The Burrow

The January 8th Foundation... or Committee... or Memorial Planning Group..... or whatever the official title of the dedicated volunteers who are creating a remembrance of the response to the shootings in 2011. At least, that's what I hope it is.  I've attended parts of some of their meetings in the past.  I've never made it through an entire presentation.  It's not that the talks are dull; I don't have the emotional strength to sit through them. My eyes dart around the room; I'm never more fearful than when we are all together.  I'm hot and then I'm cold and I'm never ever comfortable in the chairs... no matter if they are padded or upright stackable folding chairs.  I'm hungry then I'm thirsty then I just want to be gone. It's not that I don't care about the issue.  I think it is that I care too much. I don't do well in committees, unless I'm in charge.  Knowing this about myself, I've managed to absent myself ...

How are you? I wanted you to know that you were in my thoughts. Sending love your way. I've spent the last two days living that life.  It was intense in a way that surprises every year.  I relive it the way I relive the births of my children. Each moment has its own texture. Some are rougher than others. ***** I went to a community event in a movie theater on Tuesday night. There was a huge security presence, and many unarmed but well-uniformed officials standing along the walls, but my friend and I sat on the edge of the aisle, just in case.  Just in case of what didn't matter; just in case was enough for me. ***** The videographer remembered me from years past; he told the reporter to put the microphone on my sweater and let me talk. She nodded and complied as he and I exchanged pleasantries. I uttered my three-sentences-to-tell-the-media, disconnected the equipment, and forgot all about it. The movie portion of the evening began with somber music and wintry, fo...

In the telling and retelling of the story of my perforation on January 8th, there is one question that is always asked. "Did it hurt?" The answer is always the same. "Not until the paramedic said, 'Hang on, Ma'am, this is really gonna hurt,'  just before he plunged a needle into my knee." This is the story of how I we met again, exactly three years later. photo by The Firefighter  There have been anniversary celebrations and commemorations and speeches and films and discussions and bell ringings and flag raisings and I can't imagine that any of them were as moving as the simple event at the Nanini Library on Wednesday morning. TBG and I arrived a few minutes before 10am.  There was a shiny (is there really any other kind?) firetruck in the parking lot, blocking the rows of white folding chairs, as crisp and straight as the firefighters and battalion chiefs and fire chiefs and sheriff's deputies and local police who mil...