Cazual Conversation

Just when there was little hope of an Olympic miracle, along came Paraguay.

Turned off by synchronized diving and poor judging and a hair’s breath away from playing online majong, this viewer suddenly was captivated by the javeline competition.

It’s hard to describe the draw, but it was immediate and powerful. Paraguay, in particular, was ready to take on the big boys.

 Paraguay’s Leryn Franco carries the javeline for Paraguay, we carry the torch for her.

Go Paraguay!

It gives one a feeling of confidence to so easily pick up interests in new sports, something in which I take pride.

Until last year, I was no fan of Indy racing. But that changed.

Kind of like a couple of years ago when I suddenly developed an interest in tennis.

Beach volleyball is a real possibility for 2012.

Surely the Squallers were jesting.

There was absolutely no way on God’s green earth that synchronized diving was an Olympic Sport. Heck, we can barely accept synchronized swimming.

But there they were last night, the loneliest people on the earth paired off like siamese twins separated at birth to perform for the masses.

There’s certainly nothing goofy about synchronized diving 

 I say lonely because there is no other explanation for what would drive someone to pursue that as a sport.

And I say lonely because as a youth, I could hang out with football players, soccer players, chess players and maybe even the math team, but you would never, ever, ever, ever, ever catch me hanging with the synchronized divers.

But what do I know about it? Not much, frankly, because about five minutes into the show the two Chinese divers embraced in their speedos and I was done.

It at least made it a bit clearer why they all insist on showering after each dive.

The newspaper today told me me three people have drowned in separate incidents in turbulent waters stirred up by storms despite officials’ warnings to use caution.

Yet no one is alarmed, no one is calling for government intervention, and no one seems to be blaming anyone but the unfortunate swimmers’ choices.

This could be because I’m in New Hampshire at the moment and the drownings above happened here. While I don’t give Yankees credit for much, they get credit for this: they are pragmatic. The general consensus is the three folks who drowned in rivers swollen from recent rain were there despite warnings, and no one is looking to parcel out blame.

Reading the News Herald online at www.newsherald.com, I see three people drowned off our beaches, making it about 10 for the year. Almost all went in during red or double-red flag conditions, and some were verbally warned as well.

Yet when their persistence or lack of awareness leads to a drowning, the cries rise for the government to levy taxes of pull money out the sky and provide lifeguards.

Sadly, it won’t prove effective even if lifeguards were in place, I’m afraid. Panama City Beach’s offshore conditions appear unique, from the dual-sandbar system to the affects of dredging to wave action.

At what price do we decide to save people from themselves?

We on one hand demand law enforcement do something about it, then complain when they ask for the ordinances they need to force people out of the water. We accuse them of doing nothing, or of being too intrusive.

Lifeguards, presumably, would have no more authority to force people out of rough waters than the cops do now. If they are going to be given that authority via ordinance, why not give it now to the existing beach and surf patrols?

Here in New Hampshire, it seems that the fact that people drown or fall off rocks is a matter of course.

The three New Hampshire drownings - one involved an out-of-state visitor - involved people slipping off rocks at popular swimming spots. There is no talk of dynamiting the rocks, closing them to the public, or militarizing them with police.

While I still hold them responsible for the War of Northern Aggression, the fierce independence and self-accountability of New Englanders is something from which we can learn.

LAKE WINNIPESAUKEE, N.H. - The thermometer on the porch overlooking the lake reads 78 degrees, the humidity is about minus 7, it is one of the busiest tourism weekends here, and there are only six boats on the water.

Two of those are kayaks.

It’s refreshing to have the lake to ourselves. And it’s refreshing to know the economic woes (but let’s not call it a recession) we face in Florida are not isolated.

It’s not to wish problems upon others, though there is company in misery.

This time last year on our annual vacation to New Hampshire, we could barely cross the lake for the plethora of boats and Waverunners. It’s 10:30 a.m., and the boat count isnow down to three from our vantage point on the front porch.

