Holiday Giving - You Might Get More Than You Bargained For.

On December 3, this intrepid reporter went undercover at Biolife, on Coldwater Road in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Ok, actually, it’s Christmastime and I need money. I thought maybe it was a way to earn some extra cash for presents and help out at the same time. It’s not easy obtaining an appointment at Biolife. I originally had the idea to donate years ago, and at that point you had to call to set up a time to do so. It was impossible to first of all get through, and secondly to schedule an appointment. The staff was incredibly rude, telling you to call back the next day and hang up on you. A few months ago I tried again, walking into the office, and discovering that you can now schedule an appointment online by setting up a username, profile and password. After having a time to donate on three separate occasions and being forced to cancel them due to emergencies, I finally made it through the door yesterday. The woman next to me was asked what she had eaten right before arriving. When the woman’s answer wasn’t satisfactory, she was chastised and sent away, being told that she was informed in an email what to eat. As a fellow potential donor, I knew this to be false. You receive an email telling you to eat a meal high in protein the night before, not the day of. The employee of Biolife was extremely rude to this woman, and sent her away in near tears. No one, it seems, is at Biolife out of the goodness of their hearts. They are there because they are desperate for cash. When asked what I ate, I decided to fib. “Scrambled eggs,” I told the same rude employee. “And toast.” Again this seemed not be good enough, but she gave me a bottle of water, told me it was the first of three I would have to drink before I could donate, and instructed me to sit in the waiting area. That’s where I sat for forty-five minutes without acknowledgement. I watched the other people ahead of me being assessed for donation, because they do that right out in the open. Blood pressure and weight is measured (oh, the horrors!) and an initial blood sample is taken by poking the forefinger, much like when a diabetes patient tests their blood. I watched one employee trying to get a blood sample from the forefinger of a young woman. I say trying because after piercing the forefinger of the girl with the lancet and not being able to draw blood, she told her, “This happens all the time,” and proceeded to stick the lancet back in and roll it around in her finger pad, causing the girl to look ill and grab her forehead. I felt nauseous watching this. I’m no wimp when it comes to pain. I sustained a back injury years ago, and live with pain everyday. But the sight of this girl being tortured by an incompetent twenty-something in a lab coat was too much for me to bear. I started talking to the others in the waiting area with me. “How much will I get today?” I asked. I had received an email stating that I might get up to $75, but was informed by the others it would more than likely only be $20 on my first visit. “How long will this take?” Hours, was the answer. They only have one person giving physicals, so the originally stated time of two hours would more than likely be four. I decided to leave, but realized that they had kept my drivers license and social security card at check in. It dawned on me that this was to keep people from bolting. I sat there at least another fifteen minutes trying to screw up the courage to ask for my ID from the snotty staff. In that time I watched the people coming and going, and wondered how safe of a product is Biolife churning out. When my father was going through cancer treatments, he had to be infused with a couple of bags of plasma. This is part of the reason I wanted to give, to help others like him. But now I have to wonder if those people in need are being infested with something even worse after observing actual donors. One woman in particular caught my eye and ear. I say woman now, because at first her sex was not easy to pin down. Her hair was chopped, her features lifeless and her pallor as gray as window putty. She sat down to be assessed, rolled up her sleeves and the staff found needle tracks. At this, she finally showed signs of life. “I haven’t used in a while,” she protested. The staff was satisfied with her obvious false answer, and she was okayed for donation. This amazed and sickened me, because this woman, an IV drug user, was questioned less about her fitness to donate than the woman who didn’t eat a lumberjack sized breakfast. That was all I needed to propel me out of my seat. I got my identification back, and promptly went to the nearby Dunkin Donuts. A Christmas tree shaped pieced of fried dough with a hidden pocket of vanilla pudding helped set me right and calm my quavering nerves. Christmas is coming, I still need money. But I will find another way to get it, maybe even make gifts, rather than return to Biolife. The sight of the desperate and ill, subjecting themselves to physical pain and rough treatment for money drove home some big points - there are so many worse off than me, and yes, Virginia, there is still a recession and high unemployment.

STORM DAMAGE IN PLEASANT LAKE, IN

Ghost Hunters Start Society

Steuben County can be a mysterious place. Its over 100 lakes invoke a mysterious feeling in the right light, and its wooded areas could hide any number of things that go bump in the night.

