Way to Go, Pop

So, good old 2013 just had to squeeze another one in before the 31st. Yesterday we said our goodbyes to my father in law 'Pop' who passed away after a massive stroke.

It's been said that people come into your life for a reason, and I believe it. Pop was a spry, energetic leader of the pack when I met him at the tender age of 78. By then he'd worked a lot of jobs to make ends meet, had 7 children, and spent the better part of his life as an Ironworker in San Francisco. He had an unimagined challenge with raising six wise-cracking,  rambunctious boys.  Pop was able to maintain control without squelching their sense of self, which is evident in the boys bearing a resemblance to each other but completely unique otherwise. 

Pop was a great guy. He loved woodworking and made beautiful hand carved toy boxes, mantels and other useful things like trivets and shadow boxes. There are stories about his generosity and helpfulness with everyone in the Parish, and about him being the first one out the door if someone needed a hand.

Pop didn't go far in school and yet he provided a good home for his family with an open door to friends especially around dinnertime. The neighborhood parties at their house were legendary. St. Gabe's people all knew them, and all the big families socialized, with the kids downstairs and the adults up.  One of the Aunts once said you knew better than to put anything on the table with the boys around, because it'd be gone before you set out the meal.

Two of my sis-ins lost their dads early and Pop filled that gap for them for upwards of 40 years. The time I had with him was short but we developed a deep bond by both starting life again with new partners. Pop was the greatest.

What I will most remember about him were his eyes. I would watch them dance when he teased and laughed, or scan the room contentedly when it was full of his boys and their families. Maybe it was a long-ago promise to keep everyone near, but I tend to think he was happiest when the house was exploding with kids all talking at once, food on every counter, and joking together, just like in the old days.

So I found it fitting for the family to cram into the hospital room and spill out into the hall, with food to eat and Frank Sinatra tunes up near Pop's ear. Everyone kidded around and reminisced. And when Pop decided it was time, he opened those beautiful eyes one last time and smiled a big smile, before heading on his way.

A Watched Pot

I watched a downy woodpecker peck at the opening of the birdhouse we anchored to a 10 foot pole after moving in last summer. The one with the old Ohio and Arizona license plates covering the roof, that has been hauled around waiting for the right family of birds to discover it. It sits just outside of an upstairs window in a room we are converting to a guest room and should be a treat for anyone wanting to share the life cycle of our little woodpecker family.

That birdhouse has been waiting for this for a lot of years, for a life it was meant to live. Sometimes we have to wade through the jumble and lost to awaken one day in peace.

Anxiety is high as I say goodbye to colleagues who are heading out bravely into retirement, a new job or unemployment. I wait for the tap on my shoulder and the news of what it will be.

Life has calloused me up, but today I am nine again, in gym class, waiting to be picked for a basketball game. Sometimes the team captain is a friend and picks me. I want to be valued for the incredible things I bring to my job everyday. I want to be the one to decide - yes! I want to retire!... and mark off the days with anticipation and excitement. I want to be asked questions like what are your plans? and, what will we do without you? over a parting lunch.

Our little office is 25 strong, a dedicated group that works closely and genuinely gets along. We know each other's birthdays. We are friends on FB. We know what makes each other tick. We bring too much food for pot lucks and share pics of our pets for the annual office calendar. We all chip in on deadlines if someone is behind the 8 ball.

And that is why I cannot sleep. Even after a long strategy session with the Hubs about the what-ifs, and knowing I'm covered either way, I get an average of 4 hours a night. It is a heartbreak.

For those who take care of themselves and apply for a dream job, how do they step over a colleague to occupy their space? Where do they put that in all the friendships and donated lunch hours to gift wrap their families' holiday packages?  And for those destined to not go forward in a job,  how do they soothe the hearts of people they have come to know and love to help them find peace?

I will try and hide the tears in my eyes, but I am very tired.

Not Keeping Score

I've lived in Transition's Pocket this summer, and am in the midst of great change about what it means to me to love and let go.

These are skills I have let get stiff and rusty. The House is off on a new adventure, and I watched the family home get smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror. The last time I was there, we said our goodbyes, the house and I, and I thanked her for the indelible memories, and accepting what is.

It seems silly to me not being able to let go of what the house represents, but the summer of reflection has helped. I will take up the anchor and place it in the center of my house and let it be the place everyone comes, because they are connected to the traditions and laughter and love of family. I don't feel old enough to be the Matriarch, but the idea has taken root.

When I was about 8, I was brought a baby bird that had fallen out of the nest. I was cautioned that most baby birds do not survive, but I was excited and started off focused. The rules then were to feed it every hour with an eye dropper - a complicated combination of water and protein that had to be mashed up by hand. I started off great but as my eyelids grew sleepy,  the next thing I remember is the morning came and the little bird was cold.

My mother said not to feel bad, that I had tried my best.  But I knew that wasn't true. If I had only stayed awake the baby bird would still be alive. What my mother wisely let me discover was that in life sometimes we have good intentions that fall short, and sometimes we don't get our way. We carry on, we get over it, and that is life.

I am exploring how to be a new kind of matriarch, and apply that to love and my key relationships. We don't always get the endings we want, but without acceptance there is no hope for balance. I have been exercising my heart muscle and exploring open handed love, that is, putting my head in a place where my heart can express love and support, empathy and kindness without the expectation of anything in return.

It still feels lop sided to give not expecting to receive, to give even when nothing comes back time after time. The want is still there. But as my heart limbers up and gets into practice mode, the want is replaced by a new landscape. I still straddle those disappointing feelings but that is my hard work ahead, to find a rise on the hill where no matter what my conduct can be true to open handed love.

This summer, I realized with a capital R that I was wrestling with and internalizing other's devotion to me and using that as a markers of self worth. As I adapt to emotional altruism, it becomes more apparent that the more I give open handedly, the Hows and Whys and Whens melt away. What is left is the love itself, expressed in an unconstrained way.  No pencils required.

Seriously?

I'm just fed up today. Just fed up.

