Remembering C.Ja.

Christopher Jason Adams Sullivan
June 2, 1987 - July 3, 2008
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I Meant To Do My Work Today
by Richard LeGallienne 

I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand,
So what could I do but laugh and go?

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I haven’t known C. Ja. very long. I ran some errands on his behalf while he was in Florida at motorcycle mechanic school but I didn’t get to know him until he moved back to the Cape. I was lucky to have that opportunity. And I knew I was lucky when it happened. He was that kind of guy.

C. Ja. brightened my life when I was with him. One minute, he was a kid with a wicked grin and an endearing laugh. The next minute, he was a daring teenager with a passion for guns and motorcycles, and a bold wit. The next, he was a young man - empathic, caring, stumbling into his future caring for and teaching kids. But he was always C. Ja., the same little kid I can see in his baby pictures, the same kind, sensitive, intelligent, funny, beautiful person we all saw.

In a typical C. Ja. encounter last winter, I teased him on a particularly cold day because he had no coat and was shivering. I reminded him that he wasn’t in Florida anymore and that it would get colder. I suggested he grow up and go buy himself a coat. He said that a winter coat would “turn up.” That was so C. Ja. that I didn’t bother to retort. If he thought a winter coat would drop out of the sky, he could be right. He was C. Ja., after all. He did foolish things but he did them with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm on his level could grow a coat on a tree. The next time I saw him, he was wearing one. He smiled when I complimented it and modeled it for me. “My Mom bought it for me,” he said. “Isn’t it great?”

When I worked with him at the store, the banter was constant. We could have been brother and sister. Sometimes the customers were amused; sometimes they were mortified. He entertained me with stories of adventures with his friends, fast cars, lots of alcohol, camaraderie and laughter. We talked about guns and bikes and his family. He outlined his plans to marry a “good” girl – not one of those “raunchy” girls who didn’t dress modestly or who belched like a guy – he wanted someone who would behave like his mother. And he ranted about keeping his little sister Alexa away from the bad boys who would take advantage of her.

Most of the time, my little nephew came to work with me. He loved going to “Mrs. Sullivan’s store” and always asked, “Is that guy going to be there? C. Ja.?” On those days, I did all the work. C. Ja. played with my nephew, rolling on the floor, making paper airplanes, teaching him how to catch and throw a ball. Sometimes they had sword fights with wiffle bats. Sometimes they played hide-and-seek. C. Ja. was the perfect playmate – a grown-up who remembered the way to Sesame Street. It was a meeting of the minds. When the line at my register backed up, customers would pass the time by asking, “How old is he?” I always answered, “Which one? Well, it doesn’t really matter. They’re both five; one’s just a little bigger than the other one.” Penny, his Mom, told me that she promoted C. Ja. to six a few weeks ago when he did something with uncharacteristic maturity. I guess it had to happen some day…

When C. Ja. stopped working at the store, I missed him. He stopped in occasionally, most notably a few days after his recent car accident. He let me admire the gash on his head. When I exclaimed about his quick recovery, he quipped, “I heal fast” and hopped over the console to take the wheel of Penny’s open convertible. I didn’t look back to see if he’d finally heeded my latest lecture about wearing a seatbelt. It was too hard to be stern with him; too difficult to keep a straight face when he flashed that smile and he got that amused twinkle in his eye.

In Paul’s letters to Timothy, he wrote, “We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” I don’t think that’s true. C. Ja. came into the world with the love of only his family. He lived every day of his life. He left this world with the love and admiration of so many people. He left this world with the legacy of touching so many lives, creating little differences here and there, brightening many dreary days. Twenty-one years doesn’t seem like much but, in the end, a man is judged by how many lives he’s touched. I know that I was not the only one taken by his charm and his antics and his kindness. He remains with us, within us, and he will go many places with the people who know they would not have been the same without his touch, however strong, however brief.

