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Wednesday, December 14, 2022

Ten years later

Most of them would be in high school.

They should have had their first dates, first crushes, first loves.

Some of them should still be in the classroom doing the profession they loved. 

And at least one should still simply be a mother. 

But because of the actions of a deeply disturbed young man, 26 people died ten years ago today at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. 

Six were adults who worked at the schools:  the principal, teachers, and teacher assistants.  A seventh adult, the mother of the shooter (I will not name the shooter; he killed himself at the school), died at home, the first victim of the massacre.  

The other twenty were first-graders.

Let that sink in.

First-graders, with single digits showing their ages. 

What can I say that hasn't already been said about Sandy Hook? 

It remains the deadliest mass shooting at an elementary school. 

When you say "Sandy Hook" and "Columbine", people know immediately what you are talking about, and it is not simply a place name. They are names with horrible connotations of blood, of murder, of screaming parents and other adults, of first responders who probably still suffer from nightmares and other symptoms of PTSD.  

And as if the Sandy Hook parents weren't suffering enough, they had to endure the outrageous claims that "Sandy Hook was a hoax." When I was on the hunt for a conservative alternative to Facebook, I was part of such a group and when I mentioned Sandy Hook, the person said, "No one died at Sandy Hook. Show me proof that people died at Sandy Hook." 

I will not name the person that spent the most time tormenting the Sandy Hook families, except to say that every cent this person has should be divided among the families that lost loved ones. 

Seven adults and twenty children died a decade ago. 

Ten years later, nothing has changed.

Instead, we are society that has grown numb to mass shootings. Our ice thaws a bit when we hear about a school shooting. We scream our outrage, we offer our thoughts and prayers, we demand changes to gun laws . . . and then all the feelings die down until the next mass shooting. Lather, rinse, repeat.

What can I say that hasn't been said? Rachel still weeps for her children and cannot be comforted (see Jeremiah 31:15). 

What solutions can I offer that have not been offered?

Like a friend of mine said after yet another mass shooting, "I'm out of ideas." 

The only thing I know to do is remember the victims:  

Nancy Lanza

Rachel D'Avino

Dawn Hochsprung

Anne Marie Murphy

Lauren Rousseau

Mary Sherlach

Victoria Leigh Soto

Charlotte Bacon

Daniel Barden

Olivia Engle

Josephine Gay

Dylan Hockley

Madeleine Hsu

Catherine Hubbard

Chase Kowalsky

Jesse Lewis

Ana Marquez-Greene

James Mattioli

Grace McDonnell

Emilie Parker 

Jack Pinto

Noah Pozner

Caroline Previdi

Jessica Rekos

Avielle Richman

Benjamin Wheeler

Allison Wyatt

In memoriam, December 14, 2012.

May their memory be a blessing.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.




Saturday, November 19, 2022

Rodent's Revenge?

Back when Windows 3.1 was a thing, it included a game called Rodent's Revenge. The player played the role of a mouse who went after cats. When it trapped the cat, the cat would turn into a piece of cheese, then slowly disintegrate.

While my family and I have not yet disintegrated into cheese, I think we may be players in a game of Rodent's Revenge.

A week ago Thursday, the exterminators came out and set traps and sealed up every place they could think of where rats were coming into the house.  We thought that would solve the problem.

Ha!

Recently, Matthew said he'd seen a rat in the kitchen, dashing across the floor and heading for the corner where the garbage was. I think I know where the rat may have gone. (No, Jimmy Cagney didn't give it to him through the door.)

I've also seen what I think is fresh rat poop in the house. So I'm keeping an eye out for where the poop is. The exterminators will be coming back next week and I can tell them where I think the rats are coming/going.

But I'm convinced that the rodents are getting their revenge in other ways.

On Sunday, I noticed that the house was unusually cold. It was either that day or the next that Matthew wanted to know if we had "an air conditioner for the heater" (meaning the thermostat setting.) I tried to get the thermostat to work and could not.

We called the pros, who came out and discovered that the heat and power upstairs had been turned off.  I think the power had been turned off to the central heat/air, and it wouldn't surprise me if the exterminators had turned it off for safety reasons while they were working in the attic.

