The pictures rolled across the screen one after another.
Over and over, the memorial movie my sister made for Grandma’s funeral transported us back to a different time, triggered a memory, tugged on an already-taut heartstring or, once again, pushed open the floodgates.
I can’t believe she’s gone. I loved her so much.
So we watched as the pictures – so many pictures – taken over the span of Grandma’s 94-year-long lifetime – played over and over.
The click of a shutter, a moment frozen in time.
Click. Grandma, 9-years-old, standing next to her sister Eva, 11, as they made their first communion in 1925. Eva died just 9 years later, and Grandma always looked out for the infant son she left behind. He adored her. We all did.
Click. Grandma in her 20s, stylish and pretty, posing with her girlfriends. Click. Grandma with her mother, who she loved so much and lost too soon. Click. Grandma with Grandpa, young and in love.
Click, click, click. Grandma at Sweetest Heart of Mary Catholic Church in downtown Detroit on her wedding day in 1940.
At the reception, her father – a Polish immigrant who wore a tuxedo that day for the first time – danced the Polka with somebody named Uncle Lawrence. I guess he was feeling dapper.
Grandma had a million stories, and I count myself lucky to know most of them.
Click. Grandma with her firstborn as an infant. Click. Grandma with her firstborn, who’s clad in his brand-new U.S. Navy uniform. He’s smiling. She looks worried.
Click. Grandma at the train station, at the beach, on top of a haystack at somebody’s farm.
Click. Grandma holding my dad – who often shows up in photos with a mischievous little grin glued across his face.
My dad gave Grandma and Grandpa a run for their money when he was young. He and his band practiced in the basement, and one time he took the family car and headed for California to visit Grandma’s sister. Only they forgot to ask.
I love that story. It hurt to see my dad standing with hunched shoulders, alone at her casket. He adored her. We all did.
Click. Grandma in her 60s, 70s and 80s, cheek to cheek with one of us grandkids (or two or three or four, or five or all 11), in a smiling pile around her. She loved us all and we knew it. We all loved her right back.
I’ve never known a world without her.
Grandma took me to church when I was a little girl, taught me to dip the fingers on my right hand into the font and make the sign of the cross.
She taught me to thread a needle and sew on a button. One whiff of fresh dill still transports me right back to Grandma’s “too-doggone-small” kitchen.
She took me shopping for school clothes every fall. When Nike gym shoes were a must-have for any self-respecting fifth-grader, Grandma splurged to buy me a pair, even though plenty of less expensive pairs sat waiting on the shelf at TJ Maxx (Grandma never did outgrow her depression-era frugality).
I could always talk to Grandma, always trust her with a secret. When I grew up, she stood beside me and supported me, no matter what.
She was good and wholesome. And she was fun. My favorite picture of Grandma shows her in the throes of screaming laughter as Grandpa showed her the Man-T-Hose he got as a gag gift from his buddy at a surprise birthday party. She had a great sense of humor.
Click. Grandma, me and my grandson – her great-great grandson – Ryan, a photo representing five generations.
It’s the last photo I have with her.
Last week, after a 13-year until-death-do-us-part separation, Grandpa came to meet Grandma.
She said his name. She saw him in the room, and that’s my solace. That’s my comfort in losing her, because as much as Grandma loved all of us, Grandpa was her soul mate, her other half, the man who was still calling her his beautiful bride more than five decades after they married.
So even through this aching, I know she was ready. Mostly, I know without a doubt, that I was lucky – truly blessed – to have Julia Mary Bauman as my Grandma.

Most of us wish we were better at something. I wish I were better at goodbye.
I wish I knew a way to let you know what the last three years at the Clarkston News have meant to me as a writer, a reporter, a photographer and a friend. I will never be able to thank you enough, Clarkston.
I’ve felt your tragedy and your triumph, your joy and your sorrow.
I’ve watched your children and grandchildren do wonderful, amazing, creative things.
‘It’s that way wherever I go in the district,? I wrote in one column. ‘Incredible parent involvement, smart kids, polite, friendly kids. Teachers who go way above and beyond. Good things are happening in Clarkston schools every single day.?
And I couldn’t help wondering, as I stepped into the editor’s shoes at one of our sister papers last week and shot Friday’s home opener in Lake Orion, how the Wolves were doing here in Clarkston as they played their own first home game of the season.
And then the big question hit: How am I going to make it back to watch the boys kick butt when Wolves? basketball starts up again?
‘I went to nearly every home game of the season, drove to Grand Blanc, drove to East Lansing with Wendi’all off the clock’because I was caught up in the fever; because I was impressed with the drive and focus of the team,? I wrote in another column, after last season ended with the breakthrough needed for a future state championship.
Can a person claim to be a Wolves fan and a Dragons fan, or would that be akin to hooking your battery cables up backwards?
I’m gonna miss you, Clarkston.
I’ve watched as you opened your heart to others in need, and I’ve seen some of you, on occasion, turn selfish and cold.
I’ve done it myself, more than once. We’re all human.
I’ve sorted, week after week, through stacks of police reports. Not my favorite task.
‘I often find myself dumbfounded, shocked, angry or saddened by the things that people do to themselves, their loved ones and the community as a whole,? I wrote in another column.
Many times, they’re drunk or high when they do it.
I’ve also found myself dumbfounded that many of you still leave your laptops, iPods, digital cameras, loaded guns’that’s what I said, loaded guns’in your cars overnight, or forget to close your garage doors.
But during all those sorting-though-stacks-of-police-report sessions, I’ve gotten to know many of your law enforcement professionals from the Oakland County Sheriff’s Office. Independence Township and Springfield Township, you’re in good hands. Clarkston, with Chief LaCroix at the helm of the Clarkston PD, you’re in good hands too.
Sigh. I’m gonna miss you, Clarkston.
I’ve been meaning, for months, to write another column about Ryan, my Ry-Ry, the absolute light and love of my life. My grandson turned 2 in July. He’s happy and healthy and utterly beautiful. I spend every week waiting to spend part of most every weekend with him. He calls me ‘Amma,? and recently started giving big puckered-up kisses. The boy is an angel.
I’m gonna miss telling you about him.
RoseMary in the front office, and Cindy and Joy and Chris, I’m gonna miss you guys, too. I probably won’t be eating nearly as much birthday cake over in Lake Orion.
Sigh.
Phil, Wendi and Trevor’my editorial staff cohorts, the buddies who always have my back, laugh at photos of my thumb and, in fact, ‘get? all the goofy inside jokes’I’m gonna miss you guys the most.
Thanks, from the bottom of my heart, for everything.
I won’t be far, and I’ll be back to visit.
Know why? Because I’m gonna miss you, Clarkston.