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I cannot walk by day as now I walk at dawn
Past the still house where you lie sleeping.
May the sun burn away these footprints on the lawn
And hold you in its warmth and keeping
Vikram Seth

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If I should die and leave you here awhile
Be not like others sore
Who keep long vigils by the silent dust
And weep

For my sake turn again to life and smile
And nerving thy heart and trembling hand
Do something to comfort other hearts than thine

Complete these dear unfinished tasks of mine
And I
Perchance, may therein comfort you
Saint Joseph

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Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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from The Cape Cod Times

Mother: 'C.Ja.' just wanted to help others

By Aaron Gouveia

agouveia@capecodonline.com

July 06, 2008

HYANNIS — All Christopher Sullivan wanted to do was help others, his grieving mother, Penny, said yesterday.

Sullivan, who was known as "C.Ja." to friends and family, died in a motorcycle accident in Hyannis Wednesday.

Although many people in the area knew Sullivan from his job at the Yarmouthport Village Store and as a landscaper, she said, the 21-year-old East Dennis man found his calling when he took a job as a YMCA camp counselor, working with troubled teens.

Sullivan had recently completed the background check required for a position at the Brewster Treatment and Detention Program.

"He had his own difficulties and then he decided to help other kids through it," Penny Sullivan said. "He was a very sensitive person and definitely a kid at heart."

Police said Sullivan was killed when he lost control of the bike and struck a tree while driving through the intersection of South and Sea streets.

Next to working with kids, Sullivan loved riding his motorcycle, his mother said, adding that he spent two years in Florida studying motorcycle mechanics.

Sullivan's friend, 19-year-old John Mather of Yarmouth, described Sullivan as "the best friend you could ever have" and said the two planned to live together in the fall. He said nothing could change his friend's love of motorcycles.

"If anything happened, he would just hop on his bike and ride," Mather said.

An investigation of the crash is ongoing, Barnstable police said.

Staff writer K.C. Myers contributed to this report.

To view
C.Ja.'s Remembrance Book
click here: http://www.legacy.com/CapeCod/GB/GuestbookView.aspx?PersonId=112858300

Jill Wragg

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Cape Cod Cronies

The waitress working the back dining room at the Scargo Café has no idea what she's in for. The patrons are staring, wondering, perhaps, if the four women seated at the corner table are actresses from the Cape Playhouse across the street. Their chatter is non-stop and delivered in one-liners that don't miss a beat. Or perhaps they're simply amused by the ruckus the women cause. There's an aura about them. There's electricity in the air. There's a familiarity among them, a closeness. Maybe they're not family, but they definitely are a team.

The question is, "A team of what?"

Actually, the corner table of four grandmothers is harmless.

"We're just dull," laughs Joan Robinson. Hardly.

The good-natured bantering is difficult to follow but intriguing enough to make the most polite diner eavesdrop. The comments come too fast to identify the speakers.

"Audrey's been here since 4:30."

"No, I haven't. Jackie was here before me."

"Not by long."

"We actually had a real conversation going."

"Yes, but we've forgotten what it was."

"We have that forgetting disease."

(left to right) Audrey, Joan, Joanne, Jackie

It's a repeat of the month before, and the month before that, and the month before that.

"Joanne started it."

"I don't remember that at all."

"You remember, don't you?"

"We have that forgetting disease"

They do, at least, remember to get together once each month to share a meal. It's something they've been doing steadily for more than 10 years, and occasionally for almost 60.

They might as well be actresses because their story plays out like a soap opera.

Joanne Thomas Jackson and Audrey Van Dusen Macomber became friends in the first grade. They were members of the first class to graduate from Dennis-Yarmouth High School's current Station Avenue location. As schoolgirls, they befriended Jackie Poole Johnson. Jackie graduated from the Yarmouth High School where grades 1-12 all studied together at what is now the Middle School.

Audrey is quick to point out, "She's old."

Jackie spiced up the group by introducing Joan Robinson Robinson. Joan quickly explains the apparent typo by saying, "I went down the aisle a Robinson and I came back up the aisle a Robinson." Joan hails from Attleboro but summered on Cape Cod before taking a local teaching job. She moved in with Jackie in 1963.

She says, "Jackie worked in the drugstore and I needed a place to live. I figured I could stand her and she figured she could stand me."

