Post Easter Employment

Ever wonder what happens to all of the Peeps that aren't utilized during the Easter holiday? They get other jobs, of course.

I will never forget my friend Mark Nemerovsky

(The following is Mark's eulogy as it was read at the funeral service)
It didn’t take me long to realize that the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write was Nemo’s eulogy. I struggled for quite sometime with it trying to find the right words to illustrate my friend. I then realized that the problem wasn’t with my ability, but the fact that there aren’t enough words that could possibly do justice to describing the man we all loved and will truly miss.

It is said that a person’s success is measured not by money, not by the amount of material possessions or fame that they attained in life. Success is measured by the number of people who we let surround us and can be called true friends. As we look around us here today, it is easy to see that Mark Nemerovsky was a very successful man.

Those who knew Nemo the Ambulance Chief and public safety specialist know that he was not only a professional but also a perfectionist. When it came to getting something done, there was only one way and that was Nemo’s way. Most of the times I can remember, Nemo’s way was the right way.

Those of us who were lucky enough to truly know Nemo the person, know that he was a good talker and a good listener. I recently spoke to a former Duquesne police officer who told me that while trying to decide on a major job change, one of the people whose opinion he trusted and valued most was Marks.

If there was a serious issue, Mark took a side. He was well known for his passion as he would vigorously defend his stance. One of the words that would best describe Mark was “involved.”
He was the City of Duquesne’s Emergency Management Coordinator, he served on the Civil Service Commission, he was the Emergency Services Director for the city, member of the school board, a former volunteer firefighter, a brother Free Mason, a member here at Christ the Light of the World Church and the Director of the Duquesne EMS.

Yesterday’s Tribune-Review’s obituary article accurately headlined “Paramedic Fought for Duquesne Residents.” Mark loved Duquesne and he truly cared about those who live here.

As a police officer in Duquesne, I have faced countless perils and dangers but nothing could have prepared me for what I was in for as a school board member, a position only Mark could have persuaded me into taking. His example, leadership and dedication was clearly evident as he worked tirelessly to better the quality of education for the city’s children.

He worked hard to try to better our community. That work included, some years ago, making a bid for mayor of Duquesne. A few of us supported Mark amidst accusations by some who have no concept of honor or integrity that we support Mark because we were promised positions if he won the election. The fact was, and still is, I supported Mark because he was my friend.

Mark was an honorable man who never compromised his principals. Refusing to stoop to dirty politics, he lost that bid for mayor but not without bringing something new to the table: He brought integrity – a concept mostly foreign to politics, especially in that election.

It could be said that Mark had a way with people and some ways were more interesting than others. Back in the 90’s, some of you may remember, the Duquesne EMS hosted a fair up at Polish Hill. We dealt with carnival workers who have a reputation of being, shall we say, less than trustworthy. There was some sort of an arrangement with a percentage split that depended on the day’s receipts. I remember Nemo in one of the office trailers counting money one evening when the carney manager tried to change the counts and thus cheating Nemo and the Duquesne EMS out of quite a bit of money. Mark, being meticulous and exacting, always had the right counts. The next night, the carney Manager walked into the money trailer again only now on the table with the money was Mark’s .45 cal. pistol. The counts were never questioned again.

If you knew mark, you occasionally became the victim of his many antics. I remember once having had to train a brand new impressionable young police officer. We had an accident call on 837 (where else) and saw the ambulance driving to the scene with a black Navigator flying low close behind. I knew this was my chance for a little payback. We took care of business at the scene and just before we cleared, I told the rookie officer “Go tell that ambulance jockey in that black SUV over there that if he don’t slow it down, you’re gonna jam him up.” He walked up to Nemo and after a few seconds I saw Mark’s face get beet red. The officer looked back and pointed to me then Nemo looked at me and yelled something about paybacks. For sometime after that, I seemed to be the one to get the call for the heavy lift assists.

Now, it’s hard to think that he’s gone. Although his passing is proof that bad things do happen to good people, it’s time to remember that he is now with God who loves everyone here. After all, if God didn’t love us, he wouldn’t have given us Nemo.

We will keep going and we will move on with our lives but not without taking the memory of Mark with us. I know that I will forever carry the memory of his smile, his sense of humor and his kind heart. I will miss my friend.

There’s so much more I can say about my brother but for now, that’ll do it. So Mark if you’re listening (and I’m sure you are), watch your finger there buddy, I’m going to hang up now.

Your Life Story in Six Words

Early this week, two authors were featured on a national morning television show. Larry Smith and Rachel Fershleiser talked about their new book: "Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure." The book book was created from submissions for a contest launched by Smith Magazine. Contestants were asked to write six-word stories of their own, as memoirs. The idea grew out of an old legend that Ernest Hemingway, while in a bar (where else), was challenged to write a story in only six words. I found this to be an interesting concept and challange that I could not resist. Tell me yours... I'll tell you mine.