I know we've always been a little addicted to following people in the news. Public figures are held up to a higher standard, especially when luck and talent have landed them somewhere with a lot of visibility and fabulous salaries. We kind of wish we were the ones with all the luck, and think they ought to be darned grateful for their good fortune, and they should be a role model of humility and hard work for the kids.

Especially athletes, I suppose, although the *rule* is the same for artists and performers, and even those accidentally swept up in the public eye for things like winning the lottery or getting some big inheritance from a chance meeting with someone rich.

But more and more the sad fact is the media plays it both ways, and it doesn't matter which is going on - the upswing or the pathetic caving in from too much PublicLife.

It is not entertainment, the rags to riches to rags story. And then there's the double whammy of letting it play out on the social media sites where they are publicly ridiculed and the basis of fights.

These kind of journalists are a new breed, although they've probably been skulking around in the background when I was young. Turning away in disgust at dog fighting rings and human trafficking, and then living off the misery of others - what would you call it?

Back in THE DAY, when reporters had honor and integrity, yellow journalism meant a journalist or paper that presented little or no legitimate well-researched news and instead used eye-catching headlines to sell more newspapers. Oh but look for the symptoms while reading your online daily news or watching your main station broadcaster. They're there: the exaggeration of minor news, scandal-mongering, wide eye sensationalism, scare and misleading headlines, lavish use of pictures, false info from so-called experts, and even siding with the 'underdog' against the system.

500 year flood in Colorado!
Time To Build That Ark!
No, it's a 1,000 Year Flood!
No, no, a Flood of Biblical Proportions!

Journalists that treat news in an unprofessional or unethical fashion aren't in the rags at the check out stands anymore, like they were when we were kids. I remember laughing like crazy over the big headlines ~

Two Headed Woman Marrying Twin Men!
Proof At Last of Martian Invasion!
Reverse Stripe Zebra Found in Africa!
Houdini's Love Child Found in Chains!

It was silly and fun. Everyone understood what it was.

But not now. Now it's in reputable national papers who put the junk food right alongside a legitimate story by a reputed journalist. Not on the funnies page, or in the entertainment section. Don't worry about being right as long as you're first.

It's such an important thing, what we are fed as a diet of news. It creates a foundation for national ethics. I really question how self-reliant, intelligent, thoughtful and informed citizenry can possibly be critical thinkers on a diet of pizza and beer. And our examples in the news of drug addicted, wife beaters and cheaters who make 10 million a year, and entertain us with sexually explicit performances on national tv during an awards show aired in prime time. 

Miley Cyrus On Verge of Mental Collapse!

Who gives a shit.

The Shiny Penny Syndrome

This is how it went when my kids were small.

 

I'd get to working in one room, spot a little project like organizing pictures, pull all of that out,

and realize I needed tape,

 

So I'd head into the office to get that - and notice it needed dusting, and would dust and vacuum and pull stuff away from the walls to clean along the baseboards,

 

and right about then need to go to the bathroom.

 

The bathroom would need a little straightening and I would start reorganizing the shelves,

 

and then see it's time to pick up the kids ... dash off to get them ...

 

and come back into a house that looked like we'd been robbed.

 

The rest of the afternoon involved retracing my steps and cleaning up the disaster.

Why You Never Stop Being Needed

Sometimes the most beautiful things cross your path on Facebook. This is one of them.  Thank you, Ann, for sharing your family and the moment of transition we all face as parents.  -Nanci
***
 

The plan was supposed to be that we would take him west.

That he’d turn 18 and go west.

That we’d pack up his room, his dog-earred G.A. Henty books, that thinning and scratchy red wool blanket of my grandmother that’s laid at the foot of his bed, the oiled painting that he was given from those mothers up in the mountains of Haiti, and his fading jeans and plaid shirt.

And his dad and I would drive him 4,000 arrow-straight miles west to the ocean and drop him off at a university none of us had ever laid eyes on in our life.

He’d be our first arrow shot. My heart would be pierced.





He made his down payment.

And I laid down my quaking heart and this ridiculous hope that he’d stay close. The kid was crazy pumped. Yeah, so my mama-heart was drained. You still gotta smile brave.

Nobody knows it but – Parents wear Purple Hearts: the brave who are wounded and die a bit more everyday – and only get braver.
But then it was his younger brother who went east.

Right to the opposite side of the country, right out to the other coast. He goes with my brother, drives through Quebec through the night, past the farms lined up along the St. Lawrence River, following the aging river where Cartier and Champlain sailed, follow it right out to the ageless ocean and it’s endless lapping waves. They serve for a week at a Bible camp for native kids.

Joshua mops floors and gets dishpan hands and does kitchen duty and crawls into his bunk after midnight. My brother emails me in the middle of the night to tell me how happy he is to be there with our boy. At the end of the week, we pack up the sagging van with the 7 of us and head east to go bring him home.

Our only road trip ever.

And the last road trip before the first boy leaves.


Apparently —

Our youngest boy breathes too breathy and close for our daughter’s liking when packed like sardines into one van heading east.

This may or may not have led to blood curdling screaming fits replete with tears and blankets thrown over heads.

There were flat out World Wars over euchre, pillows and, seriously — the last of the grapes. I may or may not have threatened missile strikes and food sanctions and late night diplomatic negotiations for global peace – or at least van peace.

The Farmer smiles thinly and just kept his eyes on the road and us heading east.

Somewhere in the woods of New Brunswick, when they all blessedly fall asleep but the last stubborn kid, she calls out to her Dad: “You just keep driving and I’ll read to you, ‘kay?”

He wearily nods, leans forward over the wheel, battling sleep-deprivation and father-with-little-peace-deprivation.

And there in her small voice it comes — Psalm 102. She’s reading the Bible to him.

Apparently, right in our messes are where the miracles happen.


“A Prayer for the Afflicted….” She begins slow.

The Farmer grins: “Appropriate.”

“The Lord looked down from his sanctuary on high, from heaven he viewed the earth…“

And we’re all a bit crazy and we’re all a bit afflicted and we have a God who sees every bit of it and takes all of us. We have a God who sees hearts like we see faces, a God who hears ache like we hear voices, and we have a God who touches wounds like we touch skin.

God sees it all — and He will see to all of it. No one’s crazy can change God’s crazy love.

