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Three years ago this Christmas, IU assistant professor Don Belton arrived at the home of former-marine Michael Griffin for a dinner party. Two days later, he was dead and accused of sexually assaulting the man who killed him.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Don Holmes stood in front of the big-screen television inside his small living room, ignoring the buzzer and automated voice urging him to take shelter immediately.Then his small white house began to shake.Holmes, 59, rushed to his desk and grabbed a flash drive before capturing his cat, Kiki. Finding refuge in the corner of his bathroom, he hugged Kiki so tightly that she likely thought Holmes would kill her. After roaring across State Road 45, a tornado hit the structure. Trees with fresh spring blossoms surrounding the house came crashing down. Tree trunks and limbs penetrated the roof, exposing the inside to the dark, wet sky. Windows shattered, and rafters snapped. The tin white siding was stripped off the exterior by the 110 miles-per-hour gusts. A couch and other valuables were yanked from the home, along with much of the roof.Puddles of rain accumulated on the home’s old, brown carpet. The tornado took everything but the frame and foundation of two small bedrooms in the back, which used to house his two children, now grown.As the tornado passed over the small structure, the strong wind ripped off the door on the home’s attic above him. Insulation and dirt fell onto his head.A motivational poster with the word “opportunity” hung from the bathroom wall. But huddled on the floor, Holmes wondered if he was about to die. ***The twister’s crushing destruction was followed by silence. Holmes walked out of the bathroom and into the living room, which was covered with debris.On May 25, 2011, Holmes, now divorced, lost the house where he raised his family. But he did not leave. He kept living in the house he knew would never look the same again. He had nowhere else to go.More than a year later, his home would be rebuilt, and so would his life. The house did not have power for six days following the disaster. Traffic on SR45, which runs parallel with the home’s front door, came to a standstill. Gawkers stood along the ditches, pointing camera lenses at the wreckage.The traffic jam delayed workers’ progress on restoring the power lines. None of the gawkers offered assistance. The Federal Emergency Management Agency approved disaster relief funding for municipalities suffering tornado damage but not for residents. To offset reconstruction costs, the State of Indiana awarded Holmes a $5,000 disaster relief grant established by taxes on fireworks sales. A group of Amish men helped remove about 80,000 pounds of tree limbs that were crushing his roof. But the help he really needed seemed like it would never come. He couldn’t afford to even start repairs on the house. In October 2010, Holmes lost his job as a computer specialist when Comcast’s call center in Bloomington shut down.He tried finding a new job without avail. He filed for unemployment, but the stipend was not enough to pay his bills.In a desperate situation, he canceled his homeowner’s insurance, leaving him unprepared when the tornado struck.Raised in a self-reliant farm family, Holmes did not ask his older brother or grown children for a place to live because he did not want to “impose.” During the day he searched for jobs and continued working on his science fiction trilogy.Holmes, who has already published one book along with a collection of training manuals, began the trilogy long before the tornado struck. The first book, which is complete and about 90,000 words in length, was backed up on his flash drive.The occupied house that looked long-abandoned remained in a state of detachment. Summer turned into autumn, and then snow began to fall. Thin sheets of white-tinted plastic were stapled to the windows’ empty frames, which stopped the wind but not the cold. Every morning for about 11 months, Holmes awoke in his bed in his dining room because of the damage in the bedroom. When it rained, he collected as much water as he could in buckets. But Holmes’ largest obstacle was the traffic roaring down the highway beside his house — specifically noise from large trucks. At night, he would jump out of bed as a truck roared by, fearing it was another tornado.“If certain authorities found out I was still living in the house, they might have kicked me out,” Holmes said. “But I didn’t have anywhere else to go at that point.”***Holmes’ residence could never be repaired, people said. It was too far gone.Susan Scales, director of International Gospel Outreach Disaster Relief, disagreed. She had seen worse. At the beginning of May, Scales and a small crew of volunteers arrived on Holmes’ doorstep. Catholic Charities of Indianapolis provided the group of Christian-affiliated disaster relief workers with the necessary funds to begin repairs. Scales became involved in disaster relief more than seven years ago, providing assistance to individuals from New Orleans to Texas and abroad. Living in a neighborhood close to Holmes, Scales took refuge at IU Health Bloomington Hospital on the night of the twister. After years of working on the homes of those less fortunate, she was unwilling to put herself in danger.Although her house was left unharmed, she knew she would have work to do following the disaster. Helping rebuild the lives of those who need assistance the most, she said, is her calling from God. During reconstruction, Holmes agreed to live with his brother only temporarily. He loved his brother, but he also enjoyed his time alone. He needed it to keep writing. Eventually, the remaining trees towering above the house were removed. To prevent further water damage to the home, the crew first rebuilt the roof. On just one side, 39 of the 40 rafters needed to be replaced.New windows were installed. Floorboards were built on the inside, and siding was installed on the outside. Because the two back bedrooms were unoccupied, they were closed off and saved as a task for later. Months passed, and progress was slow, but Scales kept working, often by herself. Holmes worked at finding a job and offered assistance on the house when he could. He selected easy-to-install hardwood flooring and light gray paint for the walls. On one occasion, Scales asked Holmes to clean the kitchen, and he went as far as bleaching the countertop. When Scales arrived the following morning, she was shocked to find a mess.She found cereal dumped into the silverware drawer. A jar of peanut butter was covered in skid marks from rolling around on the floor, but it was never opened. Raccoon footprints were a dead giveaway. At first, Scales did not know where the animals were entering the house. That is, not until she followed a trail of Pop Tart crumbs. Reaching the wrapper, she discovered a hole in the wall near the back bedrooms and fixed the problem.The small white house on SR 45 neared completion. Holmes found a part-time job in the hardware department at Menards and chipped away at his exhausting debt. Holmes smiled more. But Scales had a problem. Almost all of her helpers had dispersed. Progress slowed, and the completion date kept getting pushed back. That was changed by a text message. Holmes told Scales he needed to return home. His brother was vacating his small Bloomington apartment and moving to Indianapolis for his job. She was so close but had so much more to do. She didn’t want Holmes returning to the conditions in which he once lived. “I am vowing he will be able to sleep in his bedroom,” Scales said. “I will not put that bed back in the dining room.”She had a few days.***On Oct. 10, the day Scales said Holmes needed to move in, she only needed to finish installing the hardwood flooring in the dining and living rooms. When she arrived at about 9 a.m., workers from Lowe’s were already waiting outside to install new carpet in Holmes’ bedroom. “As soon as you guys remove the carpet, he can actually move in,” Scales told the workers before telling them of a mistake she made a few days prior. Scales typically carried her cell phone in the breast pocket of her flannel shirt. While working, she noticed her phone was missing. “In this entire home, in this amount of space, in my one gallon of paint, there was my phone,” she said as the men laughed. “It had been in there for over an hour. Needless to say, it was ruined.”Thinking about the hundreds of contacts she has accumulated during the last 17 years of disaster relief, she grabbed a paper towel, wiped off her hands and arms, wrapped the paint-dripping phone in the paper towel and drove to the nearest Verizon Wireless store. With her phone still dripping paint, she explained to the workers how Verizon Wireless employees saved her contacts and gave her a “loaner” phone.Then it was back to work. She had a lot of ground to cover. Installing the floor had been easy, but it was about to get more difficult. She needed to cut precise holes in the boards to wrap around the air vents in the floor. It would require the use of the jigsaw she had borrowed, a tool she had never before used. Then Holmes arrived.Scales took Holmes to his bedroom, where workers from Lowe’s had begun to lay the carpet.“I’m going to get this done as much as I can get it,” Scales said to Holmes. “The only thing I probably won’t be able to do is trimming out around that window.”“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it,” Holmes replied before the two walked back into the living room, where Scales showed Holmes the newly-installed, almost complete hardwood flooring.“You did all this?” Holmes said. “I didn’t know that.”“Oh yeah, I’ve been in here for days,” Scales said. “I’ve been all over this house. You know, every morning that I’ve been in here I’ve been really cold, so I flip the heat on. Then when I came in here yesterday morning and flipped it on, it didn’t come on.”“Right now the gas is shut off,” Holmes said.Without gas, there was no heat. Backed up on bills, the utilities company disconnected the gas. As it reached November, this wasn’t going to work. He wasn’t moving in like Scales had hoped. Returning to the porch, Holmes instructed Scales how to use the jigsaw and cut the necessary 90-degree angles. As she worked, a small crucifix dangled from her neck. “Now that should work,” Scales said, handing one of the last boards to Holmes.“Not quite,” Holmes said, showing Scales that she had cut the board slightly too short. “You can make ’em shorter, but you can’t make ’em longer.”After a second attempt, the board fit perfectly around the air vent. Soon, Scales laid the last board and the structure was ready for Holmes’ return.With only a part-time job at Menards, money was still tight. Although he hoped to become full time, he knew it could take a few months. Until he could afford the deposit for gas, he had to stall. ***Holmes redecorated his small house on Nov. 1 with the few personal items he had left. After paying his gas bill, he was able to move back in.He hung a small Albert Einstein doll on the wall above the computer desk that was given to him by the best friend he has ever had. He moved boxes of his belongings from his undamaged garage and piled them in the dining room. Two family-size boxes of Pop Tarts were put on the counter. He arranged the television and chairs in his living room, only a little different than it looked over a year ago. He had one more trip to his brother’s house to grab some clothes and his cat Kiki. But until then, he sat in a swivel chair at his old wooden desk, lit a cigarette and logged onto the website he was building to go along with the third book in his trilogy. The walls surrounding him looked new. Sure, his home wasn’t perfect, and work still needed to be done. But Holmes once again had a roof over his head and a place to write in solitude. He was home.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Freshman Grace Koury spun in her romantic white tutu as artificial snowflakes fell from above. “The Nutcracker” was Koury’s first production as a ballet dancer in the Jacobs School of Music and her first time dancing in front of 1,460 people in the sold-out Musical Arts Center auditorium. As she took her final bow on stage, she envisioned herself as a professional ballerina finishing her company’s annual “Nutcracker” production. She reflected on her decision to come to IU and pursue an undergraduate degree in ballet, a choice that is difficult for any aspiring ballerina to make. After being accepted into the Jacobs School during her senior year of high school, Koury was given an offer to dance professionally for the Los Angeles Ballet. “It was really hard to choose this over a traineeship, because the window gap is very small for getting a job opportunity,” Koury said. “There’s always girls younger than you coming up. Since careers can be short, the earlier you start, the longer your career will be.”In the world of ballet, it is common for companies to begin hiring dancers at the age of 17 or 18, ballet department Chair Michael Vernon said. Dancers who start working for a company at a young age are often promoted sooner to soloist positions, he said. “Young people are very impatient,” Vernon said. “They just want to get on stage and dance.”Koury said when she first started the school year, she began to have second thoughts about her decision. “For me it was because of the unknown,” she said. “It’s kind of hard being here, because people my age are dancing professionally now. It’s just kind of a time-game you have to think about.”Vernon said it is common for ballet students to leave the program after receiving a job offer at a company. “It happens about three or four times a year,” Vernon said. “We lost a freshman and a junior last year.”Koury said as she began rehearsals for “The Nutcracker” and her days became even more consumed by dance, her second thoughts became less painful. She said the production made her appreciate the professional nature of the ballet department. “It wasn’t like a school production,” Koury said. “It was like a company production. Getting to see all the upperclassmen and how incredibly talented they are, I realized I could strive for that,” she said. Vernon said the Jacobs School offers students an experience that is very similar to that of a major professional company. Most of the faculty have experience dancing in the professional field, and Vernon often uses his connections with companies to help his students find jobs after graduating, he said. “Students have a chance to dance lead roles well before they would in a ballet company,” Vernon said. There are currently 52 dancers in the ballet program, and the department enrolls anywhere from 15 to 20 freshmen each year. About one out of every eight dancers who auditions is accepted into the program, Vernon said. Freshman Alex Hartnett deferred her enrollment to IU for a year so she could dance with the professional company Ballet Arizona immediately after graduating from high school. “It was bittersweet,” she said. “I really wanted to go out and dance, but I had already fallen in love with IU.”Hartnett said she decided to accept the offer to gain experience and an understanding of the professional work environment. “It was not only what was expected, but it was what I wanted to do,” Hartnett said. “Being a professional ballerina dancer has been my dream for so long.”Hartnett said the training and rehearsal schedule at Ballet Arizona was very comparable to the workload in the Ballet Department at IU. At Ballet Arizona, she had classes and rehearsals every weekday from 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. As a freshman ballet major at IU, she dances from 11:30 a.m. to 5:45 p.m. Monday through Friday. Hartnett said it is common for many ballet majors to graduate in three years to begin working as soon as possible. Due to the short length of a ballet dancer’s career, an undergraduate degree is extremely important for aspiring ballerinas, Vernon said. Ballerinas often retire in their mid-30s, depending on the person’s physical health. “There’s definite drawbacks to starting young,” Vernon said. “When you do retire or if you get injured, you won’t have an education to fall back on. The years (in college) are far better spent when you’re 18 than when you’re 40.”Hartnett said the program requires students to take classes in a field of study outside ballet. She recently decided to pursue informatics as her outside concentration. “Being here and getting my degree is going to be so useful,” Hartnett said. “It’s so great that they let you explore those interests while still focusing on your ultimate goal.”