The pros turned the head/power back on, and voila, we had heat again, for the price of $95.  (I'm reminded of the story attributed to Henry Ford who, when he had a problem with his plant, called a friend of his, who immediately fixed the problem and sent him a bill for about $1,000. When Ford demanded to know, why are you charging me so much? the friend itemized the bill:  "For tinkering: $10. For knowing where to tinker: $990.")

Okay, problem solved.

Until yesterday.

I went to physical therapy at 8 a.m., and planned to go to Starbucks afterwards so that I could finish a job due at noon. But when I came out from PT, I discovered a flat tire.  So I contacted AAA through the app, and got the message that AAA's ETA was 12:47 p.m. It was approximately 9:45 a.m.

I emailed the people I proof for and said, my assignment will be late. They said, this is a assignment that has to be turned in today, we can extend it a few hours but no more. (Which I understand. The legal profession works under tight deadlines.)

So, I decided to pull out my trusty computer and work while I was waiting. Here I am, sitting with the driver's seat pushed back as far as it will go, listening to a recording and checking the transcript as I'm going along.

Around 11:30, I got a text saying, your dispatcher is on the way; and then I got a phone call a few minutes later from the AAA worker saying he'd be there in about 25 minutes.

He arrived, changed my tire, and chatted with me very nicely while he was working. When the tire came off, I immediately saw the problem. I'd run over a screw. (Yes, my tire was officially screwed. As I write this, my husband and I are at Pep Boys getting it fixed.)

He finished about 12:15, and I immediately got into the car after being told that "you can't drive over 50 miles an hour on that spare". All the way home, I kept thinking about the Sammy Hagar song, "I Can't Drive 55."

I got home at 12:45 p.m. and told my husband what had happened, and said, leave me alone for the next 40 minutes while I finish. He made lunch for me while I was finishing the job.

Job was finished at about 1:40 p.m. When I turned it in, I immediately got a "thank you" from the people I proof for. (I'd also got a "thank you" email from them when I said, I have my computer with me so I can work while I wait.)

So, that problem was solved . . . but as the old Ronco commercials said, "But wait! There's more!"

I had been wearing a long sleeved blue shirt and during PT, I noticed a hole in one of the sleeves. So I thought, "Oh, it's a small hole and I know how to darn holes. I'll get some embroidery thread the same color and fix it."

Last night, when I took off that blue shirt, I discovered more holes.

In BOTH sleeves.

They resemble the holes that are in a pair of my jeans.

I think the rat(s) decided they wanted a midnight snack. It's interesting that they enjoy the color blue.

And, to top it off, there is a small spot on a Rubbermaid container where we're currently keeping the potatoes where it looks like something has gnawed on it. (Yes, I know we are supposed to keep potatoes in ventilated storage. At the moment, we do not HAVE ventilated storage for our potatoes that will protect said potatoes from the rats.)

Is it any wonder that I think the rodents are having their revenge?

If you hear of some slowly disintegrating pieces of cheese in the metro Atlanta area, take off your hats, hum "Taps" and make sure someone gives us all a heartfelt eulogy.

Then go on a war against any rat you find.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Thursday, November 10, 2022

Oh, rats!

 The title of this piece has nothing to do with a common expression of frustration from Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang.

Rather, it has to do with literal mice.

It all started when Matthew came running to me one morning, saying, “I saw a rat in the kitchen!” 

I followed him, asked him where he’d seen it, and he pointed towards a corner of the kitchen.  I looked there, couldn’t see it, but I was sure he’d seen something.

Next, I started noticing teeth marks in the bananas we kept out on the counter. 

Finally, while sitting in the living room one evening, I saw a nose, whiskers, eyes and ears poke themselves out from behind our small couch. I said, “Oh, hello. Glad to meet you.” He turned around and ran back behind the couch. 

I nicknamed the creature Jimmy Cagney, as in, “You dirty rat!” (This is probably a good place to mention that Cagney the actor never said, “You dirty rat!” in any of his movies. The closest he came was in the 1932 movie “Taxi!”, where he yelled to his brother’s killer through a locked closet: “Come out and take it, you dirty yellow-bellied rat, or I’ll give it to you through the door!”)

We set out some mousetraps, and one of them caught Jimmy Cagney. 

End of problem, right?

Uh . . .wrong.

I started noticing teeth marks in the bananas a few days later. I begged my husband, can we PLEASE call an exterminator? 

At the same time, we both started seeing rats skittering across the floor. Yes, that was “rats” in plural.

