Victims Memorials

Remember Me
Remember me when flowers bloom
Early in the spring
Remember me on sunny days
In the fun that summer brings
Remember me in the fall
As you walk through the leaves of gold
And in the wintertime--remember me
In the stories that are told
But most of all remember
Each day—right from the start
I will be forever near
For I live within your heart














On June 16, 2003, Sam and Jan Messina’s lives changed forever.

That was the day their oldest child and their only son – Matthew Messina was killed by a hit and run drunk driver in Chico, California.  He was 25 years old. 

“As parents we suffered the worst possible nightmare except it was true.  We are not the same people we were on June 16, 2003, and will never go back to being those people for the rest of our lives.  Our future was robbed of our only son, and all the potential his life offered.  No amount of grieving or time will heal the wound that a drunk driver inflicted on us and our family”.

Matt was born and raised in Bethlehem, New York, outside of Albany.  He had moved to California six months before his death to complete his college education at Chico State College. 

He could not afford a car. So, like many college age young adults in town, he used his bicycle for transportation.

Matt was riding in a 25-mph speed zone when a drunk driver hit him and left him to die on the pavement.  The car knocked Matt 80 feet in the air.  The driver, a 31 year old woman with three children, stopped the car to see what she had done, panicked and left the scene. 

She hid out for a year before she was finally arrested.  She admitted drinking vodka and beer that day, and returning home from a 10:30 p.m. “beer run” when she hit and killed Matthew.  The driver served less than two years in prison for Matt’s death and has since been released from prison.

“We will never know what Matt would have contributed to society, and will always feel the loss of our son,” the Messina’s said.  “Family occasions, holidays and other celebrations, instead of being totally joyous will be bittersweet because we will always miss Matt’s presence”.

Matt had potential for greatness. Before his death, he attended military school at Norwich University in Vermont for three years.  He joined the U.S. Marines as a Reservist, and held a variety of jobs such as short order cook, warehouse employee and sales of various products and services.

But the position he held last before leaving for California was a day care center teacher.  While working at the day care center Matt became the primary aide for a 3 year old boy with Cerebral Palsy.  The boy could not speak, walk or feed himself.  Matt and little Justin became inseparable. 

This work was Matt’s calling,” his parents explained.  “We know he loved his work, and would have connected it to the degree he planned to obtain at Chico State.

Matt was a young man who had much more real life experience than the average person his age who followed the more traditional path of high school, college, degree and job.  The experience Matt gained while holding a variety of jobs, his Marine duty, and the experience in day care centers, especially with Justin, all contributed to molding him into a compassionate man.

He had a plan to server people in his future.  But that future never came.

As his parents, we saw him grow from a somewhat self-centered, immature, rebellious teen, into a caring gentle and focused young man he was on the night of  June 17, 2003,” the Messina’s said. 

Matt’s two sisters, Tracy and Valerie, have suffered as well.  As young women in their 20s, they will have to spend the rest of their lives without their big brother. 

“This is an immeasurable loss emotionally, since both girls relied on Matt for advice and support,” said the parents. “Who do they go to now? They had a relationship that cannot be replaced by any other person.   We are all at a loss forever.” 


by Catherine M. Pallozzi, daughter of Frances Pallozzi, killed by a drugged driver

“Drugged Driving” was a term I had not heard until that date.   Mom and her friends were preparing for a 5K walk with the Volksporters walking group outside a church.  They were killed by Luann Burgess, who had taken a cocktail of prescription drugs for Parkinson’s disease, including Xanax, Wellbutrin, Seroquel and others, prior to dropping off her son for summer camp.  Her SUV veered from the road and traveled approximately 200 feet across the church parking lot.  She struck and killed my mom, Carol Lansing and Rosemarie Hume as her vehicle came to a stop against the church bell tower.   The speed at first impact was 46 mph.  She made no attempt to brake.

Ms. Burgess did not leave the house that morning with the intent to kill three women but her poor decision, to drive while on a cocktail of prescription drugs, resulted in three incredible women being ripped from their husbands and families.

My family was left picking up pieces of our lives and establishing a ‘new normal’; I hate that phrase.  Prior to 8:46 a.m. on Wednesday, August 10, 2011 our lives were wonderful and blessed in many ways.  Mom was the nucleus of our family and the center of our celebrations.  The void in our ‘new normal’ lives is cavernous.

Years later, three families are still picking up the pieces.   Husbands who adored their wives continue to morn and grieve the loss of their childhood sweethearts.  Fourteen children miss their mothers.  The grandchildren still ask why this happened.

