To Redmond, Washington: IE9, Windows Vista

[1/12/2015, Editorial Note to my new friend:  You are doing very well helping out with the statistics -- thank you! Your affinity for the tongue-in-cheek is duly noted, jotted down in a scrawling hand in the Friend Log of Preferences. What is your favorite color?  Still, the silence is deafening.  I worry about you, also -- worry being just one of my métiers. I worry that you are not getting enough sun, sufficient exercise, fresh air. When did you last have a good salad, dressed with peppers drenched in white balsamic vinegar?]

*****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****

How may I assist you?  You are focusing, by my best guess, either on the Lindsey Baum case or my adoration of José Ochoa.  If it is my charming self that you study, we could drastically improve your time management issues,  Let me know in a comment and perhaps I can cut down on the amount of time you have to spend wandering these vast corridors, reading the same redundant, tired posts over and over, again and again, ad infinitum.

It would be a boon for me, too. Since, about 96% of your visits involve either whole months or, due to recent changes in the archive layout, whole weeks, you could really bump up my page view stats by choosing individual posts/pages.  You know, like you did last night, when you kept requesting "XXX Porn! Live, Totally Naked Women! XXX Porn!"

One hand washes the other!


18:55:01 -- 16 minutes ago


18:45:58 -- 24 minutes ago


15:04:51 -- 4 hours 2 mins ago


14:35:00 -- 4 hours 33 mins ago


14:17:37 -- 4 hours 51 mins ago


© 2015 L. Ryan

*Possible* Lead in the Lindsey Baum Case

Lindsey Baum, 2009

An Aberdeen, Washington, man who worked for a non-profit that assisted children, “The Gregorian Group," has been arrested "on suspicion of multiple child rapes and molestations."

Gregory Brian Johnson will also be investigated for any ties to the disappearance of Lindsey Baum, last seen in nearby McCleary in June 2009.  She would now be sixteen. Gregory Johnson lived in McCleary at the time Lindsey went missing.

The following information comes from KIROTV.com:

MONTESANO, Wash. — Gregory Brian Johnson, 48, who heads an Aberdeen nonprofit organization that works with children, has been arrested on suspicion of multiple child rapes and molestations.
On Tuesday, the Grays Harbor County Sheriff’s Office told KIRO 7 it will investigate whether Johnson could have had anything to do with the 2009 disappearance of Lindsey Baum, who lived in nearby McCleary.
A department spokesman said that’s standard practice whenever someone in Grays Harbor County is suspected of abusing young girls.
Johnson was arrested on Halloween after a now-23-year-old woman told Aberdeen police that Johnson had repeatedly raped and molested her from the time she was 9 years old.  Sgt. Art Laur said the woman agreed to wear a recording device and got Johnson to admit “to some of the statements she told us about what happened to her.”
The woman's 11-year-old half-brother also told police Johnson molested him from the time he was 4.
While the Grays Harbor County Sheriff’s Office investigates a possible connection to the Baum case, Aberdeen police are investigating whether Johnson may have abused any of the children he came in contact with through his nonprofit organization.  “The Gregorian Group” operated out of a downtown Aberdeen office building and offered young people a place to hang out, and coordinated hiking and camping outings, according to its Facebook page.  That office is now closed.
Johnson remains behind bars at the Grays Harbor County Jail in Montesano.

Although I've not posted about Lindsey lately, I check every week for reliable news on her case, and there has been nothing but the various odd psychic insights and the heartrending prayers for her not to be forgotten.  This is the first solid bit of information in years, and even this is a stretch.  Yet, the feeling has always been that the perpetrator would turn out to be a "local," and a serial violator.

Way back in July 2009, the first post on this blog about missing child Lindsey gave these details, and there has been precious little to add in the five years since:

Around 9:15 pm on June 26, Lindsey J. Baum, an 11-year old from the tiny town of McCleary, Washington, disappeared while walking from a friend's house to her home, only four short blocks away.
She just had an argument with her brother, but most everyone notes that she wasn't storming off mad. She didn't have the accoutrements you'd think of when thinking of a runaway -- no money, no cell phone, no change of clothes.
Some friends set out with her, so she was accompanied for a while before they peeled off to go to their own homes for dinner, or homework, a bath or shower, whatever.
Two of those four blocks are reported to be somewhat industrial -- though we are talking *rural* small town. One block away is access to a major highway.
As any child would be, Lindsey was troubled by her parents' recent divorce. Her father lives in Tennessee... [He served a tour in Iraq shortly after her abduction, and I'm not sure where he lives now.  Lindsey's mother and brother have relocated but remain near McCleary.]

Lindsey, as depicted through "age progression" technology

To read all posts concerning Lindsey Baum published on this blog, click HERE.



© 2013 L. Ryan

as i crawl beneath the rug, and retune my piano...

I've been avoiding you, Dear Reader.  That's something of a compliment, as the avoidance is based on my assessment of your acumen.

It is no secret, my modus operandi in writing most blog posts.  There are a few topics whose past treatment requires continued treatment:

• CRPS breakthroughs
• CRPS in daily life (including humorous leitmotifs about do-it-yourself amputation and the joy of suicide) 
• Any findings in the case of lost child Lindsey Baum 
• The reliable turdification of José Ochoa (lately, I've investigated the immense amount of money wasted on him by government grants, but gastrointestinal responses have precluded publication of this research) 
• The scam CRPS / neuropathy treatment CALMARE / ScramblerTherapy (again, I've a half-written post on the hilarious background of its inventor and his woo-science, dedicated to the creation of a machine that spews electricity like a Fountain of Youth -- never mind the obvious idiocy of mixing water and electricity) 
• Oh, and should my nausea subside, I am overdue in checking in on where the good Dr. Scott Reuben is malpracticing, and in what way

For a bit, I would regularly rag on Phil McGraw and some of his weirder acolytes, and while that was a gratifying release for simmering undercurrents of sadism, I'm trying to stop feeding that easy-peasy awful part of myself.  Now I just follow their shenanigans when late night efforts at mindfulness and distraction via YouTube cat videos fail.  Besides, one day my vision cleared, and I discovered my gratitude for the Unweird friends made while cavorting with McGraw's Chronic Pain Support Group.

By the way, Dear Reader, you've no need to feign shock at my admission of sadism.  On a good day, it makes me something of a Juvenalian satirist.  On a bad day, okay, I get a slight titillation from asshats getting their due... but not to the extent of paraphilia, or a personality disorder. Ignorance drives me batty and I am daily thankful for my innate, unfailing superiority.