The exterminator came out, explored the house, and informed us that we had rats because he could tell by their droppings. Among other things, he told us that our crawlspace was full of rat droppings. 

Gee, thanks.

He scheduled a date for the team to come out, gave me the cost, which promptly went on the credit card. Sorry, Dave Ramsey, but this was a case where we NEEDED the credit card.

In the next few days and weeks, I saw two rats race around the house, mostly in the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Before I realized there had been rats in the house, I’d found two neatly arranged piles of dryer lint, one in the downstairs bathroom, the other in a corner of the kitchen. (Hey, even rats want comfortable places to sleep.)  I also saw one mouse scurry up the stairs. I don’t know where he/she/it ended up.

When I discovered holes eaten in a pair of my jeans that I’d left in a laundry basket downstairs, I declared war.

I would have been willing to accept unconditional surrender and a humane execution at this point, allowing said rats blindfolds and final cigarettes and maybe a final kiss from a loved one. 

But the final straw came when one rat skittered from behind the small living room couch into a corner of the dining room, skittered back into the living room and under the small couch . . . and then skittered out from under the small couch, towards the big couch — where I was sitting — and headed STRAIGHT FOR MY FEET.

I jumped up, grabbed my iPad, which I was using to chat with my BFF, and ran upstairs. 

That was the moment where I decided I would accept nothing but complete and total annihilation and obliteration.

I named the rats Ben and Willard, after two horror movies from the 1970’s featuring killer rats. I have no idea if they’re both male, both female, or one of each, and I refuse to get close enough to find out. 

They have put teeth marks in my bananas, they have taken a nice big bite out of an apple, and a nice big bite out of a potato. Putting out mousetraps for them did not work. These rats are too smart for that. In fact, they are so smart that they managed to knock down a box of crackers from the top of my pantry! 

They’ve skittered across the kitchen floor under the stove. 

And, on Halloween day, while I was in the bathroom, one of them slithered under the crack in the bathroom door! I gasped and it turned around and went out. (It would have been appropriate if I had squeaked.) 

Well, today, the cavalry has arrived. 

As I write this, the extermination company we hired is going around the house, sealing the entry points and setting traps. They will come back on the 22nd to see how well the traps have worked. 

This time, the rats will be the ones getting it through the door!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.


Monday, October 17, 2022

"Now I have hate!"

 I don't know why, but lately I have been thinking of Natalie Wood's final scene in the 1961 version of West Side Story. 

Tony, her lover, has just died in Maria's arms.  She stands up, Chino -- the man who's just killed Tony -- hands her the gun. She wants to know, "How do you fire this gun. By pulling this little trigger?" Then, she points the gun towards the group of Jets, then the Sharks, and shouts (paraphrased), "You killed him. All of you. And my brother. And Riff. Not with guns and bullets. But with hate. Well, I can kill too. Because now I have hate!" 

Maria began West Side Story as an innocent young girl, experiencing her "love at first sight", planning to run away with him because he's in danger from killing Maria's brother and he knows the gang will be out for revenge. Somehow, she retains her innocence . . . until that final scene. 

You see the hardness fall on her face first, then hear it in her voice when she wants to know how do you fire this gun? Then you see her grief when she throws herself over Tony's body, screaming, "Don't you touch him!" 

She knows she has to let him go. So she whispers, "Te adoro, Anton."  Then remains kneeling on the concrete while the Jets and the Sharks -- now working together for the first time in their lives, probably -- pick up Tony's body and carry it away. 

A gang member then covers Maria's head with a shawl, a sign of mourning for a woman who has lost a husband.  In Maria's case, she has lost a lover. Then she, in her red dress, with her shawl-covered head, stands up stoically and follows the Jets and the Sharks offstage.

Maria did not, at that moment, give into her hate by firing the gun.

But I wonder how she handled her hate later.

Her line, "I can kill now, because I have hate!" has run through my mind for some reason. 

Don't the majority of murders happen because of hate? 

Doesn't it start with hate?

Hate of a particular person for an actual or perceived wrong?

Hate of a particular group because of a past history of wrongs done to them?  Or hate of a particular group because you feel threatened by them? 

And what other crimes start with hate? 

Come to think of it, what else starts with hate? Or cultivates hate? Believing, "I'm right, you're wrong, and if we don't agree, we can't be friends? And not only can we not be friends, we can't even talk to each other anymore?"