Why are lives taken at the hands of those under the influence of illicit or prescription drugs?  Our tragedy could have been avoided by a driver making the right choice and using better judgment.       



On July 19, 2015, Amy Stock, was killed by a drunk driver.  She was an innocent victim driving home from an evening of babysitting.  The man who killed her was traveling 65mph down an Albany City street when he ran a stop sign and hit Amy’s car.  His blood alcohol level was .27, more than three times the legal limit.  The drunk driver was charged and convicted of aggravated vehicular homicide and will be spending 8-24 years in state prison. 

Amy obtained a BS in Biomedical Computing from RIT and worked for Baxter Healthcare Corp. in Chicago for a number of years.  Amy went on to earn a MA in Environmental Studies.  At the time of her death, she was working on her PhD in Education and Curriculum Development at SUNY Albany.

Amy’s book, “River Stories Healing Through Nature and Rivers” was published by her family posthumously as it was on her ‘to do’ list for 2015.  This book is a testament to the beauty of her spirit and a guide to her life’s journey.

Amy's sister, Eileen Anania, an Otsego County resident, worked with the Otsego County Sheriff and STOP-DWI to bring the demolished car to the county where she lives.  In an effort to preserve the car, tell Amy's story and educate the public on the dangers of drinking and driving the STOP-DWI Amy Stock Memorial was created. 

To request the STOP-DWI Amy Stock memorial trailer at your event, please contact your local STOP-DWI office (visit: for quick access to coordinator contact information).



It was a crisp December night, four days after Christmas, 1977. You are a police officer on a normal patrol. The pavement is dry; just a few stars twinkle above. Then the radio in your car crackles, “Auto accident, Route SB9J Northbound.” Unit 8720, another car, responds.

You and your partner are talking about some courses you have taken. The talk comes back to the accident that unit 8720 is handling.

The radio tells you they have called for rescue units, an investigator and medical examiner. God, it’s a bad one.

Thoughts about the New Year’s party at the chief’s house arise. You’re looking forward to it.

The radio crackles again, “8720 to 604. 604 on. Can we meet at your station?”

You respond, “Ten four. ETA oh-five min.” You arrive at headquarters just ahead of the other patrol and set up for coffee. The sergeant and patrolman come in and their faces show strain.

You become tense, the look tells you: “It’s your family!” Quickly thoughts of kissing them and telling them you’ll be home at 10 p.m. race through your mind. Goddammit!

“How bad?” you ask.

The sergeant replies, “Bad.”

They take your gun and belt, and next thing you know you’re under the red lights enroute to the hospital. The feelings take over. God, don’t let my family be hurt. Hurry up! That car won’t pull over, dammit, get out of the way!

The bright lights of the hospital, the smell and activity only add to your anxiety. The room they bring you to is cold.

“How are they?” you ask.

The boys are in the emergency room; we’ll know more later. Your wife of thirteen years is dead, so is your eight-year-old daughter, the medical examiner tells you. Two beautiful girls, both in looks and character. In just a few moments part of your life is destroyed.

The parish priest, your uncle and brother-in-law arrive, everyone is compassionate, trying to ease your grief. Why? Why me? What did I do to deserve this? No one can answer.

Your thoughts go to the other driver, “If that s.o.b. is alive, I’ll fix him,” you holler. “I’ll kill him.”

Then you find out that he also died, but that does not ease your pain.

Mom – who’s with her? God, you want so to be with her!

A lone figure in blue appears and brings you coffee, a brother officer from the city who forever will be nameless. You see the pain in his eyes, “I’m sorry,” he says, and departs.

You are allowed to see your sons; the oldest, Michael, is twelve; Marc is six. Damn it, damn it, you say, the innocent shall suffer.

The nurses and interns work with dedication to soothe you.

Talk to the boys the priest says, and you do. Please, Mike and Marc, make it for me. Dear God, don’t take them too!

They take you back to the room down the hall. People in the hall look at you wondering. You wonder if they are “his” family.

Slowly time passes, and the boys are brought up to the intensive care unit on the sixth floor. You wait in the room next to it. You grab small bits of sleep. Only time will tell now.

Six a.m. and dawn is breaking. The uniform is damp with sweat, so your brother-in-law takes you home for clean clothes. As you enter the driveway the outside light is on, as is the one in the kitchen. The silence of your home is overpowering, the tears roll down your face. Exhaustion comes and you go up to sleep.

Later on you go back to the hospital. The doctors give Mike slim hopes of recovering, but Marc has a better chance.

