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.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, March 11, 2013
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 girl is not attending the shenanigans.
I figure it has received enough attention already.
Friday, March 8, 2013
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.
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.
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