Fernon Feenstra

The name Fernon Feenstra was my first clue this would be a story I'd remember. I made my editor repeat it.

"I thought you'd say that," he said. "Fernon Feenstra."

Fernon was named our paper's First Citizen, a title that goes to someone who made a difference in the community.

Fernon Feenstra was a delight in person. Sometimes you meet someone who has so many stories to tell, it's hard to know where to begin. He'd served in the Navy. He was a dean and one of the founders of the local college. He's the one neighbors call when they need a small electrical repair around the house. He'd been a politician. He orchestrated a community effort to honor those from Livonia who had been injured or killed in battle since the Civil War.

He was a leader, and people would do what he suggested. One time when a local hot dog factory had a quality control issue and could have gone out of business, costing people their jobs, Fernon Feenstra was behind a successful campaign to get people eating hot dogs again.  

After spending a while with Fernon and hearing his stories, I was at a loss for my lead. Where should I begin? I really liked that hot dog bit, but his service to country and community was obviously more important. I talked about Fernon with my husband over dinner that night. "First of all, his name is Fernon Feenstra," I said. It was a fun name to say.

Then I retold his stories. My husband got a smile on his face, even before he finished his thought. He came up with this suggestion: "Fernon Feenstra: Fought for freedom, founded foundation for fallen fighters, forced folks to eat franks."

It would never work as a lead, but it was funny.

He's still Phil from Detroit

I had the pleasure of learning about Philip Levine and interviewing him for this article, which is one of my favorites I've written.

(Click the image to view a larger version of the article.)

Levine is a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet who graduated from my alma mater, Wayne State. I was nervous to interview and write about a Pulitzer winner, but he was down to earth and easy to talk to, which is why I liked the quote from fellow poet M.L. Liebler describing Levine: "He's still Phil from Detroit."

I spent long summer afternoons reading his books, smiling at his sardonic descriptions, picturing the Detroit he grew up in, appreciating poetry as a storytelling device. It was time well spent.

One that stuck with me is "Belle Isle, 1949." I found a clip of him reading it.

Reporter gets shock treatment

I let the police shoot me with a Taser gun, and boy, did it hurt.

It felt like someone slammed a spiked two-by-four into my back and then the ground around me got hit by lightning. Tiny fires of electric pain pulsed through my muscles. The little bit of control I had was dedicated to the mantra: "It's five seconds. Five seconds."

That's how long a Taser stun lasts. For some reason, back in 2004 I agreed to be shot by the newest weapon in the police department's arsenal. Afterall, I thought then, a good reporter does her research. Well, these days I would take someone else's word for it.

Back then, I figured: Five seconds of pain is nothing compared to growing up with eight brothers. I've had my hair catch on fire from wrestling near the stove. I've been stabbed by a tree. I thought for sure I'd lost the tip of my thumb during a door-slamming incident.

So, what's five seconds?

My head snapped back. The jolt lifted me to my tiptoes. My legs stiffened. My whole body was a funny bone.

By the time I got out an "ouch," it was over. (I swear I did not swear.)

(NOTE: To see slideshow, click on the black outline and then the small triangle at the bottom. Clicking the big triangle in the center will open a new window.)


Taser guns shoot two barbed probes the size of a fishhook into a suspect's skin or clothing. Coated steel wires, 21 feet long, carry the electrical charge. The shot overrides the body's central nervous system, stopping most targets in their tracks.

My back hurt for days following the attack, and it was unsettling to remember, but I got the story, along with a slideshow of images, thanks to photographer Trish O'Blenes. The cops bought me a beer afterward.

My brother Bob said, "Of all us boys, who would have thought Becky would be the first to get hit with a Taser?" They weren't angels, or strangers to the law growing up. I have finally taken a risk that my roof-diving, fight-starting, nose-breaking, machete-swinging-and-missing brothers -- who are known to break bones while recovering from broken bones -- have not.

But next time, I'll just take quotes from the sidelines.

Second chance

Article was published in the Observer & Eccentric Newspapers, Aug. 23, 2007

     Joe North says he can run circles around most kids these days. At 53, he puts in 84 hours per week at his own pizza shop, Munchies Pizza on Middlebelt in Livonia.

     "I feel good when I'm working," he said. "Everybody tells me it's too much work, but the doctors tell me to do what I enjoy doing."

     The doctors North refers to are the ones monitoring his progress since his heart and double lung transplant, June 1, 1998. "I've been very lucky," the Westland resident said.

     North suffered from emphysema and a weakening of the heart.

     "I smoked. I worked in an injection molding plastics shop and I was a volunteer firefighter," he said. "It doesn't matter what I did, it was bad for me."

     He got sick at age 37.

     He spent four years in a wheelchair.

     He had been on the transplant waiting list for one day shy of five years when the University of Michigan called to say they had the organs of an 18-year-old donor.

     North, a father of four, still doesn't know anything about the person who gave him a second chance. His efforts to contact the donor's family were unsuccessful.

     "They must have been some really great people, I'll tell you that," North said. "That's the ultimate gift."

     (To read the rest of the article, click on the clipping above.)

     Editor's note: It's no coincidence this is the second submission regarding a transplant recipient. I am the sister of two organ donors, and it has given me so much pleasure to meet people who have been given a second chance through organ donation.  

Diaper Derby

Crawlers, take your marks ... Story and photos appeared in The Oakland Press.





Steven Chapman, 11 months, of Clawson races to his mom, Jackie Chapman, and sister, Madison, during a baby crawling race in Berkley. He won a box of Huggies.

Life after transplant

Beth Ann Dalrymple of Livonia was so sick she started planning her own funeral. But the grace of an organ donor gave Beth new life. She was able to achieve a lifelong dream of graduating from college. (Documentary; Produced on assignment at Oakland Community College)