The conversation at the breakfast table last year as we gathered - my uncle and aunt, my mother, my sister and brother-in-law and their three children, and the boy and I - centered around whether we were boating, skiing or going to the Weirs if the weather was poor.

This morning our host, Uncle Bob, a retired developer who got out when the getting out was good and did well enough to be able to host all of us again this year, talked about indictments. He talked about the developer and attorneys and bankers facing prison in Sarasota, where my uncle keeps his winter home, for real estate fraud involving property flipping.

On the porch, as I write this, we are debating the price of gas and drilling in Anwar and off the coast of Florida. A year ago, this would have been an even argument. Today, my mother the staunch democrat is the lone vocal dissenter, though her husband is putting on a show of agreeing.

The house next to my uncles on the lake is up for sale for $12 million or so. It will sell, he says.

“The people living on this island are affected differently than most people,” he said.

The rich get richer, which is great if you are the rich, or related to them.

It’s a pretend week for us. Pretending we could afford to fly here (the tickets were a gift), pretending we have a waverunner so new and big that it can hold me while I pull a skier, pretending that we have the means to hop onto my uncle’s expensive, gas-guzzling boat and motor over to the Weirs for ice cream each night.

For this week, at least, we have the means. We’ll worry about next week later.

Meanwhile, we’ve moved the debate to nuclear power plants.

I can handle it when my University of Georgia Bulldogs - GO DAWKS! SIC ‘EM, WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF! - stumble slightly on the grid iron or academically.

But what the heck is going on when we are surpassed by the University of Florida ‘Gators on the nation’s ranking of party schools. Sure, we’re still in the Top 10 (much to UGA officials’ dismay).

But we’ve been surpassed by the Gators in the 2008 rankings. Worse yet, UF finished first.

(ABOVE: My redneck brother-in-law, sister, and me about 60 pounds and two years ago). 

This would not have happened in 1981-82, when I crammed one quarter’s worth of classes into a full academic year.

They were the glory days. I offer these points for consideration:

* The first fraternity “rush” party I attended was raided by the police, who arrested the prostitutes brought in from Atlanta to peform, for a fee of course.

* Herschel Walker, the greatest college running back ever, was a freshman. Dominique Wilkins, the greatest dunker ever, was a junior. I had English with Herschel and once was in the same elevator with Dominique.

*  It snowed that fall, and we rode dinner trays, bicycles and canoes down the center of the steeped road outside Russell Dorm.

* REM was making news out of Athens, the B-52s released Rock Lobster, and the Swimming Pool Qs were better than both at the time on the Athens bar scene.

* You not only could smuggle liquor in via a pint in your sock, you were kicked out if found to NOT be smuggling alcohol into the game.

A loyal Bulldog, I won’t abandon the school over this one failure. But I’ll be watching closely next year.

Mark and Cil Schnitker grappled with grief Thursday, explaining their decision to donate organs from their 19-year-old son, Ben, who died after a car wreck.

“Right now there are families rejoicing,” Mark Schnitker told The News Herald. “It was a gift my son would have wanted to give.”

The family of four - who probably never heard of the Schnitkers - at The Waffle Shop on 23^rd Street near Jenks Avenue Thursday were not among the rejoicing. The father didn’t think there was an appropriate amount of sausage in his sausage-and-gravy biscuit mix.

“It says ‘sausage gravy’ on the menu,” he complained to a waiter, who had to be wondering just how much you can put up with for hourly wage plus tips. “Where’s my sausage?”

It’s in the gravy, the waiter patiently explained. The father uttered a mixed sigh/grunt under his breath, and ended up asking for another order or two of sausage.

Ben Schnitker was in a wreck Sunday night. He was coming home from a video conference in Orlando. He fell asleep at the wheel and his vehicle hit a stand of trees.

