Love in Circles

I spent this afternoon at school.  I walked around the playground with the kindergarteners and the third graders, all of us with smiles on our faces and Jingle Bells filling our throats. I gave star stickers to everyone who completed a lap, and then we started around again.

The whistle blew and half the crew had to line up to return to class, but the next cohort was leaving the cafeteria and they were ready to roll by the time the rest of us met them at the path.  "Do you want to walk with us?" I asked, and then there were twenty of us, once again.

We passed the garden, and the teachers tending the plants grinned from ear to ear.  We approached the pre-school nestled in the far corner and made the grown-ups supervising the play structure smile.  Our trek past the monkey bars brought joy to the aide supervising the little ones. Then, the whistle blew again.

I knew the first graders who joined the march.  They'd been in Ms Levine's kindergarten last year, and we'd shared stories in the loft and math centers at the tables.  They have a proprietary air about them when they see me.  They know me.  I'm theirs.

"Hi, Grandma!" is guaranteed to put a smile on my face; repeated over and over and combined with arms wrapping around my legs, it's orgasmic. Of all the accolades sent my way, Official Adopted Grandmother of Prince Elementary is my most treasured.

So, we walked and we sang and I gave out more stickers after we completed a lap.  I walked with a hiking pole to even out my gait; it fell to the ground as I dispensed the yellow stars.... and it was no where to be found when it was time to start walking again.  In its place, there were giggles.

Two small, brown boys with untied shoelaces had purloined my possession.  They were delighted with themselves.  They were also properly abashed when a bigger girl scolded them for leaving me stranded.  I stopped them there, and enlisted the rest of the crowd to supervise my gait without assistive devices.  Did they think I could do it?  Did I think I could do it?  We were going to find out, and we were going to find out together.

I've cried in front of 20 million Dateline viewers.  I've lit candles on a stage in front of thousands of Tucsonans.  I've never been as nervous as I was right then.

Their faces reflected just how I was feeling - some were anxious, some were encouraging, some were certain I would succeed.  All of them were watching me.  They knew not to crowd in close; my pleas not to bump me had obviously been heard and learned.  There was a moving circle of 6 and 7 year olds surrounding me, staring at me, judging me.  I'd asked them to be alert to even shoulders and hips, to feet lifting off the ground and ankles bending and they took it very seriously.

The proto-felons were still laughing, hands covering their mouths, plots a-hatching.

As the outer edge of the circle reached the boys, they took off again, and my circle gave chase, and I was left to stride out after them, alone except for one round faced first grader with perfectly even bangs and cheeks that begged to be kissed.  She was holding my hand, then a finger, then I had her finger, and by thinking about our hands and ignoring the pinching in my newly regenerating nerves I walked perfectly, precisely, deliberately all the way to the kids who had captured the stick-nappers and were returning their bounty to me with great ceremony.

It's the cheapest therapy I've ever had.
*****
Written, with love, for the first graders at Sandy Hook Elementary.  You will not be forgotten, little ones.

It Is Time

I've stayed away from discussing weaponry in The Burrow. We had a conversation about it, my family and I, while I was on a morphine drip in the hospital.  There are angry people associated with the issue, Mom.  I couldn't bear it if you got shot, again.  Those are powerful words to hear from your adult daughter.  They made an impact.  I stayed away, and focused on doing good and healing.

Then twenty children were slaughtered by a young man with a gun.

Little Cuter and I agree; it's time to act.

I'm putting my energies behind Michael Bloomberg's Mayors Against Illegal Guns' effort to bring the record keeping efforts related to gun purchases into the 21st century and to Demand a Plan to end gun violence.  Our elected officials must have thought about the issue once in a while.  NOW is the time for them to share their thoughts.

We have been silent too long.  There is something fundamentally wrong with a system that allows individuals to carry concealed weapons with magazines more than three times the size of those carried by a Pima County Sheriff.  If you agree with me, I would like to ask you to take the time you'd normally spend here in The Burrow and click through to Demand a Plan.  Spend some time.... watch some videos... sign the petition... and then go and hug your kids, your family, a teacher.

