`Life' asks us to make peace with past before it's too late

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`Life' asks us to make peace with past before it's too late

It isn't a flawless movie, but it's powerful. "My Life" is about a man, diagnosed with terminal cancer, who decides to make a video for his unborn child so the child will know his father.

The man, who has about four months to live, sets a camera on a tripod, sits in front of it and talks, hesitantly at first, uncomfortable before the mechanical eye.

After a while, the process gets easier and he begins to record everything. He reads a Dr. Seuss book to his unborn son. He teaches him to shave. He demonstrates the correct way to walk into a room, not self-consciously but with confidence.

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Capital meanness claims a victim

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It has been weeks now since Vincent Foster, President Clinton's boyhood friend, put a loaded gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

His death rocked Washington.

Few could believe, or wanted to believe, that every-day life in the nation's capital could be so mean-spirited that it would drive a man to suicide.

And so the news stories were speculative, rife with unanswered questions.

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Fate takes the next step

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Fate takes the next step

In the morning, the gully between the trees into which the car had plunged, seems smaller than it did at midnight. I drive past and am amazed that an automobile fit in that spot, never mind landed there. A few inches either way, and the driver would have been hurt, might have been killed. The car windshield was smashed, the front end shattered; but the driver emerged unscathed. She'd been wearing a seat belt, and an angel no doubt was sitting beside her.

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Drunk drivers steal tomorrow

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Todd was playing in a yard. Kristen was jogging on a country road. Michael was driving to work. Chris was driving home from work. Lisa was getting in her car. Michelle was crossing the street. All of them children. All of them alive one minute, dead or soon to be dead the next.

Christopher Baldwin, 19, back home in Somerset after his first year of college, was rollerblading last Sunday night when he was killed. Police say a 1985 Camaro struck him from behind, pitched him onto the car's roof and hurled him into a stone wall.

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There is only one true justice for cold-blooded killers: death

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They come and they go - the murdered and the murderers. They fill the front page for a day or two. They lead the nightly news. And then they disappear.

The next day brings different faces, but the same story, the same tragedies.

You think, at the time, I will remember this one. I will remember Kimberly Ray Harbor and Charles Serjeant and Melissa Benoit and Robyn Dabrowski for the rest of my life.

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Physically, Father Greer wasn't a giant, but spiritually he was

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I expected him to be larger, a Paul Bunyan in clericals, because a man of average height and build couldn't carry the burdens he carries.

I expected him to shimmer, like a glossy photo of a saint, because of the things I carry.

But there he was, a latter-day Pat O'Brien in a white golf sweater, strolling around the sprawling grounds of his church before Mass on a flawless September Sunday, looking remarkably calm and untroubled as he greeted each of his parishioners by name.

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A miracle that came too late

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A miracle that came too late

My friend Anne's daughter died of cystic fibrosis eight-and-a-half years ago. Amy was 11, in the sixth grade, and my daughter Lauren's best friend. We knew Amy was going to die, everyone knew, but we knew it intellectually the way we know that someday we'll grow old, and someday babies not even born yet will have gray hair. We didn't believe it, couldn't imagine it. Someday was theory. Amy's death was an eternity away…

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Faith sustains those Lacey left behind

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I expected him to be angry, furious, out of control. I expected him to be screaming and yelling "Why."

I should have known better. I have never seen him angry. Wounded, puzzled, defeated, yes. But I have never seen hate in his eyes.

Not the first time I met him, shortly after his daughter's death, when I drove to his house and sat on his couch and looked through albums filled with photos of a beautiful, smiling little girl.

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Friends celebrate a life well lived

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They came to talk about their friend. Fifteen women drove from Dorchester to Braintree last Wednesday evening after a day of tending to their children, their homes and their jobs to sit in another friend's home and try to explain to a stranger how special Michelle Kennedy was.

"No matter what was going on in her life, she'd always say, "But what about you? How are you doing?"

"She was always there for me."

"She was my best friend."

