Special Agent Richard P Horan

I started this post about 1.5 months ago, but as usual, I’m a day late and a dollar short (or in this case a few days late).

On July 26, 2008 the FBI celebrated its 100th anniversary. You can go to the FBI site for a history of the bureau and interesting summaries of some of their more famous cases. I’d like to know about Special Agent Richard P Horan; he was my grandfather Leo’s youngest brother and my mother’s uncle

On April 18, 1957, Special Agent Richard P. Horan was killed in Suffield, Connecticut, by Francis Kolakowski, a fugitive wanted for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution for the murder of his wife. He was also being sought in connection with a $66,573 payroll robbery, which took place on April 11, 1957, in Windsor, Connecticut. The FBI learned that Kolakowski was at his sister's home. While other officers searched the adjacent field and covered the entrances, SA Horan and a small group entered the home by forcing the basement hatchway at the rear. Kolakowski shot and killed SA Horan as the Agent began climbing the stairs to the floor above. Before officers could reach him, the fugitive killed himself.

SA Horan was born in Hartford, Connecticut, in April of 1922. He attended Western State College of Colorado at Gunnison, Colorado, for a couple of years before returning to Hartford to complete his Bachelor of Arts Degree at Trinity College. In 1948, SA Horan entered on duty as a Special Agent of the FBI and transferred to the Hartford Resident Agency.



As the years pass, its funny how some details stick in our memories. My mom was 17 when her uncle was killed - she recalls it was Holy Thursday, because he was born on Holy Thursday.

My second cousin Brien recalls he was “a couple of months shy of age 4 when Uncle Dick died. ... One thing I do know for sure is that this tragedy destroyed the life of your great-grandmother, who lived on for almost 7 more years but was a wreck and very unhappy. For a mother at age 73 to lose her youngest son in this way ... and especially somebody who was so full of life and promise and so well educated, was an unbearable tragedy.

So, if you find yourself on the Richard P. Horan Memorial Highway (I-91 from Hartford to the Massachusetts state line), you’ll know who it was named after and why.

I found this little snippet, but was unable to get the whole article – (if you know anyone who hangs out in libraries in Windsor Connecticut, ask them to search for this story and send me a copy?)

By FRAN WENOGRAD
IT was like a story in a detective magazine: A lone armed bandit made off with more than $60,000 in payroll funds from an armored car in 1957. Two weeks later, the suspected robber, Francis Kolakowski, committed suicide after allegedly killing an F.B.I. agent, Richard P. Horan, in a police stakeout at the home of the suspect's sister in Suffield. And now, 24 years later, what is believed to be the payroll money has been found buried in a wooded area near a major highway.
November 8, 1981

Hotel Safety

While in Brazil, I posted about the daily brush fires. In that post I mentioned the fire that was just out side our hotel the day we arrived. Below is an image of that fire. Before it was all over, the fire had gotten pretty close to the wall that separates the field from the parking lot.

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Just days after the fire, my colleague received the following safety message in his email - the timing is kind of funny

07/16/2008.................
Summer season usually means travel for families. In addition to being a "Defensive Driver", let's learn to be a "Defensive Hotel Guest". (Can I be an Offensive Hotel Guest?)

HOTEL FIRE SURVIVAL CHECKLIST

AT CHECK IN:
Ask for a room no higher than the seventh floor, if possible.
Ask how guests are notified in case of fire. Methods differ.

ESCAPE PLAN (Immediately after Check-in)

Locate the nearest exit and fire alarm, then find an alternate exit. Memorize the number of doors and any other features on the way to exits. Note any hallway obstacles.
Check to see if the window opens.If not, plan how you would break it.
Keep your room key, eyeglasses, and a small flashlight on the nightstand.
Learn the layout of your room and know how to unlock your door in the dark.

ESCAPE ACTION
Grab room key and glasses.
Wet a towel to place over your mouth and nose if smoke is present.
If room is smoky, crawl to the door.
If door is cool, open it slowly. It if is hot, stay in your room.
Crawl to stairs, hugging the wall on exit side.
Walk down to the ground floor. Hold onto railing.
If smoke "stacks" in stairwell, walk back to room and stay there.
Do not use the elevator.

ROOM SURVIVAL
Stay in your room if door is hot or hallway is smoky.
Try to phone the front desk.

Fill tub with water. Turn on the bathroom vent.
Use ice bucket or trash can to bail water on hot doors, walls.

Stuff wet towel in/around cracks of door.
Hang a sheet out the window to signal your presence to fire-fighters, but do not use it to climb down.
If smoke fills the room, open window slightly (break as a last resort) and make a tent over your head with a wet blanket or sheet at the open window and breathe air that is free from smoke. However, if smoke is heavy outside and looks like it could enter your room that way, do not open the window.

From My In Box

My brother Matthew hits another home run with this one:

Barefoot Boy

Is there anything more "summertime" than a boy and a frog?

(click on image to see larger)

The Barefoot Boy

by John Greenleaf Whittier (1855)

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy

In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,

How the woodchuck digs his cell,

And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,

Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,

Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,

Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,

On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,

Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,

Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;

Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

Dispactches From Brazil - Thursday July 17, 2008; 21:30

Well, I've had a rotten day and an even worse evening - work ,and all the BS that goes alone with it, can really take the joy out of life.

But I did promise to post about the brush fires - so here goes.

My colleague and I arrived on Sunday morning, I quickly took to my bed for a nap. An hour or two later, I wake too the sound of the telephone; my colleague tells me there is a brush fire just on the other side of a wall that separates a field from the hotel and parking lot. He tells me that the fire is growing, and I should prepare. I'm thinking prepare means put on some clothes and resume napping. So I reply in a sleepy voice 'I must nap now" and hang up - I make no preparations whatsoever.

Later, I find out that my colleague called the front desk, 20 minutes later two bell men went out, stood by the wall, and then casually walked back into the hotel. More than 30 minutes later (a full hour after I received the call about the fire) the fire department shows up. Do they run a hose and spray the fire out - NO! They use sticks with wet rags tied to the end to beat the fire out - I'm serious.

Today, and each day, we have seen fires just about everywhere:

O.k.! Someone Owes Me A New Keyboard

I just spit diet coke on my key board when I saw this image:

Check out Phil's blog for more abouut the image.

Dispatches From Brazil - Wednesday July 16, 2008; 21:00

Oi!

Now is the winter season in Brazil - temperatures are low of 10 C to a high of 25 C (50 F/77 F)

I LOVE THE WINTER IN BRAZIL. I may come every year. Hell, I may stay.

We are staying in the Marriot near the Sao Paulo/Guarulhos airport. The site we are visiting is in Guarulhos - it is a very industrial town, and not very pretty (I can't even find pictures of anything other than the airport when I google or serach flickr for images).

Tonight we had dinner with the team at an Italian resturant. Sao Paulo has a very large Italian population. The food was fantastic. My favorite was the Papaya Cream - basically vanilla ice cream blended with papaya and drizziled with cassis (a liquor). YUM! I have to say that I have liked every single thing I have had to eat here in Brazil - the food is great.

Oh, I should also mention that I like the Caipirinha a great deal - a drink made with cachaça and lime and some sugar - super tart and very yummy!

So, other than working 12+ hours a day, and the almost constant brush fires (more on that in tomorrow's post), I think I really like it here - weather is great, food is great, people are great, and I'm learning Portuguese (I now have the vocabulary of the average 2 year old).

Tchau,

K