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Every day, on every corner of campus, students throw away little pieces of their lives.We discard Jimmy John’s sandwich wrappers in the underbrush of Dunn Woods. We drop crushed beer cans in the mud of the tailgate fields. We accidentally leave textbooks in empty classrooms. From Dunn Meadow to Memorial Stadium, we leave bicycles, laptops, Papa John’s Pizza boxes, dinosaur toys, dildos, Halloween masks, underwear, Mickey Mouse ears. In the grass, we leave condoms, some used, others still untouched in their wrappers. In the trees, we pin love notes — Valentine’s Day messages that will never be delivered. In the dumpsters outside the School of Fine Arts, we abandon sculptures deemed unworthy. In the School of Music, frustration consumes us and we smash our violins and then throw them on the ground outside.Every day, IU-Bloomington students discard about 186,000 pounds of garbage. Every year, the University dedicates thousands of man-hours and spends thousands of dollars to keep it from burying us. The campus workers who collect what we throw away know us through our trash. Desire, ambition, sloth, love, hunger, hope, disappointment — they see all of it in the things we leave behind. They pick up what we have forgotten, and then they make it disappear.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>A sign on the door to the Indiana Memorial Union lobby reads, “Keep our building warm. Use Revolving Door.” Unfortunately, most houses and dorms do not have that option.Preparing for the upcoming winter season requires some effort to keep a home warm and a wallet full.The Indianapolis Division of Homeland Security designated Nov. 11-17 as “Winter Weather Week.”To help Hoosiers prepare for winter, the DHS provided a few tips to keep costs down and the heat up.Heating a home should only be done with the thermostat. Never use the oven or stove to heat the room, the DHS suggests. Also, drying clothes in the oven or on a space heater could start a fire. Sealing leaks, whether in a dorm room or an apartment, will stop any cold air from entering and may help reduce the cost of wasted, escaping heat. Checking under doorways and windows, and caulking any visible spaces, could prevent any cold air from entering, according to the DHS. “If light is seen through doorways, then there is a gap,” said John Hewett, program manager of Bloomington’s Housing and Neighborhood Development department. “Also, make sure to latch properly wooden windows.”Hewett also recommends having a personal thermometer.Properly using a thermometer can help save money and lower heating bills. A thermometer can be set and checked frequently to individual preference, Hewett said.Adhering to weather signals is important for preparing the house. The DHS lists seven warnings to listen for once winter hits. Winter storm watch warnings and weather advisories warn of foul weather that may lead to life-threatening situations. Blizzard, ice storm and wind chill warnings could signal strong winds and damaging conditions. The wind chill advisory warns of hazardous temperatures, according to the DHS guidelines. As Thanksgiving and holiday break approach, Hewett said turning off the heat in an empty house could cause serious damage.“If a cold snap comes when people leave, the cold weather could cause water pipe leaks and destroy the drywall of a house,” he said. “If leaving for the holidays, people should keep the temperature at a low temp.” — Jessica Campbell
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>GREENWOOD, Ind. — At dawn Tuesday, Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Officer Dwight Tripp sat quietly in his squad car at the entrance of the Richmond Hill subdivision, at the intersection of Towhees and South Sherman drives. Two other metropolitan patrol cars parked behind him. Contractors and investigators were expected to make regular visits to the explosion site throughout the afternoon, and residents were being granted access to their homes to retrieve salvageable items, he said.Only about a block southeast of the neighborhood entrance, the remains of various residences on Fieldfare Way were in ruins. At about 11 p.m. Saturday, a colossal explosion leveled 8355 Fieldfare Way, once home to Jennifer Longworth, 36, and her husband John Longworth, 34. Both were killed in the blast, their bodies identified by the police. The house of Monseratte Shirley, 47, who lived next door to the Longworths, is believed to be the epicenter of the explosion, according to the Associated Press.The explosion, perhaps a lethal combination of a faulty furnace and natural gas, destroyed multiple homes in the immediate area and severely damaged others. The official cause of the explosion was still unknown as of Tuesday afternoon.Back at the entrance of the neighborhood Tuesday, a tan SUV raced to the opening of the subdivision. Passing the police cars, the vehicle came to a halt at the intersection. A yellow school bus from the Metropolitan School District of Perry Township stopped at the same intersection. The woman driving the car honked repeatedly as if to attract the attention of the bus driver. A young girl, about 10 years old, leaped from the front passenger seat and slammed the car door, clutching her backpack around her shoulders. She scurried onto the bus — close call.Since Monday, school buses carting students to and from Perry Township elementary, middle and high schools have been forced to reroute due to restricted access to Richmond Hill, said Paula Clegg, communication coordinator for the Metropolitan Schools of Perry Township.“It’s just been a ripple effect on that whole neighborhood,” she said.At least 32 students were displaced from their homes in the neighborhood as a result of the explosion, she said.“We’ve had to do some sort of rearranging because nobody is granted access,” Clegg said.Dave and Cindy Grenoble live about two miles from the ghostland that was once a thriving urban neighborhood — close enough to be waken up the moment the blast occurred. Their grown daughter, Andrea and her husband, Ryan, live on Fieldfare Way with two children, Christopher and Haley. The family’s home sustained severe structural damage in the explosion. Since the blast, their family has been living with other family members. The kids have yet to return to school at Southport Middle School where Christopher, an active baseball player, is an eighth grader and Haley, a sixth grader, participates with a local swim team.“It’s going to be about what happens in the next two weeks and trying to get back to a normal life,” Dave said. “Their house, right now, they can’t go in. They’re five streets down from the blast.”“Five houses,” his wife corrected him.Cindy said their daughter is living “second by second.”“It’ll be interesting to see three or four weeks from now,” Dave said. “The one thing I’ve heard over and over again — that could’ve been anybody’s neighborhood.”Christopher and Haley, are currently without school uniforms, supplies and backpacks. With the family’s car trapped on the inside of a buckled garage door, they are left to depend on family members, like Dave and Cindy, to ensure they are transported from place to place. The kids haven’t seen their own bedrooms in at least three days.“All the memorabilia, the trophies — my grandson had his room fixed the way he wanted it,” Dave said. “And now they have to start all over again.”Dave said he figures most of the homes in the neighborhood were damaged as a result of the blast. Some will have to be torn down, and others are in need of siding, new windows or both. “It’s going to be a very, very long 12 months in that community,” he said.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>It was the last sunset of a lingering summer. That evening — Friday, Sept. 14 — started out unseasonably warm, but a chill trailed close behind. Anything was possible. Midterms were far away. IU’s football team was still 2-0. The sun fell, and the city came to life. Freshmen pulling strings for alcohol. A boy and a girl surrendering to lust. A convert to Islam seeking solace in prayer. An opera singer discovering herself, and her dreams, under the stage lights. A violent drunk pursuing a trio of unsuspecting students. Just another night in Bloomington.6:01 p.m.At dusk, the restless freshman hurries into her dorm room at Wright Quad, drops her bag, and announces her intention to get wasted.“I’m so ready to rage right now, you don’t even understand,” the blond-haired 18-year-old tells some friends, already gathered for the pregame. “Guys, I plan on being belligerent tonight.”She peels off the shirt she wore to class and stands in her brown lace bra, staring into the closet. Who does she want to be tonight? Opting for temptress, she pulls out a black bandeau, a hot-pink crop-top with dangling fringe, and a pair of jeans with strategically placed rips and tears that offer glimpses of her upper thighs. Her roommate, also half-dressed, changes beside her. Neither of them care that guys are in the room watching or that the window blinds are up. Modesty is not an issue.“We’d probably make someone’s day,” says the roommate. “But no one looks, your loss.” From a nearby laptop, Lil Jon shouts the pulsing opening to “Turbulence.”Ladies and gentlemenWelcome to Flight 909Taking you on a journeyAll around the worldBoth the freshman and her roommate dance as they dress, spinning and swaying.Are you ready? Are you ready? Ready for takeoffSome of their friends are ready to go to the tailgate fields for GLOWfest. But the restless freshman has other plans. As the music plays, she texts a guy who lives in Briscoe Quad. They met one night a few weeks back while both prowled for parties. She calls him her “slam piece.”“He doesn’t want a girlfriend. I don’t want a boyfriend,” she explains. “We’ve hooked up sober five times in a row now. That’s a big deal.”Before they take off into the night, she and her friends want to get a head start on their drinking. But there’s a problem. All of them are underage, and even though they’ve recruited an older student to go out and buy the alcohol, he has yet to deliver. In fact, he and the rum are three hours late. The restless freshman is tired of being sober. Having waited long enough, she and a few of her girlfriends decide to ditch the original plan and head to Briscoe. Her slam piece has already secured enough alcohol to begin the pregame.He meets the group in the Briscoe lobby and escorts them into the elevator. Even though it’s dusk, he’s wearing sunglasses. He takes the group into his room and grabs a handle of Gran Legacy rum. A bottle of Kamchatka vodka already waits on the table. Twenty minutes later and four shots in, the freshman sits on the bed beside her boy toy, sifting through a bowl of vodka-soaked Gummi Bears. “Play one of our songs,” he tells her. She cues Mumford & Sons’ cover of “Wagon Wheel” on a nearby laptop. Rum bottle in hand, she gazes toward her slam piece. The two slow dance. They stare into each other’s eyes, and he holds her by the waist to pull her closer. They laugh. They kiss. Mouths open, no tongue. Simple.The other girls are too busy downing more shots to take much notice of the intimacy unfolding in front of them. GLOWfest beckons and the group is antsy; White Panda is taking the stage. They scurry out of the room in a cluster. The door shuts. At last, the freshman and her slam piece are alone.9:12 p.m.The mosque glimmers in the darkness. Silver light pours from keyhole-shaped windows. Abdur-Rahman, 20, sits inside the Islamic Center of Bloomington in a carpeted room upstairs filled with dozens of men he has come to call his brothers. The Center is his refuge. This evening, he is teaching a 12-year-old boy how to recite from the Quran.“You have to do it beautifully for it to enter your heart,” he explains to the boy. “When you do it fast, your heart is hard.” Speaking slowly and with more confidence, the boy begins to recite in Arabic Al-Fatihah, the first seven verses in the Quran.In The Name of Allah, The Beneficent, The MercifulAll praise is only Allah’s, the Lord of the WorldsThe Beneficent, The MercifulMaster of the Day of Judgment.Abdur-Rahman nods.After the two finish, the boy joins other children at the front of the mosque before the prayer of Isha; the last prayer of the day. Abdur-Rahman, dressed in a turban and long white garment, stares ahead. Thinking. Reflecting. He wasn’t always a Muslim. His name wasn’t always Abdur-Rahman. Three years ago, Denzel Draughn, as his parents call him, reverted to Islam. That’s the word he uses: “reverted.” In keeping with the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad, he believes everyone is born Muslim, no matter what faith they’re raised.As a teenager, he was troubled by his Protestant upbringing. Holding hands and singing in church on Sundays reminded him of a séance. He refused to believe in the Immaculate Conception and was not convinced Jesus was the son of God. He wanted out.When he turned to Islam and took his new name, his parents moved him to Zanesville, Ohio, a small, mostly Christian town northeast of Cincinnati, in an attempt to quarantine their son from Islam. During his stay, Abdur-Rahman visited with scholars, local Islamic centers and celebrated the faith his family scowled upon.Today, things are different. Now fully immersed in Islam, Abdur-Rahman has moved to Bloomington to care for his mother who suffers from an enlarged heart. He helps her with day-to-day tasks and washes dishes with her at the Scholars Inn Bakehouse.“Caring for your kinship,” he says, “is the second-best deed one can do to enter paradise.” The first is to consistently abide by the daily prayer times.At the front of the mosque, the muezzin, the man who makes the call to prayer, attaches a lavaliere microphone to his shirt.Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar . . .God is the greatest, God is the greatest...Abdur-Rahman makes his way to the front of the mosque, faces eastward toward Mecca, and raises his hands, his elbows bent at a 90-degree angle. The other men beside him face the same direction, already in prayer.“Allahu Akbar,” Abdur-Rahman murmurs.In silence, he bows, dropping to his knees and pressing his forehead to the carpet as he whispers the prayer in Arabic. Now is the time when he may ask anything of Allah. Inside his head, Abdur-Rahman is talking to his god. He prays for his mother. He prays for his family’s acceptance. 