By Chief Mark J. Corr, Lexington Police Department  |  As a new officer fresh out of the police academy in 1983, one of the more difficult chores was serving arrest warrants for red light and speeding violations. I would go knock on doors and take residents into custody for the non payment of a $20 fine. Frankly, I found these assignments embarrassing.

Today, a traffic violation is a civil violation and the non payment of a ticket will adversely impact your driver’s license or registration. Decriminalization of traffic laws did not give motorists the privilege to violate traffic regulations and endanger public safety. Speeding and driving through red lights is still unlawful. Possession of less than one ounce of marijuana was decriminalized in Massachusetts in 2008. I often overhear people talking about “legally” possessing marijuana.

In one police report, a parent told officers that her16-year old son told her it was legal to possess marijuana in Massachusetts. It is troubling to me how many youths and adults do not understand the meaning of decriminalization.

The possession and use of marijuana is unlawful. Smoking marijuana is a health hazard. Most users have no idea where or how their marijuana was grown and contamination of product is common; some dealers add other drugs to their product. Tobacco companies were not the only ones who understood that a more potent smoke could promote an addiction.

A 2007 survey by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration found that drug use (as reported by the motorists) was as high as 16%; see the NHTSA web-site for more information. Surveys from around the nation tend to show that marijuana continues to be the gateway drug that many youths take before going on to use more serious drugs.

School Resource Officer Matthew Murphy is noticing a trend whereby students, new from the middle schools, seem more inclined to try marijuana than their older siblings. They cite the change in the law for their inclination to try marijuana. In our region, one ounce of marijuana can cost over $400 for 42 to 56 joints (using .75 to .50 ounce per joint).

Whereas distributing marijuana is still a criminal offense; the decriminalization of possession has made it more difficult to prevent a very lucrative business of selling smaller amounts of marijuana. Dealers are meticulously aware of the amount they should possess to avoid criminal possession. I could discuss at length the failure of the current drug laws, or cite many more examples of the hazards of marijuana use.

With the limited exception of a few who benefit from medical marijuana, I will simply say that the possession of marijuana is unlawful and smoking is unhealthy.

That morning, my husband and I had been trying to scare each other with plans for strict diets when we realized one of us needed to drive our daughter back to her college in western Mass. I thought I saw his eyes tear up a bit as we stared each other down by the garage door. I blinked, and before I could say “Framingham” I was in a bumper-to-bumper quagmire on I-90. The Pike before or after a long weekend is no place for a lady, or a gentleman, really.

My daughter and I passed the time arguing about which music to listen to, and imagining all sorts of life stories for our fellow travelers as they zoomed and inched by us—depending on the mood of the Beast that had us in its grip. In the left lane, a banged up, formerly white Camry full of sleepy college students revved up and screeched to a stop every minute or so. The driver always woke up in time to avoid what had seemed to be, until moments before, a sure collision. On our right, an older couple crept up beside us at precise intervals. The husband held the steering wheel in a deadly embrace while his wife rocked loosely side-to-side in the passenger’s seat, snug in her seat belt, fast asleep, head lolling around, mouth wide open. The old man shot her worried looks now and then but never let go of the wheel. One SUV after another carried New York and New Jersey families back home after the long weekend at Grandma’s. A kid stuck his tongue out at us and we all laughed like idiots. Cars sliced in and out of lanes whenever an extra foot of space opened up, each driver sure this lane was better. I think we hit 30 a few times. Hours passed. We grew tired of music and conversation. My hands felt numb on the wheel.

Finally, the lady inside my GPS announced we’d arrived at our destination. I helped my daughter unpack, enjoyed two really powerful hugs, and, after studying a real map, belted myself in. “Text me when you get home,” my daughter said, and I smiled at the sound of my words in her mouth.

I felt renewed after those hugs. Plus, on the way in, the last section of the Pike had cleared up a bit in both directions. Besides, I had a Plan B for the ride home that involved Rte 20, even though it dipped in the wrong direction at one point. I’d have to be alert for my exit —this stretch of the Pike is unforgiving, the exits light-years apart. But I felt hopeful when I rolled onto the highway.

At first, traffic flowed sweetly along, but soon the headless Beast reared up again, tangling every car, bus and 18-wheeler into a crunched knot of exhausted metal and rubber. My sciatic nerve woke up just then and hammered its way from my lower back, down my right leg and into my foot. Where was that exit for 20? I searched for new music, something inspiring.

In the darkness, just past Springfield, I crested a hill and looked east into the night. The ruby taillights of a million stopped cars sprinkled over the long black road ahead. On my left, the diamond lights of the oncoming cars were thick, but at least moving. Somehow, those moving white lights boosted my hope. And I heard Elvis sing,

“Since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell. Well it’s down at the end of Lonely Street, it’s the… Heartbreak Hotel…”

I felt something soften inside me as I sang out, loud and ugly, protected by darkness, glad the other drivers couldn’t see me as I surrendered to the Beast, to the lurching trucks and the angry tour busses, to the night and to the unavoidable heartbreak of the road ahead.

