Stories by Tony Bartelme

Storm of Money: Long-term care insurance troubles BAD FAITH: Insurance claims a nightmare for elderly by Tony Bartelme Mattie Jewel Poston’s story begins with a gray file box. It's a modest plastic container with a sticker of an American flag on the front. Stored inside are folders with receipts and bills that Mattie’s husband, Herman, kept for years: bills for burial insurance, receipts for the long-term care insurance he took out in case they couldn’t take care of each other. “He carried that box everywhere we went,” Poston said one afternoon, sitting in a wheelchair in Heartland’s nursing home in West Ashley. “Insurance was a must; it was so important.” Like many aging Americans, Mattie and Herman were concerned about the high costs of medical care in the twilight of their lives. Children of the Great Depression, they told their loved ones over and over that they didn’t want to be burdens as they aged. And to make sure, they, along with more than 7 mill...

Storm Of Money : Hurricanes, Insurance, And The Secret Black Boxes That Set Our Rates June 05, 2012 By TONY BARTELME The Post and Courier Some things are certain: As the earth spins, air moves swiftly around the equator, creating the trade winds. It's also certain that storms will form because the sun shines bright where these trades blow, turning sea water into sky-high clouds of steam that inevitably collapse, a process announced by torrents of rain and thunder. And we know for sure from history and physics that a few of these air masses will spin counterclockwise, slowly at first, then faster and with enough momentum to flatten cities, alter destinies, and if hooked into some fantastic electric grid, pack enough energy to light every bulb on earth. Beyond these certainties, hurricanes challenge us with their unknowns. They are so infinitely changeable that it may be mathematically impossible to predict their exact paths more t...

Tracking an arsonist By Tony Bartelme tbartelme@postandcourier.com Monday, October 3, 2011 It's 3 a.m. on Bogard and Ashe streets, dead center in the arsonist's hunting zone. It's quiet except for the hum of air conditioners and a distant voice. I move closer and see a young man on a porch. He's talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette. Ahead, a fan of palmetto fronds blocks the glow from a street lamp; I walk into its shadow, my footsteps scrape the sidewalk. An arsonist has walked these same blocks, perhaps for as many as ten years. He passed the porches of these tightly packed wooden homes, some of which date to the Civil War. He moved through this same time of stillness, a time after the bars close and before the delivery trucks roll and early risers rise. At some point, his footsteps turned toward the porches of these homes and crossed that invisible line between public and private. Then came the sound of a match or the click of a ligh...