Where Have All the Cookies Gone?

If you’ve walked down North Walnut St. lately you may have noticed something missing. Although a brightly painted cookie truck still roams the streets of Bloomington, the store location for Insomnia Cookies is vacant.

The cookie shop and late night delivery service used to sit next to Scotty’s Brewhouse at 7th and N. Walnut Streets. Insomnia Cookie allegedly moved out of its shop location after failing to pay rent the last two months of 2008. The two B-town favorite eateries are now battling it out legally.

According to the complaint filed by Scotty’s Brewhouse who sublet the location to the cookie shop, Insomnia Cookie entered into a five year lease contract with Scotty’s until 2012. The cookie shop was required by lease to pay a monthly base rent along with any maintenance fees and possible late charges.

After numerous letters sent to Insomnia Cookie by Scotty’s stating it hadn’t paid rent for November and December 2008 went unanswered, the cookie shop vacated it’s location without any notice.

Currently Scotty’s is suing for an estimated amount of $77,500 for the past due rent, late charges, maintenance repairs and the accelerated base rent for the remaining 3 years of the lease. That estimate does not include additional charges for attorneys fees and other costs for personal damages to the business.

In response the complaint, Insomnia Cookie filed that it was unaware of the 5 year lease date and was also unaware that it had to pay rent for the months remaining in the lease. Insomnia Cookie does not deny that it failed to pay November and December 2008 rent.

While the battle has gone back and forth since January, Insomnia Cookie has yet to find a new location and remains in the cookie delivery truck- still available to answer your late night sweet tooth’s call.

An Unromantic Night in the City of Romance

Paris didn’t make the best impression on me. I spent my first night in the city in the most unromantic way possible.

During my stay in London I made friends with two of the girls in our group, January Jones and Kim Chapman. The three of us were enthralled to be in the city of lights and wanted to make the most of our time there. We decided our first night to visit Moulin Rouge.

We noticed the night started to go wrong on our subway route change. While standing on the empty platform, an eerie difference from London’s crowded stations, we heard loud shouts. At the opposite platform a man laid on the ground as another brutally kicked him. The abuser took the grounded man’s coat and continued to yell what I assume were some French obscenities. Our tram car came rolling up and blocked the view of any further events.

As we ascended up the steps to the district we were greeted with the large, red windmill that we’d seen in the movie, Moulin Rouge. The windmill was outlined in bright white lights as were the words underneath it that spelled out the name of the area. We snapped a couple of pictures, at that point the three of us were used to being pegged as tourists and didn’t seem to care anymore.

January, a budding photographer, continued to snap photos as we began to walk the mile long street, outlined with large billboards and bright lights. It was as if a little slice of Las Vegas was cut from it’s location and dropped on this street in Paris. As we walked on, the stores became more and more vulgar, the pictures more and more detailed and the men more and more aggressive. Being three young, respectful women we quickly decided this area was not for us.

The same steps we ascended up in a sense of awe of the giant windmill we hurriedly descended down with a sense of disgust. Apparently the “ignorant American” had gotten the best of us as we found out that scenes in movies are just that- fictional movie scenes and not real life. Moulin Rouge was anything but the glamorous picture portrayed on screen.

Quickly we navigated our way through the subway station and found our way onto a tram that would safely lead us back to our hotel, or so we thought.

After a couple stops on the line, our tram left the XXXX station and went on it’s way when the lights flickered and then the tram car, traveling at a good speed came to a sudden stop. The lights still flickering then completely went out.

There we were, three American girls stuck on a dark subway car underground.

Instantly the heat from the underground tunnel and body heat from 50 or so nervous passengers engulfed the tram car. Everyone was silently waiting and hoping the car would continue on it’s way. Hope was slightly fulfilled when reserve lights came on. Though we were still hot and not moving, at least we could see.

The driver came over a loud speaker and announced something in French. The three of us talked quietly, putting our little knowledge of the language together in attempts to decipher the announcement. In our attempts we must have looked like puzzled Americans because a man sitting behind us asked if we spoke English. The sweet sound and comfort of our language coming from the man’s mouth was like a soft, warm bed. He quickly translated the driver’s message to us. “They think the protestors cut the electrical lines. Or there could have been a suicide and someone fell on the line. The driver is trying to restart us.”

