The Burrow

She looked gorgeous.  Her arm brace was off, her hair was styled, her smile was glowing.  Her husband held her hand and guided her through the throng.  My eyes were wet as I watched her swing her leg to walk, turn her head to see.  She's the living embodiment of everything that is wrong with our gun laws today.  She served in Congress with those she brushed by. How can they not be moved to act? She was a Republican before she was a Democrat.  She's a gun owner. She's damaged.  Those are all facts which should make her opinions somewhat more valuable than others.  Somebody should be paying attention. She wrote her own speech, which is much more eloquent than any words I could write, myself. Read it, and weep. Every word was articulated with care and effort.  Her mouth formed each syllable, her tongue got around each dipthong, and the work it took was obvious.  Mark Kelly, astronaut, Navy Commander, husband and friend, stood by he...

Ben's Bells coordinated it, and I helped to create it.  Next time you're driving into Tucson, you'll see it on the driver's side of the car as you head east on Broadway.  Yes, it's near that low concrete wall by the plaza.  No, it's not the one that faces Stone; it's across the street from Ben's Bells' downtown studio. Those details are for tourists.  The week-long project was for Tucsonans.  Like everything associated with Ben's Bells, it was beautiful as it was healing.  Of all the ways I've learned to self-medicate since I was shot, ceramic artwork with this not-for-profit is way up near the top of the Most Helpful List.  Plus, it was tons of fun. Driving downtown is complicated by the never-ending Modern Streetcar Project. Rails are being laid, streets are closed off, the usual routes no longer exist. I found a surface lot a block away, and, marveling at the fact that I could cover the distance between the Schnozz and the venue, I joi...

I suppose it would be considered churlish of me to complain about the weather, but I'm going to do it anyway.  G'ma was cold as we left the pod-castle this morning.   "Mommy, it's in the mid-60's and it's January,"  was met with "SO??? It's cold." I could wax eloquent about how frail she is getting.  Instead, I'm just going to agree with her.  It's dreary and rainy and cooler than it ought to be. There, I've said it. I will move on. ***** This is a slow sports week for my boys.  They are on tenterhooks, following every scrap of information as their 49'ers head toward the Super Bowl. For those of you unable to add your own two cents to the water cooler patter (and you know who you are), here are the highlights: the coaches are brothers who always look ready to surprise the other with a noogie.  No, the Patriots are not playing, the Baltimore Ravens (actually the faux-Cleveland Browns, but that's another tale for anoth...

Amster and I took the boys to the beach today.   We didn't get on a plane, we used barely a gallon of gas, we didn't pack sun screen or towels or toys.  We piled Mr. 7 and Mr. 9 and their friend and another friend's dog into the car she's inherited from The Firefighter and drove north to Catalina State Park. The dry wash is teeming with runoff from the mountains and yesterday's rain. Amster's toe shoes were perfect. Sasha's paws were handy, too. Mr. 9's feet, on the other hand, had issues. The slip on shoes were too heavy and kept falling off. The socks collected grit and hurt his tender tootsies. The plan seemed to be to cover the soles entirely with sand and use the beach against itself. It wasn't a perfect plan, but he couldn't convince us to leave, so he gave up arguing and resumed having fun. I, comfortably ensconced on my sweatshirt, watched the world go by. To be precise, I watched the world try to traverse t...