By Barbara Morris
As a member of the U.S. Postal Service's Jamaica customer advisory council, I had accepted an invitation to participate in the Roy Wilkins Ad Hoc Committee to help plan for the issuing and unveiling of the commemorative stamp honoring the great civil rights leader for whom that park was named.
I left home earlier than necessary, camera in hand, and was lucky to catch a bus very quickly. I decided not to go around to the Baisley Boulevard entrance. Instead, I got off the bus in front of the big, iron gates on Merrick Boulevard and stood, for a few minutes, admiring the expanse of white in front of me, and wondering if the drifts would be too deep for my boots. There was only one set of human foot tracks ahead of me and those of a dog. Quite far ahead of me to the east a bit, I could see a man plodding his way to a grove of trees. The dog appeared to be with him, but loose, and making much better time than his master. He leaped through the snow, tail wagging wildly, telling the world, “Good morning.”
Oops! I was paying too much attention to my fellow wanderers and had not noticed a deep pocket of snow. Part of it covered the bottom of my coat, and a large clump of white had fallen into my right boot. I reached down to pull it out but as I did, it of course melted and ran further inside the boot. Not the first time, nor probably the last!
I was impressed by the beauty of the park and its very picturesque pond, and I was glad to reach my destination before our 11 a.m. meeting time.
Ms. Moody, always a gracious hostess, invited me to look at the latest art exhibit while she arranged refreshments for our meeting. Each piece was well executed so it was no surprise that many had already been sold.
Our meeting was run by Thomas Daniels, customer relations coordinator for the Jamaica Post Office.
Anyone who attends Mr. Daniels' meetings knows, and appreciates, that he covers a lot of territory with efficiency and good humor. We accomplish a lot with him at the helm. So it was that morning. The date, time and place and assignments were set.
As the last couple of topics were about to be covered, I noticed a tall gentleman standing outside our meeting room door. He seemed to me to be trying to catch the attention of Solomon Goodrich, who was sitting to my left. I whispered to Mr. Goodrich, and he motioned the gentleman in.
Once inside, he leaned toward Mr. Goodrich and tried to whisper a horrible message. “They just told me. They found a body. It was my daughter. I loved my daughter and now she's dead! She was murdered.”
I think everyone in that room stopped breathing, hoping we hadn't heard him correctly. I'm sure everyone there had the impulse to try to comfort him, but it was better for Mr. Goodrich to do what we could not at that moment. All we could do was to share his pain from our seats around the table, still decorated with the vestiges of Kwanzaa. We all left our meeting with very heavy hearts and thoughts. All kinds of things raced through my own mind.
My prayers went out for him and his family, and after all these years, whenever I hear of someone so victimized I think back to our community's loss of beautiful, young Stacey Ann Penant and the unsuccessful search her family and I went on through in the Starrett City swamps in spite of the cold, dissuaded from continuing only by a pack of wild dogs and darkness. I remembered, too, how fortunate I was that the man with a long criminal record who tried to rape and murder me some years ago had been unsuccessful, thanks to lessons I had been taught by the police.
