The Publisher's Page BY HAROLD T. BECK

JULY 15 - JULY 21, 2000

JULY 21, 2K

Little Girl Found?

Good morning. It is 55.9 degrees at 6:04 A.M. The following story appears in the printed version of The Mountain Laurel Review that has just gone out in the past two days. For the benefit of our readers who do not have access to the printer versions, it appears here and will be moved to the Marjorie West area of this site next week, as well as remain in the archives of the Publisher's Page for your convenience.

Little girl found? 

FINDING MARJORIE WEST      BY HAROLD THOMAS BECK

     Today is the twenty-seventh of May. It is the day after I met Marjorie West face to face. I am tired. It was a long week. Tanya and I drove 2,653 miles following leads from North Carolina into South Carolina, on to Florida, and finally back to North Carolina where we found her. While some might think this is the end of the story, in reality it is only the beginning.

     Those were the words I wrote the Saturday I got back home. I had met Marjorie West and I knew it. But I had a problem. The woman I met and spoke with at great length, did not believe that she was the woman I was looking for.

     For five years I have been looking for Marjorie West. Using a picture of her older sister at age 65, I began searching.

     In McKean County this is a story that seems to have captivated an entire population. It is a story of heartbreak and loss. It is a story that came with its own set of stories that included the usual ones that always arise out of this sort of thing. When four year old Marjorie of Bradford, PA vanished from a  Mother’s Day picnic on May 8, 1938, it all began.

     I wrote the following account in 1996: 

     The morning of May 8, 1938 was rapidly turning into a warm, sunny, spring day. It was Mother's Day and the trees in the heavily wooded hills south of Marshburg, PA had not yet begun to bloom even though spring flowers had already made their appearance. This was to be a day that would live in the memories of the West family, their friends, their neighbors, and the thousands who would later participate in the greatest search in its day for a missing child since the kidnapping of the Lindberg baby.

     In June, 1994 and in May, 1995 the Mountain Laurel Review published the story A MISSING CHILD. The story was taken from newspaper accounts and the memories of young men who searched the woods of McKean County for four year old Marjorie West. We were recently contacted by her older sister, Dorothea. While she was interested in our historical news article about her sister, she also offered help in clearing up several inaccuracies we brought forward from the reporting of the time. As she helped, she also said: "I get the creepy-crawlies though...why now after so many years? So many whys.........."

     Following church on that Mother's Day, the West family, consisting of father Shirley Mills West, mother Cecelia R. West, Dorothea age 11, Allan age 7, and Marjorie age 4, accompanied by their friends Lloyd and Helen Akerlind, planned a picnic in the White Gravel area along Chapel Fork Road. Most of the hills in McKean County had been timbered and the oil and gas industry had made a heavy mark. However, the mountains south of Marshburg were not only heavily wooded, but untouched by the oil industry because of the forbidding terrain. The fire road that ran from Marshburg to the town of Morrison was well known to the people of the area. Once a line for the Pennsylvania Railroad, with the tracks gone it was now ideal for Sunday drivers, or young couples just wanting to be alone. It was also a short cut to the roads leading south.

     Dorothea told us about that day. "My mother, Mrs. West, and Helen Akerlind were at the car which was parked in a clearing where we were going to picnic. Marjorie and I were picking spring violets near a rock. I remember it as a boulder. I had been cautioned not to go on the other side of the rock where Mother and Helen could not see us because of rattlesnakes; even though Lloyd and Dad had checked the area.

     "Allan was with Lloyd and Dad at the stream fishing. We children were not permitted on the fire road because of traffic. Mother and Helen never had a chance to put out the picnic lunch that day. I tried to show Marjorie how to pick violets with the stems, not just the heads; and showed her a little spot on the far side of the rock where there were lots of violets. I told her I would be back and went to the car. I said 'Happy Mother's Day' and gave mother her bouquet. I told Helen, 'Marjorie is going to bring you a bouquet...OF VIOLET HEADS' and laughed. When I returned to the rock, I didn't see Marjorie and started calling her. Mother and Helen came running and they were calling her name. Dad and Lloyd heard us and they, with my brother Allan, came running."

     This happened around three in the afternoon. At about the same time two cars were seen traveling the road. The first was going south to Morrison just before three o'clock. The second was going toward Marshburg just after three. Both cars passed the rock just prior to the discovery that Marjorie was missing. 

     Stories were rampant even after fifty-eight years. One woman’s Aunt Josie claimed that Marjorie’s “natural father” stole her. Another set of sisters claimed that relatives took her to Canada and sold into white slavery.

     Then there was the idea that she had wandered off and was eaten by a bear. That theory was dispelled that first week when the Cornplanter Indians went into bear caves and killed bears and  opened up their stomachs looking for the remains of the lost girl.