And after we get Josh, and there’s a tight 8 of us shoehorned into the van, we drive by this mountain stretched up like this sheer dare over the ocean and we make a U-turn and because we have these unrelenting boys who are determined to climb –and one girl who needs to use every single roadside washroom facility spotted– and really, you can make a u-turn anywhere.

The girls go looking for the vented outhouse.

I sit in the grass and watch the two oldest boys begin their ascent. The Farmer distracts the two youngest boys from their own climbs with one fierce and sweaty game of tag.

I keep watch at the base — as if that’s really going to help if something goes wrong. Stones roll. There’s hardly a breeze.

The boys keep hauling higher.











“Hey Josh?” Caleb calls over his shoulder. “What’s that rattling sound?”

Both boys stop, cling to some stone.

“Crickets? I don’t know — Tree frogs?”

“You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure: crickets or tree frogs or something else.” Joshua shakes something out of his shoe. “Definitely not a rattler. Come on already, Cale…” Joshua’s already pulling higher.

I’m listening to the rattle in the sun. Cale’s back to reaching and stretching and climbing. How many times have I mistaken more than a few metaphorical crickets in my life for bona fide rattlers?

How many times did I think these boys would stay little and close and safe?

How many times have I thought safe mattered when Jesus died to save us not to make us safe. No one ever got saved unless someone else was unsafe.

“You going higher?” Josh is calling to Caleb and their mother’s watching from the bottom – Purple Heart, Parents live purple-hearted.

“Yeah — higher!” Cale’s man voice echoes down the mountain.

“Hey, Josh?” One brother’s calling over to the other.

“Can Mom see us doing this?”

And I hear that. The old mother at the bottom of the mountain, she hears her boys men hollering that and I nod and smile slow.

Yes, boys – right to my end, I will be your witness.

God as my witness, I will be your witness, and you can climb and you can take risks and you can go east and you can go west and distance never stopped love from being a witness.

Go ahead, sign me up to witness the launchings and the beginnings, witness the dares you take, the challenges you rise to, the heartbreak you don’t want anyone else to see and the crazy you wish you could hide. The Lord looked down, from heaven He viewed the earth in all it’s crazy and God sees it all – and He sees to it all – and He doesn’t turn away. God is your witness: You are seen and known.

Who will be God’s witness? So He is seen and known?

Be brave. In all your crazy, be brave, boys. And I’ll be there, in heart or in body, to witness the first dates and the failed dreams and it’s okay to cry, boys, your tears are safe with me.

Because the truth is: Life’s a trial and everyone needs a witness — someone on your front row, someone on your sidelines, someone to clap you across the finish line when everyone else has gone home.

Everyone needs a witness – someone to testify you were really here and you really tried, someone to witness your wounds and believe in your worth, someone to say even your crazy can’t stop you from being crazy loved. Everyone needs a witness who will stand and not hold you back because if we all only lived safe, no one would ever get saved.

Everyone needs a witness — and I’ll be yours.


You don’t become a parent by bearing a child. You become a parent by bearing witness to his life.

The boys wave.

And I swallow hard and memorize them.

And I wave back —the witness willing to always bear the weight of all their glory.

Red Sky in Morning

The sun is low and red on the horizon this morning as September rolls into view. The last holiday weekend of the summer marks a shift, and we now are looking to the promise of Fall. I noticed a couple of leaves fluttering down to the drive yesterday. We are surrounded by large, stately deciduous trees and remembered our maiden voyage into fall. Oh, but the leaves!

We witnessed a PowWow on Sunday with the bunnies and ground squirrels: a bunny had the floor and the ground squirrels were intently listening. They're probably discussing the best way to divvy up the land for residential use. The last flare-shaped poison that was dropped in the holes was found days later rolled back out and waiting for the trash. I can't help but admire their fortitude but we are still seeking a compromise.

It was a cooking weekend after a stressful August. The house up north is on the market, and our agent began getting calls a week or so ago responding to an ad for rent. It quickly became apparent that a hacker had taken the info off the MLS and advertised it as his own home and hoping to gather up rental deposits and run off with it. That took a lot of the week to unravel, working with the PD and Homeowner's Association, posting signs on the house and talking to the neighbors. The renters who sent in money feel entitled to occupy, and we are hearing stories of those who find a way in, believing they are entitled to be there, which causes a great big headache for the police and the property owners to get them out. Fortunately for us, the fraud was discovered when a victim did not have the code for the gated community. I'm sure there are others, and it is disappointing to know that.

The renters are settled into the house down south, and hopefully happy for many years to come. It was a chore and half getting the house ready, after a promise left unfulfilled by the exiting tenant. But all is done now, thank goodness, which is doubly why it was fun to watch August slip away.

I was praying this morning for a couple of friends handling more than their share of challenges, and thought about the sun on the lawn, and how most of my prayer is in the form of thanksgiving when life is going well. Gratitude. Appreciation for life's bounty. I shy away from praying for myself, other than a desire for a deeper well of knowledge and a largeness of heart to forgive and forget.

I have lost many things and failed miserably at others, but I have been given more courage and humanity because of it. When I am judged and ridiculed and ignored, I can look into the faces of those badly dressed and see faces whose smiles are waiting for you to acknowledge them. I can tell you the name of the badly burned homeless man at the corner of Howe and Alta Arden, and his story. I pray gratefully for peace and faith during hard, painful times, and for God's grace eventually resolve them. May it always be that way, hard and rewarding and a life full of astonishment when life resolves itself.

It is not the easy road, but it's the road that has been chosen for me. May I never forget to be grateful.

Closing the Book

It has been an emotional roller coaster these past weeks as we ready Mom's home for sale. I have fought long and hard to hang onto it, but in the end I honored the wish of my brother to sell.

I won't lie and say it has not been a struggle. It's the only home my boys have ever known for their grandmother, and in many ways it felt like a family home although I never lived there. Our family was a bit nomadic, moving every six years or so. We all thought she was nuts to buy such a big place, but she fought for it and savored every moment.

