By Mark David Blum, Esq.

It was a muggy Sunday morning; hazy, hot and humid were predicted by every weather-vain. George Kilpatrick was mumbling soothingly in my ear as I was otherwise engaged. For the record, I admire and respect Mr. Kilpatrick with all my heart and I know that he knows it. He also knows that at times I accuse of him of just ‘talking the talk’ but never ‘walking the walk’. Sunday May 28th, my grandmother’s 94th birthday, and suddenly George’s show erupts with complaints about the Syracuse Housing Authority cutting off transportation services to its residents. More than one caller told of this sudden cut in services depended upon by the weakest and most dependant members of our society. George was aghast. His callers were aghast. After listening to them whine and complain, it was time to propose a solution.

I called George that Sunday morning at about ten minutes before his show ended and told him exactly how to solve the problem. All he needed was to come up with either (1) alternative funding, or (2) alternative means of transportation. After all, there was no reason to depend on the citizens of the City of Syracuse or its Housing Authority. Undoubtedly, other agencies, persons, and charities in the community could easily step up and fill in this very small but vital gap. “Duh”, right?

Unfortunately George ran out of time to talk about this obvious solution. He promised that he would have money on the table and see if that will solve the problem.

For a week I waited with baited breath to hear what George was going to report this morning. (No more fried fish after midnight!) Of course, this was one of them early mornings so I grew extra antsy waiting for his show to start. Congrats to Mr. Kilpatrick; once he came on the air and reintroduced the scenario and his experiences of the past week, it took me less than twenty minutes to explode. I grabbed the telephone and hurriedly banged out the station’s telephone number. (waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting).

Here is the story reported by Mr. Kilpatrick. See if you too don’t grab a telephone and start banging out some numbers. Simply put; there are those senior citizens, who I am sure through no fault of their own, are living in public senior housing units paid for by you and me and Bobby McGee. These units are administered by the Syracuse Housing Authority and run by a guy named ‘Fred’.

Well, according to George … according to Fred, the Housing Authority provides a service that drives seniors to markets, doctors, and would also drive them to Old Country Buffet and the Shoppingtown Mall; among others. This is the service that Fred said is dead.

“Fret not”, added Fred. Centro buses are still available to drive seniors to the markets. It is just the side trips that are no longer available. Fred said the federal funding was no longer available and so he could no longer provide the service. Just ‘Call a Bus’ and to market to market the seniors will go.

Then George reported the most obnoxious part. He said that Fred said the program is still dead even if from another source the project was fed. This Fred, I dread, has gotten it into his head, that he is a public father and not a public servant. He does what he is told and provides the services requested and required of him. If he doesn’t like it, let him be unemployed and join the ranks of those over whom he now presides.

Seriously, George Kilpatrick reported that the head of the Syracuse Housing Authority argued to George that even if a generous philanthropist were found to fund this year’s side trips for the seniors, that he, Fred would refuse the funds and cancel the program. According to George, Fred complained he would just have to turn around and NEXT YEAR find a funder all over again. That, as said by Fred, is just too much responsibility for him to get out of bed.

Have you ever seen the inside of senior housing? On more occasions that I care to remember, I have found myself meandering the halls of such fine institutions. My experiences date back to my early teens watching family members disintegrate before your eyes; slowly over time. The stench of death and urine unsuccessfully masked with Lysol leaves a lasting impression. Seeing the various stages of death and humans wasting away in their own filth and loneliness; all but ignored, forgotten, and abandoned by friends and family is a scene you never forget.

Yes indeed the state of the art has significantly improved over the years. My own grandmother (may she live another 100 years) is living in one such facility in California. Her birthday is May 28; the same day this all started with me and George.

A few weeks ago, I barely survived a visit to Brighton Towers here in Syracuse. Business brought me to the top floor of one of the two towers on a hot late Friday afternoon. My kid had a game, a dance, and I had a date for sushi that night.

