Author: danbonbooks

Dan is a retired police officer and law enforcement educator who enjoys writing about things near and dear to his heart.

Begging Your Pardon

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In the struggle to keep my wits about me amid the current political maelstrom, I am reminded of the old Saturday Night Live skit featuring Roseanne Roseannadanna (played by Gilda Radner) which she always concluded with the line:  “It’s always something.” 

Consider, for example, the recent confirmation hearings for top government leadership positions and the nominees who, as a whole, seemed to have fallen out of a clown car at the Barnum and Bailey Circus.  Whether it was refusing to call a traitor a traitor … denying past denunciation of vaccines … trying to explain away a promise to turn FBI Headquarters into a Museum of the Deep State … or dismissing widely reported sexual indiscretions and excessive drinking … one is left to wonder how, on earth, these people could have been nominated in the first place .  

It is as if we have all stepped “Through the Looking Glass” into an alternate reality where, in the words of Lewis Carroll, Alice finds her world reversed and turned upside down. .

Disheartening as those hearings may have been, they pale in comparison to the unforgivable mass pardons given to 1,500 individuals convicted of criminal offenses related to their actions at the US Capitol on January 6, 202l.  We recall, of course, the hollow assurances that consideration would be given to pardons only on a “case by case” basis, and that those who attacked and injured police officers would not be released but, as we now know, those weren’t promises … they were lies.

As a retired police officer I am not only deeply offended by these pardons … I am also fearful of what executive decisions of this sort portend for the future.  Consider the comments from one individual who was convicted of Seditious Conspiracy … upon his pardon and release, he said he wants the police to “feel the heat,” while demanding that the FBI agent who testified against him be investigated.  The question begging an answer, of course, is what sort of nightmarish society have we become?

Notably, the Fraternal Order of Police (FOP), the nation’s largest police union, had endorsed the candidate who was elected president in November.  On Inauguration Day, though, support from the FOP and its membership carried no weight at all in the decision to issue pardons to 1,500 lawbreakers, including those who assaulted and injured law enforcement personnel.  In response, the FOP issued a tepid joint press release with the International Association of Chiefs of Police in which the two organizations declared themselves “deeply discouraged.”

Amidst the fallout from these misplaced pardons, it was refreshing to hear a powerful voice of reason raised by Pamela Hemphill from Boise, ID.  She had served 60 days in jail after her plea of “guilty” to a misdemeanor charge for her actions on January 6, yet, when offered a presidential pardon, she refused to accept it.  In explaining her decision, Hemphill said she pleaded guilty because she was guilty, and that to accept a pardon would have been a slap in the face to capitol police officers, the rule of law, and the nation.  Further, she said, it would have contributed to the false narrative that January 6, was nothing more than a peaceful protest.

Wow!  Accepting personal responsibility for one’s actions!  One can only wish that such a radical idea might catch on!

Though long since retired from active law enforcement, my bond with the men and women in policing remains strong.  That being said, I shudder when sovereign citizens, flat-earth proponents, and others resist cordial and customary law enforcement interactions, while recording those contacts in hopes of posting a police misstep on YouTube.  We should not be surprised if the recent release of convicted law breakers for political purposes reenergizes those with a mind to torment those upon whom we rely so heavily.   

Those fortunate enough to have been around during the 60’s and 70’s will recall that era as being characterized by vigorous conflict between law enforcement and an amorphous counter-culture group known, loosely, as “Hippies.”  Tensions were often high between those two bodies, leading to a catchy phrase popularized by the police:“Do you need help?  Call a hippie!”

With the recent unconscionable pardons demonstrating clear political disdain for law enforcement, police officers should be forgiven for resurrecting that phrase with only a slight modification: “Do you need help?  Call a politician!”

From Bethel to the Balkans

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For a few remarkable days in August of 1969, a 600 acre meadow in upstate New York, seemed to have become the center of the universe. Multitudes had been drawn to the little town of Bethel, for an event called the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival and I, a very young police officer, found myself smack-dab in the middle of things. 