It's also no secret that my navel-gazing can get in the way of what might be decently mediocre pseudo-journalism.  I write more about suffering due to CRPS, osteomyelitis, lupus, and osteonecrosis -- all hilariously related -- than I do my ardent political leanings, or other areas of ardor.  Do I wish my knees were worn from kneeling at some other altar than that of the personal?  Oh, yes!

Referring to your acumen, again, Dear Reader, it's clear that this blog is an attempt at therapy, written in as lively a way as I can pull off so that no one will wander the side halls of detritus.  I am writing my way through the remains of a life, deeply sorry for having wasted it so, and therefore frequently embarrassed by my strung together words, the over-estimation of serendipitous thought caressing circumstance.

There are circumstantial caresses that became blessings -- some fleeting benedictions, some amazingly enduring beatific guffaws. People I've met online, mostly.  Writings I'd never thought to have read had not some virtual friend made of them succulent, enticing fare.

One of those blessings is my friend "Peaches," an actual author, a man of the world, familiar enough with life to inflict suggestions as if it were his prerogative (by virtue of being so old, I tell him.. or dream of telling him, one day... one sadistic, wonderrful day!).

Yes, that's right.  I want to meet Peaches.  As much as I want to meet TW, Carol, Diana, Joyce, Benita, Tom, Betty, Fresca, T, and even some who have wished me ill, but in an inspirational way.

Peaches calls me Irene.  I call him "Peaches" because of a phrase that someone stuck into mine head years ago, in a late afternoon patio conversation at a Telegraph Avenue trattoria.  My memory is muddled, but I believe we trampled over Shakespeare and T. S. Eliot before someone declared someone else, glass raised, "a prince, a peach, a pear."

Since that chilly afternoon, spent over perfect antipasto and ignored obligations, I've found no higher praise to offer other beings than that they were "a prince, a peach, a pear." Roasted peppers and marinated artichoke hearts, spiced meats and bursting tomatoes, there was neither peach nor pear in the offing on our rickety cast iron table, rocking the red wine.  So the phrase is of even more value, its provenance being so wondrously lost.  Sadly, it casts its own restrictions -- I never use it to praise, or shower with abundant love, women deserving such approbation.  It has become a sort of obscure pillow talk, the pillow partners more in tune with its vast smooch galore than with its elusive ancestry or culinary provenance.  The role of the house red, delivered in a series of carafes, probably merits further investigation.

I remember the walk home, to a brand new private apartment on one of Oakland's first streets to cross Telegraph, leaving behind Sather Gate, crossing Bancroft and the cafés, book stores, tables of dangling earrings, poseurs, beggars, travelling to home, paper trash swirling, our awareness of danger waking, coffee our first plan before grading.  Funny, but the guy walking with me never was candidate for prince, or peach, or pear.  A good writer and sometimes great poet, he was a fraud, and the essence of the laudatory phrase lies in the genuine.

So.
Right.
Ahem.

Peaches lives in New York City, the old fart.  He is a faithful friend, but that means, of course, frustration at my "here today, gone tomorrow" nature, a nature unaltered even by friendship or blood relation.  I've been under the radar, or, believe it or not, quite concise, these past few weeks.  Still, Peaches fires off an email every few days.

Like today:

Irene...........
Hi.............

In the dark here.... How're you doing?

P.

Bless his heart, Peaches reached out at a moment when I was navel-gazing, seriously lost, seeing no way out from neurological jokes and jerks, pain bad enough to create tears in a body seriously dehydrated from constant fever.  He just wanted an answer.  I wanted a rescue buoy, garrish orange against the cresting teal.

beware, peaches, i've been avoiding writing anyone.  why?  the proof is in my outdated packets of yeast, my bread that will not rise.  i am in a baguette phase.  i'm also heavily medicated at the moment, which means you should stop reading NOW, content to know that i remain irene. i've been promoted from 100 mcg of fentanyl to 150 mcg patches. the joke is that the pain is stronger but there's just no point in making that known.

but, to answer your concision explicitly:

hey, i am DOIN'.  i am DOIN' (that's southern) the best i can.  

very briefly, last week, fred and i concluded that it was up to each of us whether our respective day would be good or bad.  we crowed and strutted, convinced that no circumstance has the power to inflict a "bad" day.  harrumph -- we don't even know what a bad day IS. complain?  whimper?  moan or groan?  ha!  not us!

that lasted three days and then we took a break.

i'm fine, peaches.  frustrated, sad, guilty, tired -- all of which i shall put aside once the fredster rises from his eight layers of covers to take on the day.  yes, fred is a layer fanatic, something he said he learned about in both brooklyn winters and in the huge temperature variations of the ethiopian desert.

well, there is one thing that sucks.  my eyes are going bad again!  and not in any polite subtle way, either.  i had a brief period of being able to read again and was enjoying the literary send off into sleep, no matter how tedious the novel. we are both working our way through minette walters, a very hit and miss affair. i find her interesting when she lets her inner sociologist sing. when she aims at popular success, she's tedious.

                  

being able to read also meant a complementary tub of plain lowfat yogurt with frozen strawberries. it's become impossible for me to read well without the creamy tang of yogurt and the icy comfort of frozen fruit.

when reading goes, it's a musical bedtime, the lullaby a string of rolling stones' songs -- or, these days, the decemberists and early, easy-breezy, very cheesy brett dennen.  

last night was kind of wonderful, drifting off to phil ochs' "the party," which actually made me think of you... and a few other upper crust sorts, and the cocktail parties you must have both enjoyed and endured.

there's a funny aspect to last night's nocturne, the evocation of monastic hours --  in a completely messed up, annoying way -- beyond the cheapo-cheapo piano, designed to set the teeth on edge.  and then there's phil's voice.  hmm, best i move on, eh? 

some time ago, in asking around about phil ochs' "the party," one of my american lit professors recommended i read... tom wolfe's radical chic & mau-mauing the flak catchers.  

unlike my literati betters -- and that means everyone around me -- i suffered mental origami, a conflation of tom and thomas.  flashes of "golden moments," and so, i have to ask, have you read much tom wolfe?  i realize that the scales tip in favor of look-homeward-ish-ness than anything by the journalist author, who saw himself as a brutally honest zola.  and how many occasions have you had to smile politely at some idjit such as myself, mixing wolfe & wolfe, a heathen playing at americana?

so much happens so quickly in the brain, even a brain seeking sleep.

see? i'm DOIN'.  and while i admire concision, i live for word play... 