Been there. Did that. Not done!

Finding My Family

(From March 2007)

I didn’t know my father. What I knew of him came from stories told by family members and by my mother who hated him intensely. As I grew, I had many questions that were either ignored or answered inaccurately, so by mistake or by design, I was misled about who my father really was and the role he played in my life.

I was born in 1962, three weeks to the day after my parents were married in a civil ceremony standing before a county judge. What a sight my mother must have been. A sight not so common let alone socially accepted in 1962. Within months, my parents had split with my mother filing for divorce shortly thereafter.I wish I could say that I had a happy childhood but by the time I was six weeks old, I had a broken leg due to a suspicious crib accident. This was only the first of many like incidents as my mother raised me on her own.

I was told many times that my father was rotten, worthless and no good. She also rarely missed the opportunity to tell me that I was sure to grow up and be just like him. At fifteen, I left home and never looked back.

Now that I’m older and hopefully wiser, I like to think that I’m open-minded. I’m a police officer trained to look at all perspectives and recognize that there are two sides to every story. However, hearing nothing but negative comments from my mother for all those years left me angry but happy that he wasn’t in my life. I’ve been asked many times if I ever wanted to find him and the answer has always been a quick and bitter “No!” If ignorance is truly bliss, I was blissfully satisfied to leave well enough alone, that is until one day when my, then girlfriend, now wife went digging. That’s when I discovered that nothing was as I was told.

My wife is as inquisitive as she is intelligent and beautiful. Having excellent computer skills combined with a working knowledge of genealogy, CSI Sarah, as she’s been dubbed, can find anything and anyone on-line. While doing some of her own family research, she checked the marriage records for the State of Pennsylvania for my mother and father and much to our surprise, she found it. Finding the record here in Pennsylvania truly was a revelation because much of my mother’s family believed that she and my father eloped to another state to wed. The legal age to marry in Pennsylvania was 18. Because my mother was only 17 at the time, she needed parental permission.

We located the county they were married in and obtained the marriage license. I soon learned what no one in the family ever knew… my grandmother signed off on the marriage giving permission for my mother to wed. This was a secret that my grandmother took to her grave. I also learned another fact I was misled about, the fact that my father was also 17 and not “a few years older” than my mother. Both were very young, probably very scared with my mother being very pregnant with me. The marriage license had a lot of information including my father’s date of birth and with this, I knew there was much more to discover.

It’s difficult to explain but what I once cared nothing about soon sparked my curiosity. Just the few new facts that contradicted what I was originally told pushed me further to want to know. I wondered how much more there was to learn that was either told to me incorrectly of just kept from me all these years. I soon realized though that Sarah, bless her inquisitive little heart, was going to find out more about my family whether I wanted to learn it or not.

The first stop in the hunt was the social security death index. It was there I found my father. He died in 1992 at the very young age of 48, just five years older than I am now. As surprising as the age he died was where he died. I remember being told that he had family in Ohio and perhaps Michigan but there was never any mention of Tennessee. Rhone County, Tennessee to be exact. So, the next step was to find the obituary. This would perhaps give some insight into some of his family, how he died and maybe even how he lived. I called the local newspaper that referred me to the local library that referred me to the local historical society. After being put on hold briefly, a very nice gentleman from the Rhone County Historical Commission pulled the obituary off of microfilm and read it to me over the phone as I took notes.

The obituary read that my father left behind two sisters, a brother, a wife and five children (not including me). I was stunned to say the least. Taking my notes from the telephone conversation, Sarah went to work looking for phone numbers based on the names and cities from the obituary. Before too long, we found a number that could have possibly been his sister Lois in Cleveland, Ohio.

Everything moved so fast. It was that morning that we went to the county courthouse for the marriage certificate, searched the social security index, made numerous calls to Tennessee and researched possible matches to the names in the obituary. Although it was late in the afternoon and I was emotionally exhausted, I knew in my heart that I had to call that number. I also knew that if I thought about it too long, I may never dial it. Even though through that entire day I was driven to know, a voice inside told me to leave well enough alone. Ignoring the voice, I picked up the phone and dialed the Cleveland number. It was a call that changed my life.

I asked the voice on the other end of the telephone, “Is this Lois Bennett, the sister of Daniel Burns?” She said yes. Not wanting to scare or shock her, I told her that I was doing some family research but when she insistently asked, “well, who are you?”, I told her that I was Dan, her brother’s son from Pittsburgh. She then replied, “Oh my, I remember you. We always wondered what happened to you.” We talked briefly and arranged for me to call back a few hours later. I hung up the phone after a five minute conversation and knew immediately that I had opened a door not knowing where it would lead.