As an aside, this event would have been cancelled at the last minute had a local dairy farmer named Max Yasgur not stepped into the breach.  By opening his property to the festival, Yasgur allowed some 400,000 youngsters to seek (as the saying goes) “Peace, Love and Music” while, at the same time, making himself an instant hero in the hippie community.  Yasgur’s farm, by the way, is now registered as a State and National Historic site, where it continues to draw visitors to a variety of music and cultural events, and a first-class museum.

When the festivities finally ground to a halt and I headed toward home, I found myself reflecting less upon the rain, mud, traffic and overwhelming crowds, and more about the many cooperative, helpful and resilient youngsters with whom I had interacted.over those magical days. Touched, deeply, by what I had experienced, I recorded my thoughts in a brief book titled: Dear Hippie, We Met at Woodstock … One Cop’s Memories of the 1969 Woodstock Festival.

By the way, given the fact that Woodstock was marketed widely in the Northeastern United States, one could easily be forgiven for thinking that attendees came only from across America.  In actuality, young folks from a number of countries attended and, as some may recall, the event received extensive reportage in the international press and broadcast media.

The worldwide interest in Woodstock continues to this day in several countries including Poland, where an annual free rock festival called the Poland Rock Festival (formerly known as Woodstock Festival Poland) has taken place annually since 1995.  Inspired by the original Woodstock Festival, this event draws some 750,000 attendees each year, making it one of the biggest music festivals in the world. (Note the concert logo above)

In Serbia, the international connection to Woodstock is reflected not only in the rock concert at Hajduk Fountain in Belgrade, but in interest in my book, Dear Hippie, itself.  When a Serbian editor contacted me requesting permission to translate and then distribute the book, I was surprised and gratified that continued interest in Woodstock might warrant publication in the Balkans. When the book was ready for distribution, esteemed Bosnian and Serbian writer and journalist, Muharem Bazgulj, had this to say in his introduction:

 We are living in a time in which people lack the feeling of the authenticity of experience. In the choice between freedom and safety, safety is chosen as a rule. Smoking is reduced to “vaping”, drinking squeezed juices and non-alcoholic beer, even decaffeinated coffee. People may be healthier, but not happier. 

The twentieth century, especially in its second half, was not like that. This time saw a tremendous rise of popular culture, especially in the 1960s and 1970s. Then, as a rule, people had, as one modern philosopher would say, “skin in the game”. The most recognizable symbol of that time was Woodstock. There is no person, at least in my generation, who has no association with Woodstock. That association is mainly universally similar: it would have been wonderful to be there in mid-August 1969.

Later on, especially in the Internet era, information about Woodstock has become available to everyone, but again there is hardly a more unusual view of Woodstock than the one offered us by Daniel Carlson’s wonderful book “Dear Hippie…We Met at Woodstock” with the subtitle “One Cop’s Memories of the 1969 Woodstock Festival”. Stories about Woodstock are mostly told from the perspective of visitors or possibly a performer, but Carlson found himself there as a police officer.

Bazgulj concluded by lavishing praise upon Biljana Kocanovic’s remarkably accurate translation, and I would agree with his assessment.  It was Kocanovic’s vision and energy that brought this project to fruition, and I am eternally grateful for her hard work.

Dear Hippie is now available in bookstores in Serbia and, while I do not expect to be summoned to book signings in Belgrade any time soon, it is gratifying to know that interest in Woodstock continues to resonate, and that my book may have some small role in helping that spirit persevere.

A Real Character

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As a young boy, I lived less than one block from our local public grade school.  Since I could walk there each day, this meant that the only time I boarded a school bus was for the once-weekly ride to St. Ann’s Catholic Church for “release time” education classes, where I would learn about the tenets of my faith.

Like many young men, I served as an altar boy, participated in CYO sports and summer camps, rounding things off with one year at a Catholic high school.  Suffice it to say that the lessons learned through these experiences provided clarity about what was right and what was wrong, and a template within which I could, ideally, make right choices.