"And my shoulders had to shrug

As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano..."

all my best to you and yours, and apologies for ruminating all over your email. it should blot up easily with a paper towel. my last sentence ought to be the first:  how are YOU (and yours), sweet peaches?  

irene

(One hint to how the piano was made even more schmaltzy?  it was a series of plastic toy pianos...)

The Party

The fire-breathing rebels arrive at the party early
Their khaki coats are hung in the closet near the fur
Asking handouts from the ladies, while they criticize the Lords
Boasting of the murder of the very hands that pour
And the victims learn to giggle, for at least they are not bored

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The hostess is enormous, she fills the room with perfume
She meets the guests and smothers them with greetings.
And she asks, "How are you" and she offers them a drink
The countess of the social grace, who never seems to blink
And she promises to talk to you if you promise not to think

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The beauty of the hour is blazing in the present
She surrounds herself with those who would surrender
Floating in her flattery, she's a trophy-prize, caressed
Protected by a pretty face, sometimes cursed, sometimes blessed
And she's staring down their desires
While they're staring down her dress

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The egos shine like light bulbs, so bright you cannot see them
Blind each other blinder than a sandbox
All the fury of an argument, holding back their yawns
A challenge shakes the chandeliers, the selfish swords are drawn
To the loser go the hangups, to the victor go the hangers on

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

They travel to the table, the host is served for supper
And they pass each other down for salt and pepper
And the conversation sparkles as their wits are dipped in wine
Dinosaurs on a diet, on each other they will dine
Then they pick their teeth and they squelch a belch saying
"Darling, you tasted divine"

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The wallflower is waiting, she hides behind composure, composure
She'd love to dance and prays that no one asks her
Then she steals a glance at lovers while her fingers tease her hair
And she marvels at the confidence of those who hide their fears
Then her eyes are closed as she rides away with a foreign legionnaire

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

Romeo is reeling, counting notches on his thighbone
Searching for one hundred and eleven
And he's charming as a child as he leads you to his web
Seducing queens and gypsy girls in the boudoir of his head
Then he wraps himself with a tablecloth and pretends he is a bed

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

Oh, the party must be over, even the losers are leaving
But just one doubt is nagging at my caustic mind
So I snuck up close behind me and I gave myself a kiss
And I led myself to the mirror to expose what I had missed
There I saw a laughing maniac who was writing songs like this

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

-- Phil Ochs




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Skull not that of missing Lindsey Baum

previous posts about lindsey baum

Mystery skull found in Washington state crab pot yields few clues

Published April 03, 2014

Associated Press

Authorities say a human skull found in a crab pot off the Washington coast belongs to a female, but it doesn't match anyone in a national DNA database.

The Grays Harbor County Sheriff's Office says the skull found off Westport was sent to the FBI crime lab in Quantico, Va., and run through the Combined DNA Index System. No matches were found.

KXRO-AM reports the DNA profile did indicate the skull is from a female, and her age is unknown.

The Sheriff's Office says the results show the skull does not belong to Lindsey Baum, a 10-year-old girl who disappeared in June 2009. She was last seen leaving a friend's house in McCleary, about 50 miles from Westport.

A fisherman found the skull Feb. 21 in a crab pot about 2 miles off Westport in water about 100 feet deep.

Skull found in crab pot sent for DNA identification

This sounds like a poorly thought out hoax to me.  Hoping so.
To read background posts from this blog on missing child Lindsey Baum, click HERE.

Informant Told Lewis County Detectives Lindsey Baum's Body Was Put in Crab Pot
By Stephanie Schendel sschendel@chronline.com 
Posted: Friday, February 28, 2014 10:14 pm | Updated: 5:17 pm, Sat Mar 1, 2014.


Possible Link?: Man Who Testified in Riffe Murder Trial Also Provided Information on Missing McLeary Girl

Nearly a year before a child-sized skull was recovered in a crab pot two miles off the coast of Westport, Lewis County deputies sent information to the Grays Harbor County Sheriff’s Office about a tip they received from an informant indicating that missing McCleary girl Lindsey Baum’s body had been put inside a crab pot and dumped into the ocean.


A skull was recovered on Feb. 21 after a local fisherman pulled up his crab pot about 2.3 miles off the coast of Westport, according to Grays Harbor County Undersheriff Dave Pimentel.
[Read the rest of Schendel's article HERE.]

********************************************************************

From KOMONews.com

Skull found in Westport crab pot going to FBI lab
By Associated Press Published: Feb 24, 2014 at 12:12 PM PDT

WESTPORT, Wash. (AP) - The human skull found in a crab pot off the Washington coast is being sent to the FBI crime lab at Quantico, Va.

Grays Harbor Undersheriff Dave Pimentel tells KXRO investigators hope to extract DNA, which may lead to an identification.

The partial human skull was found Friday morning in a crab pot about 2 miles off of Westport. The fisherman set the pot the previous week in water 90-to-100 feet deep.

An anthropologist in King County confirmed the skull is human.


Pimentel says nothing else is known about the skull, including how it got into the crab pot.

Simple, Brilliant Innovation: Still Looking for Lindsey Baum

KIROtv.com published this article two days ago,  and in the very simplicity of the project lies its brilliance.  It seems like a wonderful idea to be taken nationwide, worldwide, in the search for missing persons.

PACIFIC, Wash. — On Wednesday, aged-progressed posters of missing child Lindsey Baum will be added to Gordon Trucking trailers as part of the Washington State Patrol's Homeward Bound Program.
Baum was last seen on June 26, 2009, in McCleary.   She was 10 when she disappeared.

Posters of Baum have been traveling around the country on 10 Gordon Trucking trailers since 2010.
Members of Lindsey Baum’s family will be at the event at Gordon Trucking.

An age-progressed photo of Baum was created by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children last summer.

Anyone with information about the disappearance of Lindsey Baum should call the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children tip line at 1-800-THE-LOST.

More information about the Homeward Bound program can be found here  and a gallery of Washington State's Missing Children can be found at this link.

Remains Found in Washington, Near McCleary (UPDATED)

UPDATE, 11/14/2013:

OLYMPIA, Wash. - Investigators say the human remains found in a remote area on the Nisqually Indian Reservation belonged to an adult woman.

