Ground Zero.

By grieving Emmet

Let’s face it, they will find the low-life scum who bombed the Boston Marathon. If they found out who bombed the airliner over Lockerbie, they can do anything.
I will look forward with a burning passion to watch the announcement of their capture, prosecution and imprisonment. If there ever was a time for capital punishment, this is it.
Who will ever forget the picture of Martin Richards, 8, with the “No more hurting people” poster?
I have never run a marathon and never will. But I have always felt a connection to the Boston spectacle, since I spent so much time at “Ground Zero” where the coward’s bombs exploded, killing and maiming. I must have walked by the two bomb sites a thousand times.
In the 1960s I was faced with a choice (no choice at all) between buying a new Thunderbird or moving to Boston from Sharon for my new job at Prudential Insurance Company, directly across the street from the bombing site.
Naturally, I decided to move downtown to Fairfield Street, two blocks from the site. The marathon, like virtually every parade in the city, ran under my window. I lived the closest to work of all the thousands of employees at The Pru. But I was usually the last one through the door. The executives who were guiding my career were astounded at my tardiness, after they beat me to work from New Hampshire.
Predictably, my insurance career floundered and died. One day, I was so late; I stopped for breakfast at the Hayes Bickford a few door from the second blast site. My boss’s boss was sitting there, with his psychiatrist. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, but I was gone. I hated the insurance business so much that I got another job in Post Office Square, as an insurance underwriter.
The area was always special to me since I saw my first rock group, the Lovin’ Spoonful’ in a basement bar a few doors from the blast area. If memory serves I first saw the Clancy Brothers there, too.
After a Kerouac tour of Vermont, Florida and San Francisco, I somehow ended up at the Gloucester Daily Times. A reporter with money (a rarity) there asked if I wanted to set up a photography business on Newbury Street, to help his new wife’s career. I was back in the zone with a business called Griffin, named after the first daughter. It was two more years in “the zone.”
During my photography career, almost as dismal financially as the insurance game, I was hired by a construction company to film the overnight cement pour for the addition of the Copley Square Library. It was the largest single, continuous cement pour in the history of New England, they told me. I rented a room at the Lenox Hotel and in time-lapse photography, shot the pour, in the heart of ground zero.
I never seem to get too far away from Copley Square, adjacent to Ground Zero. On my 70th birthday (really!) I was presented with a painting from Fashionably Bohemian Bob. It was a picture of the John Hancock Building and the famous Trinity Church, with balloons. The Copley Square scene sits over my desk today, staring down at me..
At this point, we have no idea who committed this cowardly act. It could be an Arab terrorist or one of our own. But I remain confident that officials will find that clue among the blood and mayhem, the clue that will lead to arrest of this monster who murdered innocents and blew the legs off men, women and children, who were simply attending a marathon.
For what?
I will take all of this very, very personally.