We made small talk with the man while we waited. He was from the south of France only in Paris for a week on business. Our chatting with him was actually more of an attempt drown out the drunk woman sitting next to January. The old, graying lady had no teeth, an open can of beer in her hand and a fake leg in which she insisted on knocking on every couple of minutes. She then proceeded to light up a cigarette, directly under the no smoking sign, and loudly sing a French tune in her scratchy, slurred voice.

Now we were stuck undergound, hot, lost, and smelling cigarette smoke. This is not how we’d pictured Paris.

Finally the police, dressed in their dark blue suits and carrying rather large guns, came aboard our tram and yelled another announcement. Our friend from the south of France explained that we would be evacuating the car and walking back to the station that we’d just departed.

There was a small ladder attached to the tram floor and we were asked to climb down. Luckily our translator friend explained to the police that we were American and didn’t speak French. The police ensured us not to be afraid. They then proceeded to tell us that we must be absolutely sure to not touch either the wall or the tram car and tracks. There were still electrical currents running through them and we wouldn’t want to get electrocuted, would we?

We descended the ladder and stood in a 12” pitch black space between the tram and the wall, that we were not to touch. Kim and I were shaking in fear of electrocution yet trying to hold our bodies as still as possible. January meanwhile, the adventurer of the group, kept a calm demeanor- laughing with the drunk old lady and talking with the police.

As we made our way through the black space, electrical currents whizzing by us, I finally got a glimpse of the romance in Paris. A tall, strong policemen gently grabbed my hand, leading me through the dark, cramped space all the while reassuring me, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.” My dream of a tall, dark Frenchman coming to my rescue had come true.

My dream was quickly awoken when the policeman dropped my hand at the terminal and rushed back to help the next trapped victim. The romance was over.

The three of us rushed up the steps from the subway and hailed the first taxi we came across. We’d just experienced the most unromantic night in Paris.

White Stone Crosses

Our guide told us that over 9,000 soldiers were buried in the American Cemetery in Normandy. I couldn’t fathom that number until I saw the graves. The rows and rows and rows of white stone crosses. As I walked amongst those crosses, I couldn’t find an end, or beginning point to them. They just seemed to continue on.

It was ironic to me that those crosses should be so evenly lined up and spaced apart, so symmetrical and perfect, when no doubt all of the soldiers buried there were killed in horrific, messy, abrupt ways.

As our guide continued to ramble facts about the cemetery. . . soil shipped from the U.S., American trees planted, sand rubbed into the letters of the graves…I could only half listen. The other half of my thoughts were with those men, and four women, that are buried under those crosses.

The majority of them were about my age. At 23, I can’t imagine seeing the sights they saw, hearing the bomb blasts and gun fire, and fearing for my life at every minute of every hour of every day. At 23, I’m still young. I have a lot to learn, a lot to see and so much to still accomplish. I bet those men felt the same way. And yet they learned a lot and saw a lot and aaccomplished a lot in such a short time that I feel that they would seem so much older than me.

I continued to think about their lives. Where were they born? What was their childhood like? Did they want to go to college? What career did they want to choose? Why did they join the army? Did they want to go to war?

I came across two young men from Ohio. I could imagine them growing up in a small, farming town an hour away from any type of city, just like me. I wrote down their names; Lowell A. Drooled a private of the Infantry 83 Division and John A. Kleep a Captain of the 8 Infantry 4 Division. I tried to research them and search for the answers to my questions. Though, it seems that they are meant to be a mystery and I’m left to continue my questions.

More than I would have expected I came across white stone crosses that read, “Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God.” There were so many unknown soldiers. Didn’t their mothers want to know what happened to their sons? Did a wife go on forever not knowing where her husband was? How can a man with a home, a family and a life go unknown?

There were so many questions that those rows of white crosses brought up in my mind. As I walked into a tiny chapel I read on the wall, “Think not only upon their passing, but remember the glory of their spirit.” My questioning thoughts were silenced for a moment. I just stood silently for a while to apologize and thank all of those soldiers lying under their neat white crosses.