Do I, Tina, have hate? 

I would love to stand up and say, "No, I am not a hater. I don't hate people. I don't allow myself to be consumed with hate."

That wouldn't be true. 

I've hated people, hated groups of people, let hate eat me up and eat me alive. 

Sometimes hate can be good. Hating prejudice and bigotry, didn't that lead to the Civil Rights Movement? Didn't the hate of being mistreated lead to others having compassion because they didn't want to treat others the way they were treated? 

But too often, hate leads to a Tony, dead on a basketball court, and a Maria, first cold and angry, then grief-stricken. 

Did she carry her hate with her? Did she use her hate to promote non-violence? Did she use herself as an example of what gang violence can do to a person? 

Or did she let her hate eat her alive?

That's a good question for me.

Have I, am I, letting my own hate for whatever eat me alive? 

I don't like how we are being eaten alive by hate in this country these days. I don't like how political candidates attack one another so viciously. I don't like how other candidates take advantage of hatred of a particular group and stir it up just so they can gain votes. 

My question is, how do I not allow hate to eat me alive? 

Our pastor has been doing a series about the fruit of the Spirit. He's from a construction background, and not only does he use the term "fruit" to describe love, joy, peace, etc., he also uses the word "tools" to describe using "love, joy, peace," etc. 

I wonder if these "tools" are the way to not allow hate eat me alive. And these tools and fruit are "of the Spirit". I cannot fight hate by simply writing down a "to-do" list of "how not to hate", forcing myself to be nice to someone while gritting my teeth. 

No, I can only fight hate through reaching out for the power of the Spirit. And he is more than willing to give it. 

I do not want to be Maria, saying, "I can kill, too, because now I have hate!"

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Saturday, October 15, 2022

Why I remember

 “No one ever remembers.” 

Those four words, posted on my wall on a now defunct social media site, broke my heart. 

The woman who posted them was replying to my acknowledgement of the anniversary of the stillbirth of one of her children. He was a twin; the other twin was miscarried earlier in the pregnancy. 

Today, October 15, is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. The entire month of October is dedicated to remembering these babies; these babies lost through miscarriage, lost through stillbirth, or lost through early death. 

I have never lost a baby. I don’t know that heartbreak. I know the heartbreak of trying to conceive and failing, of many doctor’s visits, and of finally conceiving and having a son. But not everyone has that happy ending. 

I do, however, know many who know the heartbreak of miscarriage, the heartbreak of stillbirth, the heartbreak of losing an infant to death. A friend just lost a longed-for child through miscarriage and had to have a D&E in order to remove the fetus. 

Two other friends lost their babies to cord accidents, where the umbilical cord strangled the baby in the womb.

Other friends have lost children to stillbirths or early death.  

By coincidence, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day falls on the the day before my birthday. I was not meant to be born in October. Instead, I came early. Perhaps I could have been one of those statistics, a lost baby that my mother remembered. I was lucky. Not everyone is. 

My grandmother lost an infant daughter, Bobbie Lee, when the baby was three months old. She was “Bobbie Lee” because she was named after my grandmother’s father, Robert Lee Thompson. I have a copy of her death certificate, which lists her birthday as August 1st, 1935; and her death date as November 13, 1935.  Her cause of death was “gastroenteritis”. My grandparents lived in Harlan, Kentucky, a small, coal-mining town, and it was 1935. Had she been born today, I think the odds of her survival would have been much better. 

She never talked about Bobbie Lee much, except for at least one conversation with me and perhaps with a few others. In 1935 especially, I think the death of an infant was met with, “At least you have other children,” or, “You can have another one,” (as if one child could replace another.) And then you didn’t talk about it. 

There is a saying, “There is no footprint too small to leave an imprint on this world.” 

Today, so many remember those little footprints; those ones that were never born, those born sleeping, those who lived only a little while. 

I have a list of babies I remember this time of year. 

So:

For Ana C.

For Anna V.

For Bobbie Lee C.

For Caley A.

For Desmond M-S.

For Hope C.

For Hope K.

For Ian A.

For Sarah Grace W.

For William W. 

And for the many others I’m sure I’ve forgotten and the many others I do not know.

You lived in someone’s womb and you lived in many hearts.

And your little footprints left a mark on this world. 

“No one ever remembers.”

Someone should.

This is why I remember.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.