     Another theory was that she had fallen down an abandoned oil well. But the picture that remained with me was the one of the blood hounds stopping dead in the middle of the road where Marjorie’s wild violet heads lay. It was as if she was lifted from that spot.

     Following that revised account I started  posting pictures on the internet with a plea for someone who might recognize her as a look alike to her older sister, Dorothea. And I continued my research, too. One part of the story fascinated me. That was the sighting of a man and a little girl in Thomas, West Virginia that same night. I dug into the facts of that sighting.

     As I read the account of a  taxi driver parked at a taxi stand in Thomas, West Virginia, at 11:35 P.M. on May 8, 1938, something inside me said this girl was alive and no harm came to her. I couldn’t say why, but that was the way I felt. Donald MacRae told the West Virginia Motor Police the following: 

     "He drove up and asked me where there was a hotel. I pointed to the one across the street. He had a little girl in the car with him. She was wearing a dress and had red hair. She wasn't asleep. She sat up in the seat and looked at me when he asked for directions. He drove across the street and went in. They must not have had any rooms because he came back and asked me where he could buy a bottle of liquor. I told him about a bar down the road and he drove off going south."    

     Several days later MacRae was shown the picture of Marjorie West. He immediately identified it as the little girl in the car with the man. MacRae gave no description of the car other than it was a dark sedan, and he did not remember the state the license plates were from.

     In those days, the days before interstate superhighways, there were only so many roads to travel. U.S. 219 was one of those roads. It began in Buffalo, traveled south through New York to Bradford and cut Pennsylvania in half before entering West Virginia. Anyone leaving Bradford going south to the Carolinas would surely take 219. They would take it south across the state and go into West Virginia and if they were on Chapel Fork Road around three that afternoon, they would have been in Thomas, West Virginia on schedule at 11:30 P.M. that night. I was sure that MacRae had seen Marjorie. What could have happened to her?

      I continued my search.

     When the first round of pictures did no good, I began offering a thousand dollar reward. When I still had no takers, I upped it to $10,000. As I did, I began trying other things. I was sending the inquiry to more and more places. I hired a company to send out one million e-mails centered on the east coast. Finally I heard from Kate O'Connor in Annapolis, MD.

     Kate is what is known as a Search Angel. She attempts to reunite birth parents and children.

     She a web site at: http://hometown.aol.com/mko421/myhomepage/profile.html  and is an advocate and coordinator in the State of Maryland for the March for Open Records. She offered to circulate the picture I had of Dorothea. I gladly accepted.

     When something happens. When it finally happens after so long, you get a special feeling. That feeling lets you know if something is real or not and on the morning of  April 12, 2000 I received the following e-mail: 

 I am only writing to you because of the picture of Doreathea.  Her picture resembles a nurse who retired from the (PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT WITHHELD), FL this past year.  Her name is (NAME WITHHELD).  She had red hair and the facial structure was very similar to Doreathea's, except (HER) face was a little fuller.  

(SHE) had a southern accent and a great personality.  (SHE) was small framed and around 5'3" or so  ,if I remember correctly.  I believe her eyes were blue.  She was leaving FL and moving back to where her family lived.  I cannot remember for sure, but I think it was North or South Carolina.

I hate to give any information  which would give false hope, or be a wild goose chase, but the picture looked very much like (HER).

(NAME WITHHELD)

That e-mail arrived at 9:30 A.M. Three more e-mails arrived in the next two hours identifying the same woman as a look alike for Dorothea West Nicholson. “The likeness is stunning” the next e-mail said. The third was much the same when the lady said: My hair stood up on the back of my neck when I saw the picture. I worked with this woman for four years and I knew it was the person you were looking for.” And the fourth used an odd choice of words when she wrote:  "I got the creepy-crawlies when I saw the picture. It is the woman you are looking for and I know her.” By eleven thirty that morning four people identified the same woman as a look alike for Dorothea.

     I called Sharyn, my wife, at work and told her what had happened. I found it hard to contain my excitement. I was closing in on finding Marjorie West! But there was a problem. The woman I was looking for had left Florida and no one was certain where she had gone.

     Sharyn and I went to my brother’s home for Easter. Bob is in the Alarm Business and as a former police officer has done some investigations. He also maintained some good contacts, which he offered to use in order to help me find her. I sent him all the information I had when I returned home.

     Things moved slow for the next two weeks. April turned into May and finally on Monday, May 8 at 6:30 P.M., sixty-two years to the date and time when the first men were arriving and taking up the search for the lost little girl, my brother phoned me with a Florida home address for the lady identified in the e-mails.

     “Now you have a place to start,” he told me. “Now we have her husband’s name.”                             Then we began to search state by state for the husband and the wife.

