The Lardner Report

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Today’s Pic: A Child’s Moment of Reflection

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(Pic #1) Lily May Schmidt, age 8, from St Cyril of Jerusalem School in Encino, California, pauses to reflect on the souls lost on 9/11. (Photo by Josh Kaplan)

Like so many others who lost friends when the towers fell on September 11, 2001, I thought of them constantly in the days and weeks that followed. Reporting for Fox5 in New York right before that fateful day, I shared on camera time with firefighters, sanitation workers, and Port Authority officers during live shots all over the city for the morning news.  At least 4 of these extraordinary civil servants I knew lost their lives that day. My FDNY buddy Kevin Hannafin lost his brother Tommy in the attack, and remarkably found and walked out of the rubble with his brother’s fire helmet in hand. He told me it was “the proudest day” of his life.

They say “time heals,” but I find it just puts feelings on hold, until something reminds us what’s still really going on inside. Each year on the anniversary of that horrific day, when the country takes a moment to remember, I feel what I am supposed to feel, and shut the door until the next day of remembrance. I worry ambien that I am losing my connection with the victims I knew — and that maybe the horror of that day (and the lessons we learned from it) might be slipping out of my — and public — consciousness.

But last weekend, I got the message I needed to see — when I took a trip to Pepperdine University overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Malibu, California, where each year they honor the victims and emergency responders who died on 9/11, with a daunting display of 2977 flags poised on the school’s majestic hill.

There, amidst the tourists, the Boy Scouts and the biker dudes, I saw this little girl on her knees — praying, alone — with the most loving expression you could imagine on her face. At age 8, Lily May Schmidt wasn’t even born on 9/11/01. But there she was — kneeling — reflecting — on souls she said  she “wanted to pray for.”

That simple image made me realize we haven’t forgotten. And we can count on the likes of Lily May Schmidt to keep us on track: conscious — and compassionate.

(Pic #2) Los Angeles Boy Scout troop members pause amidst the display. (Photo by Josh Kaplan)

 

The Art of Simple Living

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(Pic #1) Miki Schneider and “Annie” at Lake Cachuma Launch Station

A Chance Encounter with “The Boat Launch Goddess”

I was about two years old the first time I started playing with crayons and paint. Miki Schneider was about two years old the first time her parents took her camping at Lake Cachuma.

50 some years later… I am still futzing with crayons, and paint, and making my living talking about the thing I loved to do when I was a toddler. Miki is making her living talking about the place she fell in love with when she was that age. So I feel a kinship with this woman I only just met for a moment.

(Pic #2) Miki Schneider – on her job: “The view doesn’t suck.”

Our paths crossed this weekend in the middle of a quick photo safari my husband and I went on early Sunday morning. After breakfast in Santa Barbara, we set off on a scenic back-road, hoping to find some miniature horses I had seen years earlier. On a whim we took the turnoff for Lake Cachuma, a man-made lake located in the Santa Ynez Valley which neither of us had ever pharmacy visited.  After parking where we could look out over the water, we were greeted by the words, “Hey, folks! How can I help you?” It was the woman who manned the boat dock trailer. We said hi, asked how she was doing, and she replied, “I’m great. I love my job, and the view doesn’t suck.” That was our introduction to Miki, The Boat Dock Goddess.

(Pic #3) “Annie” the Boat Dock Dog

Miki works 20 hours a week, in exchange for which she gets two things: a great spot to park her trailer, and a chance to spend her hours telling people about her favorite place — and she can spend hours talking about it.  If you don’t think you can get excited about boating and fishing, or about which rivers feed California lakes, or about the threat to waterways from quagga and zebra mussels, then you haven’t met Miki. Her exuberance and passion for her job — for her life — are infectious. With her dog Annie cradled in her arms, looking out over the water, Miki became my new poster child for the possibility of turning simple living into an art form.

The Art Of Surrender

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Tom McKenney – “The Man in the Hat” – Los Angeles Cameraman

I have a certain expectation when my cell phone chirps with an incoming text message. It’s usually one of two things: my husband punishing me for not being home, by sending me a photograph he just took of himself surrounded by cats, or  a terse message from the person I was supposed to meet 15 minutes ago, asking me where I am.  Sometimes the messages have those annoying little abbreviations, the ones that let me know I should be laughing out loud, or that the message is not suitable for the workplace.  But after last Sunday, I don’t think I will ever feel the same about that little incoming message chime. That’s because I got a text from a friend who told me he was dying — and OMFG doesn’t really cover it.

Here’s what he wrote: “Sorry to break it on a text,  but I thought you should know. Cancer. Stage 4. Lungs, bones, lymph nodes. Hospice for me. I hope you can respect my choice.” 29 words to tell me that a man I spent a lot of time with, whom I respect and love, will soon be gone.

Tom is  an artist with a video camera. If you watch the news in Los Angeles, or any of the other cities where he plied his trade, you’ve seen his work.  It was always just a little cut above the rest. He could be a pain in the ass, but he had that same virtue, that same flaw that all artistic people have, an absolute need to put his best, most creative foot forward. Always. While covering local news for KTLA-TV, I shot dozens of stories with Tom. He always made them better than they deserved to be.

When I got his message, I set aside a couple hours to cry. As a result, by the time I called him, he was asleep. Yes, I called the dying man in hospice care and woke him up. We talked for awhile about what had happened, and what would lie ahead. He told me he’d come to terms with it, that he had lived enough to be at peace with his fate. He had visited all the countries he wanted to see, and taken in a ballgame at every Major League stadium he ever wanted to visit.  It’s possible he was just saying all those things to cheer me up, but I really hope he meant them.

I always see things in artistic terms. It felt to me as if he was saying he is satisfied with the canvas that is his life. It may not have been a masterpiece, but he was fine hanging it on the wall for everyone to see.

It’s impossible not to reassess your own life when you are losing someone important. Talking to Tom made me realize that I’m not yet satisfied with my canvas. I need to paint more, both literally and metaphorically, because at some point God will send me a text message, telling me I’ve run out of time, and I have to put down my brush.

I gotta get busy.