Being much older now, it is looking more and more like that time spent memorizing the Ten Commandments and absorbing the Church’s teachings on appropriate behavior was a waste of my time.

Yes, things have changed over the years in the Catholic church … I often think of George Carlin’s response upon learning that we could eat meat on Friday: “What about all the people doing time on the meat rap?”  Carlin was a comedian, of course, but there was nothing humorous in Cardinal Timothy Dolan’s recent observation that Donald Trump “takes his Christian faith seriously.”

What the hell?  I mean … really … what the actual hell?

Was Dolan talking about THAT Donald Trump?  The man whose personal choices and actions over the years have left many of us slack-jawed?  Is this the individual who Dolan would hold up before the faithful as a paragon of virtue?

One way to measure a person’s character is to consider whether we can comfortably tell a child … “be like him” … or “be like her.”  In the case of Donald Trump, how many of us can say that?  Given what we know of his character, I suspect that few of us … with the obvious exception of Cardinal Timothy Dolan … would be able to point to Trump as a moral touchstone for our children.

This screed, by the way, has nothing to do Trump’s politics or policies … those have been, and will continue to be, discussed at length and with great vigor elsewhere.  Instead, this is about a Catholic leader lauding someone who he sees as a moral icon worthy of emulation, while many of us are left to wonder at how far the Church has strayed from what we understood to be its teachings on rightness and morality.

I realize that both my knowledge and practice of religion are rudimentary and even elementary.  I do not, after all, possess the wisdom or intellectual horsepower to make a nuanced theological argument about those things I have believed to be bedrock principles of the Catholic Church.  Apparently, I have a lot to learn.

At some level, Cardinal Dolan’s identifying Donald Trump as someone who “takes his Christian faith seriously,” is but one more example of Catholic leaders being, at the very least, poor judges of character.  As evidence, one need look no further than the many pedophile clergy who were recruited, trained, ordained and then assigned to priestly duties where they sexually abused children before being transferred elsewhere to continue their evil deeds.

There is a word for those among us who profess to have particular moral beliefs but behave in ways that are not sincere.  That word is hypocrite.

Shame on you, Cardinal Dolan.

The Best is Yet to Come

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Perhaps this recently crossed threshold would seem less impactful if I simply called it by a different name,  In Spain, for example, I would be ochenta  In France, I could celebrate having become quatre-vingt,  In Italy, the magic word is ottanta.  But try as I will, there is no getting around it:

I just turned eighty years of age.

That being so, one thought immediately comes to mind … my goodness, that certainly happened fast!  Seems like only yesterday I was playing ball behind Park School in Ossining, New York, and hitch-hiking up Route 9 to Croton Point for a dip in the Hudson River.  With the passage of so many years, those sorts of memories remind me of how fortunate I am to have grown up in such a diverse, and vibrant community, and how formative that place really was.

Today, If a youngster were to ask what it was like when I was growing up, I would show him by … (1) taking away his cell phone, (2) shutting off the Internet, (3) giving him a popsicle, and (4) telling him to go play outside until the street lights came on.  This was life in my little village, as my pals and I filled our days roaming far and wide on our refurbished Schwinn bikes.  And if Mom was looking for me, there was no such thing as texting … she would holler my name from the back porch.  Special Note: if she called me by my first, middle, and last name, I knew I was in trouble!

But that was then … this is now.   So, as a card-carrying octogenarian, it is time to put aside those fond recollections and start earning my  “crusty old codger” merit badges by:

  1. Telling kids to get off my lawn
  2. Scowling at my neighbor
  3. Writing a scathing letter
  4. Disinheriting somebody
  5. Going for a long slow drive in the passing lane while keeping my turn signal on the whole time

Just kidding, of course … I know how fortunate I am to have been around this long, in relatively good health, and to be in the midst of so many people who I love dearly, and who love me in return.  I am especially grateful for my wife, Bonnie, and for her having chosen me to be her life partner almost sixty years ago (after “going steady” in high school). 

