What I Did

I couldn't watch the news.  Every channel had pictures of a drowned man and his toddler daughter.  I couldn't look at it.  I just kept saying to myself, over and over and over again, This is NOT my America.

I know it is my America.  It's FDR's decision to turn away the St Louis in 1939.  It's The Trail of Tears.  It's internment and red lining and SCOTUS sanctioned voter suppression.  But that image was just too much for me.

I had to do something.  

So, I shopped.

 I took $100 and went to The Dollar Store and bought 50 pairs of flip flops and 10 boxes of crayons and 10 small pads of paper and 10 little toys.  I bought toothbrushes and small packs of tissues.  I filled my trunk with the clothes waiting to go to Goodwill, with the brand new sweatshirt that fits no one in my family, and with 4 bottles of Dove Body Wash, just because.  

I drove to the former Benedictine Monastery, which owner Ross Rulney (for whom a chair at the right hand of God is reserved) has leased to Catholic Charities to use as a shelter.  He's not charging rent.  Instead of sitting empty, since January the building has seen more than 10,000 migrants.

10,000 migrants.

Since January.

I had to let that sink in for a while as I waited for the security guard to direct me.  It's a beautiful building in the middle of town.  Except for the police car in the parking lot, there's no indication that this is anything but a religious respite from the real world.

There were kids running in the yard and volunteers helping me schlep my treasures and I left with a donation receipt, instructions on how to begin the Volunteer Registration process, and a full heart.

These are folks on the other side of the border crisis.  They are on their way.  Volunteers are helping.

I left feeling a lot better about my America.

It's a Dry Heat

I have proof.

In the time it took me to hang the rest of the not-in-the-dryer basket

this blouse 

went from damp to dry.

I came inside, wrote the verbiage for this post, and came back to add this picture

because in the time it took me to write the rest of this for you, it, too, could be hung, dry, in my closet.

I may have to water my containers twice a day, I may have to contend with pack rats nesting behind my pool's heater, I may never get to wear all my wonderful winter clothes, but the truest truism of all is

Kartographer

I've just given you the proof.

Living in Arizona

Brenda Starr and I walked some more of the Rillito Park Path this morning.  We wore tee shirts.

The wildflowers are blooming, and my yard is ablaze with random, disorganized color.

I spent the afternoon re-potting and installing and pruning and straightening and cleaning the containers.

It wasn't too cold to be in the shade in the courtyard nor was it too hot to be potting roses in the sunshine out back.

I have a stack of large print mysteries on the bookshelf, books that my library always seems to have on hand.  I can drive twenty-some minutes and be on campus for a class or a lecture or an exhibit or a recital or downtown for a concert or a great meal..... and there's always parking and it's usually free.

Did I mention that I was outside all day today?  Did I tell you the part about the tee shirt?

I have to keep focusing on these things, denizens, because this state is in the hands of people who are turning it into something unrecognizable, something which may call itself government by the people but which, most certainly, it is not.

My State Representative was on Facebook all night, updating her constituents.  She was exhausted. She was being asked for a vote on a budget neither she nor anyone outside a select few had reviewed. Meanwhile, the Governor and his cronies ate cheese pizza and watched it all unfold.

School superintendents and students and Chambers of Commerce and local governing bodies and University presidents were up in arms up in Phoenix this week.

It made for lovely political theater .... and not much else.

Governor Ice Cream's notion of transparency in government reminds me of Daddooooo when someone was blocking his view.  "Your father made better doors than windows," he'd say, and his line of sight would be restored as the offending human moved out of the way.

Governor Ice Cream's father was an excellent door maker.  Unfortunately, he had no intention of stepping out of the way.

There are perks in the budget designed to benefit those legislators who were inclined to vote Nay.  If it's good for your district but bad for the state as a whole, what do you do? On this issue, it's very clear where certain legislators landed.

Without listening, without consulting, with nothing but the arrogance of power, our state's Chief Executive has, once again, made me embarrassed to be a resident of Arizona.

The tee shirts help.... but just a little.

The Nanny State

G'ma doesn't remember that she broke her leg last week.  She has no cast, so there's not a visual cue to start her memory churning.  She is not in pain when she's not moving, which is most of the time, so there's not a physical cue to remind her.  She doesn't notice that anything is different at all.