Most of the two dozen plus who attended Monday’s Clarkston City Council meeting weren’t interested in the council’s agenda; they came with their own.
And it was all fine until two women from the Clarkston Farm and Garden Club–one of whom had already taken her opportunity to speak–got rude and disrespectful when another woman–NOT of the Garden Club–addressed the crowd.
And then, on the way out, one of the ‘rude and disrespectful? duo, Mary Himburg, stopped to render some advice.
‘I would advise you to be real careful with the information you heard tonight,? she told me.
Hmmm. I wonder what she meant by that. Maybe she’ll let me know before I write the story for next week’s paper. Maybe not. Either way, I was less than impressed with the Garden Club’s ‘presentation.?
OK, on to other city council news:
‘Derek Werner resigned from the planning commission. Mayor Steve Arkwright nominated Thomas Goldner to replace him, telling the council no one else expressed interest in the position. Did anyone else know the seat was open?
‘It’d be nice if everyone who wanted to speak had the opportunity to do so, rather than hearing ‘OK, no more comments on such and such topic.? In other words, person A, B and C get to talk, but person D is not important?
‘Just because something ‘has never been done before,? or has ‘always been done this way,? doesn’t mean it can’t be changed if a better idea is hatched. Otherwise, you stagnate. Nothing’s wrong with listing an educational website on a sign for the park. It’s a GOOD idea.
‘Councilman Tom Hunter presented a written report from the Operations/Administration Committee, and asked if council had questions or comments. A verbal summary would have been nice, or at least written copies for those in the audience. What’besides the fact that it’s the law’is the point of a public meeting if the public doesn’t know what you’re talking about?
‘Finally, it’d be nice to hear less ‘we’re looking into it,? from the mayor. Those words, uttered enough, eventually translate into ‘I’d rather not say.? And, as one of my favorite people once told me, the only thing you get riding on a fence are splinters.

It was a strange thing for the superintendent to say.
As graduating senior Maddy Dunn finished her commencement speech June 9, the CHS class of 2009 erupted in cheers. Superintendent Al Roberts rose to begin his own address.
‘It’s always tough to follow the senior speaker,? he told the crowd. ‘They say what they mean and mean what they say.?
A novel approach, indeed, and Roberts recently illustrated his inability or unwillingness to do the same.
At a March 23 Board of Education meeting, Roberts called potential cuts ‘painful.?
But the pain apparently wasn’t enough to forgo a raise for himself; the board managed to carve $1.8 million from the district’s budget, then iced the cake with some sweet and creamy frosting: a fat pay hike for the superintendent.
In April, Roberts responded to concerns about class size: ‘Despite the tough economic times and the need to reduce expenditures, we will thrive,? he said. ‘Our district has a history of doing more with less.?
Reduce expenditures? Do more with less?
He obviously didn’t say what he meant, or mean what he said.; Roberts was visibly absent from the June 22 meeting while the board ‘did more with less? by signing his
contract with one hand while dipping deep into the district fund balance to make ends meet with the other.
The superintendent’s contract calls for a salary of $154,000 this year, $160,000 next year and $166,000 in the 2012 school year, plus a $600 monthly car and mileage allowance and a $15,000 per year tax-deferred retirement annuity.
It’s literally sickening.
Even without considering increased class sizes, reduced bussing schedules and other cuts, it’s difficult to understand how a person to be so indifferent to reality.
I wonder if he’s counted the district children whose families lost their homes to foreclosure in the last 12 months.
I’d like to know; I’ve personally seen devastated Clarkston families’families made up of good, hard-working people, families with children in Clarkston schools’lose their homes, their savings, their sense of security and their foothold on the future.
I wonder if he’s called Lighthouse to inquire about children in his district whose parents, for the first time ever, humbled themselves to go and ask for food to feed hungry children.
People are losing jobs. The automobile industry is in turmoil. Businesses are shutting down. Michigan’s unemployment rate recently hit a whopping 15.2 percent. In the last 12 months, the state has lost 338,000 jobs.
The future is anything’anything’but certain.
But hey, the superintendent accepted a pay freeze in the past.
The guy works hard.
Here’s the question: So what?
I don’t know many people in this community who don’t work hard. I don’t know many who don’t deserve a raise.
The fact that Roberts would accept an increase to his already hefty salary in times like these’and worse, that four members of the school board would grant it’is absolutely appalling, shameful and downright disgusting.
It seems he’s a man who fancies himself above the rest, a man who says things he doesn’t mean and means things he doesn’t say.
Ultimately, it’s flat-out disappointing.

I grew up in Redford Township, where lakefront homes are about as common as spaceships. So, although I’ve been on plenty of boats on plenty of lakes, I recently got my first taste of what it might be like to actually live on the lake.
I liked it.
Steve Forney and his daughter Kara took me out on the pontoon, and for anyone who might think otherwise I can tell you this: Waumegah Lake is not a ‘swamp? by any stretch. It’s a beautiful lake with quiet coves, open areas and plenty of room to enjoy a bit of peace, as well as have some fun.
But even for someone like me who doesn’t come from a lake background, it’s not hard to tell: Waumegah Lake has a big problem.
At a meeting late last winter, the ‘experts? again talked to Waumegah Lake residents about starry stonewort, essentially saying, I thought, that the weed would devour their children in the night unless eradicated.
They began poisoning it a few years ago. The next year, there was more. So they poisoned it again. This year, guess what? There’s more.
So indulge me, and just for a second, forget about the fishing, the fishery and the fish kill. Forget about the boat props, the tubing and the water skiing. Forget about the diminished property values some homeowners have accused me of creating by writing about Waumegah (just for a second, I said!)
OK. Does anyone else see a pattern here?
Has anyone else bothered to think five, six, 10 or 20 years down the road?
If an ever increasing mass of plants are repeatedly poisoned and allowed to fall into a dead, slimy heap on the lake bottom, how long until Waumegah IS a swamp?
How long until Waumegah Lake is a memory?
I haven’t been able to find much data on the topic of cultural eutrophication, myself, but it probably won’t be long before some scientist somewhere starts collecting data.
Today, Waumegah Lake has hope. I’d hate to see it become a case study for tomorrow’s biologists.