During the pandemic, she and I broke the monotony of home confinement with a hobby called Geocaching.  This pastime got us out in the fresh air, while giving us the chance to visit places we might otherwise have missed.  In one case, as we walked through a small rural cemetery reading the touching words on the grave markers, we came upon a plot where a husband and wife were interred side by side.  The inscription on their tombstone included a beautiful and prescient message that, for me, captures the essence of life into my eighties and beyond:

To Be Continued

Predator Priests in Paradise

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For many, thoughts of the South Pacific bring to mind lavish vacations on beautiful islands with miles of white sand beaches.  Given their exotic locale, islands in this region are very popular with diving enthusiasts, and have even become the venue of choice for “destination weddings.”

Sadly, they have also gained a much more sordid reputation for another reason … they are excellent places for the Catholic Church to hide predator priests.

According to a report in the NY Times (9/6/24), island nations in the South Pacific have become a repository for Catholic priests and missionaries accused of having sexually abused children.   In fact, more than 30 of these fallen clergy have taken up residence in Fiji, Kiribati, New Guinea and Samoa and, in at least 13 of those cases, their superiors knew that these men had been accused or convicted of abuse before being transferred to the Pacific.

In one particularly egregious case Julian Fox, the Australian head of the Salesians of Don Bosco in Melbourne, was moved to Fiji when it became known that a former student had accused him of rape.  Being in that island nation kept him out of the reach of Australian authorities, where he stayed for several years before taking an assignment at the Vatican.  Yes … that’s right … he took an assignment at the Vatican.

A decade after the initial accusations, Fox returned to Australia where he was convicted of abusing five children, some of whom he beat and violated with a pool cue according to media reports.

Similarly, Rodger Moloney, leader of a Catholic school dedicated to caring for disabled children in New Zealand, was reported in 1971, to have sexually abused a child.  Shortly thereafter, he took a position at the Vatican … yes … once again … a job at the Vatican.  He next worked in New Guinea in the 1980s and 1990s, before being extradited back to New Zealand where he was convicted of abusing five boys and sentenced to nearly three years in prison.

As an aside, when church leaders look for a place to hide a pedophile priest, an island in the South Pacific is an attractive option … good weather … scenic … large Catholic population … legal protection against extradition.  That said, consider how disappointed a disgraced prelate must be to find himself being “reprogrammed” at a remote facility in the desert of New Mexico, when he could have been sitting on a beach in the tropics.  

Michelle Mulvihill, a former nun and adviser to the Australian Catholic Church has been a staunch critic of those who have used the Pacific Islands as a “dumping ground” for degenerate priests.  In publicizing the transfer of pedophiles and pederasts into this remote locale, Mulvihill argues that Catholic leaders have used this region as a place to discard those people who they do not want to confront.

And … there it is.

Individual acts of depravity by Catholic clergy are reprehensible and unforgivable, and the perpetrators of such evil are beyond redemption.  There is a special place in Hell, though, for those church leaders … the Catholic elite … who have knowledge of the depraved actions of those in their charge, and who fail to hold those miscreants forcefully and publicly accountable.

Given the proclivity for church leaders to transfer dissolute clergy to these remote South Pacific Islands, one could understand if a Fijian Catholic were to declare:  madua ena lotu Kotolika.*

(*Translation: Shame on the Catholic church)

‘Yer Out’a Here!

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Summer would not be complete without our annual trip to take in minor league baseball games.  In a tradition begun many years ago we set off, once again, to visit ballparks where we knew we could purchase seats and hot dogs for the two of us for less than it would cost to park at a major league stadium.  And, as usual, a good time was had by all.

In Oklahoma City, for example, we got a glimpse of what the future of umpiring might look like in the big leagues and, frankly, we liked it.  Major League Baseball is experimenting at the AAA level with an “automated balls and strikes” (ABS) system, which allows a batter to challenge an umpire’s strike call, and the catcher a ball.  Each team gets three challenges, but if the umpire is shown to be correct, the team loses that challenge for the rest of the game.  

Notably, each time a challenge was made in the game we attended, the video board in left center field showed the location of the pitch as determined by the electronic device and, in every case, the umpire’s call was correct.  Coupled with the “pitch clock” already in effect, this new wrinkle shows promise of making the game move even more quickly and smoothly.