A Safe Haven

It’s a small, humble church compared to the cathedrals that tower around London. It’s set back along a quiet stone alley where the noise of traffic and busy businessmen of nearby Fleet St. disappears.

St. Brides Church dates back to the first century, and that’s no estimate. There’s still original rock from the Roman period in the basement of the church, along with a museum that depicts the evolution of the church.

The white washed walls on the outside of the cathedral lead up to the tiered tower. Legend has it the tower was the inspiration for the wedding cake design. A baker would look out his window at the St. Bride’s tower and model his cakes after his view.

While the outside of the cathedral may seem modest, the inside is anything but. White marble floors accompany chestnut pews- each with a dedication plaque nailed on it’s back. The ceiling is emphasized in gold outlines with a mural painted overhead of angels and cherubs.

But the real power of St. Bride’s comes within its significance. You see, St. Bride’s has been a parish church for journalists and printers for over four centuries.

As I stood in front of the alter filled with lit candles, flowers and pictures of journalists that lost their lives while covering war I began to realize for the first time that journalists might need God, people’s prayers and someone watching out for them.

At St. Bride’s the connection of church is simple. It’s not controversial or an issue. It’s just a realization that journalism can be a dangerous field and praying for the safety of members of the media is a recognition of the church.

I joined my fellow aspiring journalists as we each sat in an empty pew, meditating on our thoughts. Some wrote, some prayed and some just sat there. Although I’m not positive what they were feeling, a sense of security and reassurance came upon me. I knew journalism is my field. And if I ever get the opportunity to cover a war or conflict, I know I’ll have a haven at St. Bride’s. Perhaps there will even be a young student, aspiring to be a journalist, sitting in that same pew saying a prayer for me like I did for all those writers in the photos on the alter.

Photographic Memories

The following is a column that I wrote for a war correspondents class trip to London, Normandy and Paris. While in Paris we had the opportunity to meet with John Morris, photo editor and legend for Magnum Photography.

While in Paris our class was invited into the residence of renowned photo editor, John Morris. Although Morris is in his 90’s one would never be able to tell other than when he begins to tell you about his life through photographs.

Morris shared his life with us through a slideshow of historical photos. We sat in his living room facing a projector screen while he stood behind us narrating. The point, he explained, was for us to focus on the photos and not him- one of the first signs of his humble nature.

The slideshow began with photos from the first world war because that was the war he was “born under.” As the photos moved through historical events, so did Morris’ life stories. He began as an office boy for LIFE magazine and then Pearl Harbor happened on his 25 birthday. The magazine promoted him to foreign photo editor and he got to cover the events leading up to WWII.

Although he moved from a variety of photo editing jobs including working for The Washington Post, New York Times and National Geographic, he found his passion with Magnum Photography where he worked alongside the late Robert Cappa, whom Morris refers to as his brother.

Morris showed us some of the best-known and moving photos of events including WWII, Vietnam and Bosnia. In his spacious apartment, his office taking up most of that space, he shared his thoughts about the phtos, the events surrounding them and also his personal experiences. He actually shared a tent with Ernie Pyle while covering WWII and referred to Pyle as being extremely nice to him. Morris also described the loss of his friend/brother Robert Cappa who was killed by a landmine in Japan after Morris gave him the assignment.

As Morris’ life truly revolves around photographs and can be told through pictures, he explained what he looks for in a photo: content, impact and composition. But most of all he says, “The photograph has to say something.”

After some discussion about the direction journalism and photojournalism is heading, Morris perhaps gave the best advice inconspicuously while he was speaking. He exclaimed, “Against my better judgment I remain an eternal optimist.”

Thank you Mr. Morris for opening up your home to 20 young strangers, inspiring us and offering us some hope for our prospective field.

First Impressions

The following is an assignment from a recent trip to Europe for a war correspondents class. We were to write with a style and tone similar to Ernie Pyle.