11:02 p.m.Deep into the second act of “Don Giovanni,” the spurned lover stands backstage, awaiting her next entrance.It’s the opening night of the season at the IU Musical Arts Center, and the house is packed. Kelly Glyptis, a 23-year-old soprano in the Jacobs School of Music’s masters voice program, is fighting the usual fluttering inside her stomach. She is playing Donna Elvira, a character who loves Giovanni but discovers that he is a legendary womanizer. In the upcoming scene, singing an aria known as “Mi Tradi,” she is torn between hating Giovanni and forgiving him. Kelly has been performing on stage since she was a little girl. But still she fights the butterflies every time. “Everyone gets nervous,” she says. “Anyone who tells you they don’t is either lying or an idiot.”Like many performers, Kelly is accustomed to small catastrophes. During dress rehearsals, she broke something every time — a fan, a pair of earrings — and tonight, another cast member is holding a clump of grapes when one breaks off the stem and jumps into Kelly’s emerald gown, lodging deep within her cleavage. She is still on stage when she feels it squish.When Kelly graduates from Jacobs, she wants to pursue opera, but also sees herself on Broadway. Opera is completely different from singing in a musical, but the training expands her range. When she auditions, she wants to stand out. For her, Mozart is always a challenge. She has a big voice, and her teachers have cautioned her not to let it overpower the delicacy of the composer’s intentions.“Mozart,” she says, “is very simple but very hard. You have to hit a high note and make it come out of nowhere.”“Mi Tradi” is particularly difficult — so difficult that it’s often cut from the opera. It’s both dramatically and vocally taxing. It requires physical endurance, a combination of buoyancy and anguish. Almost time for her entrance. The audience awaits. Kelly stands in the darkness, gazing toward the stage, visualizing what’s about to happen, like a slugger stepping up to the plate hoping for a home run. In her head, she fast-forwards through the upcoming scene. She imagines it going flawlessly; she hears her voice striking every note. She has prepared for this role for seven months, rehearsing and reading multiple scripts, books, and interpretations of “Don Giovanni,” in addition to compiling a two-page character analysis. She has learned to disappear inside her character. Many critics think Elvira is crazy. Kelly sees it differently.“I think she’s just misunderstood.”Kelly waits for her cue from the assistant stage manager. He hands her a bottle of apple juice. She takes a swig and watches his raised hand. Standby. The assistant stage manager’s hand drops.“Go.”She steps out into the amber light. From on stage, the audience is draped in a blanket of darkness, but she can feel their eyes upon her. Kelly looks to the conductor, standing before her in the orchestra pit. It’s just me and maestro, she tells herself. Halfway through the aria, she sinks to her knees. The music shifts to a minor key.Quando sento il mio tormentoDi vendetta il cor favelaWhen I feel my sufferingMy heart speaks of vengeance.When she’s done, the applause washes over her in waves. She can’t smile; her character, after all, is in misery. But inside, she knows she has nailed it.Ecstasy.1:37 a.m.The night has turned brisk. In front of Dunnkirk, a man slumps on a bench, a river of vomit spilling out of his mouth as the woman next to him rubs his back in support. People continue to walk past, not paying attention to the man. He stares into the puddle of regurgitated liquor, now shimmering in the soft glow of the street lamp above.The bars are crowded and people spill outside the doors and onto the sidewalk. Three students, two men and a woman, walk beneath the underpass of The Upstairs Pub and head to their car, leaving the raucousness of the bar scene and stepping into the quiet parking lot behind the building.Without warning, a drunken older man, maybe in his 50s, staggers toward the three. They hear the man shouting to his companion and hurry to their car. Having never seen the man before, the students are confused. Frantically, the woman tugs at the door handle, waiting for the driver to unlock it. As she swings the door open, the drunk charges toward the woman, knocking her into the interior of the car, hitting her chin and left knee.“Hey, you don’t fucking touch her! Help!” yells one of her friends. The attacker falls into the back seat, flailing. Panicked, the woman looks at him. So overwhelmed, her mind goes blank.3:14 a.m.The lobby of the emergency room at IU Health Bloomington Hospital is still. A fish tank bubbles and the television babbles above.A nurse pokes her head in and calls out, “Stephanie?”A heavy-set woman wrapped in a neon green blanket slowly rises from her chair. She holds the blanket and pulls it toward her chest tight. She turns to the man sitting to her right and attempts to mutter something, but her words are overcome by wheezing and gasping. She follows the nurse, and the door closes behind her.Her companion watches her go, waits a minute, and grabs the TV’s remote. He begins to flip the channels and comes upon a reality show about street racing. His face breaks into a near-toothless grin.For a moment he lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor, even though a mass of chairs surround him. Then he returns to his feet. Refusing to stay in place, he walks in circles. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable. Perhaps he’s anxious. Perhaps both.Finally he settles in a row of chairs, lying down as though he’s home in his bed. 4:04 a.m.In front of Showalter Fountain, four students waltz beneath the stars. From the center of the darkened fountain, the statue of Venus lies in her bed of water, watching as one of the men takes his lady by the hand. The fountain is not running and the water is still. Tyler leads the ballroom-style dance as his lady, Emily, stares straight into his eyes. The two dance slowly, conscious of their steps, giggling.“You’re the man,” Emily says. “You lead.”“I’ve never danced outside a fountain before,” Tyler says. Audra and Jordan, the other couple, are caught up in their own steps. Tyler nibbles at Emily’s neck. She pulls him in for a kiss.The four freshmen are together. Secure. Safe. But barely sticking out of the women’s jeans are pocketknives — each carrying her own. Just in case.“We never know when we’re going to have to walk home alone,” Audra says.7 a.m.Back at Briscoe, the restless freshman rests at last. Nestled in bed against her slam piece, the friends with benefits sleep off the vodka-soaked Gummi Bears.It was a busy night. The two drank, attended GLOWfest, danced and walked back to Briscoe. Once the two were back, they drank some more, watched a movie and had sex. At some point, for reasons she doesn’t understand, she sat up in bed and cried. Hours later, the scent of rum, sweat, and stale pizza linger. The window in the room faces east. The restless freshman and her slam piece sleep on as the rays of the rising sun seep through the edges of the blinds. Dawn.Editor’s NoteThe author, accompanied by Editor-in-Chief Michela Tindera and Photo Editor Rabi Abonour, reported this story between 6 p.m. Friday Sept. 14 and 7 a.m. Saturday Sept. 15. The on-stage opera scene and morning at Briscoe were based on later interviews with sources. The group spent their night in search of compelling stories. They even found themselves in the middle of one. The scene at 1:37 a.m. refers to them as they were attacked by a drunken man. Initially, this scene was to be left out. It may have distracted you, the reader, from the story. But soon they realized this was part of the story they were searching for. Crime happens. This was just another night in Bloomington.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Provost and Executive Vice President Lauren Robel remembers driving distinguished IU professor of political science Elinor Ostrom home from Martinsville, Ind., after a speaking engagement at a charity camp. It was late at night, she said, and Elinor Ostrom had to fly out of Indianapolis early the next morning.“So I drove her to that beautiful little house on Lampkins Ridge and it was easily 11:30 (p.m.) when I got there,” Robel said. “And I remember Vincent peeking out the window, waiting up for her.”Nine professors and administrators from around the world contributed vignettes and remarks during a celebration of the lives of Elinor Ostrom and her husband, distinguished IU scholar Vincent Ostrom, who both died in June.Hundreds of students, faculty and friends of the Ostroms attended the event, which took place Monday at the IU Auditorium.Political science professor Michael McGinnis remembers joining the Ostroms during holidays and later helping the couple with medical appointments. Elinor Ostrom’s death came earlier than expected, McGinnis said, but in ways it was comforting both husband and wife died within weeks of one another. “They had always been a team,” McGinnis said. “In their research and their affection for one another.”University of Colorado Boulder associate professor Krister Andersson said Elinor and Vincent Ostrom were an example of the power of working together.Although many knew Elinor Ostrom for her work in academia and the recognition she received as a result — she is the only woman to have won the Nobel Memorial Prize in Economic Sciences — IU professor of political science Marjorie Hershey said she had the privilege of knowing Elinor Ostrom personally.Like most of the speakers at the event, Hershey knew Elinor Ostrom as simply, “Lin.”“Lin’s contribution to daily lives should have won her a second Nobel prize,” she said.The Nobel Prize winner was also a longtime competitive swimmer who loved Inuit art.“Lin” hated shopping so much that when she found a pair of comfortable shoes, Hershey said, she would buy as many pairs as she could so it would be years before she had to shop again.She and her husband also built a cabin on Manitoulin Island in Canada. The cabin had no electricity or running water. In a video presentation created by Carleton College professor of social sciences Barbara Allen, the couple talked about furniture they built. The Ostroms’ house and everything in it has been given to the University, IU President Michael McRobbie said.The School of International and Global Studies, scheduled to begin construction in spring 2013, will include a room dedicated to the couple and will house some of their handmade furniture.Other speakers included Washington University in St. Louis professor and 1993 Nobel laureate Douglass North, School of Public and Environmental Affairs Dean John Graham, Delft University of Technology professor and Dean Theo Toonen and University of Cincinnati assistant professor Gwen Arnold.At the conclusion of the event, McRobbie and Robel unveiled a portrait of Elinor Ostrom to be displayed in the Indiana Memorial Union.In it, she holds her Nobel medal, which is now housed in Bryan Hall. Behind her sits an open laptop, which McRobbie said signifies her steadfast work ethic, and right beside her sits a picture of her husband.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>An Ashton Center resident was assaulted in his room between 11:29 p.m. Monday and 12:11 a.m. Tuesday, according to an IU Police Department report.The victim was assaulted by two IU-Purdue University Indianapolis students and his roommate, IUPD Chief Keith Cash said in an email.Cash said a verbal dispute began between the suspects and victim about the victim’s girlfriend, who used to date one of the suspects.The victim was eventually struck in the face with a small wrench, and his cell phone and a window in the room were broken during the assault, Cash said. The victim’s eye was swollen after the assault, but the victim declined medical treatment, Cash said.Cash said the suspects have been identified, and IUPD will be interviewing them.— Colleen Sikorski
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>The 50 greatest films of all time looks different for everyone.Just ask James Naremore, professor emeritus in IU’s Department of Communication and Culture, who voted in the Top 50 Greatest Films of All Time — otherwise known as the Sight & Sound poll — released by the British Film Institute every 10 years. Naremore, who wrote the BFI-published book “On Kubrick” in 2007, said he was “deliberately contrary in some of (his) choices” when he listed his top 10 movies. “I figured that Welles’ ‘Citizen Kane’ and Hitchcock’s ‘Vertigo’ were going to fight it out for first place, so to go slightly against the tide I chose ‘Touch of Evil’ and ‘Rear Window,’” Naremore said in an email. “On purpose, I also picked a few films that aren’t the usual suspects — I think they deserve more attention.” Two of Naremore’s choices — the 1929 silent documentary “Man with a Movie Camera” and F.W. Murnau’s “Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans” — made the top 10 in the Sight & Sound poll. In the past, IU Cinema Director Jon Vickers has presented “Sunrise” as part of the City Lights Film series, which continues this year with “Bride of Frankenstein,” “Petulia” and other classic films.Of the 50 movies listed, Vickers said he has presented about 35 since he’s been in the movie business. Although only two movies from the 21st century — David Lynch’s “Mulholland Dr.” and “In the Mood for Love,” directed by Wong Kar-wai — made the cut, Vickers said the movies on the Sight & Sound poll could serve as a reference for students who want a good taste of cinema. “They should embrace and find out where the new stories are being informed from,” he said. “Because mostly filmmakers have some kind of film history, whether it’s from viewing or schooling or whatever it might be. And films on this list are making up, hopefully, some of that film history.” Deciding which films to feature for IU Cinema’s fall 2012 program is a complex process, Vickers said, and is based on the mission to present quality film. Digitally restored classics such as “Casablanca” and Stanley Kubrick’s “2001: A Space Odyssey” are scheduled later this fall, but recent favorites such as “Mean Girls” and films by young directors are also thrown into the mix. “We have to try to find a balance between things that we know are good films as well as things that are fresh and relevant and important to another generation,” Vickers said. The pool of documentaries scheduled for this semester appeals to the younger generation. The filmakers speaking on these documentaries will add context and insight for viewers.Werner Herzog, director of “Grizzly Man” and the 1979 film “Nosferatu the Vampyre,” will lecture on Sept. 11 and 13 at the Whittenberger Auditorium. A public interview will follow at 3 p.m. Sept. 14 at IU Cinema.In addition, French director Claire Denis will take part in an IU Cinema event Nov. 10 in conjunction with the screening of seven of her films. Other visiting directors include Walter Salles, director of the upcoming film adaptation of Jack Kerouac’s novel “On the Road,” Todd Solondz, Alison Klayman and Brian Crano. “With the emphasis on these other art house filmmakers and directors that we’re bringing, I think that was something we focused on in the past, but we kind of put a little additional effort into it this semester,” Vickers said.