Mom bought it in 1990 and lived there until her death in 2007. We kept the home as a rental, lovingly caring for it as if she were alive, with a touch of nostalgia I'm sure that maybe a little piece of her was still there. When she was very sick, she once suggested I move in there among all her furnishings so things would stay the same. She wanted a footprint so badly, and to her this house was it.

As I washed windows and put the finishing touches on the place last weekend, I realized she partly got her wish. I think of her often when I'm there, wondering how she would like the new carpet and roof and whether she thought I was as good a judge of tenants as she. In many ways this was the only real place she found happiness, in the community and in her church family that she gave herself as a treat.

My mother was the Elmer's glue of the family traditions I grew up with and those values were passed down. Loyalty above all. Family pride. Sibling devotion. All for One and One for All. She drew the family together with get-togethers to celebrate our uniqueness. That is what the house represents to me: the good bones of a durable, family unit.

I feel her absence more acutely now, and hope not disappointment for not being able to rule the family as passionately as she did. The kids are grown and into their own lives, and I've never been of the ilk to live in their pockets. The downside of a democratic family structure is having to trust that they will circle back and choose to be a part the family unit.

My brother has married and gone his own way. There are fewer and fewer family gatherings where we share the joy of being together and laughing over stories that only my brother can tell, in that wonderful, joyful, ridiculous way a family folklore is told.  I am losing faith that we will have memory-making times ahead, not because a quarrel or family squabble has put us on opposite sides of the fence, but because of choice. He just wandered into another family and settled down.

As I sat on the eve of listing the house and thinking this over, I felt resentful that someone else was dictating the outcome of an investment that was such an important financial piece to my retirement. I felt trapped by doing the right thing for the sake of the relationship. And all of a sudden, what hit me was my biggest fear of what would happen after selling off the last tangible connection to my brother.

I am sincerely happy for his happiness. All I ever hoped for him was to find his life and live it. And yet, and yet, I am sad for the kids and me.

Going to the Dogs

I miss blogging almost as much as not knowing I have become allergic to one of my favorite things in the whole world.

My eyes have been on fire lately. They itch and burn, swell and look bloodshot and glazy. Sometimes they feel so dry they are scratchy and my vision blurrs.  I thought for a while that it was the many hours I am on the computer, or perhaps my poor sleeping habits as a result of stress and age.

I went to the doc a long time ago and he ran all the panel of tests. Everything came back fine and so I headed to an optometrist for glasses, thinking my eyes were strained from several years of neglect. He thought the new glasses would do the trick and recommended rehydrating eye drops sold over the counter.

What I had noticed but had not paid particular attention to was the fact they got better through the mid part of the week and got worse on the weekend.  On Tuesday, my eyes hurt so bad I couldn't take it anymore and went to see a new optometrist who nailed it down with some simple questions.

When did I first notice it? A couple of years ago, subtle at first, getting worse over time.
What was going on at that time? We were living in the city, swimming, working, playing, normal life stuff. What else was new?  We got Sam ...

Oh no. My heart dropped. Quickly I suggested it might be due to the shift to the country with lots of outside work in the grit and dust, a whole new ecology of eye irritants. Maybe all these forest fires, or a food allergy.

Don't worry, she soothed. She explained the time spent around the dogs (weekends, vacations) was triggering a reaction. I don't just spend time with dogs, I'm on the floor with them and let crawl all over me. I cuddle them while watching a movie, and we laugh and chase each other in the yard. We take them with us most everywhere we can.

The optometrist and I talked about general interventions at home, like washing with soap and water after visiting the dogs, changing the pillow cases every night, and training Sam to sleep on the floor. She didn't recommend oral allergy medications because they can dry the eyes, and the over the counter eye drops do the same. So she gave some samples of eye drops which I began using on Tuesday night.

Almost right away, my eyes improved. The orangy redness started to clear up, the puffiness started to recede, the sandpaper scratchiness and glazy film began to disappear. I take Pataday drops for daytime and at night an over the counter drop called Systane. A prescription is on its way! So grateful for the great optometrist at Eyes of Woodland!

It is helping me to know there will be life after allergies, and hell or high water there is room for the dogs.

Good Dogs are Made and Not Born

This is a from-the-heart kind of post, mostly because there's this dog that has barged into our lives and turned it upside down.

I have owned and loved two other muscle dogs whose demeanor and appearance caused people to pause. The family had a Rottweiler and a Boxer, both of whom were rescue dogs and both of whom wandered into our lives in a haphazardly intentional way.

Daisy the Rottweiler was found running loose, having been dropped off by her former family when it was discovered she had hip dysplasia in both back hips. It is a debilitating disease, and an impossibly expensive surgery, and we worked long and hard to exercise and lean her up to ensure a great quality of life as our family dog. We dearly loved Daisy the Wonder-Rott every minute we had her, and we had her for 5 glorious years.  She was the sweetest and gentlest of animals, always kind and attentive to the boys, and slept on their beds and lay at their feet watching TV. Turns out, we weren't crazy to trust a Rottweiler.

That probably set the stage to rescue Sophie the Boxer from a veterinary tech program in Sacramento. She had been 'donated' to them to rehabilitate, having been isolated on a side yard for several years. Sophie and I tussled at control but eventually she conceded that I was the alpha dog. She was beautiful and smart, attentive and appreciative, but boy oh boy was she willful! Having a Boxer turned out to be a wonderful decision, even though their appearance to the casual observer was cause for alarm.

With all of that Big Dog background, I was still totally against the Pit.  I secretly thought the Pit breed had no business being bred.  It had no redeeming value other than to fight. We hadn't spent time around Pits or had any personal experience with them. We changed to the other side of the street when one approached. We judged the owners for being reckless to own a dog that was fierce and unpredictable.

That opinion developed after watching a hundred or so news articles about Pit Bulls attacks that were serious and often life threatening. There are thousands of dog bites and attacks from all types of breeds every year, and most are not by Pit Bulls, but you'd never know that from the way it is being reported. The impression is left that you are safe with any breed other than a Pit, and that is patently untrue.

Someone in the last decade decided that this breed would be Danger Dog de Jour.  In the '70s it was the German Shepard, in the '80s it was the Rottweiler, and in the '90s it was the Doberman. Public opinion sways towards believing the Pit has no business living in a civilized world.