The 2007 Arnold graduate received a Bright Futures Scholarship and was studying digital media at Gulf Coast Community College.

“Ben was loved, not only for his sense of humor, but also for his caring about other people,” his mother said.

The family of four at The Waffle Shop ordered more food, concerned about the size of the servings. The father and son at the next table, unable as a team to even finish one portion of an omelette, moved away to counter seats a safe distance from the family.

The waiter, who spent time talking to the father and son and stopped by more than enough times to keep the coffee warm and full, could not please the family of four.

“We’ll have more sausage,” the father ordered.

There was little conversation between the family members.

The Schnitkers talked Thursday, openly and honestly. Their son was not wearing his seatbelt, which was unlike him. A passenger was, and the passenger survived.

The family asked that others learn from that, and pleaded with anyone reading the story to use their seatbelts. They spoke about the six people already benefitting from the donations, like the 54-year-old North Florida man who received a new heart.

They said they hoped to meet some of these recipients one day, perhaps the person who will gain sight from their son’s eyes.

“It was God’s way of using Ben in a way that others will see,” Mark Schnitker said. “We’re thankful to have had him for 19 years.”

There was no demand for explanation from Schnitkers.

The party of four at The Waffle Shop, though, needed some explanation about the bill and there was no thanks in sight. The bill had come to $31 or so for a family of four.

The waiter explained each order of sausage cost money, it’s not a buffet, and that a $5 omelette is a $5 omelette, but when you start adding side orders off the menu, the charge on the menu is generally the charge on the bill. But he said it nicer than that.

“We won’t be back,” the father told the waiter. “That’s too much money for a waffle shop. Let’s go,” he directed the brood.

They trudged quietly out, on to the next adventure, we’re sure.

We know what kind of day the Schnitkers were having, and we saw the grace with which they handled it. They had, some would argue, very good reason to be angry with the powers that be, and they did not show it.

There’s no way to know what the family of four went through that day that might have led up to their night out. They had no way of knowing what kind of night the waiter was having.

They had little reason to be angry with the waiter or the restaurant, but there they were, pulling others into their misery.

And that’s kind of the point. We make choices throughout our day that affect others. We can choose to make someone’s day better, or worse, through the simplest of actions.

You read the Schnitkers’ story and you feel some hope, that maybe enough people are headed in the right direction to offset the ones who will never be satisfied.

The gift of life is available to all who seek it.

Proper scooter use vs. improper scooter use 

The only thing standing between me and humiliation in the form of a scooter is the 4-year-old.

That’s how bad it is, with gas hovering around $4 a gallon - cheaper than milk, still - and the economy in a nosedive.

Pre-recession, or whatever this is, the sight of a man on a scooter in traffic brought two reactions from me: anger that he would dare take up my road space, and perhaps a sigh as I wondered why the man couldn’t afford a real vehicle.

Now it brings a look of envy and a desire to own one. But the 4-year-old needs to remain safe, and very safe he is in the mighty KIA.

If I start feeling envious of the bicyclists, that will be cause for alarm.

Twice in the last month, the Hells Angels have made the front page of the News Herald.

Paul Stevens kicked it off when he ran an ad in the paper recruiting members for a Florida chapter out of Bay County. In the process, he declared he’d be selling Hells Angels T-shirts, etc. He described a kinder, softer Hells Angels.

The response from angry Hells Angels was swift as the story made its way across the country, as was the response from some readers.

“I’m trying to understand why you are giving the HELLS ANGELS all the paper time,” wrote a man who said he is a “retired peace officer.” “These people are no good I can tell you from experience.”

Folks claming affiliation with the Hells Angels also frowned upon Stevens’ declaration and the resulting publicity. They said he is not a bona fide Angel.

“Mike, having been a member of the Ventura Hells Angels for the over 30 years, I can assure you Paul Stevens is not a member or never has been,” one man wrote. “Whether he is looking for his fifteen minutes of fame or not been taking his medication on a regular basis remains to be seen.” This weekend, two men sporting Hells Angels colors showed up at Stevens house to serve paperwork on him. The Sheriff’s Office was called out and a report generated.

