I once had a newspaper editor give me his rule of thumb for what is and what isn’t news. ‘Cats climb trees every day,’ he said, ‘and that’s not news. But if a cat climbs a tree and gets stuck and the fire department has to rescue it … that is news.’

A couple of news items this week brought that analogy back to mind.

Let me explain.

One story involved a young Armenian mother who turned her back on her newborn baby who was born with Down Syndrome and told hospital personnel to institutionalize the infant. The cat got stuck in the tree and the story made international news after the woman’s husband refused to give the child up and the couple is now divorcing.

The second story involved far less fanfare and was found on the obituary page of this newspaper. I was saddened to learn about the death of Carmen Lampley, 81, of Benton. I had met Carmen and her husband Kenny some 30 years ago through Benton Little League baseball. The Lampleys are the parents of eight children and their youngest son Rusty has Down Syndrome.

I spent 20 years coaching baseball in the Mustang League – 9 and 10-year-old boys. One spring I was approached about a youngster with Down Syndrome being on my team. Certainly, I had some concerns about his safety, how he would react with the other boys and me … and on and on. Finally, I said let’s give it a try and I met the Lampleys and their son Rusty, who was 10 years old. The first day I met Rusty I walked up to him and he stuck out his hand and said ‘give me five.’ When I started to slap his hand he pulled it back, quickly raised his hand and ran his fingers through his hair and, with a twinkle in his eyes said, ‘gotcha.’ Every practice, every game the rest of that summer Rusty and I played the ‘gotcha-game.’

The highlight of that season came one game when Rusty scored the winning run with me running beside him from third base trying to coax him to home plate. Coaching Rusty was a great memory, still vivid after 30 years.

I went by the funeral home last Saturday morning to pay my respects and it was a conversation I had with Carmen’s daughter Kerrie that’s prompts today’s offering. Standing beside the casket Kerrie told me about her mother’s reaction when she learned at age 40 that her newborn son had Down Syndrome. She said doctors approached her mother after the birth about institutionalizing Rusty.

“She listened to what they had to say,” she told me. “Then she told them without any hesitation: ‘he will be going home with me.’”

After listening to her comments I immediately thought of the contrast with the story trending worldwide about the young couple splitting up over the same question.

Kerrie went on to say that her mother also handed out a somewhat stern set of instructions to her large family concerning Rusty.

“I can still see her pointing her finger and telling us, ‘he will be treated just like everybody else in this family and none of you will make fun of him and you won’t allow anybody else to make fun of him.’”

And for 41 years that’s been the rules that the Lampley family has lived by concerning Rusty.

Obituaries are adequate and purposeful when describing the highlights of a person’s life but most often they fail to reveal the real fabric of that person. That thought crossed my mind when I read about the death of Carmen Lampley.

For those of us who knew the story between those lines, we knew of a woman who loved God, her children and her church. And equally important we knew about a woman who, at age 40, bravely, selflessly and without hesitation said seven words – He. Is. Going. Home. With. Me. – and signed on to love, protect and care for a special needs child. It was a commitment she had to know would last the rest of her life. And it did.

As a footnote, I saw Rusty at the visitation. I hadn’t seen him in many years. I walked up to him and started to ask him if he remembered me when he said, ‘Jim.’ Then, just like clockwork, he stuck out his hand and said, ‘give me five.’ Knowing what was coming I laughed when he pulled his hand back, ran his fingers through his hair and with that same twinkle in his eye, said ‘gotcha.’

Sometimes the best, most honest and heartwarming stories are when the cat doesn’t get stuck in the tree.

A 31-year-old West Frankfort man is in custody in connection with an early-morning shooting Wednesday in West Frankfort.

According to a press release from the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department, Kyle C. Huetsch was arrested and facing charges of aggravated battery, a Class X felony, and is currently being held without bond in the Franklin County Jail pending formal charges by the States Attorney’s office.

Also arrested was Brianne L Deason, 32 also of West Frankfort for possession of methamphetamine less than 5 grams, a Class 3 felony, possession of a controlled substance, a Class 4 felony, and possession of drug paraphernalia, a Class A misdemeanor. Deason is also being held without bail in the Franklin County Jail pending formal charges.

