It wasn't easy for Christopher Roslon's parents to go into New Haven Superior Court last week (June 17) and face James D. Jordan, the man who lost control of his car and crashed, killing their 18-year-old son.
But Elaine Oja-Roslon was there with her typewritten statement, even though she was too upset to read it. (She had her cousin, Lee Skalkos do the reading.) And Mark Roslon was there, bearing witness in silence. Later he would e-mail me a poem he wrote for his son.
As I reported in the Register, Jordan, 24, was sentenced to serve just eight months for second-degree manslaughter with a motor vehicle, and that's because Judge Earl Richards listened to the wishes of the victim's parents. Oja-Roslon thought 6-12 months was enough; Mark Roslon thought it was pointless to send Jordan to prison at all. Roslon thought some guidance program would be preferable. You don't hear this type of non-vengeful thought very often in court.
Oja-Roslon's statement was poignant and clearly had an effect on Richards. Part of it got cut out of my news story, a nice anecdote about Chris when he was 8 years old and the family was at their house in Maine. Here is the missing part:
"Chris and I were outside in our big field of grass, lying down, looking up at the brilliant stars in the sky...We stayed for hours because the stars were extraordinary that night, a crystal clear dark sky with a shower of bright lights. We talked about the sky, the Milky Way and the northern lights for what seems like eternity and I had one of the best nights of my life..."
Oja-Roslon said now she wonders if Chris is one of those brilliant stars in the sky and that she feels it is "an eternity without him."
Mark Roslon's poem, "My," said, in part: "You are and will always be with me.
"You are and will always be
My son,
My friend,
My Chris.
My oh my...
My Christopher."
After my story of the sentencing appeared in the Register, I heard from Laurence Brenner, who knew Chris very well. Brenner spoke of his intelligence, skill as a bass guitarist and great potential.
Brenner also noted Chris took the unusual precaution when he got into the car that night in Woodbridge of riding in the back seat with his seatbelt on. Unfortunately, tragically, when the car spun off the road, it turned over in mid-air and hit a tree through the window, which smashed into Chris' head.
Oja-Roslon later told me that Chris' friends rushed to the scene, unbuckled him and pulled him to the ground, where the police and ambulance workers found him.
Oja-Roslon also told me that Chris and Jordan were not friends, as Judge Richards thought. This was the first time they had met. Chris had gone there to see if he could get a job at a store where Jordan's girlfriend was a manager. Apparently Jordan had a fight with the woman and took off, too fast.
Blood tests showed Jordan had also been drinking, a lot.
Jordan was remorseful in court and he apologized. As I reported, his life hasn't been easy, marked by its own tragedies.
This was one of the saddest days I've seen in a courtroom.

Longevity at this ol' paper enables me to sometimes reconnect with the fascinating folks I have profiled in decades past.
This happened recently when Joe Barna called me. I had met him 30 years ago when he first called to report he and his Keeshond dog, Zonker, liked to ride the Wildcat roller coaster at Lake Compounce Amusement Park in Bristol.
Naturally I took him up on his offer to go for a ride. We spent a pleasant day out there; I had never before seen a dog ride a coaster. And he loved it, or at least so it seemed by his buoyant expression and body language.
Well, Zonker is gone. I also wrote his obituary, in 1987. He was 14 and the heat just got to him on a summer's day.
Barna has a new Keeshond now named Inu (which means dog in Japanese). This one doesn't ride coasters, but that's OK.
You already know this if you read my column last Sunday. Barna called me to let me know he is writing a book about Zonker. He also surprised me when we got together for our recent interview by telling me he believes he was the first person in the U.S. to see Sputnik, the Russian satellite, in October 1957 in his backyard in Vermont.
Who knows? Maybe it's true. Barna did insist he has made a lifelong habit of never lying just so that now, when he finally has started to talk about this in public, people might believe him.
Anyway, the purpose of this blog is to note that the many people I have profiled through the years should feel free to reconnect with me, especially if they have a follow-up idea. It was a kick to see the Barna of age 60, after first seeing him when he was 30. Guess what, I'm 30 years older too. It happens.
I also wanted to include one of the funny and interesting things Barna told me last week, which I couldn't find room for in the column. He said he has tried to live his life by keeping in mind a book he saw long ago: "Damn Everything but the Circus." He said the point of the book is this: "Damn everything that's dull, gray and lifeless!"
I agree: that's a pretty good way to approach life.