The problem is, she is not allowed to bear weight on that limb for five more weeks.  She can touch her toe to the ground for symmetry and balance, but 99% of her body weight must be borne by her left leg.  Should she put too much pressure on the damage leg, the plate and screws securing it to her soft bones will not hold.

She has to grow more bone over the hardware. That thought has not made it into the permanent memory bank. The orange discoloration from the betadine washes has faded.  The bandage covering the incision on her thigh is comfortable.  There's no reason to fill her with sorrow as she contemplates the failure of yet another body part.  For the most part, it's a good thing that she doesn't remember the pain and the fear and the trauma.

On the other hand, she's not safe.  Should she stand up, she'll fall down.  On so many levels, that would not be a good thing.

I tried to conjoin the broken leg story with the Christina-and-I-were-shot story.  That one is embedded, deeply and sadly, and can be called up without too much trouble.  I thought that if I got her attention by reminding her that bullets ended our little friend's life and put the hitch in my gitty-up that I could then attach the broken leg saga to the attention she was paying to the gunshot story.

It was a good idea, at first.  She was focused, her eyes were riveted on mine, her face was screwed up in sadness.  It lasted for a minute or two, and then she wondered why I was hollering at her.

I sighed.

She is sitting on a chair alarm.  As long as the staff remembers to leave the main control panel untouched, bells will chime and an alert will sound if she moves her body weight off the plastic pad.  It works. We tested it.  It doesn't take much to set off the noise, and that's a good thing.  The staff love her, and they come quickly to her aid.

The pad moves with her to the wheelchair when she goes for meals and activities. There is always someone around her at those times; I'm not concerned about her safety.  She can watch movies in the rec room, do crafts projects at the big table, join Glenna and Rita and Fran for meals in the dining room, and there's always a watchful eye nearby.

On the recliner, the notes I taped to each arm seem to be an effective reminder.  DO NOT STAND UP! PUSH THE NECKLACE BUTTON FOR HELP! ... in black marker, in capital letters, angled to catch her attention... it's not much of a style statement, but it's doing the job.

My worries are about the bed.  We rented a low-rise-hospital-bed.  The mattress, yucky plastic now covered with a comfy egg crate topper, isn't too uncomfortable.  The twin sheets are smooth percale, remnants of the Cuters' childhoods.  Her pillows and blankets are her own, recognizable, familiar, comforting.  There's a crash pad on the floor beside the bed frame.  The frame itself can be lowered to two inches above the ground.  There's not much danger if she rolls off the bed.

But she's not likely to roll off the bed.  Instead, she is likely to want to get up for a bathroom break at 4am.  She is going to try to extricate herself from the sheets, turning her legs toward the floor, which will be there much sooner than she expects.  The bed alarm will ring.  The aide will come running.  It might not be quick enough to stop her. She could twist or turn or otherwise injure her already compromised self.  It's not a pretty picture; it's all that was in my head.

The obvious solution is to put a side rail on the bed.  One edge is against the wall, under the window with the sunset view.  If there were a rail along the other side of the bed, she'd be unable to get into trouble. I would be able to sleep at night.

The problem is, such a rail is not permitted.  The State of Arizona has rules and regulations governing the care of people in institutions like the pod castle, and those rules and regulations specifically prohibit side rails longer than 18".  That's the length of your forearm from elbow to fingertips.  It's the distance from the head of the bed, past the pillow, to just below G'ma's chin.  It will make her feel like she's in jail when she opens her eyes and it won't keep her in bed.  It's not even long enough to be useful as a handrail to sit up.

The rental company won't leave one longer than 18".  The pod castle administrator won't let me install one longer than 18".  The visiting nurse tells me the same thing. G'ma is as safe as the law allows.

That's not very comforting.  I contemplated sleeping on the floor next to her, until I admitted that at 61, with my own, very valid, aches and pains, I could believe TBG's reassurances that the trained professionals will be there to assist her.

At a certain point, I have to let go.  I have to trust the caregivers to be just that. This is exactly the situation for which she is paying her rent.  She needs assistance now, more assistance and safe-guarding than she has ever needed before.  That is why she is living there and I have to take two deep breaths.  I did.  I swam, I ate, and then I realized that my anger was misplaced.