But I was watching something else entirely. As we grew to know her, we realized what a wonderful dog Lily was. She looked like a pit but acted like a lab. Her behavior was nothing like what was reported. She was even gentler than Sam, she had better manners, and was obedient and submissive. That got me to thinking about Bias again, and how it creeps into us unannounced. My Bias was deeply rooted in fear and distrust for the breed, until this little lost dog at our door in the middle of the night made me re-examine my conscience.

All this was going on during the Trayvon Martin case, and the same issues we wrestle with on a human level I was wrestling with on a dog-to-human level. When we are confronted with a serious situation, what Biases emerge that we may not know are even there? When hidden Intolerance and Prejudice surfaces, how do we not act impulsively on them?

The ultimate question.

I closed my eyes and listened to the truth of what happened that night in Florida. Had he not pursued and pursued and pursued that boy, had the boy not aggressively responded, had there been no gun, or no rain, or the watcher had listened to the police dispatcher and remained a watcher, the situation would have ended up just being about another teenage kid being mouthy and giving an older guy a hard time.

What Trayvon couldn't know or see was the Intolerance and Bias he was facing. And what George didn't recognize is the Bias and Prejudgment that was motivating him to act. That mindset put in motion a series of unfortunate confrontations and the gun just finished it off. Without a gun in his pocket, there likely would not have been as vigorous a pursuit, or a dead kid.

"Pre-Judice" without basis or reason is about empowerment and entitlement. Person A feels superior to Person B by circumstance, birthright or situation. People make bad calls. If this had happened in the 60s, it would have ended up with someone getting their ass kicked (probably George Zimmerman), and would have wound up in civil court.

What does all of this have to do with the dog? Quite a bit, actually. It is through that lens that we decided to judge her on her own merit.

She was used as a puppy factory for the first couple years of her life, not treated the way a pet should be and then dumped like trash in a cornfield when they were done with her. We can't say for sure that we will be her forever home, but right now, today, she deserves a fair shot. So cautiously, lovingly, we have opened the door and said, come on Girl, let's see what you're made of. 

It's the right thing to do.

A Big Lesson

I look down at this homeless dog at my feet who found its way into our yard in the middle of the night a week ago.  Sam woke me up growling, and I got up to check and walked down the hall to the door and found it ajar. That's creepy anytime, but at 3 in the morning it freaked me out. I peered out and the world looked still, and then I saw an iridescent white Pit Bull in the moonlight quietly staring up at me.

Ghost Dog! Slam door! Was that really real?

Sam and I eventually settled back down to sleep but it took a while, and in the morning the GD was still there.  She was about 40 lbs, playful, friendly, hungry, with no collar. It took every fiber of my being to reach down and pat her head because I was afraid.

I am one of those people who believes what they read about Pits, and how dangerous they are. I judge their owners for being reckless to have these dogs around children or other pets, because you just never know.

All that was before Lili arrived on our stoop. All of my Absolutes were put to the test as we began to warm up to her. The first couple of days we fed and played with her outside, and left her to her own devices during the day. She had a bed out there, lots of water, and was waiting for us when we got home.

When the weather turned hot it was decided to move her indoors. She had exceptional manners, was potty trained and gentle indoors. No calls came in from the flyers we posted, and we began thinking she might have been dumped.  What a cruel thing to do.

That's not the only cruel thing she endured. We started looking at her closely. The vet estimated she was about a year old and she has thick callouses under her arms from where a leather harness rubbed. She was bred at 6 months and again at a year, which left her with a slightly prolapsed vagina.  That would mean to a breeder she had outlived her usefulness.

She has worn patches of skin under her neck from a collar that was probably a little too tight. And yet, with all of that, she has a sweet disposition and wants to please. A kind word and pat has her tail lapping against the sofa and nuzzling her face into our hands and laps. When I sit on the stairs out front in the evenings, she wraps her paws over my shoulders and licks my ears.

Some killer. She reminds Sammy how not to beg from the table.  She quietly goes into the bathroom at night and onto her bed, without so much as a whimper, and bounds out in the morning ready to play. She appreciates every bowl of food, every treat, because we have a feeling she has been without them at times. She watches Sam, and then eats the raw vegetable snacks. 

We are considering what to do. Out here there are no fences and the land is constantly being worked by many Spanish speaking farm workers. All the farm dogs roam free and play in the fields, but our community is uncomfortable with Lili, so she would have to be in a run or on a lead. We just can't do that to such a sweet and sensitive dog.

Sadly, that is what helped us decide to be her foster home and look for a loving permanent home. She still needs to be spayed and have vaginal tissue repaired, and get her shots. We put the word out today to some Pit People who know what wonderful dogs they are and will help spread the word. And in the meantime we will keep learning about life from her.

Things like, it is always a bad idea to judge without personal experience, because you're usually wrong. Things like, even when life is hard, you can still be kind.  And, even when you think it is impossible, you can learn rather quickly how to cuddle up on the sofa with a Pit Bull and give her head a kiss before bed.

Lili makes me laugh with delight when she turns inside out when I get home from work.  But maybe I shouldn't be surprised about that: a wonderful dog is a wonderful dog.

Young At Heart, made famous by Frank Sinatra

Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you
If you're young at heart.
For it's hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind
If you're young at heart.

You can go to extremes with impossible schemes.
You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams.
And life gets more exciting with each passing day.
And love is either in your heart, or on it's way.

Don't you know that it's worth every treasure on earth
To be young at heart.
For as rich as you are, it's much better by far
To be young at heart.

And if you should survive to 105,
Look at all you'll derive out of being alive!
And here is the best part, you have a head start
If you are among the very young at heart.

An Anchor and a Star

Every Friday is cause for celebration but especially this one, as we gather to remember one of our own and her early passing. Annie had no lingering illness or outward signs that death was near. She was fine on Easter weekend and dead by Wednesday afternoon.

I know tears will flow today as many try to fill the hole where Annie stood. The better the person, the deeper the grief. And the abruptness of her passing left her community of family in friends in utter disbelief.