Sunday, September 11, 2022

One unsung hero

Fourteen thousand people faced their ultimate test on September 11, 1993.

That number, according to Google, is approximately how many air traffic controllers are employed in the United States. 

One of them -- a high school ex-boyfriend -- worked in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  He may or may not have been on duty that morning; If he wasn't, he was probably called in.

September 11, 1993, was the day the skies were cleared of all air traffic except for Air Force One and any military aircraft. 

History.com wrote about the air traffic controllers on 9/11.  The article focuses mostly on the activities of the controllers in the Northeast and the Washington, D.C.; the area where four planes crashed. 

At 8:46 a.m., the first plane, American Airlines 11, hit Tower 1 of the World Trade Center.  Like most people, the controllers thought it was a small plane, like a Cessna. 

But already, they'd heard Mohammed Atta's accidental broadcast:  "We have some planes. Just stay quiet and we'll be OK. We are returning to the airport. Don't try to make any stupid moves."

They knew there was trouble but hadn't yet connected Mohammed Atta's order with the crash of the plane into Tower 1. 

By 9:03, when United Flight 175 hit Tower 2 of the World Trade Center -- in front of millions of viewers who had on Good Morning America, or the Today Show, or CNN, or CBS's Morning Show, or Fox News -- they knew all of this was no accident. Both planes had been hijacked, and there might be more. 

What to do? How many hijackers were there? Would there be more planes crashing? 

Down in Herndon, Virginia, at the Federal Aviation Administration, Ben Sliney realized that his first day on the job would be a baptism by fire. 

One minute after United 175 hit Tower 2, Sliney ordered a "ground stop".  "Ground stop" meant, no plane in the United States of America could take off. 

It was 9:04 Eastern Time; 7:04 Albuquerque time (Mountain time). If my ex-boyfriend wasn't already on his shift, I'm sure his phone rang telling him, "Get in here, now." 

At 9:05, the order "ATC Zero" came over the airwaves. "ATC Zero" translated into the complete shutdown of the airspace around New York City. Not only could planes not take off, planes couldn't land there, either. 

32 minutes later, at 9:37 a.m., a third plane, American Airlines Flight 77, hit the Pentagon.

Five minutes later, at 9:42 a.m. exactly one hour after the first plane hit the World Trade Center, the FAA gave the order to "clear the skies." 

I don't speak FAA lingo.  I'm sure the FAA said it in their own "language", but the order was clear: If you are a plane and you are in the air, pick an airport and land immediately. 

If my ex-boyfriend was on duty, it would have been 7:42 a.m. The sun was up, spreading light over the New Mexico landscape. 

Under normal circumstances, the job of an air traffic controller is tense and difficult. Lives are in your hands and one wrong order to a plane can cause a crash, or a near-crash (or, in more semi-humorous cases, a landing at the wrong airport.) Plus, you have to worry about being on time, or as near on time as possible; they have to keep an eye on the weather and an eye on air traffic.  (I would rather drive in Atlanta traffic than guide people through the air!)  You cannot afford to panic. You cannot afford to show anxiety. Even if your heart is racing at 120 beats per minutes or higher, you have to talk calmly to a plane, telling them what runway is open, what gate to go to, whether or not the pilot should circle . . . all of the things that we airplane passengers don't necessarily think about. 

But "land all planes"? All commercial planes? At the nearest airport? 

Whatever switches flip in an air traffic controller's brain to keep him/her calm and steady, they flipped, and I believe they flipped in my ex-boyfriend's brain. He, and his colleagues, spoke the FAA language that told what plane to go where, what runway to land on, whether to circle the airport before landing, whether to send them on to another airport because they didn't have room.

According to the National Archives, the skies were clear by 12:16 p.m.; 10:16 p.m. by Alburquerque time, two and a half hours after the order to "clear the skies". 

Two and a half hours for someone to sit with headphones on, to strain to listen to a pilot, to look at a radar and keep track of a plane's location, and all the while knowing that four planes had crashed, wondering if there were any more hijackers, would there be any more crashes?

But they did it. In two and a half hours. 

We remember the FDNY and the NYPD when we think of the heroes of 9/11, as well we should. We remember them going up while everyone else is going down. 

But the people manning the microphones, the headphones, the radar, guiding the planes to safe landings when they were not prepared to handle the sudden load of air traffic  . . . they were heroes, too.