While the ABS system showed us the future of officiating in baseball, the Arkansas Travelers game in Little Rock presented us with a trip down memory lane … a ballpark organ!  Listening to the beautiful strains of that instrument, I was reminded of a Florida State League game in 1985, in which the organist – Wilbur Snapp – was thrown out for playing the song “Three Blind Mice” after an umpire’s call.  

Between innings in Little Rock, I asked the organist if he knew of that event and the name of the fellow ejected.  He could not recall Snapp’s name, but he knew of the ejection … he even showed me the playlist for that evening’s game with the following warning written in large letters: DO NOT PLAY THREE BLIND MICE.

As an aside, a different ballpark organist was ejected from a game in 2012 for playing that same song, proving that George Santayana was correct in noting: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

Growing up, I played a lot of baseball and, being a catcher, I closely followed the careers of major leaguers who excelled at that position.  One player I idolized was Smoky Burgess, who played for 18 years in the majors for several different teams.  Toward the end, Burgess was used exclusively as a pinch hitter, holding several records for excellence in that role … he would wander up to the plate, stroke a base hit, and then retire to the dugout after being replaced by a pinch runner.

With Burgess as my role model, I sometimes fantasize that I can still play the game but, unfortunately, I have yet to find a team looking for a “designated senior citizen.”  Until I find one, I will continue to be uplifted by John Fogarty’s quintessential baseball anthem “Center Field,” and those inspiring lyrics:

Put me in coach … I’m ready to play!

Joe and the … Wha-a-t?

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Like many people stuck in traffic at a red light I look around at other cars and, very often, smile at the stickers and messages people put on display.  College affiliation … favorite sports team … cute sayings intended to evoke a chuckle … political candidates favored by the vehicle owner.

Recently, though, I found myself stopped behind a car exhibiting multiple messages that startled me, and which made we wonder … what on earth is this guy thinking?  What would cause someone to put this sort of display so clearly in the public eye?  Does this person have children?  Have they seen what the rest of us are forced to see when stopped behind him?

Here is what I am talking about:

The first image was an oversized sticker with the wording: “F*** Joe and the Hoe” (I have obscured the obvious profanity).  “Joe,” in this case was, of course, Joe Biden and, doubtless, the “Hoe” was Kamala Harris.

The second emblem was a large “Punisher” decal in red, white and blue.  The “Punisher” logo, to some, suggests resistance to “unjust” laws, and is favored by a variety of terrorist and anti-government groups.

The third symbol on this car was that of the Ichthys (a fish logo containing a crucifix) which is a common symbol of Christianity.  Yes, like you, I wondered at the inclusion of this image in partnership with the other two.

As I sat there trying to decipher the meaning of this fellow’s collection, I had a brief “Grey Poupon” moment during which I considered pulling up next to him and asking him to roll down his window so we could discuss his views.  Unlike the old TV commercial, though, I have a feeling that instead  of a dash of lunchtime condiment, I would have been presented with (at the very least) a stout middle finger.

In a recent Wall Street Journal (WSJ) column titled We Are Starting To Enjoy Hatred, Peggy Noonan described the extreme political polarization she sees in this country, lamenting the fact that so many seem to relish and even celebrate the harsh, outrageous and dehumanizing things being shared online and elsewhere.  At the very least, Noonan suggests, we must remember that those we demean are our fellow countrymen and that we are obliged to go into the future together.

Similarly, in a recent WSJ op-ed piece, political commentator and comedian, Bill Maher, described the political divide in this country even more starkly, suggesting that there are places in this country where citizens, based solely on political beliefs, would not be welcome.  He wonders, for example, whether someone could comfortably ride the New York City subway wearing a MAGA hat, or go to a NASCAR race in a Biden T-shirt.

It is worth noting that Noonan and Maher represent polar opposite ends of the political spectrum.  That being so, when they each see a dangerous divide between the left and right in this country, the rest of us should pay attention.

