If Gold Could Talk

If gold could talk 

What fools it would make of men

Who covet precious metals

Above their kith and kin

Who go to war for riches

Never counting the toll in blood

Stamping coins with a graven image

And giving it all their love

All that is gold does not glitter

Not all those who wander are lost

Those blinded for lust of it wither

And are never aware of the cost

Rememberin' Miss Jean

Saturday we gathered to celebrate the life of Jean Babcock.

Miss Jean, as I was instructed to call her by my Aunt Joe.

We are here to remember her life, to celebrate her life and the lives she created and mothered, for above all, Jean was a mom. She mothered us all at one time or another. Weather we wanted it or not. And she, for all her human frailties, was very, very good at it.

She had a store of wisdom which seemed rooted in the deep American mysticism of the South itself. She lived a good portion of her life here, in the cold dark North, but never lost that sweet Southern drawl.

The first words of wisdom she taught me was the phrase "I don't see why not!" which to me are ever words of hope, encouragement and imagination. She called me a "Southern Gentleman".  And that is a high compliment indeed.

And, Lord, could that woman cook.  She had never even tasted a slice of pizza when I first knew her. But when I caught my first catfish on a trip to her home town, she instructed me on how to clean it. Then she took it and dredged it in corn meal and deep pan fried it in a black cast-iron skillet. At the same time she whipped up some corn bread and I proceeded to have the most magnificent fish fry ever. I have never tasted anything so good, and I have tried myself, I have searched restaurants all over the South from Charlottesville, and even Stanton Virginia, to Savannah Georgia and Charleston South Carolina, and I have not tasted catfish better than what I had from Miss Jean.

We have all had our share of troubles in life, and Jean maybe got a little more than her fair share.  But I will remember her as someone who would just as soon smile and laugh than cry.  Her wit was sharp! Her intuition keen. She did the best she could with what she was given. 

She had that rare gift of lightheartedness which you see reflected in the faces of her daughters and her grandson. And something deeper, harder, tougher than steel that kept her going all these long years. Which was the love for her children.

That... and just a touch...or maybe more than just a touch...of The Rebel. 

I was looking for a poem that could do justice to this occasion.  I just read one a few weeks ago by Billy Collins. It is called "The Lanyard" and there's a whole lot in it about a boy, and summer camp, and reading and writing, but if you listen carefully, you will see toward the end how much this poem is about relationships with mothers. It seems fate has presented to me for just this moment.

You can find it in his latest collection : The Trouble With Poetry (and other poems)
Page 45.

More than anything, when a parent passes, we come face to face with the reality of mortality. And just like your older sibling coming up from behind and flicking you on the back of your neck with their finger while stealing a scoop of your supper...you may not like it...but there's nothing you can do about it. Except turn around and love that brother, that sister, that parent, and hold them for dear life.

I will remember Miss Jean with love.

2014...Into the Unknown

Addicted to
That rush
Of adrenaline

Caused by my
Proximity to
A vast dark

Chasm

Known as

The Unknown

Whose impenetrable
Darkness
Craves
A fix
Of
Penetration

Whose soft black
Velvet edge
Sharp as a
Spike, a needle, syringe

Waits for me
To press my
Throat
Against

As I stick my
Neck
Out

Will it cut?
Will it wound?
Will it be worth
The effort to swoon


Into her abyss?

I need to find out.

NEW BEGINNINGS

Now that we are well into 2014 and fetishizing our first new mayor in over twelve years, a song from my unpublished novel seems an appropriate post to start the new year. Here's wishing EVERYONE peace, prosperity, and success in the coming trip around the solar system.


“It seems all around. Seems it’s everywhere.
The Have-Nots suffer and the Haves don’t care.
It’s either you turn your head or watch your back.
There’s no halfway, no middle of the track.

Come on people, open your hearts,
Come on people, join your hands,
Come on people, raise your voices
Shout for freedom in Liberty's land.

In this country of constant friction
Must we live with contradiction?
In the land of milk and honey
Is there more to greed than love of money?

Come on people, open your hearts,
Come on people, join your hands,
Come on people, raise your voices
Sing of freedom in this hopeful land.

We’re in a dark place the world has collapsed.
We’re in a dark place and feel so trapped.
In a dark place, nowhere to hide.
In a dark place, but it’s light outside.

Come on people, open your hearts,
Come on people, join your hands,
Come on people, raise your voices
Sing for freedom in the Promised Land.

Come on people, come on people, come on people,
Join your hands!

Come on people, come on people, come on people,
Understand.

Come on people lift your voices.
Sing for justice in this freedom land.

It seems all around. Seems it’s everywhere.
The Have-Nots suffer and the Haves don’t care.”