I can call the doctor and ask him to prescribe a longer rail for G'ma until she is able to safely put weight on her leg.  Even if he won't, I'm a little less anxious now that the first few nights have gone so smoothly.  I laugh at myself, remembering that every snort and sniffle coming from Big Cuter's tiny little self in the cradle at the foot of our bed sent me shooting upright, bolting from the covers, for the first few nights he was home.  I thought then, and I am thinking now, that there is a way to keep them free from harm. Silly me.

She's happier and more alert with every passing hour.  She's as connected to the world as she was before the surgery, and she's as snarky as ever.  I need to relax and let life go on.

Oh, remember that misplaced anger?  Here's where it is, right now:

Okay, Arizona. Explain this to me:   

I can bring a loaded, concealed, Glock 9mm, with an extended magazine, into a church, or a bar, or a concert hall.....

but I can't put a side rail on the side of my demented mother's bed to keep her safe. 

I'm just sayin'....

Yawn

I am beat.  Exhausted.  too pooped to pop.  Bunionella is here from Cali, driving me around and doing my laundry.  We went to lunch and stopped in at the Philabaum Gallery, hit the grocery store and came home. 

All I want to do is nap. 

Hopping with my walker, paying attention to every step, every crack in the sidewalk, every teeny downhill slope is more tiring than I'd ever imagined it could be.

So, forgive me, denizens, if this post is short and (not-so) sweet.  I've known all day what the topic would be, but I can't come up with much to say about it at all.  It flummoxes me.  It disturbs me.  It annoys and embarrasses me.  I love Tucson, I love Arizona, but this stuff makes me nuts.

SB 1610 in the Arizona State Legislature reads:

The Colt Single Action Army Revolver is the state gun.

Words fail me.  We are The Grand Canyon State.  Our state flower is the white blossom of the saguaro cactus.  The green palo verde is our state tree. The cactus wren is our state bird and our state gem is the turquoise.

 

The Arizona tree frog is our state amphibian and the ringtail is our state mammal.  The ridgenose rattlesnake is our state reptile.  Getting just a little sillier, the state fish is the apache trout, petrified wood is our state fossil and the bola is our state neckwear.  Our newest state symbol is the two-tailed swallowtail, our state butterfly.

Amidst the flora and the fauna and the neckwear do we really need a state gun?

I'm just askin'.

Bliss at the Vortex

We're back from Sedona, Amster and I.  I'm not sure that we were influenced by the Birth Mother rock formation which loomed over our spa destination 

but we are renewed, body and soul.  I'm in a quiet, reflective, at-one-with-nature place right now.  The sky seems bluer and my breath feels lighter.  I'm not saying that the presence of the vortex is with me, but something's sure going on.

We drove up I-10 to I-17 and turned off at the Oak Creek/ Sedona exit and it was stunning.  Less than 100 yards from the exit the road turns and there they were

red rocks (sedimentary formations filled with oxidizing iron ore which "rusts" and turns red) right in front of the road.  And to the left. And to the right.  And we could have stayed right there and been happy for an hour or so. 

But we continued past the round-abouts and the galleries and the crystal shops and the psychic reading salons and, with the red rocks accompanying us, we wound our way through town and down Boynton Canyon.  By that time, the gentle rain had turned to a torrential downpour.  Hard as it may be to believe, even with all the stuff we packed for 2 nights away from home

neither of us had any rain gear.  We live in Tucson, remember?  When it rains here we all go outside and revel in the experience.  The bell man had a golf cart

and a couple of huge umbrellas and we tried to keep from freezing as he zipped through the raindrops and deposited us in our casita.  Had the table not been soaking wet, we'd have gone out on the porch and stayed there til bedtime.   But the weather wasn't cooperating

so we changed into gym clothes and headed for the Spa and Fitness Center for weights and yoga and stretching and then the hot tub and the sauna and the steam and a shower and then tomato soup and grilled shrimp on grilled asparagus spears in the minimalist dining room.  By the time we strolled back to our beds 

the rain had stopped and we were feeling pretty wonderful.

We'd reserved space on the hike Saturday morning and the message they left us at 3am said that the weather wasn't going to preclude our adventure.  John drove us and our new friends from Newton, MA to the Thunder Mountain trail head in a much-too-big-for-our-purposes 15-passenger van and we set out to bag the peak.