     A week later we had three addresses and three possibilities. Two were in North Carolina and one was in South Carolina. I decided the only way to do it was to go in person.

     Sharyn wanted to go with me and I wanted her to go, too. Having my wife with me would give me a certain amount of credibility and she was excellent in situations like the one I expected to develop. But she couldn’t. She didn’t have the vacation time and couldn’t get time off.

     Next I asked John Gates. We always traveled well and worked well together. But he was working, too. Finally, one Friday night, Sharyn and her sister decided that my niece, Tanya should go. We asked her and she quickly agreed so the trip was on.

     What do you say to someone like the lady I was about to find?

     I knew quite a bit about her. She was a nurse. She had worked as a nurse most of her adult life. She had been married to the same man and had children and grandchildren. Apparently she had lived a rather normal and successful life. Sharyn and I talked about how I should approach her.

     She decided that I should say something to the effect of: “I have some personal information that may belong to you.” I was to avoid using words and phases that would indicate that she was the victim of a crime. Even though it was possible the people who raised her were the people who took her, she would definitely be connected to them and be very protective.

     We rehearsed. I did it over and over. I planned what I would ask her. And then it was time to leave.

      Tanya and I left at 7 A.M. on Monday, May 22. We drove south on 219 and cut over to 66 and then down to Interstate 80. Our destination for that night was Winston Salem, NC. She knew very little about the story and for the first few hours we talked about it and I answered her questions.

     We were going to check out one lead in North Carolina that day, another the next and then one in South Carolina. We figured we might get lucky and find her on the first shot but that was not to be. Simple phone calls proved to eliminate both of the leads in North Carolina the very first day.  One woman was obviously black and the other was too young. That left the lead in South Carolina. Tuesday we traveled to Anderson, South Carolina and were sure we had our person.

     Around two in the afternoon we found a remote homestead about fifteen miles out of town. A new house sat next to an old farmhouse. The old house was boarded up so I walked to front door of the new house and rang the bell. No one answered. What now?

     Tanya and I had an address. We went to the Anderson County Court House and checked the land and tax records. While the last name was the name we were looking for, the first name was not the same. But we kept finding other names associated with the same property. It was 110 acres in all and it was rapidly becoming iffy that we had the right place. Finally around five that night I made contact. It was a dead end. All three leads were dead ends.

     We got a room for the night and I called home.

     Sharyn said that I had no choice but to go to Florida where she worked and try to get a forwarding address. My brother Bob felt that I could get the forwarding address from the postmaster and I had come too far to turn around and go home. The next day Tanya and I left for Florida bright and very early.

     I want to point out that I was getting help from some very good people, one lady in particular, while I was traveling. She worked trying to get me an address based on the house that the husband and wife had just sold. She spent a great deal of her time trying to track them down, but like the three dead end leads we started off with, she had no luck either. Around three-thirty that afternoon we were in line at the Post Office in an attempt to get a forwarding address. That I found out was not going to happen.

     Both my brother and a local postmaster were wrong when they believed that I could get that information. I was informed the law had been changed at least four years ago and it was not legal for the post office to give out that information. All that was left was where the lady worked.

     By now Tanya was exhausted. It was the beginning of our fourth day on the road. We had traveled over 800 miles the day before so I let her sleep while I drove over to where the lady had worked.

     I said I was an old friend of the family and had driven up to see them. I said I found that their house was sold and occupied by another family who had no idea where they had moved. I imposed on the best and kindest intentions of some very good people. One lady sent me to another who sent me to another who sent me to one more lady who finally gave me an address within seventy miles of where we stayed the very first night. On Thursday morning at 10:30 A.M. we started north to find Marjorie West.

      Tanya was as excited as I was and we chattered off and on as we traveled about how we would approach her.

     “What if she won’t talk to us?” Tanya asked.

     I had to admit that if she didn’t want to talk to us, there wouldn’t be very much we could do. I had to hope for the best Still, I was apprehensive. I was very apprehensive.

     As we entered North Carolina we ran into severe thunderstorms and heavy lightning and some hail. We were listening to the radio and they were saying that tornadoes were setting down between Raleigh and Winston Salem. Fortunately for us we were not in the area yet. We stopped for the night a little after seven.

     The one thing Tanya and I did when were traveling was eat well. Aside from coffee we did not eat breakfast. Sometimes we would stop for lunch, but on Wednesday and on Thursday we skipped that, too. Those days we only had dinner. But when we did eat we ate at good restaurants and ordered the best they had. Thursday night was no exception. We were keyed up for the next day and treated ourselves well in the area of food.

     Friday was a magnificent day. I got directions to the address we wanted off my lap top computer. We packed and went to the car. The sun was out and it was the typical beautiful day following the severe storms that had visited them the day before.