So now comes the decision about Mike. Those people in New Jersey did it, and now you’ve got to. Papers are brought in and signed. Mike’s beautiful blue eyes go to the eye bank so maybe another will see the beauty he saw and enjoyed so much. His kidneys will go to someone who needs them.

You look in on the boys. Mike is pale. Marc’s color is pretty good despite the tubes, wires, and machines trying desperately to keep up his life’s functions.

Back to Mike’s bed, “Let him go to his mother and sister,” you say, “I love you, Mike.”

New Year’s Eve and the third part of your life is gone.

Father says mass on New Year’s Day at mom’s. He helps ease the burden that words can’t describe. Your wife, Barbara, had helped at Sunday School and had been involved in other activities at Sacred Heart Church. Your little princess, Karen, with her silly ways, had captured Father’s heart. Mike, the altar boy, had been liked by all he came in contact with. The three of them had done so much in their short lives. They were so involved – collecting for muscular dystrophy, swimming for cancer, Boy Scouting. Mike had worked hard for all his achievements. Karen had always been busy with her baton twirling, figure skating and Brownies. My Barbara, that beautiful person who was loved and liked by everyone.

These were three good people wasted. Your burning hatred is for that man; if he had killed himself only his family would have cared. “Curse him forever!” you hear yourself saying, “Suffer in hell all eternity, you bastard.”

Funeral arrangements, the wake, so many, many people. You try to hold together and watch out for mom. You try to remember all who come. Some sign the memorial book; some don’t.

After what seems a long, time, the people dwindle. It’s time to go.

The next morning you return to the funeral home. More people come and depart. Time for you to go, kiss them farewell, the tears burning down your cheeks.

Outside, many cars are lined up and move slowly with a police escort to the village church for Mass. All along the way the procession is escorted by police from the many towns you pass through. You wind your way into town where you see friends from your own department and the men from the State Police. They are all immaculate and precise in their uniforms.

The snow-covered church is ahead, inside, Father has left up the huge Christmas tree. It is decorated with home-made ornaments which the children made and it’s ablaze with hundreds of tiny white lights. Mass begins, and vaguely you hear the strains of “Amazing Grace.” The entire choir is here.

You cannot keep from looking at the three light blue coffins. “Why? In the name of God, why?”

Father invites all to receive communion, regardless of their religion. As people come up, you see a brother officer, more from other departments, Barbara’s employer, the children’s teachers. Boy Scouts, girls from Karen’s baton school, endless lines of empty faces. Then Mass is over. As you pass your home on the way to the cemetery you wonder what it will be like later.

Standing there the wind is crisp, sun shining. Father read from the book and blesses the coffins. “Dust to dust,” is what is heard faintly. Then one last look, walk away with heavy heart.

Every day for 30 days you go to the hospital with mom to see Marc, your youngest, fight for survival. For two weeks he’s in intensive care in a coma. Then he shows improvement every day. Soon he sits up and starts to eat a little solid food. He’s had a broken collar bone, lacerations and a severe concussion. You wonder what’s going on in his mind. How are we going to tell him? Later on mom tells Marc about Barbara, Mike and Karen. How she does it is beyond you, because you couldn’t.

Luckily Marc is doing pretty well in all areas, and he is soon released from the hospital. Mom had taken care of him, but now he wants to go home with you. You’ve got to get Barb’s purse at the State Police Station. Her paycheck is inside, uncashed, amid broken pieces of glass.

Soon after, a friend from the police department gives you a report. The other driver was drunk. They did a thorough investigation. You never liked a drinking driver. Now you hate them all. He had been on welfare. Our tax dollars had helped kill your family.

The hate flares up. He had money to drink but not to feed his family or provide for their other needs.

The tavern owners had served him for quite a while. They never should have let him drive in his condition. Very bitter feelings for these people well up inside you. Shortly after the accident, the tavern where this man was drinking catches fire and burns down. Ironic circumstances. A local newspaper carries the article and pictures with the headline, “Tragic Loss for Owners.” You have that newspaper’s coverage of your loss, pictures too. Full front-page, headlined “Head On Crash Kills 3.” The words “Tragic Loss” did not appear then.

Sometime in May 1978 you learn that a testimonial dinner had been held for the couple that owned the tavern. About $1,000 had been collected to help them reopen their bar. Only a few know I’ve instituted a lawsuit against them for serving that drunken driver.

No, they are not back in business. The State Beverage Control has their license.

Many months have gone by now, months of frustration and worry. Many trips to the hospital and doctors for my son’s check-ups. Finally one burden is eased as he is released from medical care. He shows no lasting physical or emotional problems, it is hoped he never will. The nights for you are not too restful. When sleep does come, you waken with the thoughts of the accident, reliving it all over again and again.