We didn't actually climb up to the top of the crevasse although John swore that he'd seen someone do just that.  I was impressed but uninspired to attempt it.  I'm not crazy about heights. We trekked on red clay

up 1000' to the base of the pillars, though, and scooted around the bottom to see all the views, which were fantastic

and the pace was aerobic and we were ready for the hot tub (outdoor this time) and some lounge chairs

as we rested up for our massages later that afternoon.  Amster put me to shame by heading for the Fitness Center where she worked her legs and butt.  I sat comfortably outside, shooting the clouds and the mountains and the sky

and finished the latest Sara Paretsky epic. 

Bea's massage was heavenly and painful-in-a-good-way and when she said that she "could get lost in this back for a week or so.... there's so much going on here...."  I just relaxed and let her pound away.  Thoughtful fingers are a real treat; combine them with strength and intelligence and the experience becomes sublime.  It was wildly expensive but I am worth it. 

We ate and slept and went to Crystal Magic and shared the drive home.  89-A is the way to go, denizens, if you're driving up that way.  It's a nice hour-plus trip north of Phoenix, and on the way you'll pass Horsethief Basin Recreation Area and Bloody Basin Road and Montezuma's Castle and you'll remember that you are in the Wild West.  There are acres and acres of undeveloped land, covered in scrub and mesquite and dust.  There are squared off mesas and mountain ranges at the tip of the horizon and the only thing that was missing was some autumn color. 

I may have to drive up there next week just for that.

Nuance. or the Lack Thereof

I received an email from "The March of the Monahans".

It rang no bells in my head, though it sounded vaguely Tea Party-ish.  My spam filter is generally pretty good, so I tried to recall if I'd joined a Facebook group or followed a link while researching something else but I came up empty.  Even after reading the main text and glancing at the links, I can't remember how I got on their distribution list.  But it's sparked this post, so I suppose I should be grateful.

Corporate Personhood seems to be the basis of the trek these brothers are making across the USofA.  They are trying to drum up support to amend the Constitution to end corporate personhood, saying that the Supreme Court  "made people second class citizens to corporations."

I've been trying to understand the nuances of the phrase. Knowing 2 law mavens (one retired, one studying) I have access to some fine legal thinking.  The issue has been dissected in the Wall Street Journal and the town weekly and on the nightly news and the daily radio talk shows.  The lawyers who are interviewed try to find answers in 10 word soundbites, but the questioners have their own agendas and control of the microphones.  Nuance, always in short supply in our public discussions, seems to be necessary here.  I'm having a hard time finding any.  The law is precise, parsing actions and speech, but the logic behind the Supreme Court's decision may just be so nuanced that I am hearing it as blather.  Or maybe I'm just dense.  In any event, amending the Constitution seems like a blunt instrument being used in a delicate situation.

Gabrielle Giffords is my Representative in the House.  She's a Jewish girl, a business person, and she's married to an astronaut.  She has thoughtful positions on the issues, and since she ran against a guy who said "if it's in the Bible it's good enough for me" in response to a question on evolution she pretty much had my vote from the beginning.  Yesterday, there was a gentleman of a certain age holding a clip-board outside the library.  He was soliciting signatures from Democrats and Independents to place Gabby's name on the November ballot.  Republicans were not able to sign, but Independents were.  I asked him about that, wondering why an Independent like me should have a say in selecting a candidate for the Democrats, and he read me some verbiage from the notebook he was carrying, but there wasn't an answer there that I could hear.  I tried to engage him in a conversation about it, but his eyes glazed over almost immediately.  So much for my ability to find nuance on a personal level.