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>With the projected return of about 35,000 people to town this week, the City of Bloomington Utilities Department issued mandatory water use restrictions Monday. The restriction is in effect until Oct. 11.“We usually see at this time of the year, even without these kind of conditions, a rise in demand associated with the return of 35,000 people to Bloomington,” Utilities Director Pat Murphy said. “That is really the window we are trying to cover during this period. We are going to review this every 15 days to determine what approach we need to take.” The order restricts outdoor watering, car washing, hosing or washing outdoor areas, the use of water as dust control, filling of empty swimming pools or hot tubs and operation of water fountains or other water features. Nurseries, automatic commercial car washes, manual commercial car washes and tees, greens and fairways at golf courses are exempt. Citizens who receive their water from a well are also exempt. Compliance failure will result in a written warning for first-time violators, a $100 fine for second-time violators, $250 for the third and $500 per day for the fourth. “Our goal is not to ticket people, but to ensure that our infrastructure can keep up with community demand,” Mayor Mark Kruzan said in a press release.City of Bloomington Utilities sent a letter to its water customers, declaring the water emergency and the implementation of the “Mandatory Water Use Restrictions” on Aug. 9. Unlike in other cities affected by the drought, Bloomington’s water source, Monroe Lake, has water. The Monroe Water Treatment Plant is operating near, and at times more than, capacity. The city is expanding the plant, projecting completion by June or July 2013. “Our issue isn’t with our supply,” Murphy said. “Lake Monroe is a supply that can sustain at least a year with extreme drought conditions. We are expanding the water treatment plant, and that will give us the capacity to deal with and address these kinds of demands.” More than 68 percent of Indiana is classified as in severe drought, according to the U.S. Drought Monitor. In southwest Indiana, 25 percent of the state is classified as in exceptional drought conditions.Because Bloomington doesn’t have a code enforcement department, the city wants to educate the residents and ask them to cooperate, Murphy said. “This is an educational approach,” he said. “We are asking the community to share with us across the board. We are making some adjustments for commerce and things like that. We want to keep businesses going, but at the same time, we need to reduce our demand, and our demand is similar to what the state has asked. If we can shave off 15 to 20 percent, we believe that will help us.”Mick Renneisen City of Bloomington Parks and Recreation Department, said the use of water in Bloomington’s parks and recreational facilities have been limited.“We have already taken measures to limit water use,” he said. “We did that when the drought became severe enough and we were asked by the utilities department.”Despite the order exemption, Renneisen said they have cut back on watering the golf courses. “When it got so hot, it doesn’t matter whether we water it or not with the soil used on the courses, so we voluntarily already cut back,” he said. “We are hoping for some cooler temperatures.” Trees planted no more than five years prior to the order may be watered for one hour per day using a container or a hand-held hose with a shut-off nozzle, a drip irrigation system or a soaker hose. The watering may only occur before 10 a.m. and after 6 p.m., according to the order. Renneisen said about 2,000 trees were planted in the past five years, and the city doesn’t normally water trees planted more than five years ago. “We need to establish the trees when young, and we expect a 20 percent loss in the trees planted,” he said. The water restrictions are a challenge to all residents, Renneisen said. “I think it is affecting everyone, and residents want to keep their plants alive, too,” he said. “We have a water treatment plant that can’t handle anymore water than currently. There is plenty of water, but it just can’t pump all of it.” While the city has been tracking the weather throughout the summer with the advent of hot weather and drought-like conditions, the start of the school year forced the city to take action, Murphy said. “We were tracking the demand that was being placed on our water treatment plant,” he said. “As we moved closer to the day that we were going to see the return of students and other folks associated with the start of the school year, we did some projections and realized our demands that we could conceivably see far exceeded what the plant could produce, and that could present some problems. We thought to err on the side of caution, so we decided to implement this ban and move forward.”For more information about the restrictions, go to bloomington.in.gov/waterwise.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Nestled in a small bed in a large room, a baby girl sleeps peacefully.Soon, the small bed with the small girl begins to rotate and lock into place, preparing for a beam of protons to be directed at her head from three different angles.From an adjacent room, doctors, technicians and nurses watch 19-month-old Willa Frankenberger through a small black-and-white TV screen while operating the beam. On screen, she looks like a new doll still cradled in the wrappings of the package. Eyes closed, her lips remain delicately pursed around a tube bringing her oxygen during the 15-second treatment. This isn’t the first time Willa has been asleep in this position. Or the second. Or even the 10th.Therapies, anesthesia and radio treatments like this one have become parts of the new life Willa and her parents, Jim Frankenberger and Jody Held, have had to adopt since Willa was diagnosed with anaplastic ependyoma, a type of brain tumor, on July 28,2011.March 22was a celebration. That day was her 30th and final treatment in a series that required a temporary move to Bloomington so she could receive it five days a week for six straight weeks. Today, they’re going home to Louisville, Ky.Today is different.Down the hall, her parents and grandparents wait for her return.***On Hycliffe Avenue in St. Matthews, a suburb nestled just seven minutes past downtown Louisville on I-64, lawns are small but green, and on a Sunday afternoon in April, families are outside washing cars, walking dogs and playing basketball. Jim and Jody’s dusty red station wagon is parked on a patch of gravel at the side of their home.The family dogs, 19-year-old Sweet Pea and 13-year-old Buster, waddle and scurry to meet visitors at the aluminum fence, tails wagging. Though the grass is a bit longer than Jim would like, it’s almost as if they never left.But through the screen door, there are small reminders that something has changed. A 20-month-old Willa sits on the kitchen floor with Jody, playing and exploring with a set of alphabet magnets on the refrigerator. From behind, you can see the 4-inch-long scar spanning the entire back of Willa’s head, a reminder of her first operation at Kosair Children’s Hospital in Louisville. Bags of medication, tubs of syringes and eyedroppers sit on the kitchen counter. And on the refrigerator, a paper fortune hangs amidst a collection of pet photos and magnets.“This year, your family will be your highest priority,” it reads. A few weeks shy of her first birthday, Willa was rushed to the pediatric intensive care unit at Kosair for emergency surgery to relieve the pressure of cerebral-spinal fluid building in her head. The next day, she had an eight-hour surgery to cut out a 2-inch tumor. Four weeks of no sleep and uncertainty later, Willa and her parents relocated to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital for Chemotherapy.During their five-month stay, Jody kept a journal.11/20Willa: She is having bone pain and fever and does not want to stay in the room! She is tired and achy, but still such a trooper. I keep telling myself we’re almost done. 70% done. One more month, and then home!11/24Grandma brought turkey on Friday, but it was too soon for Willa. She wanted to eat what was on our plates, but couldn’t, so she was very mad. She cried; I cried. Hopefully it will change for the better soon!From St. Jude, they came to Bloomington to begin proton therapy. While traditional radiation delivers only about 20 percent of the maximum dose to tissues beneath the skin, proton treatment is able to deliver the maximum dose at the tumor while avoiding tissue beyond the tumor. The IU Health Proton Therapy Center is one of 10 proton therapy centers in the country. About 300 children are treated in Bloomington each year. “The thing that’s most challenging, not to belittle other kinds of cancer, but if it’s spread to the brain, that’s most serious,” Jody says. “It takes away the ability to move and see and eat. A lot more’s at stake. It’s not just a matter of sitting around and taking chemo.”Willa also sees an occupational therapist, a physical therapist and a speech therapist multiple times per week.***Before the diagnosis, Jim, 47, was a commercial photographer. Before the diagnosis, Jody practiced craniosacral and massage therapy, which serve as alternatives to traditional medicine used for treating stress, migraines and chronic pain.“This whole experience has been a real challenge to my practice,” Jody says. “It’s opened my eyes to Western medicine and helped me realize that it’s sometimes all there is.” Both had to stop work after Willa’s diagnosis, though since they completed treatment in Bloomington, Jody has begun to see some of her clients again. Jim and Jody have continued to use their skills to help her and document this experience. “This is why we’re here,” Jody said. “Willa picked us because she knew we’d be able to care for her.”From the moment Willa was born, Jim began snapping thousands and thousands of photos of her. When Willa got sick, he took even more. Jody sent this email to family and friends the day of Willa’s diagnosis, July 28: “On Thursday, Jim and I received the news that Willa Rose has a 2 inch mass in the fourth ventricle of her brain. They put in a drain to take the pressure off her brain, and on Friday they will remove the mass. Please keep Willa in your prayers and we’ll hope that the tumor is only pressing on her brainstem, and is not wrapped into it. She is the best thing that ever happened to us. There are no more words right now because my heart is in my throat.”***Gulping down a bowl of cereal, Jim has only a few minutes to finish his breakfast. On a morning like this, he cannot let his daughter see him with food. Willa and Jody are on the other side of the closed apartment doo, giving Jim a few moments of reprieve before they switch to let Jody eat. This will be a long morning.At about 8 a.m., Jim receives a phone call from the proton therapy center alerting him that one of the proton beams would be down for the day. This is the first time a proton beam has been down at the center since the family came to Bloomington for treatment six weeks ago. So, rather than getting Willa ready to go, Jim and Jody have a new task for the morning: distraction. Reading stories, walking outside and searching for doggies out of their seventh-floor apartment window are all ways to divert Willa’s attention from the fact that she hasn’t eaten in the last eight hours and won’t be able to again for another eight.But for Jim and Jody, their temporary stay in Bloomington has been what Jim calls “a cake walk,” compared to what they have endured during the past nine months. After breakfast, Willa gets to pick out her clothes for the day.“Sick children don’t have a say in anything when they’re in hospitals, so we try to give Willa as many choices as possible whenever we can,” Jody says. Perched on Jody’s knee in her diaper, Willa chooses between polka dot or pink pants while Jim kneels next to them in the bedroom. Brow furrowed, a common expression for Willa, she considers both options and points to the polka dots.“Yes, Willa, that way you’re still wearing pink because I know you love your pink,” Jody says as she squeezes Willa tight, careful not to jostle the port near her left shoulder and MIC-KEY button in her belly button. Though they were finally removed in July, both became a part of her body when treatment began.The port allowed drugs to be injected and blood to be drawn without the pain of inserting an IV, and the MIC-KEY button let liquid be inserted directly to her stomach. Though she initially lost many of her gross motor skills, which include sitting, standing and walking, her fine motor skills appear much better than those of any other child of her age. She’s able to help Jim and Jody inject a small syringe full of Zofran, a nausea medication or water into the MIC-KEY. While it sounds invasive, Willa has adapted to this kind of life. At Kosair, she had so many tubes and wires traveling in and out of her body that Jody could barely hold her. Sometimes during chemo at St. Jude, the pain was so much she would grab onto the bars and scream, Jim says. But whatever pain she’s been through, she’s not expected to have any memory of this as she grows older. Jim and Jody are keeping a box of mementos from this experience that Jim says they will use to show Willa how strong she is and how much she’s overcome when she’s older.