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It's been a good long while since I've updated information on missing and endangered child Lindsey Baum.
There have been some remains found in the area -- in the Nisqually Reservation in Washington state.  The reports don't indicate the age or sex of the remains found, and clearly, it is terrible news for some poor family, but I pray this is not Lindsey.

[*I'm informed this is about 35 miles from where she was last seen.]

The Olympian reports:

A search for more body parts Sunday afternoon on the Nisqually Indian Reservation -- a search that was triggered Saturday after a dog found the lower portion of a human leg with foot -- turned up a human rib cage, pelvis, parts of a skull, a jawbone with teeth and tissue-type matter, a Thurston County Sheriff’s Sergeant said.  

The mostly skeletal remains of a rib cage and pelvis were found by a dog team about 1:30 p.m. Sunday, followed by the other human remains later in the day.  

All of it was then turned over to the Thurston County Coroner’s Office, Sgt. Ray Brady said.
The search took place around the 13600 block of Peter Kalama Drive, as well as areas near the Nisqually River, an old fish hatchery and on adjacent roads in the area. The rib cage and pelvis were found near the hatchery, he said. 

Age, race and gender of the human remains still needs to be determined, Brady said, plus the Sheriff’s Office will be matching that information to any missing persons or runaways.
“There’s enough to hopefully identify the person,” he said. 

Brady added that it appeared as though animals had scattered the remains. 

He said Sunday’s search, which began at 8 a.m. and involved about 30 search and rescue volunteers and dog teams, wrapped up about 6 p.m. 

Sunday’s search was the extension of a search that began Saturday afternoon after a dog returned to its owner in the 13600 block of Peter Kalama Drive on the Nisqually Indian Reservation with the lower portion of a leg with foot. 

The lower portion of the human leg that was found on Saturday was partly skeletal, Brady said.
Thurston County Coroner Gary Warnock added that some tissue was attached. 

Warnock said Saturday that the leg would be examined for tool marks, such as those created by a handsaw or something electric. 

Brady said anyone with information is asked to call Thurston County dispatch at 360-704-2740 or Crime Stoppers at 800-222-TIPS.

A few weeks ago, I posted an aged-advanced likeness of her -- and that's how she appears to me now, in my mind, a beautiful, free young teen.

Since I'm writing about her, here is all the known information about her case, and if you click HERE, you can see the various posts about her from this blog, with links to other areas of interest.



Lindsey Jo Baum 

Missing Since: 06/26/09
Missing From: McCleary, WA
Classification: Endangered Missing
Age at Disappearance: 10
Date Of Birth: 07/07/98
Height: 4’10
Weight: 90 lbs
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Brown/Dark Blonde
Colored fillings in her teeth
Clothing: long sleeve hooded shirt (not sweatshirt) light bluish/gray, jeans with knees cut out, black slip on american eagle shoes with white rubber soles, no socks. bathing suit under clothes red/white/blue in color for both pieces but mismatched bottoms a floral print, top stripes and polka dots.

Details of Disappearance:

Lindsey disappeared on June 26,2009 while walking home [from a friend's home] in McCleary, WA at about 9:30 in the evening. This was one of the longest days of the year and didn’t get dark until around 10:30 that night. It was still daylight out as she left for the short 5-10 minute walk home.

She never made it home that night.

Who to Contact with Information:
Grays Harbor County Information Hot-line (Tip line) (866) 915-8299, Email: soadmin@co.grays-harbor.wa.us 
[OR DIAL 911]



© 2013 L. Ryan

Age-Progression Photo of Missing Child Lindsey Baum

It's been four years since Lindsey Baum disappeared just before her tenth birthday.  After the first year of her disappearance, it became painfully obvious that the photos of little Lindsey were eventually going to lose their effectiveness. Imagine the changes she has gone through in four years, now fourteen. Wait, fifteen.

Gosh...

Lindsey's Mom and Dad helped the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children develop an age progression photo of what Lindsey may look like today by providing photos of themselves at the same age:

LINDSEY BAUM
Age-progressed photo
Anyone with information about Lindsey's disappearance should call the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children at 800-843-5678 or the McCleary Police Department at 360-533-8765.
Or simply dial 911.

DOB:  Jul 7, 1998
Age Now: 15
Missing:  Jun 26, 2009
Missing From:
   MCCLEARY
   WA
   United States
Sex:  Female
Race:  White
Hair:  Brown
Eyes:  Brown
Height:  4'9" (145cm)
Weight:  80lbs (36kg)

© 2013 L. Ryan

To the person in Gig Harbor who keeps logging on to read about Lindsey Baum:

You have repeatedly visited this blog to read, apparently, the same post about Lindsey, over and over during the past three days.

If you know something about the case, I urge you to contact the Phone Tip line at 1-866-915-8299 or to email soadmin@co.grays-harbor.wa.us

You can also simply dial 911 anywhere and provide any information you might have.

I realize you are probably someone who simply misses Lindsey and maybe are just revisiting the past, as I know how frustrating it must be not to have any leads in an endangered missing child case.  If you want to read all the posts on this blog about her, click HERE -- not every post is exactly "on point," but maybe you will find the information you seek.

She has been gone since June 26, 2009.

If you do know something, even something that seems minor, please share it.  And... there is a $35,000 reward for information leading to Lindsey.

© 2013 L. Ryan

If it were not so, I would have told you.

Dear Readers, mostly of the Sweet Sort --

I received this comment after my last scintillating post of a copy of one of those LOLcat thingies that cat fanatics laugh at every day:

T said...

Been a week now, that's not like you. I hope you are ok.

TAM

Well, okay, damn it, TAM, if you're gonna get all pushy and rude about it, and can't get by for a week on a hard-fought, drainingly intellectual (and creative!) cat cartoon, well, then, geez!  I guess I'd better write something.

You want the truth or the truth?

I mean, I could say it's all been due to March Madness and the fact that my Gothic Wonderland DukieDom was demolished in the Elite Eight, and I'm in mourning.  La Bonne et Belle Bianca ripped off all her clothes -- which took a while -- who knew the secret of her amazing assortment of undergarments, that we will blithely name "shapewear"?  We caught her, reluctantly, before she made it over the drawbridge, but Fred is still putting drops in his eyes.