     Across a very large part of the area we were going into all electric was out. As we drove deeper into the area we could see why. Many trees, many very old and large trees had been blown down by the storms. The damage was widespread and extensive.

     Tanya drove while I got myself mentally prepared. I had press credentials as identification. I had a copy of Cornplanter Chronicles to prove I was a writer. And I had the collection of photographs Dorothea had sent me. I did not want to over power the lady, but I did want to be credible and convincing. Finally, after being lost for close to an hour and driving in circles in the North Carolina countryside, at 11 A.M. Tanya and I drove up a private road that led to the house we were looking for.

     One look at the house was more than an indication of the kind of life this lady had lived. It was a new home set in a rural setting and was in the $250,000 to $500,000 neighborhood. We drove up the driveway and parked the car. Tanya and I both got out and walked to the front door.

     The doorbell didn’t work. There was no electricity. We could hear a generator running in the back yard and we saw where the line was tied into the electric box in the garage. I knocked on the door with my fist. It was then that a short sixtyish woman came out of the garage.

     “Can I help you?” she asked.

     “Would you be Jane Doe (NOT THE REAL NAME)?” I asked.

      “That depends,” she answered.

     I didn’t need her to identify herself. I had Dorothea’s picture and the resemblance was definitely there, although it was not as striking as the four e-mails had claimed.

     “I believe I have some personal information that may belong to you,” I said.

     As I approached her I knew I had the right woman. While the resemblance to Dorothea was not as pronounced as I had hoped, she was the very image of the picture of Marjorie. I had to catch myself.

     I showed her my credentials and I showed her the book I had written.

     “Do you have a few minutes?” I asked. “I have a story I would like to tell you.”

     She claimed she didn’t. She said she had company coming in from Florida and she was getting ready for them. She also told us about the tornadoes and how unbearable it had been the night before with no electric. “We have that generator now just for the air and for cooking. I hope the electric comes on soon.”

      “We were in Florida yesterday. I went there to find you,” I said. “We have been looking for you all week.”

     “Why?” she asked.

    Then I showed her the picture.

     “This isn’t me,” she said.

     I agreed. “No. It certainly isn’t.” Then I handed her the picture of Marjorie West. “But this might be,” I said.

     As she took the picture I could see that she was slightly shaken. She tried not to let on, but the picture was a shock to her. She recognized the face in the picture. It was obvious. I remembered what I had written. 

Dorothea has kindly supplied us with pictures of Marjorie at age 4 and of herself at the age Marjorie would be today. The family resemblance is unmistakable. She sent us a picture of her own daughter, Melanie Elizabeth Francis, and says:

"Mother started taking care of Melanie when she was 4 years and 5 months so I could go to work. Mrs. Saxman, who lived next door, and other neighbors told me they got goose bumps seeing Melanie play on Mother's porch and front yard. It was as though Marjorie had come back. Marjorie was 4 years and 11 months when she disappeared."

Baby pictures of Dorothea and Marjorie were mistaken for one another. Today, the sisters would bear a remarkable resemblance to one another. What if Marjorie is still alive?

     Was it true? Was this woman seeing the resemblance between the picture she was holding and her own children or grandchildren? I was sure she was. And it didn’t end with that one picture. I had others and as I handed them to her, she took each one in her hands, both hands, and looked at them as if she was memorizing the images on the paper.

 

     “Why are you looking for this woman?” she asked me. “Who is paying you?”

 

     “No one,” I answered. “I began writing about this in 1994 and have always felt no harm came to her and I wanted to find her and prove it.”

 

     “And if you find her, what then?” she asked me.

     I assured her I would be discreet and my only real goal was to reunite the woman with her sister. I told her the brother, Alan had passed away several years ago. I told her I had been in touch with the older sister.

 

     “Are you adopted?” I asked.

 

     She didn’t answer me. Instead she looked away and attempted to change the subject. The color left her face.

 

     “This woman would be 67 next month,” I told her.

 

     “Oh,” she laughed. “I’m much younger than that.” She believed she was 65 or 66 and that was understandable. However, she did say her birthday was in June. When she disappeared she would have turned five in June.

     Then, something she asked me was almost a dead giveaway that she was indeed from Bradford and in all probability Marjorie West!

    "What is the relationship between the two of you?" she asked, wondering about the obvious fact that there was a marked difference in our ages and I said we had been traveling all week looking for her. I could only imagine what she thought when this red headed bearded old bird showed up on her porch with a cute little 22 year old blonde.

     I explained to her that Tanya was my niece. “She is my wife’s sister’s daughter.”         

     “Oh,” she said, sounding like she was from Bradford in spite of the southern accent. "They sent her along to keep you straight."