We've waited a long, lonely time for John Prine to come back to New Haven. The last time I heard him sing in this town was in the late '70s or early '80s -- I pulled my clipping of that great event out of the 'ol peach box of yellowing Register music reviews, but I hadn't written down the date on the thing. Still, it told me this much: I had a nice time talking with the man in his room at the Holiday Inn, a few hours before he hit the stage at Toad's Place. (He got excited about eating at Louis' Lunch when I told him about the place, but it was closed that night.)
He told me about being a mail man back in Chicago as he was trying to break into the singing business. Shortly after he got the nerve to tell the U.S. Postal Service he was retiring from their employ, he landed a recording contract (because somebody realized the guy could write fabulous lyrics as well as sing them beautifully) and in 1971 he released that first album, "John Prine." Still a classic.
Yeah, but when I went to the Holiday Inn that day, the clerk downstairs had never heard of John Prine. And if you'd walked around downtown last Friday night, just before he so moved the crowd at the Shubert Theater, I'm sure plenty of people would have replied, "John who?" if you had asked them about that name.
No, he didn't sell out the place, but that's OK. He got up there with his fellow guitarists, Jason Wilber and Dave "Daddy" Jacques and he shared a wonderful evening with us.
Maybe you know his "Angel From Montgomery," because Bonnie Raitt had a hit with it. Well, he sang that beautiful song for us and at least a dozen more, and he told us stories between them. For instance, he talked about singing in a Chicago club on Thursday nights after he'd gotten done delivering the mail.
My favorite moment was when he sang "Hello in There," the most moving song about old people you ever will hear. Jacques' mourning deep bass was a wonderful accompaniment.
The encore, after a rousing standing ovation, was "Paradise," his ode to Muhlenburg County and the Green River "where paradise lay." And he wants his daddy to take him back there, but no: "I'm sorry, my son...Mister Peabody's coal train has hauled it away."
Prine reveres the country, the traditions, the struggling people.
If you ever get another chance, go and listen.
Thanks, John Prine. I hope this time you made it to Louis' Lunch.

Dear God: Boston without The Globe?
It could happen, and very soon.
For the past 137 years, the Boston Globe has been a key part of the fabric of Beantown. The people of that city and its suburbs and way beyond that, including many in Connecticut, have long relied on its news reporters, columnists, sportswriters, editorial writers, photographers and many others to bring them the full story and plenty of analysis.
But in the 1990s the Globe's owners made a big mistake: they allowed the paper to be sold to the New York Times. And now, with newspapers everywhere reeling in a bad economy (even The Times), the Times' management ordered the Globe's unions to make $20 millions in givebacks and contract concessions -- or the paper will be shut down.
Union leaders say they have managed to find those $20 millions in painful cutbacks but still Times' managers are saying it's not enough.
As a student at Boston University in the early 1970s, I learned to love and appreciate the Globe. When I moved back to Boston for a year in the 1980s, I freelanced there. Once I had the great experience of going into the newsroom. I wonder what's left of it now.
I can only hope that the civic leaders of Boston, who are known for their backing of institutions such as newspapers, will ride to the rescue, coming in like Paul Revere himself.
If not, Boston will be left with -- the Herald. A tabloid. It now has 10 reporters. Count 'em, 10.
Who's going to cover City Hall? Who will tell local fans about the Red Sox, the Celtics, the Bruins?
Say it ain't so, Beantown.

When I left Hartford Sunday after covering the UConn Women Huskies victory parade and rally, I was thinking what great "presence" Coach Gino Auriemma and Gov. M. Jodi Rell possess. They know how to turn on a crowd; they're naturals at it.
People usually hate to hear from politicians at sports events. Often the politicos are booed. But the crowd Sunday loved their governor. This is bad news for any Democrat who wants to unseat her.
Rell was down-to-earth and almost folksy as she confessed that watching the Huskies play ball in her home over the past few months was great therapy for the state's budget troubles. (We can all relate.) She talked about having to leave the room when a game got close (I know, it didn't happen often). She would be saying to herself, "Oh, please! Oh, please!" Then, she noted with a smile, she would return to her TV room and find the Huskies up by 10 points.
Rell praised the team for representing the state so well, for being poised and prepared. She noted they showed respect for the game and respect for their opponents.
The final speaker at the rally was Auriemma and he scored a slam dunk. First he just stood at the podium and laughed at a sign in the crowd which said "Geno Is God." Then he said playfully, "Come on, put that sign down!"
He reminded us the Huskies aren't perfect, despite their 39-0 record and winning the national championship. But he said the people at the parade and rally had made the day perfect "for these kids."
"Whether you're 5 or 75," he said, "these players represent something you all can appreciate. They're the kids next door, the kids you saw in the playground."
He also reminded us how hard these players have to work, day after day, to make a championship possible.
And he finished with a beautiful sentiment, that it is so meaningful for these young women "to have this in their memory banks, to be able to (some day) tell their kids that on a sunny afternoon in April in Connecticut, they felt what it really means to be a Connecticut basketball player."
Geez, this guy could run for office too, and he could waltz in -- as long as he didn't try to be governor.