Near the end of the movie The American President, actor Michael Douglas (playing the part of President Andrew Shepherd) unleashes a powerful challenge to his political opponent declaring: “We have serious problems to solve, and we need serious people to solve them.”  

There is always a debate about how closely fiction mirrors reality but, in present-day politics, Shepherd’s warning about the types of people we choose to follow and emulate rings especially true.

As for the motorist with the coarse and offensive display of messages on his rear window for all the world to see, perhaps it all comes down to simple  thoughtlessness on his part.  But as American conservationist and author Thornton Burgess once pointed out;

That’s the trouble with thoughtlessness; it never remembers other people.

Joey, Donny and Me

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So here we are, just three old codgers doddering along while trying to make it through the day.  There is, of course, a distinct difference between me and the other two … those guys are seeking the highest office in the land, while I am trying to remember where I parked my car.

As the debate rages over whether “old guys” should be able to run for President, I find myself in a unique position: the three of us are in the same age bracket … Biden is 81, Trump is 77 and I am 79.  That being the case, my advice … one “senior citizen” to another … is simply this: give it up!

Both of those guys are well past retirement age, and they may not be aware of all they are missing out on: … the senior coffee at McDonald’s … the “Early Bird” dinner specials at Denny’s … the right to wear black socks with Bermuda shorts.  Yes, were they to withdraw some of us might miss their constant barrage of garbled messages and malapropisms defying interpretation but I, for one, could cope.

Difficult though it may be to discuss, cognitive decline is a normal part of aging, and is most common in people over the age of 70.  That said, as we go about deciding who we should choose to lead our nation in dangerous and tumultuous times, it is foolhardy to base that choice upon which 80-year-old we believe to be the most competent.

Personally, I think I still, for the most part “have it together” … but earlier this evening I found myself, once again, trying to figure out which of the three remotes will actually allow me to record one TV program while watching a different one.  I shudder at the possibility of a similar level of confusion and dissonance affecting the decision-making of the person charged with managing the nuclear launch codes.

Yes, I know this last is an “over the top” comparison, for the President would always have advisors and senior staff on hand to help manage decision-making in a critical incident.  But thinking back to January 6, 2021, I recall there being a goodly number of high-ranking government officials in attendance at the United States Capitol that day, and we know how that turned out.

It is hard to imagine a job imbued with more physical and mental pressure than that of President.  That said, one wonders at the lack of an upper age limit for those seeking that position.  In other high stress/responsibility professions, workers must retire before any decline in mental or physical capacity might endanger others.  Examples include airline pilots, air traffic controllers, police officers, fire fighters, and members of the military.  In addition, a number of states have retirement thresholds for judges. 

While the issue of possible mental decline in our octogenarian Presidential candidates seems to leave voters with a Hobson’s Choice, psychologists analyzing data collected over a number of years have some good news for us … they have found that a person’s character tends to remain stable over time.  This, for me, is very good and comforting news.

And it makes the choice on election day much easier.

To Protect and Serve? Really?

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Formed in 1917, the New York State Police has much in common with the Catholic Church.  Both organizations are built around the notion of doing good, helping and protecting others, and providing a beacon of hope for those in need.  Another notable similarity between the Catholic Church and the NYSP … until 1973, when women first joined the State Police, the ranks of Priests and Troopers were composed only of men.

There is at least one other way in which the Catholic Church and the NYSP are alike … both entities place the very highest priority on safeguarding their image.  And if a recently surfaced case from upstate New York is any indication, some State Police members have proven themselves equal to Catholic prelates in their willingness to ignore and denigrate victims of ghastly behaviors perpetrated by their employees.

In the matter at hand, the Albany Times Union reported in April, 2024, the breathtaking details of Roger Coon, a now-deceased State Trooper who, in 1982, was allowed to retire from the force despite credible allegations of child sex abuse having been made against him.  It was later determined that this predator had, for years, been abusing young boys while on duty and in uniform, yet he was permitted to leave the State Police without criminal charges or disciplinary action, and with his full pension intact.