     That cinched it for me. This woman, saying something like that to me, was indeed from Bradford. How did she know?

     “Only someone from Bradford, Pennsylvania would say that to me,” I told her.

     I had to laugh. We continued looking at pictures and she kept asking questions. We were with her for almost a half an hour and I could see that while she was very interested, she was not going to admit that she was the woman I was searching for.

     Then she asked me a question one more time. “And really, what will you do if you find this woman?” she finally asked me.

     Again, I told her I would do nothing. I said that I would go along with the wishes of the family. It was not my intention to turn it into a circus. I only wanted to see the parties reunited.

     And then it was over. I gave her a copy of Cornplanter Chronicles, my address, and phone number, thanked her for talking with us, and left.

     Tanya and I walked back toward the car. She went back into her house. It was as we were walking back to the car that Tanya spoke to me.

     “Uncle Bud,” she said. “That’s her. She looks just like the baby pictures and she knew it. I could see it on her face. She knows it’s her.”

     I hadn’t said anything to Tanya, but we were in total agreement. I felt exactly the same way. We had met Marjorie West.

     “Yes she is,” I said back. “We found her!”

     And as I said at the beginning, finding Marjorie West is not the end. It is a beginning. My investigation continues. The reward cannot be paid until this person admits and we prove that she is indeed Marjorie West. Her exact location and her name will remain undisclosed until that time. Only Tanya and I know who and where she is and it will stay that way.

     Think of the implications on the people who raised her. What if they are still alive? And if they aren’t, maybe she knew the whole time she was talking to us. What if they told her the truth before they died. There would be a tremendous burden on her to protect them and their memories. As for the West family and her sister, they are only names right now. That can change.

Your comments are more than welcome at editor@mlrmag.com. 

JULY 20, 2K

Jack and me

Good morning. It is 49.3 degrees at 6:02 A.M. The weather man just said that we could expect this weather until January with us experiencing cold Arctic air. So much for global warming. While we have been experiencing warmer winters than normal and the media has been playing that up, Europe and Western Asia have suffered through exceptionally cold winters. Looks like it might be our turn soon.

Jack is the name I have given to an exceptionally large black bear that does what he wants when he wants to. That included destroying the bird feeder my godson and nephew gave me for Christmas and three different hummingbird feeders. He makes a huge mess at the dumpster over at the Rainbow Inn - and Anita spends at least a half an hour a day cleaning up after him. He could care less about the dogs, both Geoff's and mine. And, lately, instead of coming only at night, he seems to be on a daylight routine. Yesterday I found out.

I saw Jack meander across the field west of my house on Tuesday morning about 7:30 A.M. I grabbed my film camera (the one I'm using in the movie) and tried to get some footage of him. I thought he could be put in with the Martians. Like a dope I tried following him through the trees next to my house - at a safe distance of course, but then I gave that up wondering what a safe distance might be. He walked out of the trees and paid the dumpster a visit the day before it was scheduled to be emptied. That I thought was that. 

Yesterday morning I was busy with preparing to do some banking when I got word one of the larger business deals I had been working on was approved. I was ecstatic and I called Sharyn at work to tell her the good news. I dressed and got ready to leave the house.

We make it a habit not to put garbage out at night because of Jack and the other bears that are around. Along with Jack there is a female who has two large cubs, and there is a smaller male bear that is probably two years old that has been put out on his own by his mother. With the five of them around it is a certainty that we will be paid a visit and then spend an hour the next morning cleaning up our yard.

When Sharyn left for work yesterday morning she had two large bags of garbage that I assumed she took over to the dumpster at the Rainbow on her way to work. Leave it to me to assume that. I was wrong. 

Instead she put them on the front porch and closed the front door. They were on the front porch from about seven on. 

Around nine-thirty I had the drawer for the Rainbow, two contracts I wanted Greg Henry to look over, and my banking in my hand. You go in and out of your house so many times in your life you can do it blindfolded and generally you barely notice anything that may or may not be out of the ordinary. As I opened the front door and then the new storm door I did not see the 500 plus pound black bear, Jack, laying on the front porch at the door going through one of the bags of garbage. And as Jack had his large snout inside the bag of garbage, he didn't see me either. I walked right into him!

When I looked down and saw what I had done I dropped everything - drawer full of money, banking, and the contracts. And instinctively, or maybe out of just sheer meanness or stupidity, or maybe both, I kicked the bear in the behind. 

The bear jumped forward away from me but was still on the porch. Unless you have seen one up close and personal like I have, you have no idea how fast they really are. He turned, stood up on his legs and raised his front paws at me. He had to have been at least six feet tall in that position and I could see his eyes looking down at me. I retreated into the house and slammed the door. To say Jack was mildly irritated at me would be understating the incident. He growled and snorted for thirty seconds or so before gracefully jumping off the porch, forgetting the garbage bags, and going off into the trees. 