Here now, finally, is our reward for suffering through winter: baseball is back, mixed with the college finales of basketball and hockey. This is the best time of the year for sports fans.
No, I didn't go to Opening Day for the Yanks. I used to do so, back when you could phone a live person and just buy a ticket and you could afford a ticket and I was foolish enough to imagine that I wouldn't need my winter coat. I even froze through a couple of Opening Days at Fenway in the early 1970s, when I was a student at Boston University (more on that in a moment).
Have you noticed the weather since the new season began? Fun times, yes? I got caught in a sudden snow squall this week in Hamden. Thus, it is best to watch baseball on TV this time of the year.
Meanwhile, yes, we had the Huskies. The men gave us hope for a few weeks but were awful last Saturday when they needed to do the job. I was at the Playwright in Hamden with my wife and some of our pals, watching the disaster. In the early going, when the teams were trading baskets, a friend of mine said with his great air of authority that the Huskies would win easily, that Michigan State couldn't possibly keep up. Beware people with airs of authority.
So yes, the women. It's not their fault they were so much better than anybody else. It's not their fault the games were blow-outs. Even though the outcomes were never in doubt, it was good to see them win a national championship. I watched that happen with my teenage daughters, at home.
So what's "wrong" with the Yankees? Everybody was asking me that question after they lost two games. Well, as J. Damon said last night after the second loss, "Tomorrow is another day." Brilliant cliche, but true. And today, which is that "tomorrow," the Bombers woke up and bombed the Birds, 11-2.
Now everybody can relax. I even had a judge come up to me today in the courtroom in New Haven, before the Yanks won their first game of the season, to ask me what was "wrong" with the Yankees. He's a fan of the team, too. I tried to hose him down. It's only the third game of the season!
Oh yes, B.U. My alma mater's hockey team plays tonight in the semi-final for the national championship, vs. Vermont. (B.U. can avenge Vermont beating Yale in the lead-up tournament in Bridgeport).
I saw the Terriers win national titles when I was a student, and I want to re-live that experience. And it's on ESPN. Perfect. So what if nobody in my family cares? I'm there.
Best time of the year for sports fans.

It isn't often that the Yale Hockey Team makes it to the ECAC tournament and it's not often that I make it to their home "field," Ingalls Rink, which is too bad. It's a great place to see hockey: compact, intimate, intense.
I did make it over there last weekend, walking over from my house to see the Bulldogs beat up on Brown: 4-2 Friday night and 2-0 Saturday, to advance to the next round, up in Albany.
"The Yale Whale" (the building is really shaped like one) seats only 3,486 fans, which is a problem of late, given the excellence and popularity of this year's team. Hey, why don't they just move the games across town to the New Haven Coliseum? Oh wait, never mind...
It's true they are doing some extensive renovations of the old place, but I don't see much room for a lot of extra seats. Between periods the other night I was reading the big board outside, listing the improvements upcoming. Here's one I couldn't help but notice: "new vomitory entrance to visiting team bench."
I guess I shouldn't have been taken aback. Hockey is a violent sport. Vomit is part of the game.
But still: a vomitory? And no vomitory for the home team? What kind of business is that?
So I asked Steve Conn, the always helpful Yale Associate Athletics Director, what was up with this vomitory. He did a little research and informed me that this vomitory is not a place for hockey teams to vomit.
He sent me the three definitions of vomitory:
1) something that induces vomiting.
2) an aperture through which matter is discharged.
3) one of the tunnel-like passages of an amphitheater or stadium between the seats and the outside wall or passageway.
Conn said the third definition is what applies for Ingalls. "It's not what you're thinking," he told me. "It just means the visiting team can go from the lockers to their bench."
Oh. You see what you can learn when you go to Ingalls and start nosing around?
Anyway, I had a fun time at the games. The Yale and Brown bands entertained during all of the time stoppages, interspersed with some hits from the overly-loud recorded sound system. I could've done without the latter noise, except I did enjoy the Doors' "Peace Frog," with its immortal line: "blood in the streets in the town of New Haven." Jim Morrison wrote that after he got beat up by the cops at the old New Haven Arena, the town's original hockey joint.
It all adds up. doesn't it?