My 20th high school reunion came six weeks before 9/11. My ex-boyfriend and I didn't part on the world's best terms. He did get in touch with me much later through e-mail and he apologized for his behavior. At our reunion, the last words I said to him were, "I wish you well." 

And then, six weeks later, 9/11 happened. 

Not only was I horrified at the events as they unfolded, I was concerned about the ex-boyfriend. I knew it had to be stressful and trying. So I popped off an email asking, are you okay?

He responded, "Yes. Thanks for thinking about us."

I have not heard from him since then, and since he has a life, I don't expect to. 

But he belongs to that group of unsung heroes that cleared the skies on a horrible day. 

To him, and to every other unsung hero, I say, "thank you".

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.



Monday, September 5, 2022

The Olympics' darkest day

I don't speak Hebrew. But I'm sure that, had I heard wrestling referee Yossef Gutfreund's scream at around 4:30 a.m. Munich time on September 5, 1972, I would have known that something horrible had happened or was happening. 

He'd been asleep after enjoying an evening out with other Israelis. What wakened him was a scratching noise at the door of his apartment. He went to investigate and found the door beginning to open and masked men with guns on the other side.

He screamed in Hebrew, "Danger, boys! Terrorists!" then threw his 300-pound body against the door, hoping it would stop the men from forcing their way in. His scream gave his roommate, weightlifting coach Tuvia Sokolovsky, time to smash a window and escape.

A wrestling coach, Moshe Weinberg, joined in the fight. The terrorists' response was to shoot him through the cheek and then force him to find more hostages.

Weinberg lied as they passed the door of Apartment Two, saying, there were no Israelis there. He led them to Apartment Three instead. Apartment Three housed six wrestlers and weightlifters. Perhaps Weinberg thought they would be strong enough to fight off the terrorists. But they were all asleep, and men with guns usually have an advantage over someone who's been suddenly awakened.

On the way back to the coaches' apartment, the wounded Weinberg again attacked the terrorists. Gad Tsobari, one of the wrestlers, seized the opportunity and escaped through the underground parking garage. Weinberg was able to knock one terrorist unconscious and slash at another with a fruit knife. 

He was no match for the gunmen. They shot him to death. 

A weightlifter, Yossef Romano -- who'd fought in Israel's Six-Day War -- also attacked the intruders and wounded one before he, too, was shot and killed. 

These men were not going to go down without a fight. 

With the nine hostages that were left, the gunmen went back to Apartment One. In addition to Yossef Gutfreund, they were: 
Kehat Shorr, shooting coach
Amitzur Shapira, track and field coach
Andre Spitzer, fencing master.
Yakov Springer, weightlifting judge
Eliezer Halfin, wrestler
Mark Slavin, wrestler
David Berger, weightlifter (who held dual citizenship with the US and Israel)
Ze'ev Friedman, weightlifter. 

Who were these terrorists, and why had they picked the Olympics for their heinous acts?

They were eight members from a Palestinian group, Black September.  Their demands? The release of 234 Palestinian prisoners held in Israel, and two founders of the German left-wing group Red Army Faction

They allegedly got into the Munich Olympic Village by scaling a six-and-a-half foot chain link fence with the help of athletes who, themselves, were sneaking back into the Olympic Village. Since the eight terrorists were dressed in track suits, the athletes had no way of knowing who they were helping into the village. I guess they thought, "Oh, you're trying to get past security just like we are. We scratch your back, you'll scratch ours." I wonder how horrified they were when they found out exactly who they had helped over the fence. 

In Apartment Two, Shaul Ladany, an Israeli racewalker who'd also survived the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, heard the screams from next door, leapt from his second-story balcony, and ran to the American dormitory.  The other seven people (four Israeli athletes, two team doctors, and their team manager) hid in the building and eventually escaped.

Tense negotiations began and continued for the next several hours. The Black September terrorists, to show that they meant business, threw Moshe Weinberg's bloodied body out the door of the dormitory. 
American marathon runner Frank Shorter (who would later win the gold medal in the event) told Sports Illustrated, "Imagine those poor guys . . . Every five minutes a psycho with a machine gun says, 'Let's kill 'em now," and someone else says, 'No, let's wait five minutes.' How long could you stand that?" 

But elsewhere, the rest of the athletes carried on, and the events carried on, until 12 hours after Moshe Weinberg's murder, the Games were suspended. 