Speaking of Fred, he has the world's weirdest ear infection going.  In both ears, though he only perceives it in one.  Talking to him is the tops of hoots:  he offers you one side of his head, then the other, then proceeds to slowly rotate back and forth, listening for the correct pitch of your blip on his radar.  He has no pain, has had no fever or dizziness, and likely would not have noticed a thing were it not for the echos and distortion to his hearing. But get this!  He went to the doctor, TWICE.  Of course, TWICE, he saw, not the doctor, but the PA, who was rude enough to check his prostate, as well.  The ear bone is connected to the prostate bone -- new-fangled medicine.  So I've been thankful to the ear issue as it lead to a physical and the sudden appearance of a salad with his every meal -- we both skip breakfast, as I can't do salad for breakfast.  Fruit salad, yes -- staying ahead of TAM, the smarty-panted.

Which leads, quite naturally, to a discussion of why we skip breakfast.  Neither of us are able to sleep.  For a few nights, it was the height of ridicule, both of us in bed, awake for worry about the other.  That accomplished nothing but resentment in the blaring, glaring light of day.  I've gone over to the dark side, to Fred's "schedule." I sleep when I can, and, basically, that means either whole days at a stretch, or not at all.

Many nights of biting through my lower lip, a worried feline Dobby gently putting his paw on my former shoulder, trying in his elven way to bewitch me into sleep, so that he can then curl up on my head, tail forming  an Amish beard under my chin.

I have been writing, but mostly, sorry, poetry.  And sorry poetry it is, too!

I even hosted a poetry contest which I then ruined by being myself.  My contestants, having been "judged" by unnecessarily long and pretentious comments, are almost universally and uniformly pissed off.  Add to that the warm-hearted comments I keep getting after I win any sort of "prize" or recognition, and I feel a bit like a motherless child.  They keep saying, "There is no audience for you here." 

Well, the motherless child reference is just overwhelmingly rich, as my Dearest of Readers already know,. and though Freud and Jung both suck, they'd easily earn their weight in cocaine and great mandalas after just 30 seconds of my whine.  "She's mourning ze mama," they'd say.  Well, she ain't dead yet, my Monty Python side mutters.  I feel no remorse for calling in the troops of Adult Protective Services and only hope that they are true to their word -- which would be a first among the human species I've encountered in the last few weeks or so.  I lay in my bed, moaning, finding no position free of pain, and am psychically connected to her decrepit frame and mind, so many hundreds of miles away, and sometimes I do not reach for my pain medications out of a demented certainty that her pain is untreated, her confusion enhanced by the hurt.

They are not cruel people, her children, and caring for her can be no easy task.  But it's one that needs doing, and must be done well.  

I also hope they've not robbed her blind.  I also hope that... well, you know what one hopes.

My blood work shows something that looks like hemolytic anemia, so I'm not bleeding out, though I am still bleeding.  Sumpthing, sumpthing to do with bone marrow that would like a vacation, please.  Probably from the onslaught of five years of heavy-duty antibiotics.  No bitterness here, no ma'am, no sir!  The worst part is that exertion, sometimes in the form of three to ten steps, can bring on a dip into cold-lipped darkness.  So I use a trick that I knew would one day come in handy.

Many, many years ago, in the days of living with the Self-Proclaimed Greatest of American Authors (was I ever that stupid?  Yes, I was!  And, oddly, regret it less and less.  Honor the ways in which you have survived, no matter how self-demeaning and weird!) -- Anywho, back to my fairy tale: 

Many, many years ago, in the days of living with the Self-Proclaimed Greatest of American Authors, he and I spent an entertaining couple of summer months as Drum and Bugle Corps groupies for the Santa Clara Vanguard, a six-time Drum Corps International Champion.  Self-Proclaimed Greatest had once been the freaking drum major for UCLA, one of those odd quirks that make up attractions, as I would often ask for some strange bedroom reinactments.

His younger brother played horn, blew trumpet, for The Vanguard, and a more dedicated horn blower there has never been.  "Squealing" was the height of heights for these brothers.  Squealing consisted of Baby Brother standing at the end of his bed, which, thank the gods, had a low footboard, his back to it.  Throw pillows were scattered about his feet, "just in case." To squeal is not just to blow for all you are worth, for the entirety -- and then more -- of your lung capacity. No, you show control as well, and as you wail, your back naturally arches, the horn turns heavenward, and you traverse the tones, you trip the light...

Well, yeah, you actually do trip the light.  You do it, or they did, to the point of passing out.  Done correctly, this musical exercise leaves you plopped on the end of the bed, drooling, and much as Heston dared, still gripping the horn which might have to be pried from a dead, cold hand. 

Then, rapidly coming to, you high five your sibling and yell out things like "the coolest" or "awesome blow, dude." 

So as I maneuver around the bedroom, not seeing the point of the transfer to wheelchair and its so forths and so ons, when all I want is something out of the closest of the twelve walk-in closets of our well-appointed digs here in The Manor, I sidle around the contours of the bed, looking for all the world like Eliot's crab, ragged and scuttling.  It's as close to a trumpet squeal as I'm gonna get, and twice has actually worked as planned.  Things began to go cold and dark, and all I needed to do was go backward.  Once, actually, it probably even looked like a casual, planned sit.  Except for the ensuing collapse of the upper body onto the mattress.  Other times, I've parked the wretched chair in the mid-space of my route, and usually made it to the seat in time.  A few times, I've hit the wall, instead, which has a subtle sobering effect, and causes a bit of internal panic, but, as yet, no need for repainting.

Unfortunately, nonsense such as this has lead to more medical appointments, something I had wanted to swear off, as this year is dedicated to staying away from the beastly medic types, unless there is a fire to be put out.  I suppose go-to-guy sees this as a stray spark in a virgin forest afflicted by dangerous drought, an over eager aridity.  I could burn the world down.

So tomorrow, and then again on Thursday, we waste our days with figuring all this out and spraying down the old trees, wetting the underbrush, digging fire lines, breaks to the spread of my ember's arson.

In short, I'm tired.  One trip last week, to sweet Justine, the world's best vampire, wore me out. Writing bad poetry, insulting contestants who willingly entered into a sacred agreement with me to honor their work, trying to keep the Domestic Staff from going wild with equanox joy, and keeping the naked Bianca contained on this side of the moat, all of it has taken a ridiculous toll.  The Mother-Unit's troubles, Fred's poor muddled ears, and the fact that I've demanded coffee in bed the past four days -- all this makes me blue.

Three fingernails are trying to come off and I'm too much of a baby to yank 'em.  My song of experience?  There was a fourth, and I yanked it.  A terrible, sad new use for the profundity of "Never again!" 