The Arizona state legislature refused to bring a bill increasing the sales tax to a vote.  They were willing to put it to the voters, though, and on Tuesday they got their answer.  Yes, we would bite the bullet and save ourselves from the sorry mess we are in by adding one cent to our sales tax for the next three years.  The tax begins almost immediately.  The analysis has been one-dimensional: the schools mobilized and fought for the proposition and they get the credit for its passage.  Once again, the nuances are lost.  My Yes vote had the effect of saving our schools and health and public safety providers from further cuts, but its genesis was not in "save our schools" or "keep our public hospitals open."  I was trying in the only public way available to me, to send a message to our legislature.  And what is my message?  Of course, it is nuanced ..... do not underestimate the voters or our willingness to take on some of the burden of restoring our state budge to some semblance of balance, do not underestimate our ability to understand the facts and figures, and do not underestimate our ability to recognize that this is exactly the kind of business you were elected to consider and act upon.  Their fear of being voted out of office should they support increasing taxes trumped any kind of effort to solve the problem themselves.  Time and energy and money were spent to hold an election which could have been avoided if they had just done their jobs.  By sending it to the electorate, they avoided having to analyze and explain, with nuance, how conservatives could see the need to bump up the state's revenues, even though that meant a tax hike.  In an effort to save their jobs, legislators would have had to present cogent arguments, nuanced arguments, to the public.  We'd have gotten smarter and they would have earned their keep.

But, it seems, that is just too much to ask.

What Happened to The Melting Pot?

I'm a blue girl living in a red state and I'm very confused. 

Apparently, I am not the only one in this predicament.  Nance is wallowing in the same morass, and has offered to guide the winner of her "more names for shades of red" contest through the parts of South Carolina which delight her.  I've always been a fan of re-labeling, but I don't think she's going far enough.  I think we need a whole new paradigm.

I walk the aisles of supermarkets surrounded by people who are all shades of brown.  Some find their color through tanning booths (our newest addiction - I am having fun considering the treatments..... sunburns? long trips to Chicago in the winter?) but most seem to have been born that way.  I am hard pressed to determine ethnic origins as I pass them near the frozen foods; we're all shivering in our tank tops as we retrieve Popsicles and peas and pizzas.  Goose bumps are goose bumps no matter how colorful your skin might be.

We have a large contingent of African refugees here in Tucson, and most of them are what the Little Cuter called purply, a word she coined to describe our Belizean babysitter.

Of course, the Little Cuter thought that her own skin was light brown and we won't even go to the confusion that flesh in the Crayola box created. 

I've got some cousins who are white, but then so was their mother. Their skin is almost translucent, and I don't imagine that they've spent 10 minutes of their lives on a tanning bed. One's married to a German (and there is a whole 'nother definition of what white meant, but we're not going there yet) and the others chose men of Italian and Hispanic descent to father their children.  Their kids are ...... hmmm.....  

And this is where I stop - because what I want to type is American.  But, Arizona seems to be moving in the direction of color-coding our residents as well as our states, so I must pause and reflect. 

Jan Brewer became Arizona's governor when Janet Napolitano took on Homeland Security.  She was our Secretary of State prior to her elevation; Arizona does not elect a Lieutenant Governor and she was the next in line.  Now, Dear Reader, stop for a moment and see if you can conjure up the name of the Secretary of your State...... take your time.... we'll wait.

Still stumped?  Imagine how we felt when our nonentity 

suddenly became our supreme leader.  (As an aside, I vow that I will never again ignore "the bottom of the ticket" in the voting booth.)  She has annoyed and fumbled and stumbled and prayed but she hit a new highlight on Friday when she signed SB1070, which requires Arizona's state and local police to ask about a person's immigration status if there is a "reasonable suspicion" that he or she is in the country illegally. 

Don't you love the wording?  "Reasonable Suspicion" ...... it's almost oxymoronic.  Aren't most police officers naturally suspicious?  Isn't that their job?  If you are suspicious aren't you looking for reasons?  Isn't it the fact that you are suspicious telling you that what you are seeing is unreasonable?  And what might those reasons be?

Speaking with an accent?  Having purply skin?  Listening to Radio Sonora at full volume as you wait at a red light? Reassurances have been given that documentation can be requested only if one is stopped for "something else", but anyone who's watched even half an episode of Law'n knows that "something else" is easily manufactured. 

Suddenly, running out to pick up a gallon of milk requires not only $2 but your passport.

today.ucla.edu

Having relatives who wore yellow stars makes me sensitive to this issue in ways which may surprise you, and which certainly startled many of my Marin friends.  After all, if you're liberal don't you automatically want to open our hearts and our borders to all and sundry, regardless of paperwork?

