JUSTICE FOR THERESA CORLEY

Camelot was over and the Summer of Love had ended over a decade before. Viet Nam protest marches, the Kent State shooting, and the Nixon era were a memory. It was December, 1978, winter in America, a time of disillusionment and discontent. Darkness came early and every night seemed starless. But even in that time of financial and cultural depression, the humdrum of life bumped along. Those lucky enough to have a job worked, and if you had an income, even a paltry one, it was probably enough then to allow some discretionary income for having some fun.

In Franklin, the Train Stop, a popular watering hole, was as usual hosting its odd assortment of patrons. From college students to plumbers, orderlies from nearby Wrentham State School and townies, loud voices and laughter were fueled by the great social equalizer, alcohol. Many of the customers on Monday, December 4 were young, under twenty-one, attending a birthday celebration, their jubilant mood interrupted by an argument, some misunderstanding, and the abrupt exit of some of the party-goers.

Exactly what happened after that is not completely known. But one nineteen year old girl, someone’s baby, someone’s sister, never made it home. That girl was Theresa Corley, of Bellingham, one of nine children. She was working in a local factory, attending junior college, just beginning to become a woman, more independent and adventuresome, finding her own way. Her nude body was found in a ditch on the side of 495 a few days later and she had been strangled.

Thirty-seven years later, her sister, Gerri, still remembers her mother’s anguished screams when she learned that her missing daughter would never come home, a sound she says she will never forget. And she and the Corley siblings feel the hurt and despair that her mother did, not knowing who did this to their Terry. An investigation had taken place, to some degree, anyway, and a disjointed story emerged, that Theresa had been sexually assaulted at an apartment in Franklin, left there, was seen by other witnesses, was picked up and dropped off at the Bellingham Police Department not far from her home but was never seen alive again. No one was charged. Years went by and the case grew cold. Investigators have retired. Some potential suspects or witnesses have died.

This year, Theresa Corley would have been 56. For years, there have been whispered allegations and overheard conversations in Bellingham. And quite probably, those most directly involved or knowledgeable about the crimes that were committed that night are out there. Among us. 

Thirty-seven years. It’s a long time to wonder what happened, knowing that someone has gotten away with murder. It’s not too late to put this puzzle together. And that could mean taking a brave step forward. Rumors could lead to facts. And that could lead to conviction and JUSTICE FOR THERESA CORLEY. Can YOU help?

If you have any information at all, and every bit of information can help, please contact any of the following:

Bellingham Police Tip Line at 508.657.2863 or email detectives@bellinghamma,org

Franklin Police Tip Line at 508.440.2780 or email at tips@franklinpolice.com

The Norfolk District Attorney can also be contacted at 617.593.8840.

A Facebook page has also been created: Justice for Theresa Corley Bellingham 1978.

The Unlikely Visitor at the Putnam Post Office

Last Thursday was memorable for a few reasons. First, because I mailed my retirement application into the state retirement board; second, because of a surprising encounter with a visitor to the Putnam Post Office.

As I descended the steps of the post office, I heard the distinct "caw" of a crow, or so I assumed. The persistent cawing became so loud, I was sure some bird was going to land on my head. Stopping to look for the sound, I looked up to see an enormous black bird perched on the parapet of the stone post office building. He -- or she -- was doing sort of a soft shoe dance, and was making its crazy cawing noises which echoed between the downtown buildings.

Within a few minutes, more passersby joined me, standing in front of the post office, necks craned to marvel at the unusual sight. A woman said "it's not a crow, it's a raven." Someone else pointed out that there was another raven on a nearby steeple, and it did seem like they were occasionally calling to each other. This unexpected visitor seemed curious about the impromptu gathering below as it leaned over toward us, continuing its shrill cawing, and performing its skips and hops to our collective delight. We took pictures and videos with our phones, looking like tourists in our own town.

A raven! Of course! I wasn't sure if I had ever actually seen one. Perhaps my greatest familiarity with ravens was from the famed Edgar Alan Poe poem The Raven. "Quoth the Raven 'Nevermore'".

The Cornell Lab of Ornothology All About Birds website calls the common raven "intriguing" and notes that ravens are "among the smartest of all birds." And, "ravens are confident, inquisitive birds that strut around or occasionally bound forward with light, two-footed hops." A 2013 article in The (New London) Day, Ravens: Nevermore no longer (Robert Tougias, 1/4/13) explains that over the last few decades the raven has slowly extended its territory south from remote northern New England, probably due to global warming. It is a highly adaptable bird, but is still largely a wilderness bird. So its appearance in downtown Putnam was rather unlikely.

A few days later I told a coworker about my encounter. She in turn told me a story about a friend who had an owl fly into her house and die, and that was a bad omen, and the friend became very ill. The native American tribes people that the friend had lived near had used herbs and incense to try to rid the house of evil spirits but their efforts failed.