Oh, I forgot one of my better excuses!  My eyes.  I'm not blind, I just can't see.  I've even gone faithful to the regimen of glaucoma drops but isn't it the nature of need-driven faith to just gnaw your ass off?

We'll call this a Post of Obligation and hope that you all can find enough in the archives to stay amused.  There's no cure yet for CRPS, or I'd have told you, and the gated community of biofilm osteomyelitis infection has only added a chain link lock to the wrought iron enclosures.  Jose Ochoa is still a turd, as is Scott Reuben, and Lindsey Baum is still gone.  

If it were not so, I would have told you.

Have You Seen Lindsey Baum?

All previous blog posts about missing child Lindsey Baum

There is no news about missing child Lindsey Baum but I've been remiss at keeping her name and face fresh here... The following is taken from the initial page of the Official Website for Missing Child Lindsey Baum.

At *this* moment, it has been 1290 Days, 16 Hours, 36 Minutes, and 31 Seconds since her abduction.


Lindsey Jo Baum 

Missing Since: 06/26/09
Missing From: McCleary, WA
Classification: Endangered Missing
Age at Disappearance: 10
Date Of Birth: 07/07/98
Height: 4’10
Weight: 90 lbs
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Brown/Dark Blonde
Colored fillings in her teeth
Clothing: long sleeve hooded shirt (not sweatshirt) light bluish/gray, jeans with knees cut out, black slip on american eagle shoes with white rubber soles, no socks. bathing suit under clothes red/white/blue in color for both pieces but mismatched bottoms a floral print, top stripes and polka dots.

Details of Disappearance:

Lindsey disappeared on June 26,2009 while walking home [from a friend's home] in McCleary, WA at about 9:30 in the evening. This was one of the longest days of the year and didn’t get dark until around 10:30 that night. It was still daylight out as she left for the short 5-10 minute walk home.

She never made it home that night.

Who to Contact with Information:
Grays Harbor County Information Hot-line (Tip line) (866) 915-8299, Email: soadmin@co.grays-harbor.wa.us or you may submit a tip via the contact us link on Lindsey’s Official website and the information will be passed on to the Law Enforcement officials working Lindsey’s case.
[OR DIAL 911]

Manor Keeping and Blog Chores

There are so many housekeeping chores that need doing to get this blog back in shape.

I promised to follow three things in particular -- news and developments about missing child Lindsey Baum; news and developments about Dr. Scott Reuben; and updated information on CRPS Clinical Trials.

Now, of course, I would add the four cancer kids that I follow, as well as the continuing truth that Dr. Jose Ochoa is a Turd.

And then, well, there is my fascinated hatred for creatures like Dr. Phil and Oprah, and my desire to wrench others away from their mesmerizing bullshit.  These are people of quality who just refuse to trust themselves, who have a tendency to love being on the receiving end of domination.  (What?  It's only the truth.  Domination, even cruelty, equals attention, and they have been denied attention their whole lives.  All they want is to be seen and heard -- no matter that they are being used, pimped, fucked.)

Of course, dealing with osteomyelitis and CRPS (the biggies) has completely taken over elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle, whether I allow a safari vacation into Amerikan politics, French politics, socialist circles, or even the wild and woolly adventures we have in the various kitchens of Marlinspike Hall. My pus-dripping bones and my wildly contorting legs and hands trump the hell out of the Militant Lesbian Existentialist Feminists, even the three of them who'd switch teams in a New York minute if it meant they could hunker down with my oblivious Fred.  I did not fall off of the produce truck recently and although I was born at night, they had to use pitocin.

I've put life in The Manor and the many fascinating details of maintaining such a landmark on the blog's back burner, too, but, O! There are reasons for that and fear not, as soon as we are covered by the expected extensions of President Obama's Dream Act to us outlanders, Tante Louise will call off the surveillance.. Okay, so we're not young, but we are illegal, and we are immigrants.

We are squatters!

La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore is so head-over-heels in lust with Sven, and they both are steadfastly and stealthily kept in view by Sven's lad Cabana Boy -- and to tell the truth, this has killed some of my desire to write.  They keep the air redolent with stinky tension.

I almost and by complete ACCIDENT killed myself yesterday -- by gentle respiratory depression.  Fentanyl patches, according to the manufacturer, are to be changed every 72 hours.  My pain guru wants me to change them every 48 hours.  I, of course, allow the earlier applied one to stay on an extra day, thereby milking out, or so I hope, every bit of pink-unicorn-fart pain relief.

The things do not stick well to my skin, mostly because I constantly cycle between being hot and dry, having sweats and chills.  Also, I bathe.  I bathe a lot.

Okay, this bothers me, so just let me get it out of my system, as if it were a bit of toxic fentanyl floating around in my psychic innards.  I love a bath.  I haven't been able to take a bath since... 2000.  I shower.  I use a shower chair and one of those wunnerful, wunnerful wand shower heads.  I leave the bathroom sobbing and usually have to take a rescue dose of endocet and climb in bed, praying and crying, snot all over the place, sweating, destroying that fresh, clean feeling a shower is supposed to impart.  Now, due to weakness and spasms, I shower twice a week.  I bathe at the bathroom sink twice a day, usually more often.  I use various antiseptic products, especially the ones that are commonly used as preop washes, trying to destroy any goddamn p. acnes bacteria hanging around.  I've been told this is a ridiculous thing to do, as well as impossible and perhaps undesirable... but I do it anyway.  I stomp on those toxic bastard bacteria.

Whew.  Okay.  Yeah, so bless my Stepmother who inculcated in me an obsession for cleanliness.  Captain Haddock sure gets his money's worth out of my hyperfocus -- there are no cleaner medieval tapestries than the ones hanging on his manor's walls.  I was born a maid.

Okay, let's reword that:  I was born with maid tendencies.  When I took career assessment testing in junior high school, the answer was always, "be a maid."

There are twisted ways that could have gone.  I clean up.  I believe I'd also have been a great assassin.  I used to maintain a list of People Who Need Killing -- but someone, somewhere, must have snagged a copy, because they all just sort of started dying without me doing a doggone thing.  And now, the world has changed so much, so quickly, that I am scared of making a mistake -- so no one has been added to the People Who Need Killing List since Pinochet died.  Six years of no entries.  A rusty assassin is a useless assassin.  Just ask Clint Eastwood, or the chair.