Shop local.
We’re learning the hard way, watching our neighbors, our friends and our families struggle as they lose their jobs, their homes and their sense of security. But we’re learning. Shop local. Buy American.
But what about hiring local? Or, more precisely, hiring American.
Here’s a news flash: illegal immigrants are living in the Clarkston area and working at jobs that rightfully belong to taxpaying American citizens.
Last week I wrote in the Public Safety page about a little boy who was about to step into Sashabaw Road when two passing motorists snatched him from the jaws of death.
His mother, it turns out, was asleep and didn’t know her boy had left the apartment, much less wandered over to Sashabaw.
His mother is an illegal immigrant.
I found her work phone number listed in the police report, copied it down, and later looked it up.
She works at a large chain fast food restaurant on Sashabaw Road.
Excuse me?
It’s hard to believe, but yes, Michigan’s economy is in the tank, our unemployment rate is the highest in the nation, yet business owners and managers are giving jobs to people who snuck into the country illegally.
Sources tell me fake social security cards are pretty easy to come by if you know the right people. But you don’t necessarily need one; many knowingly employ illegal immigrants and pay cash under the table.
Taxes? Bah.
Taxes are for those of us who play by the rules; those of us who pay our fair share’and more’to live in freedom; those of us who know we’ll probably never see our Social Security dollars again, but pay anyway. We must. We are Americans. We have rules.
So be responsible; shop local, hire American. Go a step further, if you dare, and ask your local business owners what they do to verify citizenship.
Like the rest of the federal government’s problems, this one belongs to each and every one of us; I suspect we’ll turn hues of red, white and blue if we sit around hoping Uncle Sam will get around to fixing it.

For someone who’s not officially on the school beat, I spend an awful lot of time in the hallways, classrooms, gyms and athletic fields of Clarkston Community Schools.
Why? A couple of reasons. First, it’s an important part of what we do here at The CN. It’s our aim to get every student into the pages of our paper at least once before he or she graduates.
Second, being in those hallways, classrooms and gyms with my camera is my favorite part of the job.
Last week, after more than an hour at Independence Elementary’s Festival Day, I told a parent it was the most fun I’d had all week. I loved watching the kids get fired up during a musical performance in the gym, loved watching their imaginations go to work during an improv workshop, and loved seeing the passion the volunteers brought in. It’s feel-good stuff, the kind of day that makes me say ‘I love my job.?
And I’m still suffering from a touch of basketball withdrawal. I went to nearly every home game of the season, drove to Grand Blanc, drove to East Lansing’all off the clock’because I was caught up in the fever; because I was impressed with the drive and focus of the team; because Coach Dan Fife is passionate and driven, not just to win, but to do it the right way, with integrity, hard work and good sportsmanship. He’s a fantastic role model, both on and off the court.
It’s that way wherever I go in the district. Incredible parent involvement, smart kids, polite, friendly kids. Teachers who go way above and beyond. Good things are happening in Clarkston schools every single day.
Why then, does it all come to a screeching halt at the administrative level? Why is it ‘district policy? for all calls to the media be routed first through the superintendent’s office? Why do I have to explain why I want to talk to this principal or that teacher, especially when a controversial issue arrises, as it will in any organization ? Why, in a district that sets such high standards, are teachers, principals, even parent volunteers, told whether their voice may, or may not, appear in a story? What kind of example does that set? And why is it so difficult to get an in-person conversation with the superintendent instead of yet another written statement?
Your kids are getting the best from Clarkston schools. But parents deserve better from the administration. You’ll never get it unless you ask.

Indefatigable.
It was one of the words inserted into a proclamation presented to Kristy Ottman on Monday night as the city expressed gratitude to the departing councilwoman and mayor pro-tem.
Indefatigable: Incapable or seemingly incapable of being fatigued; tireless. Never getting tired or giving up.
Yep, that’s Kristy. During my time at The Clarkston News I’ve watched as she sat on one committee after the next, worked hour upon hour behind the scenes, gave careful, conscientious thought to every issue facing the city, and organized volunteers to help local seniors with household chores. You name it, she’s been involved.
Not only is Kristy intelligent, fair and dedicated to preserving the city’s past and protecting its future, she’s articulate, friendly and downright likeable. I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t respect her.
Yet she and her family have lost their home to a heartless, indiscriminate economy that’s proven it will sock when and where it pleases, sparing not even the most hardworking and upright amongst us.
It makes me sick, and sad.
Yet Kristy’s not acting like a victim. She counts her husband Pete and their four healthy boys among her greatest blessings, and counts her many friends and neighbors in Clarkston, as well.
When I first came to The Clarkston News, Kristy was running for reelection to her second term. At the time, her boys were 7, 5, 2 and 5 months. With such a young, large brood, she said then, sleeping sometimes felt like a recreational sport.
Still, she’s always made time to be involved in her neighborhood and her community.
‘Life isn’t always easy and we don’t always get what we want.,? she told me in October 2006. ‘But as long as I do what I think is right, then I know I’ve done my best.?
And that’s what she’s doing now, as much as it obviously hurts.
Kristy Ottman been Clarkston’s jewel, the epitome of what any politician should be, or at least aspire to.
So when you see her around town in the coming weeks, take a moment to stop and say thanks. She deserves that much from every resident in the city, and from me. Thanks, Kristy, for being someone I could trust for the truth, someone who tells it like it is. They don’t come any better than you.