The Criminal Justice system, though, had not heard the last of this pervert, for a scant two years after leaving the State Police, Coon was sentenced to three years probation after pleading guilty to the molestation of three boys between the ages of 10 and 12.  Notably, the allegations in his case detailed more than a dozen incidents that took place immediately before and after he left the State Police.  Finally, in 2001, he was sentenced to six months in jail and five years’ probation for the sexual abuse of a 9-year-old boy.  This irredeemable deviant died in 2003.

It is important to note that when information about Coon’s criminal behavior first became known, the State Police took a page from the playbook of those Catholic leaders who worked tirelessly over the years to protect the image of the Church, while downplaying the horrific scandal of child abuse.  A written recommendation from a NYSP Investigator is especially telling:

Since the Saratoga County district attorney has elected to forego any criminal prosecution and Coon is no longer subject to division disciplinary proceedings, further investigation into this matter would only provide for possible widespread public knowledge and embarrassment to the division.

In other words, rather than conduct a wider search for other children who might have been harmed by this pedophile, the primary goal suggested by the author of this report was that, first and foremost, the image of the organization be protected.  Put differently, he proposed that the State Police should “keep the lid on things” and, when it came to the possibility of any additional victims, well, everyone would just have to keep their fingers crossed that none would come forward.

Given the concerns over image expressed by the Investigator above, one is left to wonder whether things might have turned out differently had the allegations against Roger Coon been fully investigated when they first surfaced.  How would the public and the media have reacted?   Would knowledge of the perverted actions of that one Trooper have irreparably tarnished the reputation of the State Police?  Would making public the results of a meticulous investigation have helped or harmed the stature of that agency?  In short, would the image of the NYSP have been enhanced or diminished by a demonstrated willingness to deal quickly and seriously with malfeasance within its ranks?

What is abundantly clear is that after forty-two years, this case and the manner in which it was handled have created a public relations nightmare for the New York State Police, while resurrecting the pain endured by victims of child sexual abuse.  Two days after their initial report on this case, the Albany Times Union published an editorial on this matter with a damning and accurate title:

A Stain on the Badge

According to Hillary

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No, not that Hillary!  

But I know what you were thinking … in the midst of a crazed election cycle, you expected another dose of political blather.  Well, not to worry for, like many, I have had it up to here with the current unceasing stream of extremist and partisan nonsense.

Instead, the Hillary referenced in the title is Sir Edmund Hillary and, more specifically, his immortal response when asked why he chose to scale Mount Everest in 1953: “Because it is there.”  For Bonnie and me, these words help explain why we decided, several years ago, to visit all the counties in the state of Texas … and there are 254 of them.  Yes, that’s right … 254 … and we did it because, well, they are there.

Since moving to Texas more than 35 years ago, we had traversed many of the state’s major highways and population areas. But with the more remote counties having eluded us, we decided to check them off … the Panhandle … the Rio Grande Valley … Deep East Texas … the Piney Woods … the Big Bend.  Our quest, no doubt, would have made Don Quixote nod with approval, but we finally pulled it off.

Along the way we met some wonderful folks, enjoyed breathtaking scenery, and partook of excellent food … the pie in Dripping Springs … the steak in Amarillo … the wine in Del Rio and St. Jo … the barbecue in Llano.  We also continued our love affair with Minor League baseball by taking in games with the El Paso Chihuahuas, the Big Bend Cowboys, the Amarillo Sod Poodles, the Midland Rockhounds, the Corpus Christi Hooks, the Frisco Roughriders and the Cleburne Railroaders.

As we rambled about the Lone Star State, we came to appreciate the  genesis of the old saying: “The sun has riz, the sun has set, and here we is in Texas yet.”  Throughout our journey, though, we remained inspired by Willie Nelson’s well-known song “On The Road Again” and, in particular, the way he describes his affection for travel: “… goin’ places that I’ve never been,” and “ … seein’ things that I may never see again.”

Willie’s joy in travel (and ours) is captured, perfectly, in the next stanza of that iconic work:

And I can’t wait to get on the road again