I spent the night screaming.  Pain. Muscle Deformations.  I kept dreaming that my Father, recently deceased, who had been dreamily safely ensconced in a federal prison, had been released and no one knew where he was.  I dreamt he was comin' after me.  Then I would wake to find my right leg jammed into the wheelchair, and my body turned on my left non-existent shoulder.  And so on and so forth.  I finally got up at 3 am, mad.  Mad at whom, I've no idea, but Fred was up, so I treated him to some of the door-slamming he so loves.  He didn't notice a thing, the benevolent abstraction!

So I decided to calm myself and quiet down the door banging by taking a shower.

At which time I discovered FOUR fentanyl patches, all firmly adhering to my skin.  All should have been neatly labelled with the day applied (I put a bandaid over them to help keep them on when the sweats and chills kick in, and write the application date onto the bandaid).

To the best of my muddled recollection, twice I thought the thing had fallen off, and so twice had replaced the supposedly missing pain patch with a new one.  And in each case, it was the bandaid that was gone, not the patch.  Yes, I had opened a new box of Made in the USA bandaids, a pharmacy brand that shall be henceforth banished from this usage, at least.

Yes, my eyes are that bad, also the patches are pretty much translucent.  I had been fretting about the cats, fearing that they'd find the fallen fentanyl "pain systems," lick them, play with them, and promptly die.  Sven, Bianca, and Cabana Boy?  They are more drinkers than druggies.  And Fred laughs at the idea that exposure to fentanyl could harm him.  I also had a good fret or two over the koi, thinking that maybe the patches went flying out some window and down into the moat.

We've banned the carnies and Cirque du Soleil habitués from entering The Manor, so I couldn't see how the true fierce addicts around me could have gotten hold of them -- and lately, they've all been confined to The Barn.  Long story.

Yeah, so I almost died, sorta.  I mean, I guess I could have.  I was certainly drowsy enough and snoring like a giraffe troubled by amplified adenoids -- before all the pain (despite four fentanyl patches) and contractions pushed me from the bed, to work, to a good sweat, to another shower.

The irony is that this week I am meeting with a lawyer to rework my living will, my standard will, my various powers of attorney, and seeking guidance on getting a DNR.

I can tell you that there is NO news about Lindsey Baum, that Scott Reuben chafes under the restrictions placed upon him (I'm sure it is a mystery to him why trust is so hard to come by), and if you want the latest CRPS clinical trials, it's easy -- just go HERE.  The only extra gifts I ever offered in my listings of the clinical trials were my not-so-expert opinions, and adding some suggested reading to better understand what was at stake.  But you, Dear Reader, don't require that.  It was more along the lines of me, as a high school sophomore, "showing my work" on a geometry test.  Yes, a "proof" of some kind.

Of the four young ones fighting cancer that I follow, Hannah is doing great, as is Kate (she shows no evidence of *any* tumor!), Braydon struggles, and the last young man will not live much longer.  I am also following a teenager, mostly because I saw her picture after she had died her hair a beautiful punk pink -- before losing it all, of course, by a new course of chemotherapy. She has relapsed but is kicking cancer's big fat butt by a punked out perky attitude, and by loving parents who never leave her side, and who pray all the live long day.  There are others -- you cannot help yourself, because the kids you follow all have blogging parents who do not cease to ask for your consideration for the kid in the room next door, or for so-and-so who has developed a nagging pain but whose MRI is not scheduled until October...  I can tell you that pediatric oncologists must have a healthy respect for parents and their "gut feelings," their intuition, their "something is not right with my child." In short, my cancer kids are doing better, as a group, than they usually are, and they are inspiring and uplifting, each and every one.

I posted a piece called "Billy" on September 5.  He's not a cancer kid, he's a cancer grown-up!  He has stage 4 lung cancer, and I will save my speeches on smoking, because, as an ex-smoker, I do understand.  No, not true, he continues to smoke, and THAT, I cannot fathom.

Anyway, Dear Readers, Billy and Joyce are an odd couple, getting closer now that it is too late to say their marriage was a good one.  But they do understand one another and they do love each other.  She has carried on her back the welfare of two grown daughters, both of whom refused to leave home, one of whom has three boys, all with what we like to call "issue." Joyce's siblings and other close relatives all struggle with addiction.  She is raising one of her sister's children, which is the working miracle in that child's life, because Joyce never gave in to addiction, never gave in to the lifestyle and values around her.  So Shawna is a star student with a bright future.  Joyce is disabled now, living entirely on entitlement programs, as is everyone in the family, really.

Billy is schizophrenic.  He is a U.S. military veteran.

They have *nothing* but the items in their apartment, in material terms.  No vehicle.  The vast wealth of their benefits tend to run out before the month does.

And now he has been dumped there, in a hospital bed, with oxygen, a walker, and all that good stuff.  Hospice is supposedly on the case, but mostly they have dumped him, too -- telling Joyce to do this, this, and this... and Joyce is sick and tired, and also still overseeing her girls and her three grandsons.  She has to walk everywhere, and most of her pain is centered in her legs and back, so those walks, that she used to love, are now akin to traipsing from Bataan to Corregidor.

Give them some money.  Christina, one of Joyce's daughters, has set up a fundraiser through the very legitimate FundRazr.  Ask questions, if you are dubious.  Give a dollar, two, or three.  That's more than they have, even after digging under the cushions on the sofa.

Listen -- they save stray cats.  They keep those sons and grandsons in scouting, in church.  They guard their innocence fiercely.  They tend to Billy as best they can but are obsessed with not having the money to bury him.  Joyce hates vegetables.  Her other daughter is mentally ill but helping out as best she can.  Shawna's biological mom is back on drugs and as recently as yesterday, Joyce forced her off the premises with the instincts of a good, protective parent.

The problems are a burden even to listen to.  But they're real... and Joyce has begun to turn her life around, and where her life goes, all those other lives glommed onto her for sustenance?  They get turned around, too.
I don't want to see one iota of the beautiful progress this beautiful woman has made degraded by something as obscene as CANCER and a Veteran's Administration that just doesn't give a hoot.

That's about it for me right now.  One of the 843 smoke and carbon monoxide detectors in Marlinspike Hall is chirping, letting me know it's in need of a fresh battery.  I'm going to get The Gun and shoot it.  As soon as I find it....

Nigel Graham singing to find the lost

Published in Sunderland Echo on 17 May 2012 [Twitter: @janethejourno ]

A WASHINGTON [UK] songwriter is continuing his quest to help families of missing children around the world.

Nigel Graham devotes his spare time to composing songs to help promote the search for missing people.