My brother almost died when he was 15. My parents were certain his massive headache was serious, but doctors at the nearest hospital wouldn’t listen.
‘Take him home and give him some Tylenol,? they said.
‘No,? my parents insisted, explaining the emergency surgery Joey underwent as an infant. ‘He needs a CAT scan.?
‘Take him home,? the doctors said. ‘It’s just a headache.?
It went on and on until finally they relented, looked inside my brother’s head and immediately began hollering for a helicopter.
Later, 600 miles away at Children’s Hospital in Detroit, a different set of doctors told my parents the pressure on Joe’s brain, left untreated, would have killed him that same day.
That experience taught me it’s OK to question the experts, especially those who grow comfortable enough to assume one headache’or one fish kill’is just like the next.
So I wholeheartedly applaud the residents of Waumegah Lake who’ve stood up, even in the face of criticism’to say ‘this is not a normal fish kill.?
Here’s the situation as I see it: It was a harsh winter, and fish kills happen; maybe Waumegah’s fish would be rotting on the lakebed regardless of what humans did’or didn’t do’to the lake in recent years.
But maybe not, and from where I’m sitting, too many questions remain unanswered to leave it at that. Why, for example, was the 2002 lake study essentially disregarded? Does the person advising the lake board have a relationship with the company distributing chemicals used in the lake? Why were dead fish near the top of the ice, or a few inches below, before the lake melted? Why were many already infected with black rot spots? Does this indicate they died before the lake’s ice cover even finished freezing?
And, since the DNR says fish die in late winter during a natural winterkill, why did residents see fish acting strange’and beginning to go belly-up’in December?
Worse, what’s going on with township supervisor and lake board rep Mike Trout? Why would he widely distribute an email claiming he ‘initially spoke openly about the winter fish kill with The Clarkston News,? when the statement is absolutely untrue?
The supervisor did speak with me, but most of his comments were surly remarks about John Bistoff, who first brought the story to The Clarkston News and has grown increasingly concerned about the lake.
Trout also told me ‘don’t make an issue of this,? and when I persisted, said ‘I have no further comment on this issue.?
I was, and remain, stunned; he just didn’t seem like the Mike Trout I’ve become acquainted with, and I keep asking myself ‘why??
The doctors couldn’t tell my brother was dying by looking at the outside of his head, and I don’t think anyone can say why the lake died without looking inside the situation.
Granted, there’s no undoing what’s happened at Waumegah Lake, but we can’t prevent it from happening again, or happening at other lakes, unless we know what caused it in the first place.

I was shooting photos at a Clarkston High School basketball game recently when a cute high school couple did what kids often do when they see my camera.
With a please-take-our-photo look lighting up both their faces, they posed.
So I did what I always do: I took their picture.
‘What’s it for,? the girl asked. ‘Are you on Yearbook?? Ha!
If there’s a reasonable explanation, I don’t want to hear it. If she thought, even for a second, that I looked like I could be on the high school yearbook staff, that’s OK with me.
More than OK; four days after this paper hits the newsstand, I’ll turn 30 years old.
Sigh.
OK, fine. Fine! Yes, I DO see my nose growing like Pinocchio’s.
I’ll be 40. And I’m not one bit happy about it. Not one bit.
Yeah, I know. Age is just a number. You’re only as old as you feel. Right?
But it’s not the number that bothers me so much. It’s what the number represents. It’s the passage of time. It’s the years of my life, ticking off one by one by one, until another decade is upon me.
When I go into the local schools to shoot photos for The Clarkston News, I’m often struck by d’j? vu.
Valentine’s Day parties, school fairs, sporting events. I think, ‘I’ve already done this.? My time with my little girl has come and gone.
I went to all the classroom parties and all the field trips. I was a nutty, cheering, jumping-up-and-down soccer mom. I took photos of my smiling, baby-faced daughter in a grown up homecoming dress on her friend’s front lawn. It was just yesterday.
Where did those years go? My daughter Christy is 21. My grandson Ryan’yes, my GRANDSON’is 18 months old.
And I’m 40. It all happens too fast.
But as much as I dislike the idea of ?40,? my life is more ‘right? now than it’s ever been. I know who I am, what I want, and what I don’t want. It’s a settled, self-secure feeling not easy to come by when you’re 25. I love the work I do every day, and I appreciate the simple things in life’like discovering a way to make Ryan laugh really, really hard during a trip to Target for shampoo.
It’s the sweetest sound I know, and it’s coming from the sweetest little boy I know. That laugh makes me happy, and it gives me pause.
Yeah. Life is good. Maybe 40 isn’t so bad after all.

What do you do? Are you an architect or a builder? Imagine this: you’re in the middle of a huge project, looking on proudly as the skeleton of your building stands against the skyline.
Suddenly, an angry crowd appears.
‘Take it down,? shouts one stout man.
‘It’s ugly!? snorts another. ‘I don’t like it!?
‘You have no talent,? screams a third (claiming superiority because he ‘studied? architecture, but never actually produced a thing).
Or maybe you’re a pastry chef who’s worked up an idea for the cr’me da la cr’me of desserts. You’re beating the eggs and whipping the butter when a mob busts into your kitchen.
‘Ew!? they shriek. ‘That looks disgusting! We’ll never eat it!?
‘But it’s not finished,? you try to explain. ‘I still have to add the sugar, the spice and everything nice.?
They don’t care. They won’t even listen, instead clamoring for you to throw it out. Those who are too afraid to speak in your presence clap and cheer in heartless arrogance.
Scrape it all in the disposal, just get rid of it, they demand.
Or this: You’ve purchased a home in a historic town, and spent months restoring it to your standard of beauty. But here comes the crowd again, and this time they’ve got a pitchfork. And torches.
‘Plastiwood? You can’t use that here! Get out!?
‘But this is MY property,? you rationalize.
Suddenly someone else appears.
‘Your property?? the person shouts. ‘Yours? My family owned this property 30 years ago and you’re embarrassing us with that plastiwood!
Sound a little absurd?
It is. Whether a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker or a painter of large-scale murals, a person should be allowed to finish the work before the haughty, holier-than-thou crowd starts screaming.
Some say the Clarkston mural is taking too long. I say, what’s the rush? Seriously, what?
Some claim they just don’t like the mural.
I wonder: have they ever tried to imagine it without the guide lines, or the ‘stay off scaffolding? signs that won’t be there when it’s finished?
I’m surprised by the snobbish, sanctimonious attitudes and the downright ugly treatment Michelle Tynan has received from many.
I’m always telling outsiders how great the Clarkston community is, how kind and giving the people who live here are. Apparently, not all the people.
The story in last week’s paper inspired phone calls and letters, proving Michelle has plenty of support in the community.
Personally, I admire her, and the work she’s doing.
Who else could withstand such mean-spirited criticism and resolve to continue on, simply because she believes in herself and her work?
If we all had such faith in ourselves, in our own unique talents and abilities, just think of what we could accomplish. Just think.