Ana Hebra Flaster is a freelance writer and Lexington resident. Ana’s work has been featured on NPR and the Boston Globe.

 

 

By Chief Mark J. Corr,
Lexington Police Department

“Off the Blotter” is an opportunity to share what is happening here in Lexington and in your neighborhood. New Year’s Day is always a good time to make a resolution to change a habit or do something different. Please consider adding one or more of the following to your list of resolutions:

#1 – I will lock my car doors. In 2011, Lexington had 131 cars entered unlawfully with approximately 90% of these vehicles unlocked. The reported loss of property in 2011 from cars was nearly $10,000. Locked doors discourage thieves.

#1A – I will not leave valuables in my car. Do not tempt a thief by leaving in plain view a laptop, briefcase, purse or other electronic devices.

#2 – I will not drive a car while impaired. Alcohol, unlawful and prescription drugs can significantly impair your ability to drive safely. Drive sober, save a life.

#3 – I will put my phone down. Motorists and pedestrians, while preoccupied with mobile phones or texting, endanger themselves and others. Massachusetts law prohibits texting while driving. Although not prohibited by law, cell phone use is a distraction. If you must make a call, pull to the side of the road and do so safely.

#4 – I will buy a shredder and use it often. Pre-approved credit card applications, old receipts and tax records should be destroyed. Credit card fraud and ID theft is more likely to happen if you don’t protect your private information.

#5 –I will learn to use the internet safely. The internet is a terrific asset to many who use it for on-line banking, shopping and entertainment. Unfortunately, the internet is used by hackers and those who specialize in scams. There is no Doctor Ngunu seeking to transfer $5 million USD to a bank near you.

#6 – I will take time to be patient. Each day, police officers respond to crash scenes, customer disputes and family disturbances. These are often avoidable if one or more individuals were a little more patient, yielded the right of way, or took a moment to avoid saying something inflammatory.

#7 – I will use my seat belt and I will always use a car seat for small children and infants. Let 2012 bring good luck, good cheer and good health to our community.

Maybe a lot of people have a secret irrational fear of pressure cookers. Maybe I’m not alone.

I grew up in a large extended Cuban-American family, with multiple generations of relatives, and dogs, and cousins, and assorted friends milling around our tiny kitchen every day. My grandmother was always in the middle of the maelstrom, guarding our ever-hissing pressure cooker while it bobbled and shimmied on the stovetop. Abuela would shuffle between the sink and the stove, trying not to trip over us—or our enormous German shepherd—as we all chased after each other, searching for snacks in the cupboards, or begging her to make us more café con leche. Like we needed caffeine. “¡Cuidado con la olla de presión! Abuela would warn. Be careful of the pressure cooker! ¡Va a explotar! It’ll explode!

A few years ago my mother gave my sister and me pressure cookers for Christmas. “I’m afraid of those things,” my sister told me later when we were alone. “They’re a lot safer now,” my mother called to us from the living room. Her hearing was always excellent.

I planned to avoid the cooker as long as possible, but within a few weeks my mother asked me to bring one of our family’s favorite dishes to our next dinner together. Ropa Vieja, old clothes, is best prepared using a pressure cooker, so I knew my time was up. I’d only savored this dish, a wonderful mix of garlic, green pepper, tomato and shredded beef so tender it melts in your mouth in a swirl of flavor. Now I’d have to follow my mother’s famously incomplete cooking directions and survive the maiden voyage with my new pressure cooker.

I read the owner’s manual. I prepared the ingredients. Placed them in the pot. Consulted the manual one last time. Reassured, I lowered the heavy, long-handled lid over the cooker and rotated the lid counter clockwise to lock it into place. What was that? Something caught too early in the turn. Was it the rubber ring inside the lid? That little yellow thingy on top? I couldn’t move the handle—forward or backward. The lid was stuck, wedged at a peculiar angle unlike any of the cute drawings in the manual.

Now what? I had about $25 worth of meat and other ingredients in the pot and a family dinner to go to. At least it couldn’t explode… Right?

Maybe there was a tech support number for this thing. I checked the manual. No. On the box? No. Online? Nothing, only business numbers. I rifled through the manual again and at the end, in the tiniest script, I saw something: a phone number for an office in Texas somewhere.

The nice woman on the other end listened and said, “Hold on, honey. I can’t help you but I think someone else can.”

After a few minutes, the line rang at anther extension. A new woman’s voice came on the line.

“Um, do you have a rubber mallet?” she whispered.

“No.” I whispered back.