This has got to stop.  It hurts too much.
*****
Having spent today reading posts from mothers of mentally ill children, my heart bleeds for those who have to hide the sharp objects and have an escape plan for their other children.  I'm not sure where to devote my energies on this issue, but I'm sure I'll figure it out.  When I do, prepare to be asked to look into it.  Until then, why not start here?

Newtown: The Morning After

Dear Newtown,

You woke up on Saturday morning, just as you will wake up every morning from now on.You'll roll over, eyes bleary. You'll look at the clock, check the weather, and sigh... or cry... or go back to bed and pull the covers over your heads.

It's just too much to bear.

You woke up with a hole in your lives, a hole that cannot be filled, no matter how well intentioned friends and family might be, no matter how much love is riding the tidal wave to your town. The school bus.... the breakfast dishes.... the toothbrush in the SpongeBob cup.... the ornament she made last Christmas hanging front and center on the tree he decorated two nights ago... before ….

Your world is divided: Now and Then. There's no going back. I know. I've tried.

What you want, you cannot have. You don't want very much, just to have things be as they were on Wednesday night, when you tucked your sons and daughters into bed, visions of sugar plums and vacation dancing in their heads. You want to urge her to finish her pancakes because the bus won't wait if she's late. You want to remind him to feed the puppy before he eats his own meal. You want normal.

It's gone.

It's not a new normal – there is nothing normal about it. It's awful and it doesn't go away. You will learn how to manage the feelings, how to find a place to rest your hearts as you go about the grocery shopping and the laundry and snow shoveling. The everyday pieces need tending, because life goes on.

You'll come to recognize the signs of incipient panic, or, perhaps. a rage that starts at your toes and explodes out of the top of your heads. You will pray and you will hug and you will never be whole again.

That's the beast in it all – it never really goes away. You learn to work around it, but it's always there. It's not a disease from which you can recover.  It is what it is and there's no way to make it better.

I am three weeks shy of the second anniversary of my own brush with gunfire and death, 101 weeks without my little nine year old friend. While you were facing your first morning after, I went to Stuff the Hummers with toys at an event sponsored by the foundation her parents created to keep her memory alive. It will honor Christina-Taylor, but it won't bring her back.

And that's what you want – you want your little ones back. All you did was send them to school. There shouldn't be any guilt, any second guessing, any what if's, but it will take some time to figure that out. And then, even then, it won't make much of a difference.

The conversation will go to the lack of political will on regulating gun ownership and the lack of funding for mental health services and the commentators will rant and petitions will be signed and outrage will be felt.... but none of it really mattered in Newtown that morning, and all the mornings since then. It's all still too raw.

There will be time to move forward, to do good deeds in their name, to rebuild.  There will be time. You will find a way to face the days.  I promise. It will come, in time.

That morning and this morning, it's all about loss.

Sincerely,
a/b

Sparkles

It only happened once.  I cried one time, and one time only, when talking to the prosecutors. Often, I was angry, or furious, or disgusted.  Always, I was sad.  But I sobbed for the first and last time when the lead prosecutor asked me to describe the moment when Christina-Taylor met Gabby.

In retrospect, it's surprising that I'd never gotten that perspective on what I'd missed.  On January 8th, I was in the moment, just the way a nine year old is in the moment, flitting from one fascinating topic to another with barely a breath between.  We hadn't gotten that far in our adventure; we were still in anticipation mode when the bullets began to fly.  I don't indulge in what if's about that morning.  It is what it was; I smile ruefully accept the facts GRIN, and move on.

So, Wally's question took me by surprise.  I'd never considered it until he asked about it.  It took me aback.  Literally, I stepped backwards and found myself on the ottoman under the window, chest heaving, tears flying, sobs wrenching.  TBG took the phone and reassured the quaking AUSA, poor guy, who had reduced me to a puddle. I felt for him, through my weeping.

All I could say, gasping the way you do when you've been crying and crying and crying, was "there would have been sparkles."

It stuck in my throat, and still manages to create a lump when it appears at the front of my brain.  Those two would have loved one another. Each would have seen herself in the other.  Each was self-confident enough to share some personal space with the other.  There would have been sparkles.

