down to the Gaylord Opryland on the finest of March days. Clear and sunshiny with a crispness in the air that hollered spring is hovering near! Just around dusk we arrived at Gaylord Opryland. This facility is the largest hotel and conference accommodation in the world. Relative to registration, our temporary residence was half way around it, up a few floors and down a couple more hallways. (Next time we plan to use a bell hop for our luggage.)

What a fabulous room! We grabbed some quiet time, freshened up and headed outside to explore the Grand Ole Opry only to discover it was closed.

Instead, we explored the hotel until we came across and settled in the Jack Daniel’s bar. Lively music was the draw. Country and Western? That’s Neil Diamond. And that’s Stevie Ray Vaughn. I didn’t know they were considered country and western. Brian said he had known all along. (This coming from the man who told me every Waffle House restaurant we passed on the way to Nashville was closed.) Nonetheless, this was toe tappin’, knee slappin’, hootin’ and hollerin’, down home music and we were having a great time!

Adding to the excitement was when the lead singer introduced the pianist, Jim. Jim had worked with Roy Orbison for eight years. I adored Roy Orbinson. Not just because of his music, but because he bridged a simple gap between me and my dad. Rarely had we agreed on ‘today’s’ music. 'Mystery Girl' though (Roy’s last solo album) was shared and enjoyed by us both.

I was so enthralled, I actually gathered enough courage to walk up and shake Jim’s hand. He came over and had a beer while relating personal tidbits from touring with Roy and identifying tracks he contributed to on albums. He remembered the excitement when Roy announced the formation of The Traveling Wilburys. Time was up; but, before Jim returned to his bench, he informed us that he would be playing the following night with a different group; an even better band. How could that be?

Dinner that next night was downtown Nashville at the Wild Horse Saloon. Posed horses took on human personalities intertwined with the tables and railings while a wild horse stampede finale was orchestrated upside down across the ceiling. Line dancing was being taught so most of our group joined in to learn and dance the night away.

Upon our return to the hotel, we were still curious about the promise of better music than the night before. We hit the Jack Daniels bar during the band’s first break. We waved at Jim and settled in for a nightcap. The music commenced and it swept us away; clapping, stomping and singing loud. This was one fine combo of musicians (notches above the last) and the night played on!

Heading back home, Brian and I broached the quality of music we were so thrilled to be a part of. His thought was “This is Nashville, Teri; Music City. The worst band here is probably better than the best one back home.” I didn’t argue.

Written By Teri Lee
March, 2004