“I think she’s changed,” Jim says. “There’s no way to go through this and not be a changed person.” ***Back in the waiting room at the proton therapy center, grandparents Carol and Phil Held are waiting for word that Willa has woken from the anesthesia. This was the first time since Willa’s diagnosis that her grandparents hadn’t been with her every step of the way. While at St. Jude, Carol and Phil switched off weeks they would spend helping Jody and Jim take care of Willa. “We would stop at the same rest stop and say, ‘Hi’ to each other and then be on our way again,” Carol says. At the end of each patient’s full treatment at the center, they get to ring a small, golden bell hanging on the wall outside one treatment room. Jody held Willa as she rang the bell.Jim, Carol, Phil and Dr. Jeffrey Buchsbaum, the family’s radiation oncologist, watched and cheered her on. The celebration out in the waiting room was small and short. Willa was hungry, having not eaten for hours because of the anesthesia.It was time to go home.“We don’t call this home. This is the apartment. Home is in Louisville,” Jody says. Soon after, Jim, Jody and Willa packed up their Volvo and Jody’s parents’ mini-van and drove back to Louisville. They never kept much at the apartment.“When we leave something, there’s a song we sing. ‘Bye-bye proton, bye-bye apartment,’ so Willa knows that we are done with something,” Jody says. Following their last proton therapy treatment, they had to go back to St. Jude for a few days to get another MRI to see whether the proton therapy had worked. If it hadn’t, they would need to begin a six-month round of oral chemotherapy. The MRI was all clear. They could go home. Back to their house on the corner. Back to Sweet Pea. Back to Buster. Back to the cats. Back to life. Jody says she told Willa one thing.“I said, ‘This is our forever home,’ and she just smiled.” She’ll have to have checkups and MRI scans for the rest of her life, no matter what. And she has one more surgery planned for Aug. 6 to remove a fistula and repair the hernia adjacent to the G-tube stoma in her stomach. But as the cranial nerves that were damaged continue to heal, she’s expected to eventually function on a level typical for someone her age.There is always the fear that it might return.“We’re always watching for signs that something might be back,” Jim says. “If they vomit, is there something pressing on their nerve? If there’s a staring spell, is there a tumor pressing on something or is it just a staring spell?”Jody related their homecoming to the return of a soldier.“When you’re used to being on edge, in a hyper-vigilant state,” Jody says. “When you come back there’s a sense of, ‘What do I do now?’” Back at home, Jim and Jody are trying to find their normal again.“At the hospital, we didn’t even have names,” Jody says. “I was Mom and he was Dad. It’s nice to have that piece of myself back.”Running errands, sending emails and cleaning the house that they’ve left mostly in the care of family and neighbors are all part of this readjustment. While they struggle to leave Willa alone to play or relax for more than a few minutes, she has been given more freedom since her MIC-KEY and port were removed May 17.“We’re just letting her be, trying to give her as much space as possible,” Jody says. “Let her thrive on the independence.” Back home, one year later, she has replaced that furrowed brow with a small, curling smile, her eyes shining extra bright when they see Jim or Jody. “She’s vibrant. She’s vivacious,” Jim says. “The cancer basically robbed us of that year. But we had to give up that year to be able to get our girl back.”***Some of Jody’s cousins and friends have had dreams about Willa, picturing her dancing with Jim at her wedding. Jim has had dreams, too. Located in the front corner of their home, Jim and Jody have a shared office. There are large windows in two of the four walls, where streams of natural light spill in on sunny days. Now cluttered with remnants of the past year, the desk is split into two identical sides facing the outside wall. Through the glass, beyond the porch, Jim can see the intersection of Breckenridge Lane and Hycliffe Avenue. On school mornings, that quiet intersection serves as a bus stop. A few weeks after Willa was diagnosed, from his desk, Jim saw a neighbor standing with his 6-year-old daughter waiting for the bus. “That’s what I want,” Jim says with wet eyes, back at the apartment in Bloomington. “Dancing at her wedding would be nice, but that is what I want now.”
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>The field beneath his feet helps define who he is.Green football turf means he’s the head coach of the Bloomington-based Indiana Cutters, a semiprofessional football team.But before he was head coach, the desert sand beneath his feet meant he was an infantry soldier. During his nine years, five months and five days in the Army, there were three desert deployments — one to Kosovo and two to Iraq.He’s been out of the Army for nearly five years, but reminders of his definition as an infantry soldier are everywhere. The Army is how he met his wife, and he deployed with her in the same unit to Baghdad. The Army is why it’s not a smart idea for him to play football after several improvised explosive devices exploded too close, causing a brain injury in addition to a slew of other physical injuries. And the Army is why his eyes are extra sensitive to the sun after so much time in the desert.So, instead of putting on a helmet and running onto the field, he wears sunglasses and a baseball hat whenever he’s outside. At practice, the 31-year-old hangs a whistle around his neck and carries a practice plan in his left pocket.His name is Jay McCool.It’s his actual last name, and he carries himself the way someone with the last name McCool would — slightly intimidating, yet open and friendly. He coaches with a stern attitude and a dry sense of humor. But that, along with earning an IU degree, is how he plans to move from an Army career to a permanent football coaching career.***“Alright, men. Today we hit.”McCool stands with his team in a huddle at the center of Bloomington South’s football field. It’s a Tuesday evening in May and for the Cutters, this is the first practice in full pads, the first practice where they can actually tackle and make full contact. And it’s exactly one month and one day before the first game on June 16 against a new Interstate Football League team: the Kentucky Xtreme.McCool wastes no time. He tells the team to pair off and watch as two of the captains, Nick Land and Bob Magiera, demonstrate how to tackle.“Any questions on how this is going to work, men?” McCool says. “Let’s go. On the 40. On the whistle.”He puts the whistle to his mouth and blows. The sound of football pads crashing together follows.Semipro football players have a variety of experience from high school to NFL teams. Most players are in their 20s and 30s, but some are in their 50s. They balance football with jobs, families and other obligations.Official team practice began in April, but the captains have been running weekly conditioning and drill sessions since February.Early on, who came to condition with the captains changed from week to week. But since official practice started, a core group of 20 to 30 players have attended each week, in addition to the occasional stragglers or new players.If players pay the fee, they’re on the team. It’s not like a high school or college team where the guys both want to be there and are required to be there, McCool says. But he knows who’s put in the work. Every practice, he marks attendance in his red binder. The men at the most practices are his starters.When practice ends a little after 8 p.m., the sun that was once beating down on the players is now setting.The team meets for a final huddle. McCool tells them they need more heart, more intensity. He knows they have it.“This is becoming our core group. ... Men, you gotta get that intensity up,” he says. “You think the Kentucky Xtreme are gonna take it easy on us?”***It’s a Sunday afternoon, and McCool is killing bees. He has already killed five in the kitchen window. Because of the bees, all the apartment windows are closed, making it a bit warm. But the weather can be so back-and-forth in April, it’s not worth turning on the air conditioning.McCool stands at the second-story window, looking outside to his left where the bees are swarming by the wall and the edge of his patio deck.Cursing the bees from behind his clenched teeth, McCool says he called maintenance, but the man said there was nothing he could do, except maybe come spray.So, McCool goes to check it out for himself, leaving his wife, Desiree, along with their English golden retriever, Loki, and two ferrets, Salt and Pepper, inside the two-bedroom apartment.Both veterans, the couple attends college with help from the G.I. Bill. Desiree graduated in December 2011 with a degree in art history, and McCool plans to graduate this December with a degree in recreational sports management.As part of his degree, he has a summer internship at Iron Pit Gym Fitness Center, which is also a team sponsor for the Cutters.McCool comes back inside. “The bees, they’re right here, honey, on this wall,” he says to his wife and points to the wall of their apartment with the doors to the deck, a bookshelf and the kitchen window.“I know they pollinate the world, but they can do it somewhere else,” McCool says.It was the week before 9/11 when McCool became an Army sergeant. Besides three deployments, he’s been stationed at Fort Drum, N.Y., and Hohenfels and Heidelberg, Germany.When he was deployed to Fallujah in 2003, he was anonymously quoted spewing cuss words as rocket-propelled grenades hit on page 202 of a book called “Among Warriors in Iraq.” When he was in Heidelberg, so was Desiree Vanderkleij. They started dating, and two weeks later, they were engaged.After they deployed to Baghdad from December 2005 to December 2006, they took leave from Heidelberg in 2007, flew to McCool’s hometown of Houston and got married in a courthouse. On the wall of the second bedroom — McCool’s “man cave” — are team photos from the Cutters and from when he played semipro in Germany and helped coach an American High School team, the Heidelberg Lions. Around the room are medieval swords, video games and military honors. The closet is filled with the couple’s Army gear.Here is where McCool plays Battlefield 3 on his Playstation 3 and lets his ferrets run around. A night owl, McCool doesn’t go to bed until about 4 a.m. and wakes up around 9 or 10 a.m. He’ll stay up playing video games or working on ideas he has for the Cutters, adding to the playbook he digitized last season.But on Sunday evenings, McCool and Desiree watch “Game of Thrones.” Loki, named for the Nordic god of mischief, likes to stay close by and will sometimes lie with them on the couch.“We’d been through so many life-changing things before we were married,” Desiree says. “If we can make it through mortar attacks and just the stress of being there, we can make it.” ***Semipro football is a summer sport. There are 10 Saturdays of games beginning in June, all played in the heat.But on the first day of practice in late April, it’s cold. The sky is overcast, and the wind whips the chill. The Cutters are at Brown Elementary, where they played during their first season in 2007, and the field isn’t much. The grass is uneven and no chalk paint marks the yards or sidelines. McCool has his arms folded against his chest and is watching as the offensive players move from formation to formation. The title of head coach means nothing to McCool unless his team wins championships. “Twins right,” he calls out, wanting the two receivers to line up on the left and the tight end on the right side of the formation. Like reading a textbook, it’s the twins first and then the tight end is right.“Right twins, right twins,” one of the players says in a singsong voice as the men find their spots.“Twins right,” McCool corrects. “Twins right,” he repeats slowly. “It’s twins right because if I drew this on a piece of paper, the twins would be on the right,” he explains. “This isn’t Arabic. We read left to right.”McCool doesn’t like to repeat himself. It’s a waste of time. He credits his military experience for that philosophy. “You don’t have time to sit and debate. You have to go on first command, first action,” McCool said. “Essentially, that’s football. Give a command and go.”But the similarities between football and war only go so far. Some, like McCool’s predecessor John Shean, now the team president, say football is a way to release a desire to combat. McCool knows some terms are the same. Yet to him, “blitz,” “battle in the trenches” and “bomb” just happen to translate to both football and war.***After a review of formations and basic game strategy, the first practice picks up speed. After a quick jog and stretches, the players then break into three groups to do stations McCool and the captains have picked to work on footwork and the short distance sprinting.McCool keeps time on his cell phone, five minutes for each set, and moves from station to station, watching. As he crosses the middle of the field, a player calls out to him.“Blow the whistle, we need it.”“My phone says you don’t,” McCool says, holding out his phone.“Your phone’s lying.”“You’re saying my stopwatch is lying? If you knew how much time has gone by, you’d feel weak. It’s been three minutes and you’re crying.” McCool says and keeps walking.Later, when players pretend to be shocked that they have water breaks, McCool tells them it’s not the Army, although he knows a guy who he can put up in a tower to shoot rounds at their heels to make them work faster. One player says it might help. McCool laughs.The first day is the hardest, but it can be fun, too.After several rounds through stations and water breaks, McCool calls the players in. The first half of the day is finished. Only two more hours and the rest of the season to go. He tells the players to take a 15-minute break.McCool raises his arm into the middle, and the players do the same.“Cutters on three,” he says. “One, two, three.”“Cutters.” McCool’s voice is above theirs.“Do it again,” he says. “I shouldn’t be louder than all of you.”The cheer booms from the circle.“Cutters.” INDIANA CUTTERS vs. KENTUCKY XTREMEWhen 7 p.m. SaturdayWhere Bloomington South Football fieldMore info Season opener for the Cutters, tickets are $5
Libby was one of about 1,500 women to go through sorority recruitment in 2010. Rush began in December with 19 Party and ended in January with Bid Day. IU has one of the most competitive rush processes in the country. This is Libby’s story.