Although I am not of a superstitious nature, this suggestion was a little unsettling. I researched "ravens and superstitions" and learned that the raven is quite enigmatic, with different cultures embracing opposing beliefs about its spiritual significance. While some see the raven as a fore-teller of death (probably thanks to Poe), or a symbol of war, others identify the raven as a good omen, associated with wisdom and magic.The Celtics believe that a raven on the roof brings prosperity.

But I prefer this definition of the raven: The raven, bird of prophecy and bravery, protector of seers and clairvoyants.

And even if the raven is but a bird, with no exotic and mysterious association, it was a very cool experience. I've included a very short video -- not sure if Telegram readers will be able to upload it -- which isn't too good but captures the sound pretty well.

Remembering June

My mother and I were talking on the phone this morning, as we always do on the weekend, and the subject of the chilly weather this morning inevitably came up. We agreed that we didn't like to be cold and we had both turned the heat on upon arising. And then we talked about Junes gone by, and the weather. We didn't remember any hot weather in June, and in fact, every June event we recalled was marked by cool temperatures.

We used to always go to the Peterson Farm in Dighton for either a Memorial Day or Flag Day cookout. And this farm was a real, working farm, not a romanticized, gentrified farm, like mine. The Petersons had chickens, cattle, pigs and a large garden.  They slaughtered and ate the poultry and animals and sold the meat, too. My folks sometimes would buy a side of beef, cut into steaks and roasts, and freeze it. I think they bought their first freezer just for this purpose. Anyway, when we went there for the annual barbecue, it would invariably be windy, cool and damp and we always be outside, sitting at picnic tables. No matter how cold it was, there were always flies. After a few years of uncomfortable chilliness forcing us to leave early, we would make sure we had sweaters, winter coats and hats in the car.

One of my memories of June involved swimming lessons when I was in grade school. I was a timid child, and didn't like to get my face wet in the water or swim over my head. Because we lived on the Taunton River, my parents were adamant that all their children would know how to swim and be able to save ourselves should some mishap occur. Swimming lessons started as soon as school ended, always on a Saturday morning at the town beach and I remember my teeth chattering and my lips turning blue. I don't think it was ever above 60 degrees outside and it didn't even matter if it was raining -- no cancellations unless there was a thunderstorm.

My family used to go on vacation in June, too. Usually the last week of June, before the Cape Cod rentals got more expensive for the high summer season, we would go for a week of camping at Nickerson State Park in Brewster. Actually, as I recall, we usually rented a very rustic "cottage", and sometimes my aunt, uncle and cousins would be there, too. We have some old photographs, probably circa 1960, of us older girls in flannel nightgowns, roasting marshmallows over a roaring fire in the massive stone fireplace.

We probably got a little spoiled this year with the May heat wave. Now June is what June should be, the Junes of my childhood. Cool enough to grow some lettuce and peas and to shut the windows before bed, and sunny enough at mid day to warm the earth. Maybe not warm enough for swimming, though.

The Obituary

And there was his photograph, a rather uncharacteristic beatific smile on a face I hadn't seen in over thirty years, gracing the obituaries. The text waxed eloquently, albeit briefly, about his hobbies and accomplishments, and I'm sure someone left behind wrote it with the goal of putting a positive flourish on a less than happy existence.

This was the man who taught me the shocking and bitter lesson that all men are not like my father; that some men control, abuse, consider it their right to treat their women with less respect than their dog. No one had ever warned me. We weren't taught about domestic violence in high school, or college. I didn't know anyone who was beaten by a boyfriend. It became apparent that it was a familial habit; his brother was no better to his wife. Somehow they had learned along the way that it was alright.

I was close with my family, but never told them anything about what was happening in my life. I knew, of course, that they would be worried. Ironically, he never met my family, either, not even at Christmas, because I knew I deserved better but I was also afraid. 

Mercifully, the relationship didn't last long, maybe about nine months. During that time, he had moved into my apartment. By the time I left, fleeing to an out-of-town friend's house to hide, the bathroom and bedroom doors were splintered from his fists and my neighbors told me that they were petrified of him, and for me. That did it. 

About ten years ago or so, I am quite sure I saw him, standing outside a small shopping plaza close to my home, in a nearby state. He was obviously waiting for someone to pick him up. I was terrified, although he did not see me. I knew my fear was irrational, that he wasn't at that place to find my house, or cause me harm, that he was there for some other reason unknown to me, but I had trouble sleeping for weeks.

Can abusers stop? Perhaps. I would certainly like to think so and I think that when violence is alcohol fueled, it can stop if the alcohol is gone. That wasn't the case here, though; this was perpetrated stone cold sober.