Angola was founded by Thomas Gale, a devotee of spiritualism. Spiritualists were Christians, but believed strongly in the afterlife and communication with the dead. Some believe holding a seance or using a ouija board can summon spirits that never leave. So it's no surprise that Angola and the surrounding area is considered haunted by true believers.

A new group of supernatural enthusiasts, the Steuben Paranormal Society, has started doing investigations. Founded by Melanie Varner and Valerie Varner in the spring of this year, the group has a Facebook page and counts over sixty people as it's members. So far they have done three investigations since August - Old Angola Cemetery, Circle Hill and Lakeside, which is on the outskirts of Fremont.

Steuben Paranormal Society has garnered photographic evidence and one EVP [electronic voice phenomenon] during those hunts, and hope to line up more investigations in the near future. They are open to researching all claims of the paranormal, and are willing to explore homes, businesses and outdoor properties.

They can be reached by emailing steubenparanormalsociety@outlook.com or found on Facebook by searching for Steuben Paranormal Society.

Givin' You The Business.

The economy is bad, we all know that. The recovery has yet to reach this part of the Midwest. You know this is true when people with great work records go months without an interview, or when people with teaching degrees have to work at Taco Bell.
　
People who are lucky enough to find jobs or hang on to the ones they have, struggle. Millions of people live paycheck to paycheck, or trot off sadly to a soul-sucking job each day just to avoid foreclosure, bankruptcy and ruin.
　
So I see it this way: If you have your own business, and yourself for a boss, you are a pretty lucky person. As an entrepreneur, I think the first rule of business is to value your customers. Seems simple, right?
　
But in my experience, it seems that business owners in and around Steuben county have all the customers they need. Recently, when I've walked into a store or called someone to do a service for me, they aren't interested. They either refuse to wait on me or call me back.
　
My sister needs a lawnmower. We walked into Helwig's on the south end of town, ready to make a cash purchase. All cash. Right then, right now. Three slack-jawed workers stood at the counter, saw us walk in, looked at us with comtempt, and turned back to their dipshit conversation. We walked around, looked at their three, horribly over-priced lawn tractors and walked right back out. No one ever acknowledged our presence. No one said hello or waited on us.
　
So my sister decided, the grass is getting long, I should hire someone to mow. The same someone who mowed it two weeks ago. We called him Tuesday, June 11th and got his voicemail. Left a message, he never called back. I called him again Friday, June 14th and he told me, promised me, he would mow it today, June 15th. Well it's getting late in the day, it looks like rain, and big surprise, he has yet to show up.
　
He has all the business he needs. He doesn't have to mow our yard. Helwig's has sold all the tractors they need to as well. They don't need to make $2,000 cash within 15 minutes, huh?
　
What can I attribute this to? Sexism? Had I sent a male friend in my place, would we now be driving a new lawn tractor around the yard, cutting the grass? What if I altered my voice, called myself Mel instead of Melanie and called people? Would I get better results?
　
Or is it laziness? Perhaps this is why Steuben County is short on millionaires. Only do "Enough?"
　
Whatever it is, I'm sick of it. Terrible service is unacceptable. I don't expect special treatment, just equal. If you own a business, big or small, treat people with decency. Realize the person you ignore or treat badly could be the turning point for your future.

Cashland Robbery Still Unsolved

Over two weeks ago, Cashland, a pawn shop on Angola's main street, was robbed. You probably never heard about it. The paper buried it on the back page three days after it happened.

It wasn't a stick-em-up, armed robbers, hands in the air robbery. No, it was the cat burglar, middle of the night type of caper. The likes of which hasn't been seen in our sleepy town since Sears was robbed several years ago.

It seems the four robbers pulled up about midnight in a dark colored full-sized pick up truck. The fact that any type of vehicle was parked near the pawn shop at that hour should have drawn some attention. But it didn't.

Then the four climbed on top of the roof and proceeded to saw a hole into it to gain access to the building. The roof is visible from both directions on North Wayne Street, and even as far away as Tom's Donuts.

Four grown men on a roof should have raised some eyebrows. The sound of a saw at that hour should have caught an ear. But it didn't.

Then the men cut the wires, an inside source tells me, rendering the security system, its alarms and cameras, useless. Any kind of light inside a business at that hour should have been noticed. But it wasn't.