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Don Holmes’ small, white house began to shake.Standing in front of his television, from where he initially disregarded the warnings, he hurried to his old, wooden desk, grabbed a flash drive and took cover in the far left corner of his bathroom.Holmes hugged his cat Kiki so tight, he said she probably thought he would kill her.Then, the tornado hit. Several of the tall trees surrounding his home toppled onto his roof, exposing the inside to the dark, wet sky.“I don’t know if there’s anything that really goes through your mind,” Holmes said. “More than anything else, you’re just standing there wondering if you’re going to buy it or not. Is this your moment or is this not your moment, as far as dying goes?”At the rear of his house, the tornado stole his entire roof. Windows shattered and furniture was sucked out through the ceiling.“For all I know, part of the roof is laying in the bottom of Lake Monroe,” Holmes said. “I don’t know where the tornado dumped it.”Almost a year ago — May 25, 2011 — a 110 mile-per-hour tornado ripped through Bloomington, taking with it trees and homes. Holmes was one of many victims, but he was possibly the last person to receive help.Every morning for about 11 months, Holmes awoke in his bed in his dining room. Although Holmes had made his bed on Saturday, the rest of his house remained a wreck.When it rained, he tried collecting as much water as he could in buckets. With several windows missing, covered only by sheets of plastic, he said winter was miserable.For 11 months he lived in his broken home, unable to afford repairs and unwilling to leave.Three weeks ago, he was kicked out of his house. But he said he was happy to leave.Volunteers arrived to rebuild what was lost.***In October 2010, Holmes lost his job as a computer specialist when Comcast’s call center in Bloomington shut down.He tried finding a new job, but at his age, he said he did not have any luck. He said he went on unemployment, but in order for him to pay his bills, that was not enough.“The only jobs I could find while I was on unemployment paid less than what the unemployment was, so it’s not what you would call good economics,” Holmes said.Holmes got desperate. To save money, he canceled his homeowners insurance.The tornado hit a few months later.“Of course that’s when I got busted,” Holmes said.For six weeks following the disaster, Holmes and his neighbors went without power. Traffic on State Road 45, which runs directly in front of Holmes’ residence, was jammed with gawkers taking pictures, Holmes said. But none of these people, he said, stopped to offer help.“I don’t know how many people who got a picture of my house with trees all over it,” Holmes said. “They actually slowed the whole process down a tremendous amount. I understand peoples’ curiosity, but they don’t think past their own nose a lot of times.”But even more problematic, Holmes said, was the traffic noise running along his house — specifically noise from large trucks.“That’s just the way it is, but at night when they come roaring by, I jump up out of bed thinking it’s a tornado again,” he said.While FEMA approved disaster relief funding for municipalities, they did not provide funding for individual residents. However, Holmes said he did receive a $5,000 disaster relief grant from the State of Indiana through a fund established by taxes on firework sales.“It almost felt like your parents disowned you,” Holmes said. “I’ve worked, I’ve paid taxes and all of that, but the government disowned me. That’s how it feels.”Following the tornado, Holmes said about 80,000 pounds of tree limbs covered his roof. Eventually, a group of Amish men stopped and volunteered to remove the limbs. But he did not receive other help.Raised in a self-reliant family, Holmes said he did not ask his older brother or grown children for a place to live because he did not want to “impose.”So, he continued living in his damaged home. He searched for jobs and continued working on his science fiction trilogy.Holmes, who has already published one book along with a collection of training manuals, began the trilogy long before the tornado struck. The first book, which is complete and roughly 90,000 words in length, was backed up on his flash drive.Still hanging on the wall of his living room, close to the home’s entrance, is a white board covered in hand-written notes.The novel, he said, is about a girl who was abducted by an alien and is eventually adopted into an alien family.A leafy vine began growing through the window sill in his bedroom, which smelled ripe from mold. The remaining carpet was matted down from water damage.In the bathroom where he found refuge hung a small motivational poster bearing the word “Opportunity.”“If certain authorities found out I was still living in the house, they might have kicked me out,” Holmes said. “But I didn’t have anywhere else to go at that point.”***In Holmes’ back yard Saturday, Mark Pitman poured gasoline on a tall pile of tree limbs. After igniting the logs, he stood and watched the fire slowly burn.Pitman is the disaster relief coordinator at Bloomington Baptist Church, working under the umbrella of Southern Baptist Convention Disaster Relief Indiana.Pitman, along with three other volunteers from Bloomington Baptist Church and Vineyard Community Church, volunteered to rebuild Holmes’ residence. Catholic Charities of Indianapolis agreed to provide the necessary funds, Holmes said.During construction, Holmes said he is staying with his older brother, who is also helping him financially.“This is an awesome experience,” Pitman said. “It’s really rewarding. There is no other work you can do to know you’re helping someone that is more fulfilling. We need money to pay our bills. That’s the reality. But the true joy, the true fulfillment, comes from helping someone else and seeing the joy on their face. That’s worth more than any paycheck.”Holmes said he is glad the volunteers are there to help. But he admitted accepting their assistance was difficult.“Don’t get me wrong, I have tremendous appreciation for everything they’re doing, but I’ve always been one that was giving help, not getting help,” Holmes said. “It’s not a pride thing, it’s just a matter of being independent.”In order to prevent further water damage to the home, the crew first rebuilt the roof. On just one side of the roof, 39 of the 40 rafters were replaced.“This is the one that everybody said couldn’t be done,” said Susan Scales of Vineyard Community Church, who said she provides disaster relief full-time around the world. “Every single person we met said, ‘This can’t be rebuilt,’ because it was too far gone. But we’ve rebuilt ones in worse shape than this.”On Saturday, the focus of the volunteers’ work was not on Holmes’ house but on the yard.In order to prevent future damage to the home, the remaining trees towering overhead will be removed. To accomplish this, the branches and debris still covering his lawn need to be moved.After the trees are removed Thursday and Friday, volunteers will redirect their focus to the structure.Holmes will never again see the home he once had. His life will not go back to the way it was. But once the construction work is complete, he will be able to live comfortably with a “new normal.”“Sometimes,” said volunteer John Galey from Vineyard Community Church, “you’ve just got to put things aside and help somebody else out.”