The four women's lives have been intertwined ever since.

"We've had our ups and we've had our downs," says Joan. "And we've had our way downs."

In the early 1960s, Jackie, Joanne and Joan all lived on the same South Yarmouth street. Jackie and Joan are still neighbors on that same street. In the early 1970s, Joanne and Audrey were neighbors in Yarmouth Port.

But those aren't the only ties.

Jackie and Joanne both married in 1959. Audrey was a guest at Joanne's wedding. She asked Joanne to be in her wedding party but, as Joanne is quick to explain, "I wasn't the maid of honor because Audrey liked someone else better." And, of course, Jackie went to Joan's wedding.

It wasn't difficult to stay friends once they settled into married life.

Joan explains, "We spent a lot of time being pregnant together."

Jackie had the first child, but there is still lingering envy that Joanne had the first girl. Both have three sons and one daughter. Audrey has one daughter. Joan outdid them all with five, three sons and two daughters.

She says to Joanne, "I remember lumbering into your house when I was 10 months pregnant."

Joanne smugly counters. "By then, I had three."

During an animated discussion about ordering dessert, they explain the godparent situation. Audrey is godmother to Joanne's first child and Joan to Joanne's second child. Jackie was pegged for Joanne's third. Jackie is godmother to Joan's second because "I waited until I had a girl to ask her." Joan finally made the grade when Jackie had her third boy.

"She was waiting for a girl, too" quips Joan, "but she was taking too long."

They chat non-stop about their grandchildren. Joan and Joanne are tied with six while Audrey and Jackie each have one.

"But," Jackie notes, "I am waiting for more."

In the meantime, they share their "back in our day" stories each month at a different restaurant. They marvel at the conveniences modern mothers enjoy. Their e-mail capabilities thrill them. Joan says, "I feel very 21st century."

Joanne and Audrey aren't quite as confident. They tried to use computers while planning their 40th high school reunion, and are currently trying to plan their 45th. Even modern phones scare them. Joanne says that she sometimes hears Audrey's voice coming out of her pocketbook when she's shopping. Both women have Nextel mobile phones and neither has a firm grasp of the special walkie-talkie feature.

The self-named "cronies" also discuss things like wrinkles and the aging process. After one particularly revealing comment from across the table, Joan remarks, "I could have lived 110 years without knowing that."

The dining tradition began after a dinner at Joanne's house. They had so much fun that they decided to do it on a regular basis. When Joanne asked, "Where will we meet?" she was met with a chorus of "Here, of course. No kids. No noise."

They cooked and brought different dishes each month, only 'screwing up" once in 10 years.

"I was supposed to make meat but made dessert instead. We ended up with two desserts," Joanne confesses. "So Audrey drove to the store and bought a barbecued chicken."

In 2002, they started eating out. Joanne pretends to be offended, "Either they got sick of my house or they got sick of cooking."

"No, it was too much for you," Jackie points out.

Audrey smiles, "And now someone serves us and cleans up after us."

"We're lazy," adds Joan.

Joanne pipes in, "The best part is that Joan can't nod off in a restaurant."

"Yeah," Jackie says, "she sleeps in the movies, too."

Joan sheepishly admits, "I do."

After a photo session on the restaurant steps that leaves the photographer shaking his head, next month's locale is discussed. It's like pulling taffy.

Joanne asks, "Where haven't we been?"

For the first time, there's silence.

Joan makes a face, "I'm not suggesting a place because Joanne will shoot me down."

According to Jackie, "Yeah, she will."

Audrey looks down at the table.

So, who ultimately decides which restaurant will have the privilege of serving "the cronies" next month? Joanne, of course.

Note to the Outback Steakhouse. Watch out!

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Lt. Paul Mitchell - "Big Daddy"

Paul Mitchell hasn’t been home for 51 days. His co-workers saw him leave work at 9am. He didn’t call his wife to tell her he’d be late. He hasn’t called his two daughters to tell them he loves them. He hasn’t shown up at any of his friends’ houses to help them with home repairs or to make dump runs. He hasn’t been to church. He hasn’t walked over to his Mom’s house to ask if she needs anything. His garage door business has been idle.