I was reminded of that today at lunch, where there were sparkles galore. It's all part of Christina's legacy, the assurance that she will never be forgotten.  We three would never have met had CTG and I not gone to shake Gabby's hand.

What's the opposite of no good deed goes unpunished? That's what I witnessed this afternoon.

We met at Ghini's, Tucson's French bistro/bakery with the unpronounceable name. We were all in gym tights; it's what we do.  The proprietor of my pilates studio met the proprietor of my physical therapy gym.... and there were sparkles.

I didn't say 50 words.  If you've been here for a while, you know how unusual that is.  There was nothing I could say; I spoke when they looked hungry and I noticed that my plate was nearly empty while Kyria's bowl of vegetable soup was nearly untouched.  Y'know that thing where you bring two people together and turns out they have nothing to say to one another?  Not so much of that today.  Nope, not so much at all.

We were relaxed by the time Becky's ice tea arrived. They were exchanging business cards and professional contacts before we ordered. They were full of admiration for one another by the time my tuna on baguette arrived.  It's a good thing I ordered twice as much food as they did; they were talking so much not a lot of eating was going on.

Becky's thrilled to be asked to speak at Kyria's international conference next May. Kyria would be delighted to share her curriculum guide .  Forking perfectly dressed salad to my lips, I tried to avoid dizziness as their heads nodded up and down and up and down, as the conversation jumped enthusiastically from German videos to Pilates lineages.

I was an after-thought.  Yes, we should all meet and work me out someday.  That's it.  There was none of the clinical examination of my condition which was my worst nightmare as I thought about the meal this morning.  Instead, by the time our ice teas and Arnold Palmers had been sucked dry and refilled more than once by the overly tall waiter, their calendars were full of one another and their voices were full of thanks to me for bringing them together.

It was my pleasure, ladies.

I got to see those sparkles, after all.  My heart is full. I can feel Christina smiling, too.... can't you?

Quitting

Jim DeMint decided to quit the Senate.  Just like that (cue snapping fingers), it's time for (him) to pass the torch to someone else and take on a new role in the fight for America's future. At least, that's what his press release said.

Funny thing about that timing thing, Senator.  Your constituents elected you to serve them for six years.  The time frame was agreed upon when you interviewed for the job (cue election stump speech). Leaving early may suit your needs, but what about those of the people who chose you to represent them?  They didn't have much to say about your decision, did they? And now, they will have a newbie Senator in Washington, a representative chosen by one woman (albeit the Governor) rather than the entire electorate.  Were I a South Carolinian, I'd be pissed.

Mr. DeMint anticipated this line of attack. My constituents know that being a Senator was never going to be my career. I came to Congress as a citizen legislator and I've always been determined to leave it as citizen legislator, his press release went on to state. I think he's missing the point.

His career path notwithstanding, he took a job and didn't finish it out.  Invoking citizen legislator, conjuring up notions of our Founding Fathers returning to their farms after doing their duty for their country, seems somewhat disingenuous here.  He's not going back to a family business, left in the care of a relative while he went to serve the people.  He's going on

to join The Heritage Foundation at a time when the conservative movement needs strong leadership in the battle of ideas. No organization is better equipped to lead this fight .....

So, working within the system lost its allure. Talking to Rush Limbaugh, DeMint conceded in the radio interview that "frustration" with Congress played into his decision to head up the conservative think tank instead of remaining in office.  

Now, there's a lesson he should have learned in elementary school.  Frustration is not an excuse for taking your ball and going home.  Was the gridlock and the petty bickering a surprise to him?  Was he not paying attention when he applied for the job?  Is it possible that he is the only human on the planet who thought that Congress was a malleable body?  

That's not the kind of leadership I was showing Christina-Taylor when I took her to shake Gabby's hand.  I was ready to introduce her to a woman who, despite all odds, took on a diverse district and made it her own.  She didn't turn her back on the frustrations, she learned to work within them, around them, in spite of them.  After all, she was hired by the voters to do a job.