A lot have mentioned her smile that lit up the room or the gentle way she laughed at the crazy antics going on around her. She included everyone in the conversation and made newcomers feel welcome. She was an anchor and a star. What I remember most is her consistent, authentic kindness even when there was bickering and dissent in the group.  She was Switzerland, baby!

A lot of people feign generosity of spirit because society values them, but Annie was the Real Deal. She built bridges and skyscrapers with the relationships she fostered. She changed people's lives with her encouragement.  She loved people through rough times and that helped her stand tall during her own.

How Annie managed to hang on to those loving, childlike, open-hearted qualities in a world like ours is a miracle. But we are grateful she did. Annie lived a quiet but large life to those who knew her. Friday was her favorite day, and so tonight in the Sunset we will celebrate all that she was and the fine example we can take forward into our lives.

The Book of Boy

Today for my birthday I'm all alone in the house, me and the dog. I saw two of the boys @ a family funeral last weekend, which doubles as a get together in the Book of Boy, that and the upcoming Mother's Day weekend get together with Grandma Joy on her 90th. My birthday runs so close to Mother's Day that we combine them, and often Tim's birthday too, on the 24th.

May is Funeral Month, and I am taking stock.  I am blessed by Randy. And three fine boys that I would like to see more often, but you get what you get in that regard. Good health, save for the self induced aches and pains from not acting my age. A strong inner child that motivates me - no matter what happens and what setbacks there are - with hope and promise and faith to light the way. Truly, it is better to look forward than back.

Aging is awesome... even the genuine shock when people call me ma'am and use the 'young' adjective when they tease, the way I heard them do with my mother. HEY BUDDY, watch it.

I have never clung to any special age. The 20s and 30s were about building what was thought to be the perfect world.  It was stuffed full of what I thought I wanted and needed - and in time some things held up and others didn't, and the next two decades involved a lot of cleaning. Each decade has had its charm and its challenges.

A friend and I talked of her recent losses and difficulties that somehow gathered into a storm. We reminisced about my journey, raising the kids and all the inbetween stuff, and she said seeing me happy and settled gave her hope that she would get through it. And I know she will, because I believe in her.

I am a hopeless believer in temporary*ness. We don't get to choose how long to keep what we are given. Up down dark light inside out and round and round we go. Age has a way of bringing this into sharper focus.

I am grateful today for being a strong woman; with a forgiving nature to let go of unnecessary crap; enough sense for introspection to learn lessons and self worth to own just my piece; words to call it as I see it; and most of all, to understand my nature and unapologetically be true to it.

Today, I own the moment. No, I'm not talking about the pile of chores and impossible projects ahead. Or the crazy job in-security or loopy finances or nutty family synergy. Or all the zany things I do and decisions I wish I hadn't made, although I own those, too.

I mean I have a life partner walking in step and rooted to each other, our families, our futures and even the ridiculous euphoria of watching bunnies hop across the lawn as we sit down to dinner. There is no one else I'd rather be.

Just once before, when my babies were running around and there were friends up and down the block, I was in balance.  At that time I was authentically living out who I was, raising the first, second and third editions of the Book of Boy, and doing it with all of my heart. I have yearned for Phoenix for 25 years, thinking it was the place that made it perfect.

Ah, but today I occupy a life similarly balanced, that is a reflection of who I truly am. It is the life I have always wanted, with all of my heart.  The Book of Boy editions are grown and out in the world. I will never forget all these precious and rare gifts.

Leading You There

I am being tossed and thrown about in the midst of a storm. It is nearly retirement age.

I plant flowers and let the beauty wash over me. It is tangible and true. During times of great change when the earth shifts underfoot and there is no stabilizing bar that is not also in sway, it is hard to not feel afraid. The land - the wind - the birds - the weeds - the rocks - and yes, even the mosquitos - gives a singular anchor, and somewhere to leave footprints.

I see by the broken branches and trodden path that others have passed this way before. They have stood in this spot and looked at their lives in astonishment, knowing that time has rushed by faster than it seemed, and now they stand at the edge of life in recall.

It is an insecure time. Perhaps I did not plan well enough, and will not be ready. Or maybe I am clinging to my former, more robust self.  I contemplate my anchors of purpose and value, and how I can best adapt to the coming transformation.

I study my hard working and calloused hands that are puckered with age. They were beautiful once, with long slender fingers, white with a light dusting of freckles. They could do anything, and they lived many lives.

They speak to me now with reassurrance. There will be purpose ahead and something to anchor you. Trust us to lead you there. But to begin the journey, you have to let go.

Continuity

A high school friend recently published a book to favorable reviews, and the same goal is on my Bucket List, and I secretly wonder if I will ever get around to it.

The white sleeves that protect and surround the trunks of tiny almonds dot the ground for miles to the North. The sticks have sprouted now and every day they are tended and watered and weeded. Giant farming equipment comes and goes, and workers till and furrow, and crops grow tall in the sun. A farmer's job seems so much more gratifying than mine.

Sometimes the work I do feels invisible, without a rhythm to it or even a beginning or end. Certainly it is nothing like the life of a farmer who can stand back at the end of the day and survey his accomplishments. Yet purposeful work begins, things are accomplished, and we advance to the next thing in my world, too.

Life now is not as idle as it was. Saturdays and Sundays are work days with a new set of clothes. Yesterday, while the Hubs was mowing and clearning, I continued working on a broad planting bed for daisies and ice plant. I kept my eyes down, for fear of distraction by the weeds in the drive or the tall grasses beyond the garage.  I dug and planted, and trickled water into the roots, and rocked back on my heels afterwards when the sprinklers ran. There are so many areas to do, big and little projects that will take vision and time, but every day something is accomplished. It will come together if we keep at it, and one day we will be astonished to see the progress here.

I can't seem to turn off thinking of new ideas. There are glorious bulbs popping up - Iris, at least 3' tall already, against a cyclone fence that is in an ugly part of the yard. Let's use up the old wood hanging around to frame in ground level planter boxes, and let them grow wild. Ideas build on what we discover.

My husband rolls his eyes at my enthusiasm. I tell him I will be learning to do some of this myself and perhaps we can work on independent projects sometimes. He mentally counts off the twenty projects ahead of that, but lets me add it to the list. In pencil.

