Wyoming Man Gets 70 Months For Bank Robbery

Act 1 Appeals Ruling That Prevents Group Home 
Appeal Calls Interpretation Of City's Zoning Laws Invalid

Thursday, December 22, 1994 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Page: 1A 





A sad existence ends in the way it was lived -- alone &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 While on her way to die Tuesday, Margaret ``Peggy'' Walsh ignored me when I &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; turned to say ``Hi.'' &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 As I did every time I saw her, I wondered about her sad life and how she
made it through the long days of loneliness she must have felt. Although she
always seemed like such a sad creature, I knew that people watched out for her
in little waysAny real help, however, had long ago abandoned her. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 About an hour before she died, Peggy was heading north on South Main
Street, going to the Alleghany Building where she lived. It was a nice day
with sunshine and unseasonably high temperature. Peggy wore just a sweater
over her shirt. An unlit cigarette hung from her mouth. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 As sadly strange as it now seems, I wondered if she needed a match. Once
she had stopped me in front of Boscov's and asked if I had a light. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Shortly after our lives briefly crossed on that downtown street, Peggy
Walsh burned to death in her cramped boardinghouse room. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 For whatever it's worth, this occurred five days before Christmas. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Peggy didn't know me or sense that I felt awkward and powerless whenever I
spotted her on the street. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 A few weeks ago, Peggy was reeling. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Like a trap door to Hell, her mouth opened and closed in a frightening
manner that made me ashamed at how survival can steal even a pearly smile from
the poor. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Unbuttoned and dirty, her coat flapped in the wind. Peggy's pink, stained
pants were thinner than the coats some people buy to walk their dogs. She
limped, too, disheveled and disoriented enough to not seem to notice that she
had lost one sneaker. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 A filthy, white sweat sock flapped like empty promises on a bitter winter
day. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 I didn't know what to do. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 So I just stood there, watching her come undone right before my eyes. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 A month or so before, I had seen Peggy unknowingly drop something as she
walked by the bridal store on South Main. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 From almost a block away it looked like money. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Before I could call to her, though, or look to see if it was money, the
kind women in the wedding store had rushed outside and picked up the three
crumpled dollar bills that had fluttered from her hand. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 I stopped her and she seemed vacantly grateful, yet oblivious to her loss. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Over the years, the streets had taken much more than a three dollar toll
from her hide. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 And, had it not been the fire, it likely would have been something else
that would rob the years from her future. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Alcohol was her close companion. But it wasn't a friend. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Neither were the clerks at the liquor store who daily sold her the fix that
led to years of broken afternoons, shattered like gutter glass stuck to a
paper Four Roses label. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 They meant well, I guess. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 So did the people who knew the problems that plagued Peggy's mind. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Alcohol and mental illness are a dangerous combination. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Untreated, they are deadly. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 No wonder Peggy Walsh went up in flames. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Still, she was alive for a time and probably had her moments, however few
they were. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 I will always believe that I am blessed to have witnessed one of them. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Standing on the west side of South Main waiting for a ride, I saw her move
as if she were walking on air. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Dressed in the familiar ragged trappings of her existence, she clutched
something to her breast. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 It wasn't prescription medicine or liquor. It wasn't a measly few dollar
bills. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 In her hands, the 60-year-old woman clutched a single, long-stemmed rose as
she walked alone through the city that would soon claim her. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 That's how I choose to remember Peggy Walsh. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 In a way, she was a small flower, caught between the thorns of her cruel
world. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 Steve Corbett's column appears Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;

A Sad Existence Ends In The Way It Was Lived -- Alone 
While On Her Way To Die Tuesday, Margaret ``peggy'' Walsh Ignored Me When I 
Turned To Say ``hi.'' 
As I Did Every Time I Saw Her, I Wondered About Her Sad Life And How She Made 
It Through The Long Days Of Loneliness She Must Have Felt. Although She Always 
Seemed Like Such A Sad Creature, I Knew That People Watched Out For Her In 
Little Ways.