As was Senator DeMint.    

Finding Love in All the Right Places

Bad things shouldn't happen to little girls, but when they do, it's easier to bear when the little girls are warriors, willing to fight for every gain possible or promised or tantalizingly just out of reach.  Thanks to Little Cuter and SIR getting hitched, TBG and I have such a warrior in our midst these days.

She's wearing the bracelet that Brigitte gave me after I was shot, a flat leather contraption that came with a love note extolling my strength and my courage.  I wasn't feeling particularly strong or courageous when I opened the box last year; but reading that someone I admired thought I was gave me that little extra boost I needed.

Because that's the funky little secret hiding behind all the progress I seem to be making.  I need to be shoved in order to move on.  The gains are slow and awkward and often seem two steps forward and three steps back.  I feel great and I overdo it and I suffer and I sit and I regress and I have only myself to blame. I'm not much of a self-motivator when I'm feeling blue.

Of course I want to have a fluid gait.  Of course I want to walk through Costco without needing a cart to hold me up.  Of course I want to hike the Linda Vista Trail, with its uncertain footing and steep inclines and declines.  Of course I do.  It's just that getting there is taking so long... and aches so much... and is so damn boring.

Now, none of my instructors should take this amiss.  I love you all. Each and every one of you puts my interests above your own, goes out of her way to be sure that I am safe and not doing damage, and none of you seems to care the slightest bit that I am exhausted and achy while you put me through my paces.  I know you love me.  I just wish there were a less painful way for you to show it.

The fact is that the hours I spend under tutelage are only as good as the hours I spend reinforcing the teachings.  First among that which I am supposed to do is walk.... for a long time... with proper form... using my poles if I need them.... but moving with power and alacrity and symmetry.  Easy for you to say.

I tried walking on Christina's path by myself.  I did it.  I didn't enjoy it.  I walked with Amster and I walked with Elizibeth and I am proud to say that I kept up with them the entire way.  I only made them stop when further movement was impossible; it didn't happen that often.  That's three walks in a month; I'm not getting very much better any faster at that rate.

That's what brought me to Prince Elementary School's playground at recess.  I put on my coat of many colors, fill the pockets with stickers, and my hiking poles and I begin walking around the track surrounding the playing field.

There was an advantage to starting my career as the school's Official Adopted Grandmother in a kindergarten classroom.  Those students are now in second grade and consider me an old friend.  Of course I remember their names, their smiles, their stories, their hugs.  It's a shy reverence I see in their eyes.  Those getting-bigger-every-day boys saw me in my walker, barely able to sit straight in a chair.  Now, I'm galumphing around their schoolyard, twenty classmates following in my wake.

Yes, I am still shot. Yes, I am using those sticks to help me walk. Yes, I am walking. It's a wonder to their eyes, as it is to mine.  Their presence reminds me of where I was and where I am.  My issues are now with form, style, grace.  The numbness and atrophy are less of an issue every day; there is now tone where before there was none.  My companions think I'm a miracle.

I've said it before and I'll say it again - it is impossible to be sad when surrounded by little ones with hugs to share.  We walk a lap, singing our A-B-C's and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Row Row Row Your Boat and Feliz Navidad until it became obvious that we only knew those two words, and those two words alone, to the song. We stop under the shade of the tree and I hand out a sticker to everyone who walked all the way around with me.

And then, we start again.  It's five laps to a mile, over the requisite uneven surface my PT demands. There's lots of pushing and jostling as the walkers jockey for position by my side.  I'd pay more attention to the goings on if I weren't concentrating on moving forward and singing at the same time.  Good form will have to wait til I get stronger, I think.  For now, that shade tree can't come soon enough.

I tell them the story of Christina-Taylor looking forward to talking to her Congresswoman.  We talk about her forgotten sweatshirt and I laugh at the faces they make when I ask them to show me how she looked when her mom sent her back inside to get it. They listen to us driving across Ina to the grocery store parking lot, CTG formulating her question for Gabby, leaving that sweatshirt on the front seat of my car, and signing up to receive information so that she could be an informed citizen.