Had they been able to walk across the Atlantic, I would have had many more cousins than I do now, for certainly America's promise of religious and ethnic freedom would have been an attractive alternative to the death camps.  But there was all that water standing in their way, and there were rules and regulations and quotas and laws precluding them from joining family and friends here in the USofA. So, they died.  I'm big on fairness, and I don't think that walking in unobstructed should allow a person to reap the benefits of our nation's largess.  I think that we need a guest worker program and reasonable immigration standards which allow farm workers as well as high-tech geniuses to join in our great American adventure.  I don't think people can just appear and vote.  I don't think free social services should be served on gilt platters to those who've cheated their way in and then slip on a banana peel.  

But I hearken back to 3rd and 4th grade, where Social Studies was consumed with "the melting pot."  Immigrants of varied backgrounds were shmooshed together and America was the result.  Alexander Hamilton's illegitimate Caribbean birth was cause for derision in the 18th century, but no one doubted that he was an American.  The founders of our country had all come from somewhere else, and the challenge was to take Virginians and New Yorkers and Massachusetts Bay colonists and create a nation of Americans.

This notion was central to my understanding of our country when I was 8, and it remains so today.  I never saw the need for the school district to teach the Big Cuter's California classmates about Hanukah; I brought in dreidles and a menorah and shared the experience with them.  It was my responsibility to describe this particular feather in the plumage of our country; it was the school's responsibility to educate Americans.  Black History Month annoys me, Diversity Assemblies insult me...... we're Americans and that should be that.  Some are tall and some are Methodists and some are purply and the differences are there, but none should be considered more unusual, more unreasonable, more suspicious than another.  If we'd just concentrate on being Americans instead of appending hyphens whenever we notice a distinction, that is.

I think it's because of this kind of thinking that we are, in the 21st century, legalizing questioning based on an officer's "reasonable suspicion" regarding immigration status.  If you are robbing a candy store and you are dark skinned, can I reasonably assume that you are also an illegal entrant to our fair state?  If you are standing at the corner, looking lost, can I reasonably suspect that you have just hiked here from Michoacan and are looking for your safe house?  I can't come up with a palatable suspicion. It's racism that's not even vaguely clouded or hidden.

I've never understood the objections to a National Identity Card.  But concerns exist and the NIC does not.  Instead of hearing "license, registration and NIC" at a traffic stop, we'll be hearing "license, registration and passport."  We'll be erecting barriers between us, requiring only some of our number to carry identification.  Will we be seeing hoodies with sweat-resistant passport holders? 

I don't like feeling sad about my country.  I don't like feeling embarrassed by my state.  But the birthers are trying to amend our election laws to require samples of amniotic fluid before you can run for President of the United State on the Arizona ballot and I don't know..... I'm confused..... depressed..... outraged.....or just plain sad.

Summer Musings

It's 109 degrees outside and it's 7:25pm. My brain is as fried as my flesh. I love the heat and the sun and the smells of Tucson's summer, but usually the monsoon rains cool things off in the afternoon. We're in a dry spell right now, though, due to issues with high pressure systems over Mexico. Or New Mexico. It was already scorching hot when I read the paper this morning and as I said, my brain is fried.

So, random thoughts today:

If I were stuck on a desert island with only one artist/group's music I decided it would be Paul Simon.
**************

Some people should not be allowed to drive - the ability to see over the top of the steering wheel should be mandatory. Of course, here in Arizona your driver's license is renewed when you turn 65. Til then, you're good to go. As my Boston First Cousin warned me upon hearing of our move to Arizona : Be careful of the tarantulas, the scorpions, the javalinas and the elderly.
*******************

Why does a yellow jacket (a predatory wasp, according to Wikipedia) land in our pool every afternoon at 3:30, rest for a bit with his wings straight up in the air, and then fly up over the house. He never goes out west toward the wash, or north or south toward our neighbors. Always east, over the house.
************************

"Don't get naked at work" is really good advice. Did Royal Pains really have to end that way this week?
******************************

Socrates taught that some people are not ready to leave the cave and face the world as it really is. The journey down and out of reflected existence and into a knowing space is a hard one. At the time the Big Cuter was explaining it to me, as we lolled on noodles in the pool this afternoon, it was somehow making me feel better about moving G'ma into the pod-castle. But my brain is fried and now I can't remember the path I took to the smile I felt.
*************************************

Have a wonderful weekend, and don't forget that it's not a bad idea to leave a comment if something I've written moves you to do so. I'd love to hear from you.