A post mortem social media review revealed that little had changed. Facebook posts were laced with vicious accusations and threats, directed at estranged friends and relatives. And after his death, a few others posted what a great guy he was. I am sure they were never cringing with terror behind the locked doors being broken down, hearing the screamed threats.

Rest in peace. I know I will. 

SPRING (off the couch and into action)

Although the "official" first day of spring hasn't quite arrived, in my book, St. Patrick's Day marks the start of the season of green. Despite the still chilly weather (and wind!) there is no missing the evidence of spring: tender golden-green shoots peeking up through the sodden garden soil, swollen forsythia buds and the feeling that the sun is getting warmer.

It sure was one memorable winter....not too bad at all until the one-two punches of snow in February and it just didn't stop coming. The cold was brutal. Driving was particularly hazardous, with the narrowed streets, ice and mountainous snow banks that obstructed any clear view at an intersection. All that contributed to a lot of time not doing much after work. I just didn't have the fortitude to brave the miserable elements and go anywhere or do much of anything besides surf the net or read. Oh, I did lug in firewood, but otherwise, was undoubtedly a total couch potato, a cringe-worthy description but true nonetheless.

So this little glimpse of early spring means it is time to abandon the scourge of Facebook and get to some projects around the house and spending some time outdoors. I have a few overdue interior painting duties ahead of me, but waiting until it's just a little warmer to open the windows and let some fresh air in. And the dooryard -- now that the snow is starting to melt, the piles of sunflower seed hulls have emerged around the bird feeder and are now being tracked into the house every time someone comes in. The seed hulls, and some mud....which reminds me that I need to get the old pickup fired up to get some pea stone for the walkway.

The barn and house need some scraping, priming and painting, too. Old houses just don't hold paint too well. The barn is stained and has been a little less maintenance-intensive, but this year it needs a little work, too.

When the remaining snow is pretty much gone from the north-facing slope I'll have the garden tilled and maybe for once, get the early crops in on time. Somehow the last of the lettuce crop always bolts, because it gets too hot.

And I would like to get all this done by June 1 to get an unobstructed summer of sailing in. No big deal, right?

January: The Longest Winter Month

I hear myself bemoaning January in New England. Why do I live here? When will this cold ever end? Dressing in layers, heavy winter coat, boots.....I feel the weight of it, the still short days, the bitter cold, the ice. This year, my ex-husband has now retired and moved south to be near our oldest daughter and her family. And one of my best girlfriends has done the same, moving even further south, away from the New England winter.

My Aunt Ruth used to always say that after this longest month, February flies by and at St. Patrick's Day, she would declare that it was now spring. I've adopted that view and it helps. Although I do think her frequent sojourns to the Southwest probably helped quite a bit. When I was much younger, I didn't dread this long cold month; it was a time to hope for a storm to cancel school, skate at the frozen salt marsh, sled with neighborhood schoolmates.

But it is really not so bad. It is easy to enjoy a roaring fire in the wood stove in the evening and fun to make a nice stew to warm up with after a Saturday of running errands. Being somewhat more housebound can get tiresome, but there are always closets and bureau drawers to clean and organize, interior painting projects or painting and writing. In the deepest time of winter, it is a time for solitude and reflection and perhaps some self-improvement, too. January is the springboard to a new year, and brings a time to look ahead and close old chapters that we need to leave behind, that weigh us down and hold us back. And in the words of New England's poet laureate, Robert Frost, "there are miles to go before I sleep".

A Cold Rain

Late November...early December. This darkest time of year always brings a definite feeling of foreboding, my personal ides of March.

A decade ago now, the last year serving as the Commander of a rural municipal emergency medical services department, a fall and winter of horrific motor vehicle crashes and attending to the dying, friends and neighbors, teenagers the same age as mine at that time, and the soul-shaking aftermath. It's strange how some experiences that would make most people faint with shock don't leave as much of a mark as some small, seemingly insignificant events do. And while most of the sad stories involved patients who were also residents of our small town, others were just as sad stories about total strangers, who fell asleep while driving home from a night at the casino, or were taken down while on that last ride on the Harley before winter set in for good. I can close my eyes and hear the rescue radio crackling with the dispatcher's desperate-sounding updates on the awaiting carnage, the wail of the sirens, running toward the crumpled wreckage, the body in the road.

And now, three days every week, I drive past too many ghosts, and I haven't forgotten. I think of the victims, the maimed, the friends and family, and my comrades...one of them, my husband, who understands.

So lest we forget, my dear friends and readers: your life or the life of a loved one might be shorter than what you've planned. So love deeply and fully, make sure every moment is special, even the most mundane moments. Appreciate what you have and this holiday season, leave petty grievances and useless worries behind. Because you never know what is around the bend.