We took off on Saturday and nosed around antique stores while waiting to meet the guy with the used composter and haul it home. Now that we're here, a day off might mean something more along the lines of a real weekend away. On it.

Quite the Imagination

An interesting idea sparked during a listen to my favorite radio/news/talk show. The conversation was on a phenomenon called mis-remembering. That's not the proper name, but good enough for a discussion about experiential datas and how our brains process it.

Mis-remembering is when the brain strongly identifies with a story and imprints a memory about it.  It reminds me of telling those big childhood stories, when our parents would say, you've got quite an imagination!

It turns out that we have. This researcher brought a bunch of people together with a CatScan machine and one by one put a listener inside and registered how the brain responded when listening to the re-telling of a dramatic or traumatic event. She was able to isolate which part of the brain was active for passive listeners, and ways we listen and identify with the story.

Some listeners were passive, as she expected. It was an interested but detatched listening, with empathy and other emotions as they followed along. But she discovered some were so involved with the story that their brain activity actually created its own fresh memory from the story, as though they experienced the event themselves. 

This kind of research begs to be linked to the ongoing debate about exposure to violence in all of its forms, and the spike in violence and fantasy mass murders. We have too many examples of those who act out internal stress disorders from people whose lives were not full of violence and brutality.

If anyone's random brain can hard-wire the experience of violence, murder, brutality and gore into their active memory, how can we not hold the entertainment industry accountable?

Ward & June

Introducing the adventures of Ward and June, our new Great Horned Owl neighbors.

http://cityfolkfarmers.blogspot.com/2013/02/awesome-neighbors.html

Unending Stars

Moving to the homestead has been an organic reawakening.

I didn't know how important it would be to start with the sunrise low over the fields in crimson and orange and magenta splashes that are farther out than the ends of the earth, and watch it merge into the day.

The owls in the trees out front chat all night long in low mournful hoots. Sam sits on the edge of the bed facing the window, leaning so far forward she nearly falls. There is life out there, the ground squirrels and bats and rodents, and she watches for them.

The Ugg knockoffs are speckled with mud from walks in the field.  Bunnies and ground squirrels scurry away as we stomp through the tall grass, knowing the pits and valleys already, staking out where the garden and fruit trees and deciding how to fence them from the critters.

An Egret came yesterday, and two hawks sat in the trees hunting a meal. Last night there was the call of a coyote far off in the distance that was answered by another closer to home.

I didn't realize how it would change my life being part of wild space, even wild space tempered by a small farming community. Life really is different far from town with no sidewalks or street lights or traffic. Out here you hear the thud of your footsteps as you walk and look up to the heavens at stars as far as the eye can see.

Gratitude

Where has the time gone?

Every minute more precious as the years fly by.

I have forgotten already the tenor of my mother's laugh, but not her hug or her broad smile.

We never forget why we loved them or give away the enormous place they hold in our hearts.

It would be wonderful if things could stay just the way we remember them. But if they did, there would be no room for all the wonderful things that are waiting.

New, interesting characters.

Love, for instance.

And appreciating the beauty of history and age, and the magic that fills our life.

How lucky we are to be able to share so much of our journey together.

Thank you for all of it, even the hard parts (especially the hard parts).

What Is Under the Bed?

Thoughts of gun control are deepening, what it might look like, what it might do. Gun proponents are afraid that their constitutional rights will be usurped, and they have a genuine reason with the poorly managed government track record of political management of laws already on the books. The question won't be does the new law have teeth, but whose teeth are they?

I am espoused to a lover of guns. We have several in a 600 lb locked combination safe, at my insistence. I did not grow up handling or shooting guns, and until recently when it became an occasional hobby to learn how to respect guns and shoot at targets, I never held one.

As a fifty something adult, I came to accept the importance of having basic know-how with safe gun handling. However, that does not change my nature of being a Pacifist. I believe education and ideas and tolerance makes much more of an impact than any gun will.  You can imagine the spirited conversations that arise at home with my husband and I on opposite sides of this (and other) political matters. We have debate ground-rules, for instance keeping the topic to 15 minutes, and always a kiss afterwards.

I know we believe in our perspectives and that it represents what we think is solid right reasoning, and the proud tradition of ultimate jurisdiction over ourselves in a free republic. I can't think of a more important topic, other than the educational reform necessary for our schools to prepare our children to thrive in the new world.

Today, I read an article that was both shocking and enlightening (reprinted below).  It was about how the NRA had manipulated the free development of research to help draw honest conclusions about -- not gun ownership in this country -- but gun use, and the people who use them.

How can there be a fair and effective response to gun violence without it? I have listened to the outcry for intervention through mental health screenings and physician heads up, but as a doc is treating their patients for harm-to-society diagnoses, they are FORBIDDEN by our governing body from asking if there is a loaded gun under the bed...

Boy, what a legacy. Maybe what we should be asking is ... what kind of free republic is this if the most powerful lobby in the United States can control the information and research that directly impacts its citizens?  The Bill of Rights has more than one amendment.

----

(CNN, 1.10.13) -- No new gun laws. The National Rifle Association has made its position clear, even amid America's most recent gun debate.  It says enforce the gun laws already on the books.

 

It's well-known that the organization has actively lobbied to prevent new legislation limiting guns.

But making this happen is more nuanced than just rallying its supporters and lobbyists every time a new law is proposed.

 

Since the 1990s, the powerful pro-gun NRA has targeted the heart of what most legislation is based on: studies about the effects of gun violence.

Last year, the NRA used its influence in Florida to push through legislation that would punish doctors if they asked patients whether they owned a gun.

 

And buried inside President Barack Obama's signature health care legislation is a little-known provision that prevents the government and health insurers from asking about gun ownership.  The NRA says it is simply ensuring that taxpayer money isn't being used to promote a political agenda.

 

"If gun control groups ... (and) individuals want to further their research, we're not saying they shouldn't be able to do it," NRA spokesman Andrew Arulanandam told CNN. "We're just saying they shouldn't be using public funds to do it."