Happy New Year from Brooklyn New York,

Mark D Ransom

Giving Thanks at Work...

I wrote some of this back in May of 2011. We have added to the cast, and some members have retired or transferred to other units. Giving thanks for the new as well as the old...to Dan and Wilson, Juan and Franklin...and Jeff, Joe Cat...also the new girl who traded positions with Natalie. To Jorge and Zhana..as always...thanks.

This is about the retired Bobby Hodges...




Tall man with broad shoulders and a booming voice. To be in his presence is to be secure. His unflappable experience, his absolutely explosive temper in the face of injustice and stupidity alike, are forces of nature.

I watched him write his resignation letter this morning, coaching him through the technicalities of a Microsoft Word Document, but the sentiments expressed were simple, sublime and entirely is own.

He compliments me on my writing and defers to me as the better scribe, but I beg to differ.

"With great trepidation and anticipation..." He began without the aid of spell-check, a new and wondrous feature he never imagined existed.

I could not help but be moved. This is one of the people I have gravitated to in the squad. I have only been to the homes of a hand full of my coworkers. His was one. A more giving and generous person you will not find. I have been very fortunate to be welcomed into the night Squad by the likes of Damon Boccadoro, Lloyd Cropper, Lenny Asaro, Tom Zurica, Russell Smith, Tony Carbone, Frankie Cosimano, Willie Blake Scofield Smith, Gary Apostolo, Denny Randazzo, Tom Ward, Don Gittens, Vinnie Cerrcone, Dominick, Mario, Johnny, Davey and Robert "Bobby" Hodges.

I have been able to craft an honest living while trying to face my own fears, short comings and prejudices to help where we are able to make life better in New York.

It has been a privilege to work side by side with such people. It is a truly unique job.

As Bobby says "it is never boring".

Mark Ransom
Supervising Inspector
Emergency Response Team

Highlights from the past year include the award for excellence,

Sco-daddy's retirement...

Johnny and Davey get a big write up in the New York Times for their work on Sandy recovery in the Rockaways

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/20/nyregion/in-queens-deciding-fate-of-homes-damaged-by-hurricane-sandy.html?_r=0

All in all a banner year here.

Thanksgiving, much to be thankful for.

I Remember James

There are no photos from the early 1990's when a huge turning point took place in my life. I bought a microphone and a PA amp, hooked up an acoustic guitar and declared myself a blues singer. Not because I had any musical talent what-so-ever, but because I was wounded to my core and I needed healing. Having the blues does not make you a great performer, but it can make a so-so performer perform better. And so I took my turn in a down-on-its-luck part of town and played my heart out to a few world weary travelers. This is one of the stories from those days, my lost years. Not because I lost that time in a haze of self induced dementia, but because I was Lost...until I found the Amazing Grace of my current life: my wife, my current job and...and now I see.



I remember James (sweet James)

I remember James
And Alex
Listening
To my blues renditions
Of Sweet Jane
And When the Levee Breaks
At a little joint called Tippy’s
Tippy's cafe

West of the wild side
A guitar
And raw emotion
Inspired by
My personal tragedies
Expressed for the
Intrepid company
Who found a place
Named for
The owner's dog

Maddie May
under age
Tending bar
In a New York
Now long gone
Taking care of
Us All
With Rolling Rock
And a smile
She lit the decadent dark
As a parade of sexy
Rebels
Took place nightly
Right outside

I remember James
As a man of quality
Who cared deeply for
The craftsmen
And integrity

I remember James and
His intensity
How he could not
Tolerate
Mediocrity

I remember James
And his neon blue eyes
That saw only
What could be
When people focused
On perfection
And how that
Would set us free

I do remember James
And that fateful
Night
When he asked me to
stay, linger, and talk
Just for while

But I declined
Siting some
Early work day
With such short sight
For how was I to know
I would be the last to see him
Before he took his life

Dear James,

I will never forget you
I will keep your spirit alive
Singing your song
To everyone
Deep into
The perfect night
 

50 Years Ago

It was 50 years ago today, long before Sargent Pepper taught the band to play, this country went into a tail spin. Deep in my core the wounds suffered then by the ruthless murder of a charismatic man, a man who promised so much, held promise in the palm of his hand, made me a jaded and cynical boy.The first of three devastating assassinations, the first recorded on a visual medium where details of that act of violence can neither be exaggerated nor diminished and thus have become etched unforgettably onto our collective conscious. It was as vicious and cowardly an act as flying air liners into buildings. The price we paid? The turbulence and civil strife of the '60's? The decadence of the '70's? The greed of the '80's and '90's? What happens when faith is shaken? What happens when the dreamer awakens? Roll up your sleeves. There's work to do.