Something like that is not easily forgotten. Such a powerful animal could have killed me with one swipe of his paw. Then there is the smell. He stinks and I stunk too from making contact with him. But what do you expect? He spends a large amount of time rooting through garbage. I guess we would smell like him if we did that, too. I had to change my clothes in an effort to get rid of it. But it wasn't that easy.

I have had a cold off and on for a month now and haven't been able to smell anything. I haven't until yesterday because when that odor got up my nose, I couldn't shake it all day. The smell of him stayed with me and refused to go away.

Fortunately, it is a humorous story instead of a tragic one. But that does not mean that this bear, who is obviously not afraid of humans or dogs, might not attack the next person who literally stumbles over him. Black bears are generally non violent, but one killed and mauled a woman jogging in Quebec recently. And every summer there are reports of black bears harming humans. 

Jack is now, in my estimation, a danger. If he comes back, regardless of the law and the fact that he is protected by the Game Commission, he just might have an appointment with a .45 caliber automatic. I hope he reads this column and takes heed.

In the meantime, your comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com. 

JULY 19, 2K

The WAG Method

Good morning. It is 49.8 degrees at 6:11 A.M. The furnace is on in my house. It is chilly outside. This is July weather?

Down Texas way they are struggling through one hundred degree days while we sit under the influence of Canadian cool air. 

Sharyn asked me about weather on Sunday. I was noting some of the clouds as we drove back from Jamestown. She wondered if weather forecasting had actually advanced since the days Roger and I were involved with it. The answer I gave was yes and no.

In many respects it has. Radar and weather satellites are certainly more advanced, but forecasting is still forecasting. In the end everyone, in spite of whatever equipment may or may not be available, must make an educated or uneducated decision. It ultimately comes down to the WAG method.

What is the WAG method? That is a good but complicated question. And it is a difficult one to answer, but I will give it a try. Let me explain it for you like this. It is important because we use it in our daily lives all the time.

When you come to the decision making process in your life, and when you think about it we are faced with decisions every day - some major and some just ordinary every day decisions, but decisions just the same, we use precisely what weather forecasters use in predicting the weather. We are not really sure about a particular question so we employ whatever knowledge we have about the subject and base our decision on that. The more knowledge we have, supposedly the better decision we are able to make. Then, only time tells whether we were right or wrong.

Take the two decisions I made in May. The weather and the WAG method has affected both of them.

The first was to install a swimming pool in my yard for the family to use this summer. The second was to air condition the Rainbow Inn. How was I to know that this would be the coldest summer in a hundred years?

I was always against swimming pools where we live because I knew they were only good to use in June, July, and August. Nine other months the pool would take up space and require a certain amount of maintenance. But when I saw a small child enjoying the swimming pool when Sharyn and I were in Florida, I immediately thought of my grandson, Sam, and as Sharyn pointed out the hours of fun we would have with him, I finally gave in. But, using the WAG method, I decided to install a heater with the pool so the water would be warmer than nature was able to make it. That way, I reasoned, we could get an extra month or so out of the pool.

At the same time, also using the WAG method, I decided to air condition the Rainbow Inn.

I had always said, even in the midst of the most severe heat waves, that because I didn't do anything extraordinary to heat the place in the winter, I would likewise do nothing extraordinary to cool the place in the summer. However, when I installed a gas furnace and stopped using the kerosene blowers and the base board electric heat last fall, that statement was no longer true. And once more when my wife pointed out to me how comfortable it would be to sit at our own air conditioned bar, I gave in one more time. And for several days in June before the weather changed and this crazy summer began, she was right. It was comfortable and I bragged about it. Now, just like the pool, the air conditioner just takes up space.

On the bright side, I never looked out the window in which I put the air conditioner; and the pool eliminates about 300 square feet of grass giving me less of a back lawn to cut. That only goes to reinforce the benefits of the WAG method because no matter what decision you make, there are still good and bad outcomes that result.

 Being right is only the point of view on the particular day in time that you ponder the decision you have made. If we have a hot August and an exceptionally warm September, then installing the pool and the air conditioner was a great idea. If not, then I will wait until next year and hope for the worst - an extremely hot summer. Either way the WAG method works and I am able to allay some of the guilt that goes with my decision making process.

It all comes down to negatives and positives and isn't that what life is all about?

So today as you go through your day and you are faced with one decision after another stop and think about how you are employing the WAG method. Your life like mine is nothing more than one WILD ASS GUESS after another. Isn't it?

Comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com. 

JULY 18, 2K

Good morning. It is 59.3 degrees at 6:16 A.M. A cool day in the making and that goes for the rest of the week. At least everyone won't be sweltering in the heat at the Zippo Swap Meet this weekend.