Gathering myself mentally and emotionally, I called back a couple of hours later with a list of questions to ask about family history, heritage and medical issues. Having three children of my own, I knew it was important to learn all I can about my father’s medical history. The news wasn’t good. He died of a heart attack being overweight, a heavy drinker and a very heavy cigarette smoker. After talking with my aunt Lois for a while, I gained a whole new insight into what kind of man my father was and the things she told me left me flabbergasted. She told me of incidents pertaining to my mother that I previously got only her side of the story. One in particular was the episode where I was hidden by my father’s mother in a dresser drawer. The story told by my mother was that my grandmother was attempting to take me from her. My aunt Lois however, tells a different tale. My father and his mother were protecting me from one of my mother’s many violent tirades. After fifteen years with her, this is the story most believable.

Aunt Lois went on to tell me of a time that my father sat and cried about not being able to raise me himself after losing me to my mother. She and I talked for a while but when the conversation turned to family history, she referred me to my half-brother Jim. She had called him that afternoon after our first conversation and told him to expect my call later that evening. The interesting thing was that before that day, Jim had no idea I existed. Jim and I talked for hours and I learned that my father was a loving, caring man who maybe wasn’t perfect but did his best to be a good parent. He taught his children to do right by themselves and others without raising a hand in anger to any of them.

Shortly after making contact with my father’s side of the family, we traveled to Cleveland, stayed for a weekend and met just about everyone. I learned that Daniel Joseph Burns had in fact eight children, seven boys and a girl, of which I am the first. Although not all of us have been united, with regard to Jim’s two brothers, Bill and Jason, immediately we formed a bond with Jim and I especially becoming close. We aren’t half-brothers, we’re just brothers.

During the weekend in Ohio, I was welcomed with open arms not as a new friend but as family. It was overwhelming and emotional as only then did I realize that a very big part of my life had always been missing. Growing up, many people felt sorry for me because I never had a family, but now I do. I must admit though, when I made the initial phone calls, after forty-three years I expected to hear something like: “It was nice to hear from you, have a nice life, stay in touch, etc.” What I didn’t expect was the level of love and acceptance I received. The best surprise was the fact that the nicest people I ever met in my life would turn out to be my own family.

I Admit it, I do Love the Job

(from September 2007)

Immediately after my back injury I didn’t really think too much about what I would be missing as an active duty police officer. As time goes on, however, I find myself missing the job and all it meant to me. Although my wife would absolutely hate it, I would love the chance to get back to work and fight the forces of evil (in and out of the police station. I'll share more on that in my new blog "Back of the Badge."

The best thing about the job is the friendships and bonds that are formed with those whom you work with. One of the many “good guys” on the job that I had the absolute honor to work with was a man named Brian Hughes. To myself and many others, Brian was the kind of guy, and officer, you could always count on. As patrol partners, we had a lot of good times as I recall more than one occasion I nearly wrecked the police car laughing so hard. It wasn’t all fun and games though as together we caught a lot of bad guys. Brian and I made a good team and it’s that camaraderie that I miss.

One winter, while working night turn, I had the flu so bad, it was an effort to drag myself to work especially after being in a jury trial all day. For that week, all I recall was getting into my police car in the city garage after 11:00 pm and Brian waking me up just before 7:00 am. For the whole shift, he took all of the calls and literally did all the work while letting me get the rest I badly needed. That’s the kind of guy Brian is.

On the lighter side, one of my funniest, yet most disturbing memories was the day Brian and I hit the drive thru at McDonalds. Now, as police we’re always a little leery of the staff at our local Mickey D’s. Between the guys on parole and the women who were jilted after a bad date with someone on our police force, you never knew what extra goodies awaited you under that innocent looking sesame seed bun. It’s one of those “Don’t think about and it’ll go away” things. This day, however, Brian and I couldn’t avoid the paranoia. After we ordered, we were asked to pull up to a space in the parking lot. An employee will “bring it right out”. After a few minutes, I felt a bit uneasy as to why it was taking so long. It was then I looked back toward the restaurant to see a handful of employees with their faces pressed against the glass looking at us. With their eyes as big as plates, half were fixated on us as the other half were watching the young girl approach the police car with our bag. All of them were snickering.

She walked toward our car as if she had just drawn the short straw in some sort of a weird human sacrifice lottery. She handed the bag to Brian through the car window and literally ran back to the restaurant. Needless to say, that bag met the first dumpster we could find and that night we ate at Dairy Queen (you can watch them cook your food there).