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>A Bloomington man was arrested at about 11 a.m. Tuesday in connection with several local burglaries and thefts, Bloomington Police Detective Sgt. John Kovach said.At about 3:55 a.m. Tuesday, officers with the BPD responded to a security alarm sounding at Tevac Inc., a local heating and air conditioning business located at 3905 S. Walnut St.When police arrived, Kovach said they noticed a cut fence. When the owner of Tevac arrived to the business, Kovach said he could not identify to police anything missing. However, police did find a pair of bolt cutters, which Kovach said were likely used to cut the fence.Later, Kovach said the Tevak owner reported a missing laptop. Kovach said a white man was seen on security camera footage climbing through the window of the business, walking around and then leaving the establishment.A few hours later, at approximately 7:27 a.m., police responded to Neidigh Construction Inc. at 2220 W. Vernal Pike, where the owner reported the theft of an air conditioning unit and copper wiring from other air conditioning units.Kovach said the owner also received an email from a resident who lives close to the business. In the email, the resident said they noticed a suspicious man outside the business in a gold Pontiac Grand Am.When BPD officers Matt Gilmore and Amy Meyers heard the description of the gold Pontiac, Kovach said the two recalled two theft cases several months ago involving a vehicle with a similar description.On Feb. 28 and April 9, the owner of Soft Touch Moving and Storage, located at 3150 S. Walnut St., reported to police the theft of several items inside the business, including sports memorabilia cards, jewelry and coins.Officers visited a house at 2504 S. Rogers St. Tuesday morning, where the owner of the Pontiac, Michael R. Hepner, 24, was staying with his girlfriend.The Pontiac was parked outside the house when the officers arrived, Kovach said. Sitting in plain sight in the back seat was an air conditioning unit, Kovach said.When police ran the license plate on the vehicle, Kovach said they determined the license plate had also allegedly been stolen.When police knocked on the door, Kovach said Hepner’s girlfriend answered the door, but officers could see Hepner in the house, allegedly still wearing the same clothes seen in the security camera footage.Kovach said Hepner’s girlfriend then gave officers consent to search her apartment, where officers allegedly located the stolen laptop, sports cards, jewelry and coins. Kovach said police allegedly found several other items believed to be stolen from unknown locations, including a camera and several lenses and tools.Hepner then gave police consent to search his Pontiac, Kovach said. Inside the car, Kovach said police located the air conditioning unit and an air conditioning coiling unit, allegedly stolen from Tevac. Police also located several pieces of steel allegedly taken from Neidigh, along with a brand new Apple TV, still in the box.Kovach said Hepner was arrested and allegedly admitted to the burglary at Tevac and the two previous burglaries at Soft Touch Moving and Storage. Hepner faces three charges of burglary at Tevac and Soft Touch and three charges of theft for the stolen items at Neidigh.— Mark Keierleber
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Loogootee is a dot of a town in southern Indiana. But on a Tuesday night in late February, it was a ghost town.The parking lot of Loogootee High School, however, was packed to the brim. Cars parked on the grass far from the entrance.The main attraction was a decades-old rivalry between the Loogootee High School Lions and the Jasper High School Wildcats from down U.S. Highway 231.Jasper boys’ basketball plays in the Indiana High School Athletics Association’s Class 3A conference, the second-largest, while Loogootee plays Class A, the smallest.A game like this, between a tiny school with only a couple hundred students, and a large-class school with more than a thousand students, is rare these days to say the least. Ever since the IHSAA transferred from a single tournament — in which every school had a shot at the state title game — to a class system, games between big schools and small schools are increasingly rare.Only in the past five years have the Wildcats and Lions reignited the annual contest.“It’s a rare occurrence, but it’s the chance that you have to knock off a Goliath that made it interesting,” Loogootee Coach Mike Wagoner said. “Here at Loogootee, we are used to beating the bigger schools.”Inside the high school is Jack Butcher Arena, home of the Loogootee High School Lions boys’ basketball team. It has a capacity of 4,571 roaring Lions fans for a town with a population of 2,751 — and that’s without the fold-out bleachers brought out for big games.Just outside the arena, a glass case with net-draped championship trophies dating back to the 1940s, memorabilia from the 1975 state championship run, newspaper clippings and team portraits sit pristine under the careful watch of generations of fans.They are vestiges of the past, heralds of memory.As the band played the Loogootee High School fight song to the tune of “Washington and Lee Swing,” an announcer came on the crackling loudspeaker to read the starting lineup.“For the Loogootee Lions, starting at No. 10, Luke Jones,” the announcer said.Nothing else could be heard as a 100 Lion fans leapt to their feet in the yellow arena, roaring and cheering on their boys in the white home-team jerseys they’ve worn fordecades.THE MILAN MISREPRESENTATIONIn Indiana, people often associate class basketball with the Milan Miracle: the 1954 Milan High School basketball team that fought its way to a state championship.It’s the story director David Anspaugh capitalized upon in his 1986 film “Hoosiers,” starring Gene Hackman and Dennis Hopper.Milan’s story is a great one: the scrawny little farm boys going against the big city ballplayers. It’s David versus Goliath to the core. It feeds our urge to cheer for the little guy.The problem is, of course, Milan never appeared in another state final game since. No Indiana team of the same size saw the same success of the 1954 Milan Indians since the first state tournament in 1911.“Larger schools hold inherent unfair advantages because they have a larger pool of students to pull from,” IHSAA Commissioner Bobby Cox said in a recent interview.In the early 1990s, Cox said IHSAA started a commission to investigate dividing teams into classes. That proposal was forwarded to the IHSAA, and the association’s executive committee voted 12-5 to split into classes.A referendum vote from all member schools can be called if petitioned by members to overturn an association decision, according to IHSAA bylaws. In September 1996, schools petitioned for the only such vote in IHSAA history on the subject of class athletics.Members upheld the decision to split into four classes with a 220-157 vote. The 1997-98 season was the first played with four state champions.The debate was started up again when in January, State Sen. Mike Delph, R-Carmel, introduced legislation that would ban athletics organizations like the IHSAA if they operated under class basketball. Before the legislation even made it out of committee, Cox called Delph and struck a deal.The two would go on a tour of schools in April and May to have open town hall meetings to discuss the issue and conduct a straw poll of those attending.“This issue comes up every five years,” Cox said. “It’s always a basketball issue, no one asks about a single-class softball tournament or a single-class baseball tournament. The tournament changed. The decision to go to class was made by educators.”IN THE LIONS’ DENAt the game in Loogootee, the Wildcat boys were no bigger, no faster and no more talented than the Lions. For most of the game, the two teams were within spitting distance of one another.With a little less than two minutes left, the Lions earned their largest lead of the game, 57-45.As time ran out, the 66-59 score on the board revealed Loogootee as the victor. After the game, Wagoner congratulated his team on a game well- played.“This was a good game, a good win. Tomorrow will be a light practice. Shoots, free throws, and we’ll see who starts on Thursday, OK?” he said. “Alright, hands in. One, two, three, team.”The locker room was tiny, with room for 20 players. The team’s three seniors, fresh off the win, stood around talking about class basketball and the prospect of returning to a single tournament.“I’d like that,” senior Austin Bradley said. “It’d show who’s the best team in Indiana again. Rather than not play, like, just small schools, we’d see who really is the best.”“Really? I don’t think so. I mean, you’ve got that one Milan team and our two teams,” senior Bryant Ackerman said. “They should’ve gone back a while ago, but now I don’t think so.”They went back and forth, without a consensus. Why should they expect to succeed when they have to go against big teams? Possibly a two-class system would be best.All the conversation is speculation. These players have never competed in aone-tournament conference.Wagoner said that’s really the shame of converting to class ball. He played for Butcher in the mid-1970s and was a reserve guard when the Lions made their 1975 state title run.“The current players will never know the excitement that the one class system had,” Wagoner said. “Although the current class system is just as exciting around here anyway, that’s all they know.”For the seniors, it came down to the realization that if the single tournament was still in place, they would have very little chance of ever raising a state championship banner at Jack Butcher Arena.“I like class,” senior Aaron Howell said. “It lets us know we can win state. I don’t think we could beat a North Central or a Ben Davis. Maybe back in the day, but not now. No matter what the old folks here say.”“THE WORST DECISION IN THE HISTORY OF THE STATE OF INDIANA”On Monday evening, Delph and Cox met at the Seymour High School auditorium for one of 11 town hall meetings across the state to survey public opinion on the multi-class system.There were about 40 people, mostly older men, in the large auditorium. In attendance were a few coaches, many fans, but no players.On their way in, community members were handed a pamphlet about the IHSAA and a small ballot. The options: “I am in favor of a single class basketball tournament,” and “I prefer the current multiple class tournament format.”“Part of our goal here is to give our area principals information on what the public is thinking,” Cox said in a brief introduction.After explaining the format of the evening, Cox gave the podium over to Delph, who explained the bill he had introduced and his opposition to the multi-class system.“I think basketball is unlike any other sport in Indiana,” Delph said. “In part, the Indiana high school basketball tradition, in my humble opinion, has made legends.”Leigh Evans, of Greenwood, Ind., was the first to take the microphone. He's the creator of HickoryHusker.com, a website dedicated to Indiana high school sports.He suggested a system with sectionals divided into classes and a combined semi-state and state finals tournament.“I think IHSAA has a unique opportunity to, number one, reunite the state and, number two, create something that is unique to Indiana,” Owens said.Others took the microphone and spoke their piece. Some had played ball as early as 1936. Others were current coaches from across Southern Indiana. Most were in favor of a single tournament, some more passionate than others.“I don’t wanna be rude, but I think the decision to go to the multi-class tournament was the worst decision in the history of the State of Indiana,” said Vaughn Winslow, a self-identified Kokomo High School Wildcats fan. “These small schools, I see where they come from, but I don’t see where the fairness is today.”Once everyone had a chance to speak, Cox thanked the crowd once again and encouraged them to file their ballots in the back of the auditorium. Cox said the response was similar to the ones he and Delph had received elsewhere.“There’s passion on both sides of the issue,” Cox said. “The reality is the board of directors made a decision based on the member schools. Fifteen years later, most of the public has accepted it, may not like it, but they’ve accepted it.”STATEIn late March, the Loogootee faithful made the trek to Indianapolis for the third time in the school’s history.The Lions swept past in-class sectional rivals Barr-Reeve High School and Shoals High School, moved on from Evansville Day School and Orleans High School on their way to the semi-state game, pushed by Edinburgh High School and finally made it to the state championship game against the Rockville High School Rox on March 24 at Bankers Life Fieldhouse in Indianapolis.All around downtown Indianapolis, fans clad in Loogootee black and gold filed into Bankers Life Fieldhouse. They filled the arena to the rafters in their designated fan section. The Lions fans took up about a quarter of the seats in the fieldhouse.“If there’s empty seats, can we move down there?” asked one fan in the nosebleed seats.“I’m sorry,” said the usher in a green vest. “They won’t let you.”“That makes no sense, the entire town of Loogootee fits in here,” he said.Just before tipoff, the lights dimmed. The Black Eyed Peas’ “Let’s Get it Started” blasted from speakers with thumping bass, a far cry from the pep band sounds in Loogootee.The Lions stayed ahead for the first half. Fans were on their feet, shouting, screaming profanities at Wagoner, at the referees. Cheerleaders led the chants that Lions fans had been shouting for years.“L-I-O-N-S, what does that spell? Lions!” the crowd shouted in unison.With two minutes left in the game, Indiana state troopers and IHSAA officials lined up behind the basket with the championship trophy and medals, awaiting the end of the game.With less than a minute to play, Rockville made a few lucky shots, tying the game at 50 points. Loogootee and Rockville fans were on their feet, hands were clenched, fingers crossed.The Lions got up 52-50, but a Rockville player took the ball back and put it up for two points, tying the game again with 25 seconds.18 seconds: Loogootee junior Will Nonte responded, making it 54-52.4.3 seconds: Ackerman was fouled and taken to the line again, putting his team up by five.The Lions were roaring. They knew it was finished. They knew the boys in gold had finally brought home the state title, and they could not be more proud.LIVING LEGENDSThat afternoon the Lions headed home, all 98 and nine-tenths miles from the massive Bankers Life Fieldhouse to the miniscule Jack Butcher Arena.Fans, players and coaches came down U.S. Highway 50, windows down, standing in the back of pick-up trucks, shouting and cheering in an impromptu victory parade once they reached Loogootee.In the shadow of the Loogootee water tower, painted like a basketball, Ackerman held the trophy for the crowd to see, the net through which he dropped the winning shot draped around his neck.They were living legends, their spot forever reserved in the trophy case of memory.“It was just great,” Wagoner said. “It was something that these kids will remember forever. That it is over was kind of hard to understand.”Today, the evidence of the championship is still coming slowly. Wagoner said a huge map of Indiana is being painted now on the wall of Jack Butcher Arena to commemorate the champions.“I don’t know exactly how big, but the biggest map we’ve got, it’ll be bigger than that,”he said.Championship rings are also on order and will arrive in the next few weeks for the players and coaches.“That’ll probably be when it becomes real,” Wagoner said. “When we get our rings in and people start wearing their rings around, that’ll be when it sinks in.”Loogootee High School is the defending state champions for Class A boys’ basketball. It doesn’t come with the dramatic storyline of The Milan Miracle, but it does come with rings and banners and parades and pride.“We are state champs, and that is all that matters,” Wagoner said.It’s a discussion that surely will continue in high school bleachers, in gymnasiums and locker rooms after practice and games, and in the statehouse and administrationoffices.But, for now, it seems that multiple-class basketball isn’t going anywhere.“I’ve been to one class and I remember the excitement, and now I know what it’s like with classes,” Wagoner said. “It wouldn’t make any sense to go back now.”