When Collin Walls announced his retirement last February, he and I sat down in his Springfield Township office overlooking the Shiawassee Basin Preserve, and we talked.
‘Most people assume what you remember is changes and development, and certainly that’s part of it,? he told me then, as his voice cracked with emotion. ‘But it’s the people’that meant so much to me.?
As I wrote the story, I remember thinking how true it was. Of all the people’dozens and dozens’I’ll remember from my time here at The Clarkston News, Collin Walls is at the top of my list.
Here’s why: Collin is, first and foremost, a good man; a man with a giant-sized heart who loves his family and adores his grandchildren; a man who is as much a part of Springfield Township’where he’s lived and served his entire life’as Springfield Township is a part of him.
Covering Springfield and attending board meetings over the past two years, I’ve seen him get mad at people who want to do things the easy way, rather than the right way, and I’ve listened’a bit smugly, I must admit’when he told developers ‘I don’t CARE what they do in other communities. This is Springfield Township and we don’t do that here.?
It’s part of the reason Springfield Township is not Anywhere, USA. Because Collin, Clerk Nancy Strole and a great many others over the years developed a vision, planned for long-term, controlled growth, budgeted meticulously and stood up’over an over and over again’for what they believed in.
‘I realized a long time ago that the only thing you get riding on a fence is splinters,? Collin said when we talked in February.
And who, may I ask, wants splinters?
Collin runs a township board meeting like no community leader I’ve seen; sure, he gets exasperated with a topic that goes aimlessly around too long, or with a view that just doesn’t make good common sense, but I never heard him be disrespectful to anyone, and rarely have I heard him use the word ‘me.?
Collin always returns my calls, answers my questions, and explains things I don’t understand so I can explain those things to our readers. He truly cares about township employees, and makes sure they get a raise nearly every year, even when he, over and over, refuses to take one himself.
And he’s got a sense of humor. Who’s going to make faces at me during township board meetings?
And he’s honest; I’m the first to admit I can be a bit skeptical about the things people say, and they reasons they say them. But if Collin Walls told me the sky was falling I would immediately duck for cover. I trust him implicitly. His integrity is solid.
Along with his honesty, integrity and the character to stand up for what he believes in Collin is humble enough to admit when he made a mistake, and strong enough to sit in front of a crowded room as his voice shakes, his eyes fill with tears and his heart jumps out from behind his American flag-themed tie and lands smack on his sleeve.
‘Thank you,? he said. ‘It’s been an honor to serve.?
So I hope the residents of Springfield Township will take a moment to send a note or make a quick phone call to say thanks as Collin hands over his set of supervisor keys to newly elected Mike Trout.
It’s not a job Collin has done for himself over the last 32 years. It’s a job he’s done for the people of Springfield Township, the community he loves so dearly. Just look around you’it’s pretty obvious.
And Collin, from me to you, thanks’it’s absolutely been my honor.

‘What could be scarier than this??
‘Wow,? I thought, staring at the photo of a shiny silver handgun pointed right at me as it slid from my mailbox mixed with some pizza coupons and a couple of bills.
‘That IS scary.?
What could be scarier, the ad wanted to know.
I didn’t have a clue’not much, in my opinion’so I turned the glossy card over, expecting to see a grimacing one-eyed bandit brandishing the very same gun at a hapless old woman he’d cornered in a dark alley.
Nope.
The ‘scarier? object on the other side was a gasoline nozzle, and the ad said something about Americans ‘afraid? to go to the gas pump, and still, bad ‘ol Candidate Soandso doesn’t want to drill! Vote against Candidate Soandso!
Give me a break. The cost of fuel (albeit plenty frightening) is scarier than a pistol pointed in my face?
November 5 can’t come soon enough. I’m so tired of the negative, meaningless, attention-seeking rhetoric from these people.
Literature from Candidate Soandso’s incumbent opponent in the 9th Congressional District has been clogging my mailbox for months. I’m voting against HIM.
Interestingly enough, the famed Dr. Jack Kevorkian is running as an independent candidate for the same spot.
***
A male friend gasped recently when I wondered aloud who was home taking care of Sarah Palin’s kids’including a pregnant teen and a special needs infant’while she’s bounding down the campaign trail at breakneck speed.
The First Dude, he replied.
Not good enough.
I’m all for women’s rights, I’m all for equal pay and equal treatment in the work place, and I believe we women should pursue whatever lofty goals we darn well please.
Just not while our children are small. They need us, and it’s our responsibility to be there to help them grow.
They need their dads, too, yes. But moms are different.
Children need their mothers, and no one else’not even a First Dude’can make up for it if she’s got higher priorities.

I’m not here.
As of Wednesday I am O-fficially on vacation, and by Friday I’ll be communing with nature on the wild, rocky and unpredictable shores of Lake Superior.
I’m giddy with excitement; we’re renting a house with a fireplace, hot tub and a fire pit on the beach. I’m bringing marshmallows.
And a winter coat’I’ve got enough Yooper in my blood to know you don’t venture into the U.P. in fall without a winter coat. Not unless you plan to buy one when you get there, anyway.
I don’t mind. The air will be clean, the colors will be changing and I will have time, finally, to do exactly what I want to do.
Nothing.
I’ll read a book, and walk on the beach, maybe collect some pretty stones or pick up a twisty piece of driftwood.
I’ll listen to the waves crash, or lap, on the shore, depending the mood of the lake, and I’ll watch the sun set over her water in the evening.
I might even go for a swim. Yep, in Lake Superior. Ever tried it?
The water’s icy’a shocking, exhilarating, life-affirming cold. You can’t stay in for long, not without hallucinating that you’re floating on a displaced door and chattering phrases like ‘I’ll never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go.?
But in just a few minutes, that cold water has a way of washing away the anxiety, the stress and the grimy residue of the daily grind.
I can’t wait to feel it all evaporate.
I’ll spend four days on the lake doing what, to some, might seem like a lot of nothing.
I’ll spend four days in a place my bank account can’t afford to indulge in, and a place my soul can’t afford to forgo.
Which is more important?
For me, the answer’s easy.
We all know what sustains us personally; for me, it’s solitude, nature, and time.
For me, these four days will provide the nourishing, simple things that remind me who I am and who I want to be.
From time to time, I tend to forget.