We spend more time on the civics lesson than we do on the bullets and the loss.  They're little kids.  That's the way it should be.  We do talk about my three bullet wounds, especially the one in my butt.  Want to get a laugh?  Say butt out loud to a 7 year old.  Through the laughter, I talk about my shattered hip, the scar through my quadriceps, the damage to the tissue, my limp.  I like it when they're giggling as I talk about why I'm lurching.

I tell them that I have to walk as part of my therapy.  I tell them that I can't make myself do it on my own.  I tell them that they are helping me to heal by keeping me walking.  I tell them the truth - without them I would not be getting much better.  The third and fourth graders seem to be catching on; they pushed me to do two laps in a row last Friday.

I suppose I ought to be careful what I wish for. I seem to have created a grade full of therapy monsters.

I couldn't be happier about it.

Sharing the Love

When people ask me why I took Christina-Taylor to shake her congresswoman's hand that sunny Saturday morning, my answer is always the same: Why didn't you have a child with you at the event, too? Don't you know someone who'd enjoy it just as much as you do? 

I founded GRIN to put the love to good use.

It seemed so obvious to me.  How will the little ones learn if the big ones don't show them the way?  How can you bemoan the fact that young people don't go to the polls when you've done nothing to show them that all politics is, ultimately, local. Our representative was coming to the neighborhood; I took the kid and off we went.

In the aftermath, lying on Douglas and wondering what I would be able to do when I got up and around again, the notion of bringing together those who have time and those who have needs began to form.  Nearly two years later, eleven months into the process of receiving a 501c3 designation, GRIN has brought smiles to schools all over Tucson.

We've delivered treats for faculty and staff on The First Day of School Love Fest.  We've brought our cars to the parking lot for Trunk or Treat.  And, last Thursday, we were at Prince Elementary School once again, staffing the craft table at the PTO's Winter Fiesta.

It was our second time around; we knew what we were doing before we got there.  Last year, the volunteers got lost wandering around the campus, looking for the event.  That was less painful than the 30 minutes it took us to find an escape from the gated school grounds.  By the time we found an opening in the chain link, I was tearing up at the site of my car.  This year, I brought signs and made chalk arrows on the pavement to guide us coming and going.  It made a big difference; no one got lost.

As always, at Prince it's the United Nations of The Neighborhood coming together to celebrate the children.  The kindergarteners had mastered choral singing; the crowd was on its feet to cheer them on.

The headmistress at the Cuters' pre-school used to say that parents will sit for two hours in tiny chairs to watch their child portray a head of lettuce on the stage.  This crowd was no exception.

The games and the crafts were lacking in participants; everyone was watching the show on the stage.

Some little ones needed Daddy's shoulders so that they could see.

Some of the volunteers were mesmerized, hands on hips, trying to hear the little voices over the amplified sound.

There were two rows of proud parents pressed up against the stage, snapping pictures at a furious rate.  No one sitting behind them could see a damn thing, yet no one complained.  It was that kind of an evening.

Some of us go to Centennial Hall or the Leo Rich Theater or the Temple of Music and Art for our culture.  Some of us go to the cafeteria at Prince Elementary School.  As the PTO president (the blur in the grey t-shirt in the middle of the picture above) noted, this is the community's holiday party.  Everyone was there.

GRIN volunteers were at the craft table, making snowflakes by painting the hands of unsuspecting youths.

Hands were coated with white paint mixed with dish soap (making it easier to clean) and then placed carefully on the blue background.  The volunteer moved the paper around, and the painted hands were place four times.

Each snowflake was unique; each child's technique slightly different.

This was not a neat experience.

Cleaning up was almost as much fun as making the snowflake itself.

We were in and out in two hours.

As Debbie, our newest GRINner, told me, "this is the easiest volunteering I've ever done!"

And that's the point.

Hassle-free volunteering.

I do all the paperwork and the planning.

The helpers show up and share the love.

Then we all go home.

It's not that hard to do good in this world.