“I’m not really supposed to be telling people what to do with their cookers…”

I pleaded with her. “Look, I’ve got all this meat in there, and I’m supposed to bring this to a dinner tonight. I swear I won’t tell a soul you helped me. Can’t you just—”

“Okay, okay… Go get a thick towel, wrap it around a hammer, you know, with an elastic?” Whisper Lady was back.

 “Don’t hang up, okay?”

 “Uh uh.”

I ran around kitchen gathering equipment. Hammer. Check. Elastic. Check. Dishtowels. Check! “I’m back,” I whispered.

“Now, hold the cooker with one hand, and bang the handle gently but not too gently up and back, like you’re pushing it back to where you started. That should do it.” Whisper Lady’s voice was soft but intense.

“I’m putting you on speaker. Don’t hang up,” I told her and put the receiver on the counter.

“I won’t.”

I banged my “mallet” at the handle. I pried at the lid. Nothing. I banged on the lid again. Nothing. Wh– what was that whistling sound?

“Yoohoo!”

“Was that you?” I asked the receiver.

“Honey, you’re not hitting it hard enough. I can hear it from here. Really get in there.”

“Okay.” I aimed my weapon and banged on the lid again, hard.

“Harder!” Whisper Lady’s voice rushed out of the receiver. “Hard!”

I picked up the mallet, squinted at the lid’s handle, and swung hard at it, up at an angle. Pop! Something let go, and, with the lightest push, the lid sprung apart.

The intrepid woman in accounting, or purchasing, or wherever, and I celebrated for a minute or two—quietly, of course—and then she guided me through the proper way to close the lid. She sent me on my way with encouraging words.

The rest of the cooking went flawlessly that afternoon, and the Ropa Vieja was a hit. But the next time I used a little more vino seco, dry white wine, one of Abuela’s go-to ingredients, and got even better results.

I still look at my pressure cooker with a mixture of fear and respect. It yields the tastiest foods, in mysterious ways, and reminds me of the kind woman in Texas, and of the women in my family, especially the one whose voice I can hear sometimes when the cooker begins to hiss, !Cuidado! Be careful! I will, I tell my Abuela. I will.

 

Ana Hebra Flaster is a freelance writer and Lexington resident. Ana’s work has been featured on NPR and the Boston Globe.

 

I stared at my neighbor for a moment trying to remember why I’d rung his doorbell that hot Indian summer afternoon. Two o’clock, 90-something degrees, humidity so high the air felt like plastic wrap on wet skin. Living creatures everywhere were hunting for a cool spot to sink into, a mud hole for wallowing, a place to nap. That was it, a nap. Based on the height and spread of the cowlick sticking up on the back of my neighbor’s head, that’s just what he’d been in the middle of doing. His droopy lids fluttered as he raised his eyebrows up, up—desperate to appear alert.  

 “I … was just doing some work out back,” he lied. His right eyelid slid back down from the supreme effort of speaking.

“Oh, uh. Look,” I said, “I found this in my mail.” I handed him his letter and, after we agreed the heat would kill us all if it didn’t break soon, I walked back along my side of the street. In the buzzing, insect-infested air a question kept circling in my head: Why, why are Northeasterners embarrassed to admit they nap? Sure, some ‘fess up, but you have to dig deep to find them, and they’ll usually blame lingering maladies, a bum back, toe nail fungus, anything but admit to the basic, ancient human preference for a bi-phasic sleep cycle.

Well, I’m not afraid to say it: my name is Ana and I’m a napper.  Is anything more delicious than succumbing—once you’re home, safety first!—to the sleepiness that creeps in during a drive down Route 3 on a frozen winter afternoon, a low-hung sun warm on your face? Or at the orthodontist, waiting for your son’s multi-hour wiring appointment to wrap up? I’m not the only one who’s dozed off there, nestled in the corner across from the fish tank. The worn spot on the wall proved other parents had gone down hard after staring too long at the clown fish.

Napoleon, Churchill and Clinton napped.  Einstein napped, and we all know the guy killed at the chalkboard.  By now the sheer number of studies proving the benefits of napping—from lowered heart risk to better productivity—should leave all of us wistful for our couches. Why fight it?

In my native country of Cuba, as in Spain and all of South America, napping is not the sign of moral decrepitude it is in the North. Siestas are a necessary part of life and nothing to hide. People “guard” a napping person’s sleep with a respect that approaches the sacred. I once saw a cardboard sign on a wrought iron fence in the old part of Havana with this unabashed announcement: “Please do not disturb me. I am lying down.” It was 2 o’clock, hot as hell, and at least one living creature had softened to the ancient human call for a midday repose.

 

Ana Hebra Flaster is a freelance writer and Lexington resident. Ana’s work has been featured on NPR and the Boston Globe.