Hoping for Snow in Newtown

I hope it snows in Newtown today.

The slow-falling, soft, huge, puffy flakes that you can catch on your tongue kind of snow.

Not a blizzard, the folks there don’t need that stress. And not the dry powdery snow that stings your cheeks in the wind. But a few inches of the good stuff, the wet snow that rolls up into boulder-like balls. I’m hoping for the snow that soaks your mittens, packs firmly together into perfect white orbs, and squishes into puddles under your boots.

If it did snow, I’d want to go there and throw snowballs at street signs, and trees, and fence posts like I did as a kid. I’d launch one snowball for each tear I’ve shed since last Friday. I’d put all of my anger and sadness and disbelief into every throw and I keep hurling until my shoulder hurt.

And then I’d get to work. I’d build a snowman. But one snowman wouldn’t be enough. I’d make 20, all about three feet tall.

One each for Charlotte Bacon,

Daniel Barden,

Oliva Engel,

Josephine Gay,

Ana Marquez-Greene,

Dylan Hockley,

Madeleine Hsu,

Catherine Hubbard,

Chase Kowalski,

Jesse Lewis,

James Mattioli,

Grace McDonnell

Emilie Parker,

Jack Pinto,

Noah Pozner,

Caroline Previdi,

Jessica Rekos,

Avielle Richman,

Benjamin Wheeler,

And Allison Wyatt.

I’d arrange about eight in rows, seven others in a circle. Some would be in a group of three, next to another group of two. I’d place seven taller snow-woman in and around the 20.

Vicki Soto would be up front, teaching.

Rachel Davino would be helping a small group.

Lauren Rousseau could sit with the circled-up seven.

Anne Marie Murphy would be reading to the group of three.

Mary Sherlach would be observing.

Nancy Lanza would be there to volunteer.

Dawn Hochsprung will stand in the back, overseeing.

When finished, I’d invite the people of Newtown to surround my snow classroom. I’d seek out the first-responders, the pastors, and rabbis. I’d ask the grieving parents and the heart-broken neighbors to be there. I’d gather the counselors, acupuncturists, art therapists, and massage therapists who came from all over the east coast to lend support. I’d thank the guy from North Carolina who brought nine huggable, face-licking service dogs to help comfort the families. I’d greet the old man who lives across the street from Sandy Hook School and sheltered six kids who escaped the bullets. I’d find Lt. Paul Vance and shake his hand, tell him thank you.

People would bring scarves and hats to adorn the snow children. We’d put lights in the nearby trees. I’d tell anybody who’d listen about how I started my teaching career in a first-grade classroom. Those children in my initial class graduated from high school in 2012. I’d mention my chilling sadness that these 20 students will not see second grade, let alone a commencement ceremony. I’d remember the first graders that I currently tutor and stand dumbfounded that this could happen to little, innocent, happy, hungry-for-learning kids.

I’d ask the congregants to link hands and surround the children. Anybody would be free to share their thoughts, maybe say a prayer. We’d light candles. Following a moment of silence, we’d start with the Christmas songs. Silent Night. O Little Town. What Child is This? I’d think of the scene in “The Grinch” when the people of Whoville woke up on Christmas morning and still celebrated despite their missing gifts and decorations. And even though someone took so very, very much from this community, he couldn’t stop Christmas either.

I’d ask the people to end the singing with O Holy Night and then I’d slip away into the cold darkness with their voices drifting like snow behind me. I’d pause at the words that symbolize Christmas in my own mind and heart:

A Thrill of Hope,

A Weary World Rejoices …

… I’d fall on my knees and say my own little prayer. A prayer for healing and recovery in this weary place. A prayer for the thrill of hope to settle over this town the way it did many years ago in a small city in Israel.

I’d end my prayer with thanks.

Thanks for hope.

Thanks for Christmas.

Thanks for the children.

Thanks for the snow in Newtown.

The Great Syrup Heist!

I love a good heist movie.

There’s the Italian Job, the Bank Job, the Inside Man and coming you a theater near you, the Syrup Job.

If you’re a syrup lover, as am I, we recently avoided a major dilemma that could have had prices on Log Cabin going through the roof. On Tuesday three men were arrested in conjunction with the Great Canadian Maple Syrup Heist of 2012. The syrup, estimated to be worth over $18 million, was stolen over the summer. Police have tracked down two-thirds of the missing goods, most of which poured across the border into the U.S.

The province of Quebec produces 75 percent of the world’s supply of maple syrup. Canada has an OPEC-like organization that oversees the syrup distribution known as the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers. You have to love how sweet Canada is. Whereas Mexico has drug smugglers, Canada has a syrup cartel. Canada also has a strategic maple syrup reserve similar to the United States’ strategic oil reserve. The reserve is what the thieves targeted. Without its reserve, the Federation would have been forced to jack up the prices on every bottle of syrup from here to Pancake, West Virginia.

The reserve was harvested back in 2011 when the sugar maples were gushing sap like chocolate in Mr. Wonka’s factory. The Federation had to open up an extra warehouse to store its river of syrup. The surplus was pasteurized and stored in 16,000 drums, each containing 54 gallons. That’s 864,000 gallons or enough to fill 30 average-sized in-ground swimming pools. The syrup was ignored except for the occasional inspection. It was ripe for the picking. So, the thieves rented out an adjacent part of the building, drove in a few trucks, and siphoned out the syrup.

The caper wasn’t exactly straight out of Hollywood because the crooks got caught. The thieves never get arrested in a proper heist movie. First of all, it takes more than three guys to pull off a first-class heist. There should be a minimum of five. One guy has to be the mastermind, able to acquire the capital needed for the heist (Think George Clooney or Marky Mark). Another guy has to be the driver, able to navigate mini-Coopers through subway tunnels or over the fountains at the Bellagio. Another team member has to be an explosives expert. He can acquire enough dynamite to level a large mountain. The dynamite can be installed in about 12 minutes and detonated with a Wii controller. Also, every heist squad needs a computer geek who can program the White House Keurig machine with his smart phone or shut down all the electricity in the western hemisphere with an iPad.

Heist teams usually have a beautiful woman to cause any needed diversions or seduce a security guard or two. The group should have an international flair with someone from England, as well as an African-American or an Asian-American. It’s always good when you can get an African-American with a British accent (think Don Cheadle) or a pretty woman who can blow things up.

Lastly, the team has to have a set of blueprints, preferably downloaded by the computer guru. Because the internet apparently holds the blueprints to every building constructed since the Civil War.  

If Hollywood doesn’t produce a movie about the stolen syrup, perhaps A&E or Bravo can turn it into a television series. It can be the sequel to Breaking Bad. In Breaking Sap, Walter White and his partner Jesse Pinkman move to Canada and start their own illegal syrup producing lab. Mr. White uses his chemistry background to mix up the sweetest, purest tasting maple syrup outside of Vermont and slowly begins to eat away at the Federation’s monopoly of the world’s market. Walt and Jesse are able to get their syrup into every Denny’s and IHOP on the eastern seaboard. Walt wants to be the Syrup King of North America. The only thing in his way is the Federation and its vast reserve. Walt decides he has to steal it all.

To steal the syrup, Walt will need a top-notch heist team. Once he has the syrup he can move it across the border and attempt to put Mrs. Butterworth and Aunt Jemima out of business.

Hmm? Perhaps reality isn’t any stranger than fiction. But its probably much more stickier. Just ask the three guys who were arrested Tuesday.