Sometimes I wonder if teachers understand the magnitude of their power or the scope of their influence.
Sometimes I wonder where I’d be without teachers like Mrs. Lucky, my eighth-grade creative writing teacher who read aloud my essay describing the flood in her apartment (the assignment was Mrs. Lucky’s way of explaining why the previous week’s papers were returned smeared and damp).
Where would I be without the English professor from Henry Ford Community College, who thought what I had to say about Hedda Gabbler and Sir Thomas More was deserving of recognition, and (gasp!) an A in her class? She was a tough’but very, very good’teacher, and walking out with an A at semester’s end put me on cloud nine for a week.
And where would I be without Dr. Neal Haldane, head of Madonna University’s Journalism and Public Relations department, who patiently saw me through one ‘crisis of confidence? as he called it, after another for what probably seemed like two very long years?
Little by little, each of these teachers helped me uncover something I didn’t know existed. They mentored, encouraged, guided and challenged me.
For that, and for them, I am forever grateful.
So in my sincere admiration for teachers, I was honored last week to attend the Teacher of the Year breakfast, as the Clarkston Foundation for Public Education recognized this year’s nominees and announced a winner. Principals from each school talked about the achievements, dedication and selflessness of their teachers.
It was truly a feel-good, heartwarming event.
But I had to wonder’do these teachers understand the true scope of their influence? Do they realize, perhaps, the words they say today could resonate with a student well into adulthood?
Congratulations to this year’s Teacher of the Year winner, Claudia Keglovitz, as well as nominees Kelly Berti, Mike Peterson, Shelley Roland, and Kelley Woodworth. I’m willing to bet each of you is somebody’s hero’whether you know

The words leered from the pages of my notebook as I returned from court and sat down to write the story.
I can’t put this in the newspaper, I thought. We just don’t write like this.
The click of my keyboard fell silent. I wondered what to do.
Can I not put this in the newspaper?
See, I wanted people to understand what really happened on Sashabaw Road last summer when a drunken illegal immigrant in a hotshot Camaro hit Vincent D’Anna’s motorcycle and dragged him’wedged between the Camaro’s undercarriage and Sashabaw’s pavement?180 feet down the roadway.
We covered the story of course, and so did others, but only after we mopped up the blood.
It was the dozen eyewitnesses, still visibly traumatized eight months later, who told the real story of the horror unfolding in Independence Township Aug. 26.
They described watching in horror as D’Anna rolled over and over under a revving, spinning, smoking car.
An Independence Township paramedic described the ‘road rash? visible over a large part of D’Anna’s body once the car was lifted off: the layer of skin and fat was literally ground off from shoulder to thigh on D’Anna’s right side, and on parts of his left, as well, ground right down to the muscle.
Another witness told how D’Anna’s head was ‘blown up,? and the inside of his helmet filled with blood and vomit.
His face was purple and swollen, his legs and torso twisted.
One witness who helped lift the car said D’Anna wasn’t moving, wasn’t talking, and didn’t seem to be breathing.
But he was breathing. He was alive to feel the pain burning right through him. But when he tried to talk, Vincent D’Anna could only gurgle and gasp.
All of this information was provide to the jury by witnesses who described the scene while Vincent D’Anna’s family and friends sat in the courtroom, shoulder to shoulder, quietly listening, wiping away tears and sharing their strength as the week wore on.
They listened when the medical examiner said D’Anna died from multiple blunt force injuries, listened as Dr. Cho sat on the stand and described the ‘multiple contusions and abrasions? on D’Anna’s torso, the ‘extensive bruising of lungs,? the blood accumulated in his chest cavity and the cardiac contusions’D’Anna’s heart itself was severely bruised.
I imagine the collective heart of his family and friends has sustained some serious long-term damage, as well.
Here’s the question that eats at me: Why?
Some people believe there’s a reason for every thing, whether we can even begin to understand what that reason might be or not.
Usually, am one of those people’or I try to be.
But not this time. The drunken illegal immigrant who killed Vincent D’Anna was previously picked up by police, who dangled him before immigration authorities.
They didn’t want him. His wife picked him up at the jail and they went on their way.
I wonder if he stopped to pick up some beer on his way home that night.

I’d just unloaded Ryan into his Exersaucer and gone back to the car for his diaper bag, my computer bag, camera gear and purse when the phone rang.
It was my editor, Phil.
‘They found a couple of bodies on the side of I-75,? he said. ‘Can you get down there??
Bodies? The details were few, but it was obviously big news, and it was my beat.
I looked at Ryan’my 8-month-old grandbaby, whom I’d just picked up after we finished production and put another edition of The Clarkston News to bed in Oxford last Tuesday.
I was instantaneously yanked in two directions.
What to do?
I made my choice, but it occurred to me later this must be how mothers feel when they try to balance a need for outside fulfillment with the desire for this-little-piggy and peek-a-boo.
I didn’t have this problem when my daughter Christy was growing up. I made my way slowly through college one, two and sometimes three classes each semester while waitressing to bring in extra money.
If Christy was sick, or her third grade class was going on a field trip, I never thought twice about taking a day off.
But this, bodies-by-the-freeway thing, was different. I looked at Ryan and imagined packing him back up and calling Christy to say ‘Honey, something came up at work and I have to bring RyRy back home.?
But I didn’t want to. My time with him is precious, and I wanted to play and dance and giggle.
If I had to give that up and go, I would have done it’you don’t shirk off a story about surveyors finding dead bodies in the brush. You just don’t.
Luckily, I didn’t have to go.
‘Can anyone else do it?? I asked Phil. ‘I just got into the house with my Pumpkin.?
He said he’d go, and I found out later that Lauren, our intern, went with him. They drove down, snapped some photos, listened to the sheriff’s statement, then called the details in to assistant publisher Don Rush who hammered out the story and got it online in exactly no time flat.
It is, in my opinion, one of the best things about working upstairs at The Clarkston News. We work as a team, we help one another out.
So me and Pumpkin stayed put to crawl around the floor, play and giggle.
I told him ‘no? for the first time that day’it seemed monumental’as he crawled his diapered butt over and prepared to investigate an electrical outlet.
I guess it’s time to get some of those plastic jobs you stick in there. Time flies.
But the best part of our day was the music.
When I turned the stereo on and used the remote to flip stations, that little two-toothed grin burst across his face and lit up my whole world, like it always does when a singing voice came across the airwaves. From where he was standing on the couch next to me I could see the very beginnings of Baby Dancing.
Then the Pointer Sisters came on, and me and RyRy knew there was only one thing to do.
We had to dance.
‘We are fam-ileeee,? I sang in my silliest make-him-laugh voice as we twirled around the living room. ‘I got all my Pumpkins and me.?
He burst into a fit of giggles, which made me laugh, which made him laugh even harder.
That boy melts my heart.
It wasn’t easy to let the story about the dead guys go; us reporters are kind of quirky that way, and we can pretty territorial.
But few things in life, I’ve discovered, are important enough to pass up when I’ve got all my Pumpkins and me.