Shortly after your loss, another accident occurs not far from the same spot where ours took place. A young man is killed and he leaves a wife and child. The other driver, another drunk, survives. This person is arrested for driving while intoxicated and released without bail.

One, two adjournments and finally he is sentenced to loss of license to drive for one year, three years’ probation and to attend rehabilitation clinic.

It’s damn easy! Take a person’s life with a gun or knife and you’ll get at least a few years in jail. Kill him with a car while under the influence of alcohol and you walk away.

No wonder many police officers are disgusted and discouraged. The arrest, printing and photographing, the breath test all take lots of time and taxpayers’ money. And all that happens to the DWI driver is sentencing on reduced charges.

Sure, his insurance premium goes up. But so should his liability. Not that money will ease the pain of the loss, but maybe it will help those left behind to at least make an attempt to keep going on.

In most cases burial expenses cannot be met, in addition to hospital costs and the many others incurred with the loss of life. In our case, the drinks served have cost our family over $40,000 – a big price for $6-7 worth of liquor.

Such people should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. There is now a bill in the State Senate which would prevent them from being able to plead to reduced charges and there are a number of other bills pending in the Legislature which would toughen laws on drinking and driving. They should be passed.

And if you’re one of the people who takes that extra drink or two before getting behind the wheel of your car, please clip this article and keep it somewhere where you’ll see it everyday.

- Bill Dikant, Castleton-on-Hudson, NY


It was Easter Sunday March 31, 1991. Our beautiful daughter Elizabeth J. Andersen died two days before her eighteenth birthday of injuries sustained in a car crash March 28th, 1991.

 The DRUNK DRIVER that caused a head on collision had been drinking and partying all day in his red pickup truck. A vehicle that was unregistered, uninspected, four bald tires, faulty steering and no insurance. The man started his day with four shots of Black Velvet and at the time of the crash twelve hours later had a blood alcohol content of .25. Two and one-half the legal New York State limit.

 Elizabeth's's friend Chaundra Tyler was driving her car. She died at the scene. The steering wheel impaled her chest and her heart burst. She was a sophomore in High School. Michael Hamilton a seventeen year old senior in high School was a passenger in the back seat. He survived with multiple injuries and a head injury. He has permanent steel rods in both legs.

 Elizabeth was a passenger in the front seat. On impact her feet were crushed, her legs were broken, her hips were shattered, her spleen was ruptured, she had a severe head injury, she had a fracture to the left side of her head and many facial cuts and lacerations.

 Elizabeth was helicoptered to a hospital 45 minutes away by car and 15 minutes by air. In flight she had to be resuscitated. Elizabeth spent four hours in surgery, they had to remove her spleen and stop the internal bleeding. The plastic surgeon must then put her beautiful face back together. He sewed her nose back on, her chin back on and her ear back on.. He also sewed up many cuts and deep lacerations.

 The head injury was a time bomb. Swelling doesn't occur for twenty-four hours, and that time was drawing near. On Saturday morning (both her blood pressure dropped and her pulse rate soared. The brain was reacting. The prognosis was bleak.

 On Sunday (Easter) her Doctor gathered us all in a tiny room. We could tell by the look on his face the news was bad. Her brain had swollen and cut off the fluid from the spine. She was brain dead. Emily screamed "Let's take her home anyway." My husband started to cry and I refused to listen. I was so empty and numb. I do remember the Doctor saying things like: Organ donating, unhooking life support and what Funeral Home do you want the body sent to. "Not my baby, take me". I was never able to enter her hospital room again. I could not watch my daughter take her last breath.

 It was over, my daughter was dead because somebody was stupid. He, The drunk, took the life of a young lady who had her whole life ahead of her.

 Elizabeth had joined the Air Force. She was willing to give her life to her country. Instead a DRUNK DRIVER took it. She missed her Senior Trip and the sports banquet. I had to receive her Gold Letter in sports for eight Varsity Letters in her athletic career. At Graduation we stared at an empty space where Elizabeth should have been sitting. That same empty space that is in all of our hearts.

 Elizabeth missed the Prom, but she did get to wear the dress I made her. It was beautiful. She was cremated in it.

 This DRUNK DRIVER not only took my daughter, he also took my right to a son-in-law and grandchildren. He destroyed a branch of our Family Tree. Generations gone, WILLIAM SKINNER killed me that Easter Sunday too: "ONLY I DIDN'T DIE"