The victim who is not being identified at this time is out of surgery and recovering in an area hospital.

I read the obituary and then I read it a second time more slowly. The name of the deceased was Eugene Thomas Moroni and as is always the case the obit told a brief chronological story about his life.

After reading the obit, paying particular attention about Moroni’s long history as senior vice president with Old Ben Coal Company, I laid the paper aside and thought about the countless times I’d heard his name mentioned. You see, as a kid growing up in a very middle-class, blue-collar family the name ‘Gene Moroni’ was revered and almost legendary around my house.

Let me explain.

As Southern Illinois residents are aware, coal mining has always been a cyclical industry, which means working as a coal miner has always been a feast-or-famine occupation.

My dad began his mining career in the late 1940s and in those ‘famine’ days tried to earn a living working two and three days a week at mines in Buckner, Coello and Valier. In 1956 Old Ben Coal Company started construction on Mine 21, located east of Sesser, and many miners believed a ‘feast’ era was about to begin.

The new multi-million dollar mine began hoisting coal in January 1960 and my dad was one of hundreds desperately trying to land a job there. I can recall many times sitting in the backseat of an old car at the Old Ben office on West Main Street where Benton City Hall was previously located, while my dad waited in the lobby to try and talk to somebody about getting a job.

After numerous failed attempts my dad came up with a plan that proves necessity truly is the mother of invention. Realizing that the Old Ben officials he was hoping to see were leaving the building at day’s end through another exit, my dad moved his job-seeking vigil to a parking lot at the rear of the building. I’ve heard him recall the story countless times.

The first person my dad encountered in the parking lot that day was Gene Moroni and he approached the vice president of Old Ben Coal and, point-blank, asked him for a job.

Moroni’s answer was probably the standard line he used on the throngs of men seeking his help.

“Do you have an application on file,” Moroni asked my dad.

My dad’s answer was one of quickest-thinking lines I’ve heard.

“Yes, I have an application on file … but I don’t need an application on file, I have a family to take care of … I need a job,” my dad told him.

As I write this, in my mind’s eye I can literally see the exchange that took place that spring day in 1960 between a successful mining executive and a man looking for a job to provide for his wife and four children.

I can let my mind wander and imagine that maybe Moroni looked my dad straight in the eye and tried to get a read on him or maybe he even considered my dad’s size – he was 42 years old and a big strapping man in those days. I’m more prone to believe that Moroni looked at my dad’s desire and his heart and realized that a man who would spend the afternoon standing in a parking lot trying to find somebody … anybody … to talk with about a job would surely make a good employee.

“Call my secretary in the morning and have her schedule you for a physical,” Moroni told him. “I’m going to give you a job.”

The significance of that meeting might not have been apparent to either man that afternoon, but it marked a turning point in my dad’s life and a turning point for his family. Mine 21 was called the ‘golden hole’ by miners and proved to be the best-ever Old Ben mine. My dad went from working two or three days a week to working six and seven days per week and everything he attained materially in life came after that meeting with Moroni.

Perhaps it was his attempt to pay Moroni back for giving him a job or maybe it was something in his make up – maybe it was a combination of both — but my dad would not miss a shift of work. He told Moroni he needed a job that day in 1960 and then for 25 years he went to work every day — regardless.

It’s my opinion that Old Ben Coal and my dad both benefited greatly because of Moroni’s decision that day.

Obituaries are adequate and purposeful when describing the highlights of a person’s life but they fail to reveal the real fabric of that person.

Today I would like to add a footnote to Gene Moroni’s obituary.

Along with the relevant facts that were listed Moroni should also be remembered as a man that helped shape and define the Southern Illinois coal industry, a good man that kept his word, a man of character and a person that undoubtedly possessed an uncanny knack for ‘sizing-up’ a man.

And most importantly it should be remembered that Moroni was admired by many working coal miners – particularly one he met by chance in a parking lot 45 years ago.