Now he has created a smartphone app which brings together all of his music and videos.

The technology – which can be downloaded to Android phones – is called Find Me Music and includes songs Nigel has written for missing British youngsters Madeleine McCann, Ben Needham, who disappeared from the Greek island of Kos and runaway Andrew Gosden from Doncaster, as well as Canadian Jessie Foster, who was 21 when she disappeared from Las Vegas, missing 10-year-old Lindsey Baum, from Washington in the US and Brenda Gomez, a Mexican girl allegedly snatched seven years ago. [Emphasis mine]

The self-taught musician now receives appeals for help from around the world and has appeared on radio and TV stations internationally.

[...]

His next project involves a missing Italian youngster, Denise Pipitone, who vanished in 2004.

Speaking about his work, he said: “I feel good about helping people and families all over the world.”

Busy Nigel, from High Usworth in Washington, has also created a best-selling iPhones ring tone, which can be used by worried parents to alert children that they need to answer their phone urgently. He has also composed four pieces of music for International Missing Children’s Day on Friday, May 25.

Last year, in an interview with the U.K.Examiner's Jerrie Dean, she asked him how he chose whom to write songs for.  This was his reply:

Nigel Graham:  Over the four years, I have had many requests from YouTubers and campaign groups to write songs for their causes; and I have declined, until this year.  I got into a conversation with David Rose from Fox TV’s, “Most Wanted,” and heard the Lindsey Baum story.  I saw her case was going cold.  Lindsey is from Washington, USA, and I am from Washington, UK.  I decided I was going to help, so I recomposed a song I had written and called it, "One Day Lindsey Baum."  Then a couple of YouTubers made Lindsey a video using the song, and the song was played on Fox TV.  Subsequently, I ended up doing an interview with them.

Lindsey Baum, Still Missing

I check for news of her every Friday.  There is no news.  I last posted about missing child Lindsey Baum in October, 2011.

That there is no definitive news does not mean that no work is being done on the case.  In mid-February, Grays Harbor County authorities turned up the heat on a man who has long been a "person of interest" in her disappearance.  His identity is well-known, and easily discoverable, if you are intent on knowing.  I am not giving his name because, in the course of some energetic online amateur sleuthing of Lindsey's case, there have been occasional episodes of maliciousness against people whom authorities have questioned, and even against people with no connection to the case at all (except "psychic" ones).

Someone once suggested a local Youth Minister as a suspect, because he tended to be surrounded by... youth -- and published not just his name and place of employment, but a map to his home.  Someone else, who continues to wield a weird influence, dreamed the initials of an area park ranger and then damned him with the discovery that he owned a... boat.  Do you see the weirdness that can ensue?

In any event, the current real focus is on one individual, whose home and business have both been searched, and who has been interviewed several times.  Caught in a lie, he seems to be the only suspect yet identified, though there still has been no forensic evidence produced beyond the video debunking his alibi.

In a search warrant, police note over 100 items were taken from the McCleary man who owns a jewelry store in the area. The items were taken from his car, home and business and include, according to KIROTV.com:


Apparent fingernail from passenger side of car
Ropes and straps
Numerous computers and computer storage devices
Pink sheet with unknown stains
Brown duffle bag with assumed human hair
Handwritten notes regarding missing child


Just last week, authorities released convenience store footage showing the person of interest. They note that he told police he was out of town when Lindsey vanished, however, the video of him at the store proves he was actually in the area at the time.

From YouTube comment section:

The Grays Harbor County Sheriff's Department has identified two women seen in a grocery store video from the night that Lindsey Baum disappeared.  County Undersheriff Rick Scott said his agency has been able to find the two sisters, who are local to McCleary, and will interview them soon. The video clip, from Mike’s Market in McCleary on June 26, 2009, was withheld at the request of the FBI until now.
kbkwnews [posted 1 month ago]

****************************************************************************

Around 9:15 pm on June 26, 2009 Lindsey J. Baum, an 11-year old from the tiny town of McCleary, Washington, disappeared while walking from a friend's house to her home, only four short blocks away.

She's now 14.  Her birthday is coming up on July 7.

The physical changes a young girl experiences in that particular span of ages are sure to have greatly altered her appearance.

It feels foolish to continue noting that, on June 26, 2009, Lindsey was 4-foot 9-inches tall, weighed 80 pounds, her brown hair and brown eyes offset by a hooded pullover.

Still, there are things about the face that never change. Those eyes, that mouth, the smile. Face shape, feature spacing and scale. Age-invariant characteristics. Forensic artists (and the software they use) factor in the ways a person has changed in the past, even as short a past as Lindsey's, and how relatives have aged, as well as extrapolations based on large amounts of data from the wider population.

It is reported that Lindsey has a scar over her left eye, a dark brown birthmark on her right wrist and colored fillings in some of her teeth.

But she's doubtless no longer 4'9" and not likely to still weigh 80 pounds. Fourteen to fifteen year old girls average 63-64 inches in height and 105-115 pounds in weight. Of course, her numbers at age 10 were already higher in each category than the average.

That summer evening two years ago, Lindsey had just argued with her brother, but most everyone notes that she wasn't storming off mad. She didn't have the accoutrements you think required of a modern runaway -- no money, no cell phone, no change of clothes.

Some friends set out with her, so she was accompanied for a while before they peeled off to go to their own homes for dinner, or homework, a bath or shower, whatever.

Two of those four blocks are reported to be somewhat industrial -- though we are talking *rural* small town. One block away is access to a major highway.

As any child would be, Lindsey was troubled by her parents' recent divorce. Her father lived in Tennessee. He was deployed to Iraq not long after she went missing.  Her mother and brother no longer live in McCleary.  Life for them has been hard and cruel.

The last time I checked, a reward of $30,000 is being offered by Crimestoppers and the National

Center for Missing and Exploited Children. 

There have been many searches, search warrants, several people of interest -- but no signs of Lindsey, and no real clues or advances in the case.  Still, we all still shake our heads and mutter that someone, somewhere, knows something.  What will it take for that someone to tell that something, and will it bring the child home?

If you have any information regarding Lindsey Baum,

please call the Grays Harbor County Sheriff's Office

at 866-915-8299 [Tip Hotline].

NATIONAL CENTER FOR MISSING & EXPLOITED CHILDREN

1-800-843-5678 (1-800-THE-LOST)

McCleary Police Department (Washington) 1-360-533-8765

Or simply call 911.