The men then started to drill into the concrete lined safe. After a while, the drill bit broke. The men climbed back out of the roof, still unnoticed, got into a truck that shouldn't have been there, and, covered in dust, dirt and sweat, went to Wal-Mart in the wee hours of the morning for another drill bit. Someone should have thought that four dudes, messy and dirty, doing home improvement while the rest of the world slept was a little funny. But they didn't.

They piled back into the truck, went back into the Cashland the same way, again without anyone seeing a thing, and completed their task of cleaning the place out of cash, gold and electronics. Again they returned to Wal-Mart, this time for a tarp to cover their ill gotten gain. The act took almost four hours.

After a couple of leads, including one women who thought she recognized one of the men from Wal-Mart's grainy security footage, no arrests have been made.

The men are still at large. The items taken are still gone; they most assuredly have been fenced by now.

Hard-working people, unable to make ends meet, are who frequent pawn shops, not drunks or gamblers like in a film noir movie. The belongings pawned are sometimes family heirlooms. After a burglary, victims rarely get their items back or any kind of justice. Our house was robbed two years ago. The culprits were never caught, our belongings never recovered. Burglary is not a crime of immediacy. The act is usually discovered hours later and the perpetrators are long gone. It's sometimes treated with a sense of flippancy, as in no one was actually physically hurt. But the hurt one feels, the sense of violation and distrust of others, lasts a long time.

Anyone with any information should call the APD at 260-665-2121.

TAKE A TIP FROM ME or WAITRESSING IN STEUBEN COUNTY

(Maybe this isn't news...but it is an op-ed piece. Enjoy.)
I've waited tables and worked in restaurants off and on for a long time now. But my latest job as a server was definitely the worst.

I seem to be getting too old to do the job anymore, both physically and tempermentally.

Physically speaking, I hurt my back caring for my mother in 2005. It hurts everyday, but not to the point that I am immobile. From time to time I do something, sometimes not even horribly strenuous and it will give way. I can feel it, like a snapping sensation, then I'm out of commission for weeks.

Tempermentally, I think I've just become too much of an old curmudgeon to gladfully, gleefully and gratefully be treated like a second-class citizen by both an employer and by patrons.

I worked at Sutton's Deli in 2001, preparing baked goods, waiting on the counter, and manning the coffee bar. I was paid minimum wage, and from time to time, received a tip. It was always greatly appreciated, and after a while I devoloped a clientele that really loved my work as a barrista. When I quit, it was time to go, but I missed it a little.

My next turn in a restaurant was at the now-defunct J. Daniel's Steakhouse in Angola. I worked for a guy who knew my dad, and he was pretty good to me and my co-workers. We made very little an hour, only $2.25 plus tips. We were expected to do more than just wait tables, such as assemble side salads, fill dressing cups, some cleaning, bus our tables and pitch in when the dishes got away from Fred, the actual dishwaser. We had it easy, using a computer system for placing orders and printing bills. I would come home tired with good tips most of the time, and I made friends there I think I will have for the rest of my life. When the place closed, I cried. I was going to miss everyone and the experience of being a real, honest-to-God waitress.

I went without work, or worked sporadically, for many years, as I said, caring for my mom. She was a full-time job, and I was fully invested in making sure she got good care, got to her doctors appointments, had visits while in the hospital or nursing home, and got to go shopping and on other outings.

When she passed away, I re-entered the workforce and felt like a resounding flop. I worked here, there, usually getting run down or ripped off. Another waitressing gig at Pizza Forum left me with no pay and slipped disk. Yes, Mr. Cole, the guy everyone loves so much, ripped me off royal. I wasn't the only one. I was glad to see him and his wife leave town because, after getting an inside, upclose view of the two of them, I could see them for the total frauds they are. You see, hot shots like them let their guard down around people like me. People they think are a little less.

Now my latest waitressing job has ended. This was at Gangster's Grille, the former Dillinger's in Hudson, so named as it used to be a branch of Farmers State Bank, and was supposedly robbed by John Dillinger during his crime spree in the 1930's. It's the place's only claim to fame. The TOWNS only claim to fame, and the claim is shaky at best. Was it Dillinger? Can we be sure? No. But it draws people in from I-69, people who, judging by the food routinely left on their plates, regret exiting wish they'd just hit the gas pedal and gone on to Fort Wayne or Angola.

The owners since roughly 2010 are Brian and Donna McClintock. I use the term "owners" loosely because after a property search, it seems they don't own a darn thing. They hired me, and would tell me from one day to the next, when to show up. Never told me how much I would be making; I found that out after asking another server. $2.13 an hour, the absolute minimum a server can be paid in Indiana and numerous other states.

