Where Do We Get It?

I can remember the day my Uncle Bill taught us how to burp on command.  My cousin, Lorri, and I were the perfect students on that day.  We adored, even idolized, our uncle.  Being the "baby" of the family, he ALMOST felt like he was "one of us."  Big differences:  He could drive us to the store for a pop, he sat at the grown-up table at Thanksgiving and man, oh, man, could he belch!  Rapt novices in the art of gaseous emissions, we were enthralled by the apparent ease with which our hero expelled one enormous burp after another. "Suck in the air and swallow it, then push it out," our Uncle coached, over and over again.  It didn't take long until Lorri and I managed to emit that glorious sound!  Uncle Bill cheered!  We could not have been prouder.  From that day forward, we became prolific belchers.  It is a skill one must hone during one's life and I am delighted to report that, like a fine wine, Lorri and I have perfected the art of the burp through decades of "aging."

Sometimes, when I burp out loud, not caring who hears it (okay, I care, and it's usually when I am home with my family--or not!) or squirt the occasional scoop of mashed potatoes between my teeth, I silently pay homage to those beloved members of my family who taught me to love one another, to help my fellow man and to share the gifts I have been given for good and not evil.  Love you, Mom, Aunt Myrna AND Uncle Bill!!!!

And, Yet, I Don't Ever Want To See That Again

A police officer was shot to death in my town last week.  Gunned down by a punk who didn't have a clue about what he was doing.  "Killed in the line of duty." The kid turned the gun on himself and he died, too.

The town mourned; wow, did we mourn.  This had never before happened in our town.  Sure, we had heard of it happening "there," but the distance from us didn't make it real for most. When this horror of horrors happened in our neighborhood--to one of US, we were in shock and disbelief. "This doesn't happen here."

I immediately reached out to my oldest son to let him know the news, and, I suppose, because when I heard the news, all I could think about was my peace-making, gun-toting, superman of a son, whose visits home have often included "ride alongs" with his buddies on the force. "Have you heard?" "No. Do you know his name?" "Not yet. I will let you know." Shudders on both ends.  Me shutting out an unthinkable scene and him already mourning a brother he doesn't know.

The news broke several hours after and our town knew that Public Safety Officer Eric Zapata, father of three and veteran of the department, had lost his life while performing the duties of his job. We were still in disbelief--this doesn't happen here.  Even as the funeral was being planned and flags were being lowered, I don't think my neighbors fully grasped the reality of Officer Zapata's death.

A memorial service and funeral ceremony fit for one as courageous as Officer Zapata followed, complete with every dignitary and elected official that could be found....most volunteered and many sat on the sidelines, as there are only so many hours in a funeral.  The outpouring of support for this slain officer and his young family was astounding.

When the funeral service concluded, the long journey home for Officer Zapata was only beginning.  My colleagues and I stood along Michigan Avenue as an 1,800 vehicle funeral procession slowly cruised through a 5 mile stretch of our town.  We waited for the first vehicle for an hour...the fire truck bearing an American flag draped casket lead the way. Not a word was spoken, not a hand was raised, only silent and stifled tears were present in each of us.  We didn't look at each other, but kept our gaze fixed on the flag. This must be what it feels like in those other places where terrible things like this happen.

Police and Public Safety cruisers, ambulances and fire trucks from every county in the state somberly rolled by the 5 mile long gathering of mourners. Cruisers from Chicago, Florida, Wisconsin, Ohio and Canada were interspersed in the procession, too.  Kalamazoo folks were thankful, even impressed, that anyone outside of our own people would come to pay their respects. We had no idea how this type of ceremony was typically organized and it amazed me to see so many cars and trucks from so many other places.

Kalamazoo mourned that day. We stood in the wind and the rain, oblivious to its presence, to honor a man who gave his life while serving our community.  We celebrated the life of Officer Eric Zapata en masse with our hands over our hearts, a hard and unfamiliar lump in our throats and an enormous pride in our community as we saw the thousands who stood by our side to honor our fallen servant.  I have felt pride like that only one time before in my life.  A certain peace-making, gun-toting superman son's military graduation came to mind as I ceremoniously stood in the rain with my hand over my heart.

And, yet, I don't ever want to see that again.