As our weary, sleep deprived bodies walked off the seven-hour, overnight flight, our minds began to run on adrenaline. We had little idea of what to expect and what we’re be experience on our trip to Europe especially on our first stop, London. Yet once we boarded the tour bus that would take us from the Gatwick airport to the heart of the city, our worries subsided to our journalistic curiosity. We began to form our first impressions of London. For me this impressions was a combination, much like the city itself.

The bus drove through the suburban outskirts of England’s largest city and the mixture of London began to emerge. The white wash stone houses and small fenced-in gardens lay just beyond the litter heaps on the roadside. The lush green farmland separated by age old hedgerows suddenly gave way to multiplexes and apartments buildings.

London’s a city that slowly creeps up and then surrounds an entity, consuming every inch. And that’s how the city came upon us. Slowly building from anticipation on the plane ride from the states to the UK, to excitement on the bus ride from the suburbs of Crydon and Norbury to suddenly hitting us with the sights of Big Ben and Parliament along the River Thames.

The London contradictions continued as we walked along the blossoming garden paths towards Kensington Palace and soccer teams played under a sky of clouds and peaks of sunshine.

The tour of the palace led us through the intense, long history of the city from the royalty of the 18th century to the rock-n-roll debutants of the 1950’s.

The history of stone palaces lay a stones throw away from modern, glass investment firms. English pubs neighbor Pizza Hut, and the abundant parks disappear amidst the construction cranes atop every other building.

London most definitely is a city of mixture. But not just in history and sights. The diversity in the city is amazing. A quick walk across the London Bridge you can hear Russian, German, Spanish and other European languages spoken amidst the tourists, and some residents of the city.

The feeling London invokes in you, continues to evoke the combination of the city. As you notice that people here hold themselves with a little bit of a higher regard and an air of politeness and properness, you begin to quiet your boisterous American laughs, either consciously or not. The reserved attitude that at first seems about everyone in London, however gives way to an laid-back European style.

There’s little doubt that after the palace visits, food endeavors, pub intakes and shopping vices that even only after less that 24 hours, London’s unique mixture has enveloped us all. Causing us to love the city currently, but hating having to leave so soon in the future.

Woman Sentenced in Bloomington Stabbing Murder Case

Bloomington, IN- Jodie L. Reeves was sentenced this morning to 25 years in prison for the stabbing and killing of Gene Davis. The 28-year-old Bloomington woman plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter in her trial last month.

Before the sentencing hearing began, Judge Harper addressed both families explaining that both are facing loss and that there is a need for mutual respect between the families.

Testimonies from Reeves family members, including her grandmother, aunt and live-in boyfriend resonated that Reeves is a kind hearted person that had an unstable childhood, family history of mental disorders and addiction, was raped in the military and turned to crack cocaine for help.

Reeves’ grandmother stated that her granddaughter, “is no different from any other girl.” Reeves’ aunt explained that she saw a “fogginess” in her niece after the incident, and through her letters from jail, she has seen clarity come to Reeves. Her aunt believed that this clarity is from the absence of drugs.

The victim’s family member were also present, and Davis’ girlfriend and mother of his five children explained that they had been together for over 30 years and for those years they each struggled with addiction to crack cocaine.

When asked what sentence she felt would be appropriate for Reeves, Davis’ girlfriend replied she did not know. “I give it to God. It’s too big for me,” she stated.

All members of the families were in agreement that if it were not for crack cocaine, Davis would still be alive. However, as the prosecutor reminded all, Davis, “isn’t alive, he’s dead.” He also added that Davis never killed for his addiction, but Reeves did. He stated that there is no justification, “for killing another human being.”

Reeves wept as she read her statement in which she apologized to the victim’s family as well as her own for the grief she caused them. She explained that she takes full responsibility for what she did and that while in prison she plans to take advantage of a recovery facility as well as educational classes.

After weighing all criminal and mitigating circumstances, such as Reeves’ age, lack of a previous criminal record and family history, Judge Harper sentenced Reeves to 25 years in prison. Four of those years can be suspended to probation and one year has already been served by Reeves since she was arrested in March of 2008. Indiana’s good-time provision will give two days of credit for every day served in jail if Reeves abides by prison rules. Therefore Reeves will likely serve less than ten years.