No one ever thought this would happen. Paul always comes home.

On the morning of September 11th, New York City Fire Lieutenant Paul Mitchell finished his scheduled night shift at Engine 5 in Manhattan. He was on his way home when planes struck the Twin Towers. He was off duty. He could have joined all the people who streamed over the city’s bridges and waterways to escape the horror on the Mall. But he was different from them. Paul was a 14 year veteran of FDNY. Paul turned around and went back.

He stopped at his old firehouse, Ladder 110, and rode with the day shift to the World Trade Center. They were glad to have him. Things had always turned out well when “Big Daddy” had ridden with them. He was a 6’3”, 250 lb smoke eater with hands like bear paws, an experienced “jake” who ruthlessly drilled the rookies on safety techniques. He rode Ladder 110 to the World Trade Center with guys he’d die for. He was one of the answers to the prayers of thousands of civilians fleeing the towers. His was one of the faces that gave them hope. He was inside when the towers collapsed. He’d answered his last call on the truck he’d ridden to his first call.

Paul’s wife Maureen and their girls, Jennifer and Christine, waited a long time for him to come home. They waited when he was late from work. They waited when they learned he’d gone into the Towers. They waited for the man who could smash through doors and climb into smoke filled buildings to step from the ashes and rubble alive. They waited when officials declared the rescue mission a recovery mission. They waited a week, two weeks, a month. They wait- ed for someone to find him. They waited for someone to find his boots, or his ring, or any proof that he really had been there, and that he really is gone.

They waited a long time.

Paul’s and Maureen’s 21st wedding anniversary was November 1st. Paul’s wake was also November 1st. Hundreds of people stood in line to comfort Maureen, the girls and Paul’s mother and sisters. Paul would have been proud of the way his family greeted every mourner with a hug and a thank you, and of the way they tried to comfort the people who didn’t know what to say.

On November 2nd, All Soul’s Day, two ladder trucks faced off in the street outside the church where Paul worshipped. A 20 foot American flag was hung between the extended ladders. Hundreds of firefighters and cops, some from places like Maryland and L.A. County, stood in formation as bagpipers led the procession into the church yard. Hundreds of civilians stood silently. Only the flags of the honor guards moved. Paul’s family walked a corridor of firefighters to enter the church where they would say goodbye. There was no casket. There was no need. Paul will not rest in a Staten Island cemetery where his family can plant flowers. Paul will rest where God buried him, where he and his colleagues answered one last alarm and thousands of desperate prayers.

Inside the church, Paul’s friends and family gave up any hope that remained after 51 days. Some of Paul’s buddies couldn’t be there because they are still with him. Their wives have been waiting, too. Like Maureen, they will have an American flag and a firefighter’s helmet to add to their memories. They will have a closet full of uniforms that won’t get worn.

Outside the church, the weather-proof speakers were drowned out by conversation as old friends embraced and new friendships were formed. Cops and firefighters leaned on fire trucks draped with flowers, drank coffee and told war stories. It wasn’t disrespectful. It was necessary. There have been too many funerals, too many formations and too many sad days. One man has attended 92 funerals. He has a bumper sticker on his truck that reads, “FDNY – Still the Greatest Job on Earth”. Paul would agree.

Paul was going to retire in four years. He was going to move to Cape Cod to start a garage door business, drink Reserve St. Martin wine, add to his collection of fire history books, play golf, hang out with his buddies on the local fire departments and spend summers with his girls when they were on break from Boston College. Maybe he’d coach basketball and organize games for the neighborhood kids. But that dream is over. Paul was 46 years old when he answered that last bell. He did his job. He gave up his dreams. He gave up his life. He didn’t want to. He didn’t have to. But he was Lt Paul Mitchell, so he did.

Members of two Cape Cod fire departments (Dennis and Harwich) traveled to New York to attend the memorial services for Lt Paul Mitchell, a long time friend.

The Dennis Fire Department has changed the number of its ladder truck from Ladder 108 to Ladder 110 in his memory.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com.