It is Tom Clark time again. I shudder to think what he is stirring up now.

The Cracker Barrel Blues BY TOM CLARK

I'm madder than John Rocker in the middle of a Gay Pride parade. I'm sorry, was that phrase politically incorrect? I'm hoping it was, because that's what I was shooting for. If you are the type of person who is offended by any trace of insensitivity towards racial topics, please exit this website now. 

I miss the days when people wouldn't scrutinize every word and didn't go out of their way to twist comments and/or incidents to find the tiniest trace of questionable reference. Remember the Washington, D.C., official who used the word "niggardly", and was immediately fired because blacks thought he was using a derogatory term? His superiors acted before they found that the word was used in proper context and the guy was rehired.

In Buffalo, the Latinos are up in arms because Rep. John LaFalce blurted out that a meeting, which was running late, was on "Puerto Rican time", a term I've heard used before. Naturally, every Hispanic in the city jumped at the opportunity to shove their bushy moustaches and hairy armpits in front of the news cameras, proclaiming how hurt they were by LaFalce's slip of the tongue.

LaFalce was quick to apologize and all should have been forgotten. But, noooooo, the Latinos don't feel that LaFalce's apology was sincere and want to beat this thing into the ground. If LaFalce's political career didn't depend on support of the public, now would be a good time for him to drop his pants and let the offended pucker up. He screwed up, he apologized, end of story. 

The LaFalce incident pales in comparison to the latest news story that, I'm afraid, will be clogging the front pages for a long time to come. Yes, I'm talking about the infamous news footage of the Philadelphia Police pounding the bejeezus out of a black guy. 

Even though one of the officers who was smacking the guy around was black, along came a quick response from the so-called leaders of the black community that this was an act of racism. 

First came a statement from a representative of the Black Clergy of Philadelphia, followed by some blurbs by a member of the local NAACP. Naturally, the Black Blowhard himself, Reverend Al Sharpton had to chime in with his two cents. Not to be left out, Jesse Jackson had to spew his thoughts.

Hey, boys (Not used as a derogatory remark towards Black men), please get all of the facts before you start the racist crap. This guy stole a car, shot one cop and bit another, then stole a police cruiser. Black, white, blue or brown, this guy should have been pounded. What do you want the cops to do, give him a doughnut?

Unfortunately, the incident comes a week before the convening of the Republican National Convention in Philly. This means that the city will probably be swamped with activists that want to bring police brutality and the worn out racism issue into the national limelight. Which also means that the media will play it out to the max.

It's funny how it works that, if a Caucasian guy sticks up for whites, the blacks consider him a racist. No one would dare start a chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of White People. There are far more racist blacks than whites and they exploit the issue whenever they can without fear of repercussion. 

Another national story serves as a perfect example of reverse racism, which also involves Jesse Jackson. A 17 year old black teenager was found hung to death in a tree in Mississippi last month, and immediately the black community proclaimed it a white lynching. Upon autopsy reports and statements from the dead kid's girlfriend, officials announced the death was a suicide, without a doubt. 

Jesse Jackson, who has done his race more evil than good, refuses to believe the evidence and wants a federal investigation. He's on his soap box proclaiming that it's another case of White vs. Black and that this was a crime against "his people".

I'm tired of it. Jackson, Sharpton and Louis Farrakhan are menaces to society and the media shouldn't allow these guys "face time" to promote their racist beliefs.
When the black guy in Pittsburgh went nuts recently and killed five white people, how many Caucasian activists cried out against racism? Zero. You didn't see Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson call a news conference to bring attention to the plight of the White Man and the injustices against him. 

When I was working as a supervisor for Delta Air Lines in Tampa, I fired a black guy who was constantly late or blowing off work. When he was there, he was lazy, defiant and hostile to his co-workers. When I fired him, the first thing out of his mouth was, "It's because I'm black, right?" 

No, Holmes, it's because you are a worthless slouch. Of course, my manager got a call from the National Labor Relations Board, the NAACP wanted to investigate, blah blah blah. I can't begin to add up the hours my manager and I wasted on this. I once fired a white guy for less reasons and that's the last we heard from him. 

If minorities want to be considered as equals, which they should, let's draw a line that everyone toes on an even basis. Otherwise, if organizations like the NAACP want to continue their veiled promotion of reverse racism against Caucasians, we should pay closer attention to black-on-white crimes and throw it back in their faces. 

I am, wholeheartedly, for the peaceful coexistence of all people. But, it's a little tough to maintain that belief when, every time a minority is beaten, killed or jailed, someone from their race has to jump up and denounce White Guys as evil and an injustice has been done to their entire race. 