In Clarkston, a daunting task lies ahead as the city council prepares to search for the person’or persons’who will fill the shoes of retiring city manager, clerk and treasurer Art Pappas.
Replacing Pappas won’t be easy; he’s as much a part of the half-square mile, 962-resident town as Depot Park and the clock on Main Street, and he’s the only one who knows how to keep the city office, hence the city, running smoothly.
But last week, the city got a lucky break when Pappas offered to stay on as treasurer while a new city manager/clerk gets settled in.
This is good news. It takes some of the pressure off the council and lets them focus on finding the right person to fill the void Pappas will leave behind June 30.
And, if the council remembers the difficult lessons it learned about the hiring and firing of important city officials during the Great Police Debate of 2007, everything will run smoothly.
First off: The firing of then-Chief Ernie Combs came virtually out of nowhere. Yes, a number of people knew it was coming. But it was never, ever discussed at a public meeting.
Government business must be conducted in an open, public meeting. It’s the law, and officials who discuss business outside a public meeting infer they’ve got something to hide.
Next, another Art Pappas they’ll never find, but the council will find the right person to step in.
It’ll take some doing; the city wants a manager who will understand the value of small-town America, someone who will appreciate and protect 175 years of heritage. But that person also has to run a tight ship and understand the day-to-day administration of a small city and oversee its employees.
They’re up to the task.
Kristy Ottman is the council’s senior member and mayor pro tem. She’s a confident, strong, intelligent asset to the city.
Jim Brueck, often last to speak, listens carefully and thoughtfully, then tells it like he sees it, straight up. No apologies, no BS. He’s a champion for environmental issues, too.
Cory Johnston is the council’s squeaky wheel. Sometimes the proverbial squeak gets redundant and downright annoying. But that’s because Johnston refuses to ignore the difficult issues; he undoubtedly works harder than anyone else to understand and improve the city. He does research, he attends meetings and seminars, collects information and presents it to the council. He has an eye for details long overlooked.
As a councilman who also sits on the city’s planning commission, Mike Gawronski keeps the council up to date about the commission’s more technical work.
Charles Inabnit’who was appointed to council last fall worked hard on the Police Chief Selection Committee and he’s finding his own voice in the council.
Peg Roth, the council’s newest member told me last week she was looking forward to learning more about issues so she can contribute more. I appreciated her openness and honesty. It’s key.
So no worries. The Clarkston City Council, with one vote each, will find the right person for city manager. And while they do it, we’ll be watching.

Julia Bauman still makes the world’s best pierogies. I had some at Christmas, so I know for certain.
She still shops, visits with family and friends, goes to church, and still has a valid Michigan driver’s license’although she doesn’t like to climb behind the wheel of her Buick too often these days.
But she gets where she wants to go, and hardly a day goes by when she’s not busy with something.
Julia Bauman is my Grandma, and she recently turned 92.
Grandma still helps out at church, keeps house and works her puzzles.
Last year, when I returned from hunting kielbasa at the Sweetest Heart of Mary annual Pierogi Festival in downtown Detroit, I found her polka dancing under a crowded tent.
She’s an inspiration, and she’s the heart of our family.
She is, quite simply, my hero.
Grandma was born in 1915 to Polish immigrant parents in upstate New York. It wasn’t an easy life; her mother lost 6 of 13 children before they reached adulthood, and the family, like so many others, struggled mightily during the depression. In the 30s my great-grandmother’remembered with the utmost fondness’packed up her children and headed to Detroit to work on a beet farm.
Grandma has a million stories, and I count myself lucky to know most of them.
She tells of the difficult times, but make no mistake’she had plenty of ‘good, clean fun,? too.
I’ve heard stories about a place called the Graystone Amusement Park in downtown Detroit, and the Arcadia Ballroom, where she and her friends would go to swing dance and jitterbug. They’d make sandwiches and homemade rootbeer and go out for a picnic on Belle Isle.
And then she met Bob. He took her to the Adams Theatre for a movie, but his sunburn turned Grandma off and they didn’t plan a second date.
The following spring, though, their paths crossed again and Grandma’s heart skipped a beat.
It’s a great story, and I’d sit and listen to her tell it a hundred times.
They were married in 1940, raised five children and stayed in love for 56 years.
I’ve seen nothing sadder, more heartbreaking, ever, than to watch Grandma mourn the man she loved so dearly.
She misses him still, every single day.
But there’s a deep well of quiet strength within my Grandma, a strength drawn from her faith in the Church, and from, I would guess, the wisdom of a long and well-lived life.
And that is what makes her my hero.
My Grandma, you see, never cured any diseases, flew airplanes over the ocean or slayed any dragons.
She didn’t have to’she was busy with more important things.
Grandma took me to church when I was a little girl, taught me to dip the fingers on my right hand into the font and make the sign of the cross.
She taught me to thread a needle and sew on a button, and she kept the house thick with wonderful, delicious smells. One whiff of fresh dill still transports me right back to Grandma’s ‘too-doggone-small? kitchen.
She took me shopping for school clothes every fall. When Nike gym shoes were a must-have for any self-respecting fifth-grader, Grandma sensed my need and splurged to buy me a pair, even though plenty of less expensive shoes sat waiting on the shelf at TJ Maxx (Grandma never has outgrown her depression-era frugality).
I could always talk to Grandma, always trust her with a secret. When I grew up, she stood beside me and supported some tough-love choices I was forced to make while my daughter bounced through adolescence.
And it wasn’t just me, not by any stretch. She’s been there, always, for everyone in our family, in whatever way she was needed.
My Grandma is a hero, you see, simply because she was born with a heart full of love, and was never afraid to give it away. Happy Birthday, Grandma, and thanks for everything. I love you.