 

But public health experts say it's all part of an attempt by the NRA-led pro-gun lobby to hamstring lawmakers.

 

"If a bunch of people do research and generate solid evidence that suggests firearms policy should be reformed and either firearms or people who used them should be regulated in new ways, (if I'm a gun-rights advocate,) I'm not going to like that," said Dr. Garen Wintemute, head of the violence prevention research program at the University of California at Davis.

 

"So, I'll simply prevent the evidence from being collected in the first place. It's a brilliant strategy, and (the gun lobby) succeeded."

 

A lightning bolt and a chilling effect

 

It wasn't a lot of money -- $2.6 million -- but it represented the bulk of the nation's research on firearms safety in the mid-1990s.

 

"With regards to gun research, it was enormous," said Stephen Teret, the founding director of the Johns Hopkins Center for Gun Policy and Research.

 

In the 1990s, this small portion of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention's budget went to a program headed by Dr. Mark Rosenberg that funded two high-profile studies that concluded the risks of having a loaded gun in the home outweigh the benefits.

 

"That was demonstrated if you counted dead bodies; it was demonstrated if you counted individuals shot but not killed; and tallied up the good guys versus the bad guys," said Dr. Arthur Kellermann, who led the research teams under Rosenberg's National Center for Injury Prevention program.

 

Kellerman said the studies were not politically motivated but simply a way to give homeowners information to make informed choices.

 

But the studies created what Teret described as "the lightning rod that started the bolts of lightning from the pro-gun side."  In 1996, it all ended.

 

Flexing its political muscle on Capitol Hill, the NRA successfully pushed for legislation that effectively ended Rosenberg's program. To underscore its point, Congress -- in a move led by Jay Dickey, a former gun-rights advocate and Republican legislator from Arkansas -- added this language to the agency's appropriation: "None of the funds made available for injury prevention and control at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention may be used to advocate or promote gun control."

At the time, critics in Congress accused the researchers of pursuing an anti-gun agenda and said the CDC's work was redundant.

 

The provision remains in place today. The language created what Teret called "a chilling effect" for nearly all gun-related work at the CDC. Though the agency continues to track gun deaths and injuries, it does little work on how to prevent them.

 

Many years later, the National Institutes of Health funded a similar study that triggered the same lightning-bolt response.  In 2009, the NIH study concluded that a person carrying a gun was nearly 4.5 times more likely to be shot in an assault than someone who is unarmed.

 

Two years later, Congress added the same restrictive language it had imposed on the CDC to all agencies of the Department of Health and Human Services, including the NIH.

 

Today, the NRA maintains its position that government research into gun violence is not necessary.

"What works to reduce gun violence is to make sure that criminals are prosecuted and those who have been found to be a danger to themselves or others don't have access to firearms," the NRA's Arulanandam said, "not to carry out more studies."

 

Unanswered questions

 

So why are government studies on gun violence necessary?  Rosenberg, who left the CDC in 1999, explained that many of the questions that his group was seeking to answer remain open.

 

For example, he said, it's not clear whether registering and licensing firearms lowers gun violence; whether allowing people to carry concealed weapons increases or lowers the risk of gun deaths; or how letting people carry weapons in places such as shopping malls or schools or bars or parks affects the number of deaths.

 

"These are very big questions that we need to know the answer to," said Rosenberg, who is now president and CEO of The Task Force for Global Health.

 

There are other private agencies and even partly federally funded programs that have researched these issues.  But none was as far-reaching as what Rosenberg's program did in the 1990s.

 

The CDC's website still keeps track of the toll of gun violence -- or, as the CDC sometimes calls it, "lethal means." Yet, the federal agency does little of the epidemiological research it once did that might offer guidance to lawmakers.  Now that gun violence has been thrust into the forefront of issues on Capitol Hill after last month's mass shooting at a Newtown, Connecticut, elementary school, the focus has turned to the medical community's role in the debate.

 

Last week, The Washington Post reported on a little-known provision added to the 2010 Affordable Care Act -- better known as Obamacare -- limiting what doctors can ask their patients about firearms in the home.

 

While the provision doesn't forbid doctors from asking about guns, it prohibits health care workers from collecting that information, documenting it and using it for research.

 

A similar law in Florida went a step further and would actually penalize doctors if they ask their patients about whether they own a gun, in most cases. A federal judge overturned the law, but Gov. Rick Scott has vowed to appeal.

 

Gun-rights advocates, including the NRA, have raised concerns about tracking this data, including the possibility that acknowledging legal gun ownership could bring higher insurance premiums.

With these restrictions and the revived gun debate, doctors should become active participants in the discussion about gun violence and gun policy in this country, according to the American College of Physicians.

 

After all, the group said in a recent publication, physicians take a stand on other public health issues, such as smoking, air pollution, drunk driving and vaccinations.

 

Examining gun violence isn't a political issue to most physicians, one Florida doctor said.

"Physicians basically want two things: They want continued research so we can find out what is happening along the lines of firearms and health care," Dr. Carolyn McClanahan told CNN's Sanjay Gupta. "And the second thing, though, is we want to provide basic gun education. Studies have shown if you ask parents, especially pediatricians ask parents, 'Do you keep your gun locked, unloaded, keep the ammunition separate from the gun?' that decreases the chance of a death from a firearm."

 

Where things stand now

 

When Adam Lanza unleashed a hail of bullets inside an elementary school on December 14, ending the lives of 20 young children and six staff members, the debate over America's gun laws reopened.

Days later, Obama announced that a task force led by Vice President Joe Biden would create "real reforms right now."

 

That could include a revival of the assault weapons ban, something that Sen. Dianne Feinstein, D-California, has said she plans to introduce. It could also result in executive orders that would bypass the legislative process, Biden said Wednesday.

 

The NRA will participate in the task force meetings this week, mostly to "hear what they have to say," Arulanandam said.

 

Whether the effort in Washington results in significant changes to America's gun laws isn't clear.

What is clear, according to Kellermann -- who led research with the now defunct CDC program -- is that the nation has lost valuable time.

 

"Democracy is not served by ignorance and by excluding certain topics," he said. "I think that's been the real loss in this case."