You may send your comments to me at tcclark@2-cool.com. 'Til next week...

Your comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com. 

JULY 17, 2K

Sounding more like us

Good morning. It is 60.5 degrees at 6:01 A.M. I hope you all had a good weekend. Mine was great.

Reading the Error on-line is interesting. It is particularly interesting today because they ran a column that appeared in Saturday's paper as a news story. Ironically, it is very similar to what Tom Clark and I were both saying last week. And evidently ten of you thought so on Saturday and Sunday because you all e-mailed me the column.

Column: Downtown area dragged down By JIM ECKSTROM/News editor is on line today.

While Tom calls them "mutants," Mr. Eckstrom called them "a slovenly group of younger people." Probably a better choice of words, but in many cases Tom is correct. Most of their parents are related in more ways than one. And I guess by saying that, one of our readers will take exception because she wrote to me complaining of the negative writing last week.

Bud,

You know, I used to make sure I read your column everyday, but now I'm lucky if I go to it once a week as your increasing negativity is getting old.  I thought it was fun to visit the MLR site daily, but now I have changed my mind.  (That's a woman's prerogative, you know.)  I keep thinking to myself, especially when Tom Clark(?) writes his columns, "If you have hate it so much there, why stay?"  I got the heck out of dodge and am glad that I did so.  All that bitching and moaning is taking years off of your life.  Controversy and investigation is one thing and you do it well, when you do it.....but the plain bitching and name calling is tacky and just plain low.  I thought you were better than that.

And that is a point well taken looking at this from the outside in. When you are on the inside and do an examination, that becomes a totally different story.

Mr. Eckstrom must have felt so when he described the events that surrounded an outdoor concert given last Thursday. 

"Another guy, tall and vaguely menacing with torn and dirty clothes, shambled through the crowd. He was straight out of "One Who Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and the older ladies he loomed over did their best to pretend they didn't see him."

Was he describing the mental patients Tom and I wrote about last week that are appearing on our streets ever so much more frequently? 

Perhaps Mr. Eckstrom should investigate the CHIPS Program CEM (Cameron, Elk, and McKean Mental Health/Mental Retardation) has brought to us. We have become a Warren State Mental Hospital satellite WITHOUT FENCES. They are on the streets roaming freely so the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania can save money. It is a cottage industry for Bradford.

And he sounded most familiar when he wrote: "As I was walking back to the office I said to myself: That, in a nutshell, is why it's so hard to promote Downtown Bradford."

That Jim, and the fact that all too many people, including yourself, are not paid anywhere near a living wage here, either. Tom and I both said that last week. 

While you were pointing to the "drooling creature who scratches himself in an indiscreet manner," and the "troupe of teenage mothers, with tattoos on their shoulders and ankles, pushing strollers and spewing an endless stream of cigarette smoke and f-word this and f-word that," perhaps you should have gone into the economics of it all. We did. We talked about taxes (some of the highest in the state) and the fact that saying that it is cheaper to live here is nothing but a big line of bunk. And we talked about how the people are asleep and just go along with whatever they are told by your paper. 

Is that what you meant when you said: "Few are willing to discuss this publicly"?

Does that mean you have joined us or is this some feeble attempt to get City Council to pass the legislation you suggest in your article? Is that what we need? Do we need more laws or less of these people being supported by our tax dollars and being allowed to roam free?

It might be time to tell the people the truth. And the truth is that Bradford, Pennsylvania is a dumping ground for the state. No. We don't have Low Level Nuclear Waste yet. Larry Stratton hasn't been able to pull that one off, but he certainly endorsed bringing these people here and that may be just as detrimental. Look into that and then tell the people why the guy you described as being "straight out of "One Who Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" is here. Go ahead and tell that story.

No doubt your column will be submitted to the Pennsylvania Newspaper Association and nominated for a Keystone Award. Perhaps you will even win. Great! But you like Tom and I aren't doing anything and all the columns in the world are not worth one hoot. No one cares! 

Those people are here by design and they are necessary so the City God-Fathers can call this place a city instead of a borough. Warren has long since gotten over that. But have you ever gone to Warren for an event? You should sometime.

What you would find is a very marked difference in the two towns. Warren is clean while Bradford is not. Warren has a Main Street (Pennsylvania Avenue) that does not have any vacant store fronts. Count the ones in Bradford! And Warren does not have the sorts you describe. Why? 

Because they are all here and we need them to support the not so few jobs they produce caring for them. Once you get past Zippo and the refinery, the health care industry, in particular the mental health care industry, is the big employer. Forget their personal lot in life, this is a fact of life for us. And as I was told, if I didn't like it I should move somewhere else. Perhaps you should, too. Either that or hold your nose and close your ears. More are on the way.

Comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com. 

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