If you have never been to Brighton Towers; it is definitely worth a day trip. Pack a lunch. First of all, the visitor parking is four city blocks away from the main entrance. Even the resident parking is quite a hike; probably moreso miserable given the age and physical limitations of the near 250,000 people they have jammed into those two buildings. By the time I walked from my truck to the front door, I too was ready to be placed on a respirator. Oblivious to anything but my next gasp for hot dusty air, I had not noticed the electric doors that were supposed to open electronically when you approach … like they always do … did not open … and of course, were also (thankfully) not shatterproof. If must have looked funny to someone seeing me walking along and suddenly bounce five feet backwards onto my butt like I had been hit with a phaser set on stun.

Inside, there is this large split hallway; absolutely sterile, vacuous, and devoid of anything beyond the dried stale once-white paint on the hallways. Thinking somewhere there must be a rental office to find my way around, instead I come upon what looks instead like a nurses’ station. Kindly, I am directed to the proper tower and through which massive double doors I must pass to find an elevator.

A bank of two elevators was waiting to carry me 17 floors to the top. Surrounding the elevators were about 6 or 7 very senior seniors, the stereotypical black uniformed handman talking about Barry Bonds, the FedEx guy, a couple private nurses carrying various shopping and other goods, and the very kindly young lady of at least 100 who said she is in no hurry and waddled off to sit down.

Taped across the doors of one elevator was a big sign: PLEASE FORGIVE THE INCONVENIENCE. ELEVATOR OUT OF SERVICE.

Taped across the UP / Down button panel was a sign that said: PLEASE ONLY PUSH ELEVATOR BUTTON FOR THE DIRECTION YOU WISH TO GO. IT IS FASTER THIS WAY. Smartly, only the Up button had been pushed. The bar above the elevator had the down arrow lit and slowly but surely, the creaky old elevator finally came down from the top floors. Out of the elevator stepped a couple of apparent residents and suddenly the entire mass of people standing around the elevator crushed into the very tiny box. When they kindly invited me to join them, I politely refused saying, “you will be back”. (Anything to save the trip to the basement and back in that cramped elevator).

When they all eventually returned and the elevator doors opened, I stepped inside. If I did not have claustrophobia before I got into that box, I surely do now. That damn elevator, moving as slowly as it did, on a hot and steamy day, jammed with the dead, no circulating air, and the endless babbling about whether Bobby Bonds deserves his record, stopped at 9 of the 17 floors I had to travel. When I finally arrived at the top, I gulped down every molecule of fresh air available on that floor.

I almost hated my appointment to be over. There was simply no way I was going to stand there and wait for that death car to come drag me down into the bowels of that building … floor by floor … hour by hour. Instead, I inquired of my dear friends how to find the stairs. Yes, eighteen flights of stairs was a better option than getting back into that silo. I thanked them for their hospitality and went out into the hallway.

Finding the stairs should have been easy, right? Suffice it to say that after a few minutes, I was knocking on the door for help. “After four years of college and three years of law school, can you believe I can’t find the stairs.” Thankfully, I was shown to the door marked “garbage chute inside” and began my trek downward and quickly out the door; never to return.

But I am here today telling you that like me, we all have to be very alert as to how we treat our elderly and poor and ill. It is not our place to deliver the least amount of service. These are folks for whom a walk to the bus stop to Call out for a Bus could be an overwhelming chore. I am sure many find their only outside activity to be a stroll around the mall. Imagine being able to race the Seinfeld’s to the early bird special at Old Country Buffet. At a certain point in life, it is the small things, the little moments, the tiny pleasures, that gives us our greatest joy and peace.

None of us ever plans to end up old, poor, and dependent on the largesse of the City of Syracuse. We all have high hopes and dreams and plans for a safe and secure and comfortable future. Ask me someday how quickly that can all disappear and how far away you really are from homelessness and food lines.

I bring all this to your attention for another reason.

As we today treat our elderly; the attitudes we adopt and the resources we pledge, will not go unnoticed to those who follow us. Our children are watching. What lesson will you teach them today about how you want to be treated tomorrow?

Hopefully George will use the power of his microphone to get others to join in. He can bring Fred into line. George can motivate financial contributions and even bully some of the benefactors … like the mall or the Old Country Buffet … into making a contribution.

George Kilpatrick is doing the Lord’s work; and we are blessed.