At 4:30 p.m., a squad of West German police -- regular Munich police officers, with no training in combat or in hostage rescue -- arrived at the Olympic Village with a plan to crawl down from the ventilation shafts at the dormitory and kill the terrorists. 

But, while the police were getting into position, members of the media -- in a stunning act of either ignorance or outright stupidity -- filmed the police getting into position and broadcast the images on live television, which the terrorists were watching. After the terrorists' spokesman threatened to kill two hostages, the police backed off. 

When confronted with the terrorists' demands, Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir's response was swift and to the point: "No." Israel's policy was, no negotiations with terrorists, period, because any negotiations would leave Israel open to possible future attacks. Can anyone blame Israel, given the history of the Jews, especially the history of the concentration camps of only 30 years ago? 

So the West German authorities came up with another plan.

The terrorists, at 6 p.m., demanded to be taken to Cairo. Originally, the West Germans offered to transport terrorists and hostages to Cairo by plane. West German police, disguised as crew, would overpower the terrorists and free the hostages. 

Then the West German police backed out, saying the plan was too dangerous. 

But the authorities pretended the agreement was still in place. They sent two helicopters to take terrorists and hostages to a NATO airbase at Furstenfeldbruck. 

A third helicopter, containing West German authorities, preceded them to the airport. Their new plan:  an armed assault in which terrorists would be killed and hostages would be freed. Sixteen West German police, dressed as the flight crew, would be inside a Boeing 727 jet. Two of the terrorists were to be allowed to inspect the plane. Five sharpshooters were also positioned in strategic areas at the airport. 

And at the last minute, the sixteen West German police abandoned the plan, without telling the people in charge and leaving only the five sharpshooters to take out eight terrorists. 

When the helicopters landed and the two terrorists boarded the 727 and found it empty, they realized they'd walked into a trap. They ran back to the helicopters. 

In the shooting and chaos that followed, two terrorists and a West German policeman were shot and killed. Then a terrorist turned his assault rifle on one helicopter and murdered four hostages, then threw a grenade inside, incinerating the bodies. 

A second terrorist at the other helicopter took a machine gun and shot the remaining hostages; their bodies would show that they'd been shot at least four times each. 

While initial reports said that the hostages were alive and the terrorists were dead, the horrible truth slowly came out. 

ABC's Olympic coverage, anchored by Jim McKay, had gone on the air that afternoon with the reports of the hostage taking at the Olympic Village. All evening, and through the night, ABC Sports president Roone Arledge spoke into McKay's earpiece, giving him the events as they unfolded.  

At 3:24 a.m. Munich time, McKay, summoning all the professionalism he could, spoke:

"You know, when I was a kid, my father used to say, 'Our greatest hopes and our worst fears are seldom realized.' Our worst fears have been realized tonight. They've now said that there were eleven hostages. Two were killed in their rooms yesterday morning, nine were killed at the airport tonight. They're all gone."

What more could you say or do after hearing those chilling words?

First, Olympic competition was suspended for the first time in modern Olympic history. Then, on September 6th, the Olympic Stadium, which was supposed to be the scenes of joyous victories and celebrations, became the site of a memorial service for the slain athletes.  The President of the International Olympic Committee, Avery Brundage, spoke, praising the strength of the Olympic movement. But when he compared the attack on the Israelis with the arguments on professionalism creeping into the Games and the ban of Rhodesia (after protests by black African athletes), and barely mentioned the murdered athletes, many listeners were outraged. 

Later that day, the IOC decided, the Games would go on. The Israeli government and their team manager agreed. For the Israeli athletes, though, the Games were over. They withdrew and left Munich on September 6th, right after the memorial service. Jewish athletes were placed under guard, and Mark Spitz, who'd just won his seventh gold medal in swimming, left Munich during the crisis because of fear that, as a prominent Jew, he might become a target. While many athletes did remain, several chose to leave, their desire to compete destroyed. 

The 1972 Olympic Games had as their motto, Die Heiteren Spiele, "the cheerful Games". They desperately wanted to erase the image of the last games held on German soil: in Berlin, in 1936, under the reign of Adolf Hitler. 

Those "cheerful Games", unfortunately, turned tragic.

September 5th and 6th, 1972, 50 years ago, still remain the darkest days in Olympic history.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.