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Ordinary people must end Haiti's extraordinary hell

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This isn't what you want to read on a Sunday morning, or on any morning. It's yet another horror story about suffering people thousands of miles away. We don't want to know about any more suffering people. We've got enough problems: not enough money to make ends meet; not enough jobs to go around.

Cities exploding. Hope imploding. Locked doors in the house, even when you're home. Locked doors in the car, even when you drive. No stopping to help anyone; no looking around. People weird, ready to attack. Trouble in the schools; trouble in the streets; homes aren't havens; church doors are locked; Cancer, AIDS, hurricanes. We don't need more problems!

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Looking for someone to blame

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t shouldn't have happened. This is an unarguable fact. Julie Tobin, of West Roxbury, should be alive, not dead.

She was killed on Sept. 6, 1987. The 17-year-old had spent the afternoon at a family reunion of a friend held at Norwood Country Club. Shortly after midnight, she left the reunion on foot and was standing in the breakdown lane of Route 1 talking to some friends in a van when she suddenly ran around the front of the van and onto the road. She was hit by a car and died the next day.

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Children are dying of moral neglect

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The juxtaposition is what struck me. On the front page of The Patriot Ledger last week was a photograph of two women comforting a crying child. The child, 5 years old, had been in a Texas elementary school when a student's father, allegedly upset over his son's grades, burst into the school and began shooting.

Next to this photo was a local story headlined "Schools get tough, suspend more kids." The gist of the article was that public schools are failing kids by suspending them from class. Discipline, state officials said, is getting in the way of learning.

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What's in a name? Plenty it turns out

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Everyone recognized him but no one knew who he was.

"Well-known Quincy man dies unknown," the headline said in Saturday's Patriot Ledger.

The story that followed told of a man who frequented Wollaston's businesses, who, every weekday bought the $1 breakfast special at Newcomb Farms; who, every weekend sat at O'Brien's bakery and drank coffee and ate pastry; who talked with clerks and nodded at passersby and bought scratch tickets at the Hancock Street Pharmacy and even shared, when he won, part of his $400 with the girl who'd sold him his lucky ticket.

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Games and delays are finally over for all in tot's death

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The mood was different Thursday. The defense was contrite instead of confrontational. The game was over. No more winning through intimidation. No more delays and distortions. No more referring to the Oct. 16, 1990, death of 22-month-old Todd Slocum as "an incident which is said to have occurred."

Last month, Robert Donahue pleaded guilty in Middlesex Superior Court to manslaughter, motor vehicle homicide, operating under the influence of alcohol and operating to endanger. One would like to believe that Donahue admitted his guilt, however belatedly, to ease his conscience.

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Loving parents can't save child if tragedy strikes

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Already it's old news, last week's headlines, one more tragedy in a line of never-ending ones.

It wasn't even a lead story. So many people die every day; the death of a small child 3,000 miles away is a huge and horrible personal tragedy for his parents and family and friends.

But it barely affects the people who didn't know him. It may stun us. We may feel for the parents, identify with them, weep for them, but only for a moment. Our grief is temporary.

For that's the way life is. We turn the page. We read another story. We are immersed in our own families, children, worries, responsibilities. Our lives go on.

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Justice hard to find for DUI victims

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It isn't a cloud over her head. Nothing so buoyant, so graceful, so small. It's a weight that she carries. But not like stone. Stone doesn't wrap itself around you; stone doesn't bleed. She carries the weight of a child, her child, 25 pounds, 36 inches, 22 months old.

He had blond hair and a tinkly laugh, and he grew in her womb and even when she was nine months pregnant and heavy, her stomach huge, she felt light compared to how she feels now. Now even her fingernails feel heavy on her hands.

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They just want to save lives - seat belts

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All they want is to get their message to the public.

A cop called to the scene of a fatal car crash, who has to knock at yet another door and tell one more mother, father, husband, wife, that their loved one is dead, doesn't want to do this anymore, wouldn't have to do this with such frequency, if only people would wear seat belts.

His message is this: People don't have to die in car crashes. People don't have to be seriously injured.

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