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Police responded Tuesday to a call of possible neglect from parents already under supervision from Child Protective Services.A person walking by the family’s home on the 1400 block of South Walnut Street told police he saw a 5-year-old girl from a first story window just before 11 a.m., said Lt. Bill Parker of the Bloomington Police Department.The person checked on the girl before knocking on the door of the home. An adult male answered the door and told the girl to come inside, and an adult female came and took the child. The passerby then decided to call the police.Parker said police contacted CPS and were told the family has been trying to comply with a safety plan CPS workers arranged for them. Police were also told the children, the little girl and her 3-year-old brother, had tried to get out of the house in the past, Parker said.Police documented possible neglect of a dependent, Parker said, but will not make arrests at this time.— Mary Kenney
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Dressed in a black leather vest covered in patches, Alicia Hamilton waited in a small room at the Monroe County Jail. A security camera watched overhead as she sat casually with a black boom box beneath her chair.For Alicia, 49, waiting outside the jail had become routine. Faint lines beneath her eyes highlighted her lack of rest.Inside the crowded waiting room, she did not linger alone.Sitting next to Alicia was another member of the Un-Chained Gang. Three more waited across the room. A stocky man, also wearing a leather vest, stood in the middle of the room, gripping in his left hand a copy of the Holy Bible.Alicia and the other Un-Chained Gang ministers were there to preach to prisoners face-to-face, to spread the word of Jesus Christ.“Let’s call them and let them know we’re ready to roll,” the man with the Bible said, walking toward the telephone. “It’s time for church, grab my Bible,” another Un-Chained member said.Carrying the boom box by her side, Alicia followed the pack through the gray metal door with a small window, into the jail. Once inside, the men and women in the Un-Chained Gang separated into two groups. Alicia and the other two women in the group walked into the common area of the women’s noisy cellblock.To kill time, the inmates watched television and played cards, but were disrupted when Alicia yelled “Church!”It is optional to attend the Un-Chained church service, but about 20 women gathered around the tables to pray and listen to worship music. Following service, prisoners frequently approach Alicia to speak one-on-one, asking for guidance on how to improve their lives.It was not too late for the prisoners, she lectured, to secure a spot in heaven.In fact, the congregation at her church, the House of Prayer Ellettsville, is comprised of ex-convicts — from convicted drug addicts to violent criminals.Even their leader, Pastor Larry Mitchell, is a former member of Hell’s Henchmen, a Chicago-based motorcycle gang known for violence. But for Alicia, preaching to inmates is a little peculiar. Standing before women trapped in cells, she has never worn an orange jumpsuit herself.“I never got put in jail,” she said. “But there’s some things and situations I had myself in where I could have been put in jail, I just didn’t get caught.”***Leaving behind a broken past, Alicia filled her voids with religion. But on her mission to become good, she wonders if she pushed herself too hard. As a child, Alicia dreamed of becoming a fashion designer.“I’m never getting married, I’m never having kids and I’m never working in a factory,” Alicia recalls telling her mother.But each of these would soon become her reality.With drugs and alcohol flowing through her veins, Alicia became pregnant and married her first husband when she was 16 years old. In the four years to follow, the young couple had two more children. But they struggled.With the responsibility of raising a family, Alicia cut back on her partying. But her husband, she said, was using cocaine.“He did like to party, and he had a couple girlfriends, which didn’t help matters,” Alicia said.Arguments ensued. Divorce seemed inevitable. “Well I ought to just kill the kids and kill myself, and you can just do whatever you want to do,” her husband said when they fought.When she came home from work one day, her children were watching television in the living room. In their bedroom, her husband shot himself.Following his suicide, Alicia began drinking again, alone. With Alicia’s mother taking care of the children on weekends, she binged. She found a dead-end job at Bloomington’s General Electric factory, building refrigerators along a conveyor belt. Her job, she said, was like being “camped out on the edge of hell.”She dated several men from work, eventually marrying one under two conditions: They were not to drink alcohol together, and they were to attend church.This decision came after a New Years party when her then-boyfriend shoved her into his car after an argument, fracturing her back.Despite the lawsuit Alicia filed against him, they still married in 1992. Immediately after their marriage, he stopped attending church. Then she stopped. Then they divorced.She tried antidepressants, which intensified her despair. Alcohol was her next stop. The slump continued until she was kicked back into reality. Her 19-year-old and 17-year-old sons each had pregnant girlfriends.Before her grandchildren were born, she thought, she needed to clean up her act. She turned to a past relationship, one that had never fully developed. She turned to Jesus Christ.***Alicia prayed in the second row at the House of Prayer Ellettsville. Draped over her shoulders was the arm of her third husband of nearly 11 years, Jeff Hamilton.The couple married shortly after Alicia started attending the House of Prayer Ellettsville. Through faith, Jeff was digging himself out of alcoholism.A scar running diagonally across the top of the shy man’s forehead tells the story of his past life. After being charged for drinking and driving nine times, losing several jobs, crashing in two near-fatal accidents and relapsing several times, he has been clean now for 12 years.Inside the busy church, Alicia was not the only church member wearing a leather vest, covered entirely with Christian-oriented patches:“Property of Jesus Christ.”“100% for Jesus.”“Satan sucks.”On the back was the Un-Chained Gang Ministries logo — two wrists breaking free from shackles, superimposed over a cross.Alicia and Jeff started clapping their hands and singing in unison with the up-beat music in the chapel. Pastor Mitchell stood center stage with an acoustic guitar. His long-sleeved shirt concealed the tattoos dotting his arms.Jeff and Alicia each had their own copies of the Bible resting on their laps. As Mitchell gave his sermon, Alicia took notes on a yellow notepad. Alicia chose to attend the House of Prayer Ellettsville several years ago because the clergy is composed of like-minded people.When Alicia first turned to religion, she thought she was through with men, no more struggled relationships. At first, even her connection with God was rough.For God, she thought, she was not good enough. “I always had this feeling that if I messed up, God was up there with a big hammer, ready to strike you with lightning or hit you on the head,” Alicia said.But now — married and fully entangled in her religion — she could not imagine continuing under her old lifestyle. If she had, she said she would have been miserable, hateful, bitter and angry. She would have hated men forever. Worse yet, she never would have had the courage to quit her job at GE.She would never have been able to purchase her own Christian-oriented business.***Before dawn broke, Alicia woke up. After letting her three dogs outside, she returned to bed to study the Bible and pray for an hour. Then, she was off to work.Inside her small business in a strip mall, Alicia sat alone in the darkness with the doors still locked. Eating a bowl of oatmeal on her cluttered desk, Alicia enjoyed a little downtime.Along the wall behind her hung spools of thread, one for every color imaginable. Her pink t-shirt advertised her sewing and embroidery business, “God is Sew Good.”It is not quite fashion design, she admitted, but it is close enough.A small crucifix dangled from her neck. Draped over the back of her office chair was a black hoodie adorning the Un-Chained Gang logo. After unlocking the front door and flipping the switch on a neon “open” sign, Alicia began to embroider “dropping the puck on cancer” on the back of hockey jerseys.While her business does cater to the needs of the Un-Chained Gang, most of her business is secular. The jerseys, 90 of them in total, caused problems the whole way through, she said. Her customer did not deliver the jerseys or patches on time, but still expected his order to be completed soon.“There is only so much I can physically do, and I already told him I’m not working 24/7 to get them done,” Alicia said.Her stress levels rose when she sewed a patch onto a jersey improperly. The sounds of a Christian radio station filled the store’s airwaves.As Alicia continued to work on the jerseys, Jeff walked through the front door toward a vacant desk — his desk.Alicia said she was skeptical about hiring her husband at first. Just before Alicia founded her business, she and Jeff were also talking about getting divorced.“If I was the same way I used to be before Christ and he was the same way he used to be before Christ, we probably would have killed each other.”But they made it through.Expanding farther into the strip mall, Jeff has his own room — the “man cave” — where he screen-prints t-shirts and sings along with the radio. “Working in an atmosphere where I can think about God, talk about God, listen to Christian music all day, if I can just surround myself with God, I’m so much better off,” Jeff said. “I don’t think I’ll ever work for anybody else.”After work, Alicia is ready to return home, to hit the couch. But often she returns to church. She assists with the youth group, teaches a class on divine healing and manages the church’s bookstore, filled with clothing she and Jeff made.Inside the church’s youth room, teenagers practiced instruments on stage. Sitting in the audience, Alicia chewed her fingernails. The youth group used to have more than 100 participants. Whittled down to only a handful, Alicia decided to help. Although the attendance is back to about 15 teens, she does not know how much longer she can last. Burned out, something in her life must go. Contemplating her end with the youth group or other obligations in her life, she has not yet made up her mind.She does not know how long she will own her business or ride with the Un-Chained gang.But down the road, Alicia hopes to do her own mission work, just she and Jeff. “Tomorrow has to be a better day,” Alicia said. “I believe it’s going to be.”
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>HENRYVILLE, IND. — A light rain was already falling Friday when students from the Henryville elementary and high schools were sent home at 2:30 p.m., 20 minutes before regular dismissal.The rain was a prelude to the most destructive tornado in residents’ memory. The storm started with a funnel cloud that touched down at about 3:15 p.m. — 45 minutes after the schools sent the students home — followed minutes later by a monster tornado.Bus drivers herded students onto buses, but not enough time remained to get them all home. The drivers took matters into their own hands, driving their buses through fields, speeding to reach the next stop or shuttling the remaining students to one home to get them all out of danger.A little before 3:15 p.m., Bus 211 returned to the school’s parking lot, unable to outrun the storm. The driver rushed 11 students back into the high school, where they took refuge in the principal’s office along with 15 other people.Moments later, the storm lifted the bus and tossed it through the air, launching it through the front window of Budroe’s Family Restaurant.Nick Shelton was working on a lift in the back of his auto body garage, Henryville Auto Services, across the street from the school. As he worked under the car, no TV or radio played news coverage — there was nothing to warn him of the storm as he continued his routine.In Budroe’s Family Restaurant next door, employees and customers were watching the news and knew they needed to take cover. They knew Shelton wouldn’t know the storm was close. He wouldn’t have anywhere safe to hide in the open garage. With the storm approaching, someone from the diner ran to Shelton’s garage, telling him to join them in the diner’s basement.They made it just in time. As eight people crouched in the diner’s basement, the now-empty Bus 211 crashed through the wall.On Saturday, Andy Bell, Shelton and some friends stood next to Shelton’s demolished garage, now a pile of metal and debris. Two of the friends sorted through the wreckage.Bell said he couldn’t believe what he found in town.“Henryville doesn’t look the same,” he said. “When I came into town last night, it was like a new town.”Destroyed houses and businesses surrounded the schools for miles. The EF-4 tornado with 175-mph winds that swept through the town and others closeby, including Marysville to the northeast, left more damage than Clark County Sheriff Danny Rodden could describe the following day.“It has been assessed that we’ve got the largest area of problem, the most widespread,” he said. “It is very rural, so we’re doing the best we can, going door to door.”The Henryville tornado was the first of two in the area, weather officials said, and they followed essentially the same path, separated by about 10 minutes. Officials said the first tornado was on the ground for 52 miles and measured about 150 yards wide.In total, 12 fatalities were counted in southern Indiana.“Most of the searches are completed,” Indiana State Police Sgt. Jerry Goodin said. “We hope the number stays at eight for our three counties, but as this progresses throughout the day, it would not surprise us to have other fatalities.”Where Highway 161 enters Henryville, a gas station lay in a pile, like Shelton’s garage, across the street from a second gas station that was barely touched.A few blocks down, windows were blown out of a house that had been going through renovations. Near the front window, a box marked “Barb & Charlie’s baby memories” spilled onto a table.New Washington State Bank, near the house, posted a sign on its front door — “Bank closed temporarily, equipment problems.” While the building remained intact, the drive-up ATMs were nowhere to be seen.The Henryville elementary and high schools on Ferguson Street downtown took the brunt of the damage. Three or four buses remained in the parking lot Saturday, knocked to their sides, the windows shattered. Madelynn Evans, 6, threw a stick at Bus 201. Her mother, Wendy, shot her a look, then pulled Madelynn to her side.On Saturday, Madelynn and Wendy stood in the rubble near the bus, surveying the destruction to the town’s only school building — now missing most of the elementary school and the back wall of the high school’s gym. Photos of past basketball teams still hung on the gym’s walls, but the floor was covered in fallen debris.The high school had celebrated its 100-year anniversary last year, and the elementary school was added two years ago.“See the framework over there,” Bell said, pointing to the school. “That’s all that’s left of the two-year addition.”Now, students, parents and faculty are unsure about what will happen. According to the high school’s website, both schools will be out the week of March 5-9 due to the damage. But the school can’t be rebuilt in that time.“We could be out for a couple months — we could be out all year,” senior Logan Chapman said.Junior Miranda Hopper, wearing a Henryville Athletics sweatshirt, said she wanted to cry as she looked at the demolished school.“I’m in such disbelief,” she said. “I can’t take it all in.”“I had 40 math problems to do in geometry, and I didn’t want to do them,” she added. “Now I wish I had them to turn in.”