When I arrived at work Monday in less than the holly-jolliest of Christmas moods, Rosemary, our do-it-all office manager, handed me a small bundle that brightened my day considerably.
Packaged together with a rubber band were seven $20 Target gift cards.
A lady, who said she was donating the cards as ‘teen-appropriate? gifts, dropped them off earlier, Rosemary explained, for our holiday food and gift drive.
I’d organized the drive last week to help support the holiday efforts of the Davisburg Rotary, Neighbor for Neighbor and Lighthouse, but as of Monday only a few cans of food were rolling around in the bottom of a box in our office vestibule.
‘Did she leave her name?? I asked. I definitely wanted to thank her.
She didn’t, but I’m thanking her anyway. Thank you, thank you, thank you, lady of the Target gift cards.
Now I’m hoping the rest of the community will follow in those footsteps. I know everyone’s busy’oh, do I know’but this is important.
I’ve heard over and over again how more families are feeling pinched this year. Homes are in foreclosure, jobs are gone, gas prices are sky high. Some families don’t even have food for Christmas dinner, let alone gifts for the kids.
I know Clarkston will come through. The people of Clarkston always come through when others are in need.
Always.
It is, I think, this community’s greatest strength.
Now, I certainly don’t expect everyone to bring gift cards worth $140, but please, do what you can. We’ll happily accept any and every donation of non-perishable food items, paper products and personal care items, like soap, shampoo and toothpaste.
We’re also collecting new gifts for men, women and children. Necessities like slippers, socks, PJs, hats, and gloves are nice, or an indulgence like a box of gourmet chocolates. The choice is yours; pick out something you’d like, perhaps, and give it to someone else. Teen-appropriate gifts are also in short supply.
If you can’t stand one more trip to the mall, gas cards make nice gifts, as do any gift cards, for that matter. Most drug and grocery stores sell gift cards for dozens of different retail and restaurant locations.
Please do what you can, whether it’s one can of peaches or a fistful of gift cards, but do it soon. As my dad always says ‘I think I hear sleigh bells.?
You can make a difference, and it’ll feel good. I promise.
Merry Christmas, Clarkston.

It wasn’t hard to relate to the stories I heard out of Sobriety Court over the past couple of weeks. I learned about drinking at an early age.
Growing up in a home where alcohol played a role just as important as Mr. Nobody (who ate all the cookies?) wasn’t easy.
When my dad drank, he drank too much.
He drank with his friends after work, but he drank on holidays and at family functions, too.
My sisters and I dreaded it.
He’d start acting goofy and, well, drunk, and we’d have to get him out of there.
I can still hear my mom saying, ‘Give me the keys, Mick. Mick, give me the keys.?
Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t. When he didn’t, it was a scary ride home’he knew my mom was mad, and he knew she was anxious with him behind the wheel, so sometimes he’d deliberately swerve all over the road.
My dad doesn’t drink much any more, but from time to time my sisters and I still talk about those days. Sometimes we laugh, but mostly we just shake our heads and wonder what was going on back then. Were there issues our young minds didn’t grasp?
My dad is a good man, a caring man. My mom has a heart of gold.
But they forgot all that, sometimes, when the booze tainted things and they’d start fighting. Again.
Later, when I did some reading about the way an alcoholic environment affects children into adulthood, I came across an ‘ah-ha? passage.
Secrets, it said, are the hallmark of a dysfunctional home.
Yep, that was us.
‘What happens inside these four walls stays in these four walls.?
My sisters and I heard it over and over, from both parents, even though nothing terrible ever happened.
It wasn’t all roses, that’s for sure, but certainly none of us were beaten or starved.
But we heard it again and again.
‘What happens inside these four walls stays in these four walls.?
Today, more than 20 years after I moved out of my parents? home, I still feel protective of that privacy, theirs, more than my own, and feel incredibly guilty painting this small portrait of my early life.
And that is my point.
Over the last several weeks I spent a good deal of time putting together a two-part series on Sobriety Court, a 52-2 District Court program designed to address repeat drunk driving offenses on roadways around the Clarkston area.
In the process, I talked to two Sobriety Court participants, Steve Koss and Mike Teaney.
During the course of about 18 months, both men dedicated a tremendous amount of time and energy into getting sober, cleaning up their lives and making amends where amends needed making.
It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t fun.
That much was obvious.
But both men made it through and graduated the program last week. And both sat down to talk about all of it, knowing full well I intended to write their stories right onto the pages of The Clarkston News for the whole community to see.
That’s courage if I’ve ever seen it.
Steve even let me read very personal letters and a journal written by his family.
‘Are you sure?? I asked him.
Something from my childhood came shrieking back and shoved all journalistic curiosity out of the way.
‘Yes,? he said.
‘You’re sure?? I repeated. ‘I might use some of it in the story.?
I wanted to give him every opportunity to snatch that fat envelope back and say ‘you’re right. This stuff is just too private.?
I wanted him to have the opportunity to keep it all inside his own four walls.
But he insisted it was OK.
I’m not convinced he was thrilled with the idea, but I think he wanted to be as honest and open as possible.
Honesty, you see, is part of the healing process Steve and Mike both talked about’how it’s crucial, in any recovery situation, to summon the courage to look straight into the mirror.
Do you like what you see? If not, do you have the courage and the strength to make the changes, even if it’s not easy?
Both of these men know unpleasant things happened in their lives when they were drinking, and both know they hurt themselves and others with their deeds and actions.
But both also know the past is the past, and wallowing in bitterness, guilt and self-pity won’t change any of it.
What they can do, they told me, is live for today. They can lend a hand and a bit of inspiration to others traveling the bumpy road behind them, and they can serve as positive, productive members of the community.
Perhaps most importantly, they can be the kind of fathers and husbands and brothers and friends any of us would feel lucky to have.