This is news. It is not about glorifying or villifying the Hells Angels, it’s just news.

About the time a man was attacking two women in their beach condo Tuesday, 13-year-old Melinda Denise Hinson was readying to take her neighbor’s dog for a walk at the Valu-Lodge on the west end of U.S. 98.

There are two things we know that happened before Tuesday turned to Wednesday: Matthew Lee Caylor, 33, was arrested on a charge of assaulting the beach women, and Melinda was murdered, her body hidden in Caylor’s room at the Valu-Lodge until a maid found it Thursday morning.

All of this was reported in Friday’s News Herald, along with a story about death row inmate James Card’s latest appeal on a brutal Panama City murder he committed 27 years ago.

You can only pray that if Caylor is held responsible for Melinda’s murder, her family doesn’t have to agonize for 27 years as the man who took their child plays our judicial system.

Sheriff’s deputies said two women were attacked in their Beach condo around 4 p.m. Tuesday. Police said Caylor was invited inside. We don’t know if the women knew Caylor long, or at all, but likely did not know he was a convicted sex offender from Georgia.

Caylor tried to lure one of the women to a back bedroom. She refused, and he attacked.

Caylor, armed with an 8-inch knife, attempted to bind the women with duct tape and demanded money, deputies said. The women yelled for help, and Caylor fled.

It’s not hard to imagine that their condo was a hive of law enforcement activity as Melinda prepared to walk a neighbor’s dog at the Valu-Lodge just a few miles to the east to earn a few dollars.

Whatever the circumstances that led to Melinda living at the Valu-Lodge with her parents, they likely were not pleasant. It is not where you would aim to get in life, and it’s not what you would consider pleasant, but it is what people have to do to survive and do the best they can to provide for their children.

Panama City police are familiar with the west U.S. 98 location, having handled knifings and fights and various other nefarious activities that are more indicative of that general area than the Valu-Lodge in particular.

Melinda made the best of it and found particular joy in walking the dog and taking advantage of the pool.

Caylor moved in about two weeks ago.

Everything else is supposition as this is written, but the mind heads down frightening paths, picturing an agitated sex offender fleeing a failed attack and arriving home to find Melinda out and about. She was reported missing at 6 p.m. Tuesday, about two hours after the attack on the beach.

Police were at the hotel around 7 p.m. taking a report that is all too common: A young teen wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

The area was searched. A check of the hotel’s registration, one presumes, would have shown Caylor’s name, and a check of that would’ve shown he was a sex offender and a wanted felon in Georgia. We don’t know, as of now, if Melinda was already dead at that point, her body hidden in the room, or if that would come later.

We do know that sheriff’s deputies investigating the condo attack were able, with help from one of the victims, to lure Caylor to a local supermarket. When deputies tried to arrest him, he fled in a car that was later learned to be stolen out of Georgia.

Investigators learned he was staying at the Value-Lodge, but this was early Wednesday morning and a bulletin about the missing girl from the same hotel had not yet been issued.

So Caylor sat in jail, Melinda’s family wondered where their little girl was, and a trucker was checking into the room at the Valu-Lodge where Melinda’s body had been hidden. He slept through the night and checked out, with no idea.

Around 1 a.m. Thursday, Panama City police issued a news release about the missing girl to get it on the early morning TV news and online. Later that morning, a maid went into the trucker’s room to prepare it for the next guest.
Neighbors heard the maid scream.

For today, Card and Caylor sit in the Bay County Jail, the same place Card arrived at 27 years ago after robbing, kidnapping and murdering Janis Franklin at a Western Union office.

Franklin was 41, Card was 35. He has grown old on Death Row, and is now 61.

He deserves no such stay, and neither does Melinda’s killer.