Innocence Lost

December 7 has been a day that has lived in infamy since 1941. While the importance and magnitude of that day has never (or should have never) subsided, it took on a new meaning and brand new, unwelcome infamy in 1993 in the New York metropolitan area.

I grew up in the Village of Mineola, NY, on Long Island, about 25 miles outside of Manhattan. It was a great place to grow up. I was able to safely walk to every school I attended from K-12, into the village for a loaf of bread and milk. The local pizza place was also accessible by foot. And, as the years went on, so were several fun local watering holes also available without driving - beers and wings every Sunday while watching Sunday night baseball or football. Not too bad a place at all.

One of my main hobbies while growing up in Mineola was playing drums - stage band, concert band, pit orchestra, marching band. Yup, I was a band nerd. But I was a drummer, so it didn't matter, cause I was freakin' cool. DRUMS!!! While many people (parents, brother, teachers, peers) were supportive and helped nurture my musical life, one person showed me a particularly impassioned view of them. DRUMS!!! Rich Nettleton. That dude could hit a drum louder and harder, and more rhythmically comprehensive than many folks twice our age who had been playing for all those extra years. He was my brother's age, so three years older - in fact, he and my brother were great friends growing up. When I was a freshman, he and my brother were seniors, so thankfully I had my own protector squad as a little freshman. Alas, I was still shy, still vulnerable. But with the nurturing and love of a brother, Rich pushed me and pressed all the right buttons to get me to be a drummer, a leader, a lover of all things drums. DRUMS!!! He freakin' rocked.

So, on December 7, 1993, the day that I found out my band (Nuclear Cream Cheese) scored our first gig at the now-defunct Right Track Inn in Freeport, NY, after telling my brother and parents, I had one person to call: Rich. At the time, my Dad was also commuting into and out of the city, but was already home by the time I went to call Rich. I knew something had happened, but did not understand the severity of it. I remember it vividly, my heart beating in anticipation of his reaction, trying to think ahead a couple weeks to the night of the show. His Dad answered. He sounded a but flummoxed and asked me to call back, because of..... the thing..... you know Dave, the thing on the train. He hung up. It took me a minute or two to comprehend what may have (did?) happened..... Rich was on the 5:33 out of Penn Station. Oh.... my.... god. That kind of thing doesn't happen in our little bit of suburbia, does it?!? No way. Oh, how naive I was. How ignorant and unaware I was. How innocent.

And 14 years ago today, December 10, 1993, we were all trying to come to grips with what had happened. Rich had been killed along with 5 other innocent humans. 19 others were injured before 3 good, scared (I'd figure) samaritans tackled the crazed gunmen down to the floor. Wakes and funerals abound. Tears and disbelief. Sorrow and pain. My (everyone's?) innocence gone. A horrible dose of reality that still stings to this day. The anger and hostility is thankfully long gone, though I fought with those emotions for a long time after that. It just did not make sense then and still does not make sense now. These were people simply commuting home from New York City after another day of work, like they had done for many days, weeks, months, years before. Some were probably sleeping when the first shots rang out. Others had no or minimal time to react. Uggghhhhh, the anguish of many because of the rage of one.

And my innocence was lost on that December day in 1993. Gone. Poof. But my life goes on; all our lives go on. And we must cope. And we must make ourselves better people. And hope that others are able to do the same. Some days are full of hope and others are horrible reminders of the fact that people still are enraged, or insane, or have simply lost hope - like last week in Omaha or this past weekend here at 2 different churches in Colorado.

It seems like it may follow only you, but it follows everyone regardless of the geographic locations of these horrific events. And we must all move on, and work at tirelessly, and hope that perhaps someday, the world you once wished for to live in for yourself, is available for your children and grandchildren. Perhaps someday. A brilliant songwriter once wrote and sang, "Imagine." How tragically ironic the way his life ended as well, almost to the day, 13 years apart, of another impassioned and incredible musician that I knew and loved personally.

Imagine people. Imagine.