I was trained by a woman called "Linda." Linda showed me all we waitresses were expected to do - the work of a server, prep cook and dishwasher. Because you see the McClintocks like to run the place on a shoestring budget. You're not even provided a shirt or uniform, you must wear your own clothes and run the risk of ruining them. When it comes to the staff, there is just one cook, no dishwasher, 99% of the time. There is also no hostess, so when people come in, you take "every other table." When you're in the back chopping vegetables, or spraying down greasy plates, a few slip your notice, and either people think they are being ignored or you miss out on business and tips.

On the last Friday I worked, it got very busy over lunch. One table left me money for the bill and told me "keep the change" for my tip. I was trained that in this situation you take that money, put it on the bar under the stapler, and the bartender will ring it through and give you your tip. I tended to my other customers, and saw the barteneder bussing my other tables. I don't like this. This is how tips come up missing, and I in fact had a table stiff me. I came back to get my change from the bar and it wasn't there. Just the bill. I ask the bartender, a woman named Kathy, where my money was. "What money? There was no money. Just the bill, and I ain't done nothing with it 'cause it ain't got no staple hole." This was repeated to me over and over. Finally I inquired what a staple hole signified, and she started asking me, "Whose bill was this? Tim M.?! He's a cheap son-of-a-bitch, he's a shitty tipper, he'd a-never left you that big of a tip...you're-" Then it came, yes, she accused me of lying. This went on for quite a while, and everyone got involved, but I knew what had happened. Someone had stolen that money off the bar. And what a stupid way to do something, but like I said in my own defense, "That's how I was trained." Finally the owners said to chalk it up to experience. Thank God, because paying all that out of my tips would have left me with very little.

I got away from the bar and was told to fill the ice chest under the pop machine in the server's station. I started to do so with a large scoop, but was told to "use the bucket." I knew lifting a 5 gallon bucket full of ice could be a bad situation, but I did it anyway, and felt that old familiar snap. I had hurt my back.

I muddled through the rest of the day, both in pain and still steamed about the theft of the money. Kathy even started taunting me in the dishwasing area. "Oh look at her, still stressing about that money."

I was told again when to show up, as I had never been put on the schedule. Come Monday, I knew I could no longer work there, both because of the pain I was in and because I don't work with thieves. Someone who steals for a long time gets really good at it, and are also good at passing the blame on to someone else. I didn't want that someone else to be me.
My sister called and told them I would not be back, and asked if I had a paycheck. She was told no. I called again a few days later and again was told no, that everyone else had been paid but me. I went in to Gangsters Grille and again requested the money I was owed. The owners daughter, Christin Warfield, and a drunken woman at the bar who also claimed to be an owner, called me a liar, every name in the book, used threats of physical violence and told me I wouild never get the money I earned. I called the Hudson Town Marshall, who sympathized, but said he could not help me get my money.

So what have I learned?

1. No more waitressing jobs.

2. Most men and women who work as servers are very hardworking and deserve better than 1940's wages. TIP WELL when you eat out. If you can't afford to tip, eat at Subway, where people make minimum wage.

3. I'm going to find a way to work for the only person I can trust - ME.

4. And finally, people from Hudson are just as mean as they were when I was in gradeschool and they would beat me up and steal my lunch. Even John Dillinger didn't rob from people as badly as the McClintocks.

Come one, come all? No thanks.

There is a circus in town. Complete with a ringleader, whose head might be too large for his top hat, dancing bears and sideshow.

This girl is not attending the shenanigans.

I figure it has received enough attention already.

This is a beginning

My entire life I've wanted to be a writer. I wrote stories before I could read. I scribbled my thoughts in crayon, presented them to my mother and sister, and regaled them with my flights of fancy.

It's in my nature.

I have to do it.

For a short blissful period I wrote full-time for a paper.

I've written two screenplays with my sister. These have yet to be made into movies.

I've started more books and, went back and deleted every single word again, than I can count.

Now, for no pay, minimal recognition, and probably more than my fair share of scorn, I'm starting this news blog.

It's my right to do so.

No matter who it "upsets."

One of the reasons people came to this wilderness centuries ago was to be able to express themselves freely without fear of persecution. OR prosecution.

So here we go. Come with me. Read my ramblings. It won't be dull.