Inside and Outside

We are a microcosm of the world outside. That was how Cris Carter summed up the last ten days of NFL headlines on ESPN this morning.  The players and their families mirror the average guy sitting in his living room, watching other men play.  What goes on outside goes on inside, too.

Yes, he actually said outside.  Since I'm spending my days with Kate Shugak in the Alaskan Bush, I'm quite familiar with the concept.  Those who battle to survive, who come up against the elements 24/7/365, who care for one another (or respect the other's solitude), they know that they are sui generis.  There is no way anyone who lives outside can share their outlook.  Only they know what it's like. It's theirs and theirs alone.  The rules are around, but bend to their convenience... and no one looks askance.  Rangers and state troopers announce that they are not in the room, not seeing what might otherwise be reportable events.  It will be taken care of in the Park; no one outside need be involved.

In the same way, Cris Carter seemed to be saying, NFL players live in an insular society, feel immune, don't pay heed, have their transgressions excused, and die just like the rest of us.

The NFL has an enviable support system for the players and their families.  Jovan Belcher had participated in those programs.  He was still angry enough to shoot the mother of his three month old daughter nine times before turning the weapon on himself in the Chief's parking lot.  He shared the moment with coaches and staff, leaving them with images they can never erase.

I know this from personal experience, as you recall.

Josh Brent, defensive tackle for the Cowboys, killed his friend by flipping the car he was driving while intoxicated.  Those same sportscasters repeated what coaches and TBG and I have been saying for years: nothing good happens after midnight. In our shorthand, TBG and I look ruefully at one another and say,"While leaving a strip club at 3 am....." and sigh.

This goes beyond not doing anything you wouldn't want printed on the front page of the New York Times, my parents' admonition to their children from the time I could hear.  This touches on irresponsible behavior, like drinking and driving, and on the ready availability of guns, as Bob Costas bravely pointed out by reading the end of a piece by Fox Sports columnist Jason Whitlock during his half-time report on Sunday Night Football.

That resonates with me because of the absurdity of the situation.  Football is a violent sport.  In his 30 for 30 biography, Bo Jackson scoffs at a coach's exhortation to leave blood on the saddle.  Sure, says Bo, I'll be dead of heat stroke and you'll still be marching down the sidelines, screaming about blood on the saddle.  At a certain point, the words really do begin to matter, don't you think? Pushing big, strong, young men to, as TBG's high school coach called his favorite drill, Beat Your Buddy Bloody, has to leave the athlete feeling invincible.  No one would venture on the field otherwise.  Cris Collinsworth talks about this all the time; he's said you have to be a little crazy to play professional football.

A little crazy is okay..... feeling invincible is okay..... but not outside.

Tucson Together

Tragedy in Tucson.  Tucson Massacre.  Victims.  Plaintiffs.

I hated those words.  I hated the emotional space they occupied in my brain.  The negativity overwhelmed me.  I was trying to stay positive, to look on the bright side, to concentrate on what I had and not what was taken.  Those words got in my way.

There is still nothing I can use to name that day. Incident is too small.  That day works only in context. The shooting is too harsh for most people to hear, and I have to respect that.  Tragedy sticks me deep in the sadness.  Massacre brings me right back to the cold pavement beneath my bleeding self.  I am open to suggestions; it's been twenty-three months and I'm still searching so don't fret if you come up empty, too.

In the days immediately following January 11, generous donations began to accumulate.  Television stations, hospitals, schools, churches, they all started funds to gather monies to help us through a tough time.  It was heart-warming and pocket-book filling and awful.  Tucson Tragedy Fund.  Tucson Victims Fund.  The names were all true.  The names were all filled with sorrow.

Then, something wonderful happened.  The fund managers actually spoke to one another and agreed to join together as one.  Under the watchful eye of the Pima County Attorney's Office, the monies were pooled and a Review Board was established. Funds would be distributed to cover incidental expenses that were not covered by insurance or one of the government's victim compensation funds.  The letter accompanying the offer of the first check suggested uses for the money: stationary and stamps to reach out and to thank, gas for appointments heretofore unneeded, counseling for family members, transportation for loved ones to visit and share the pain and the healing.  

Can you imagine how my heart was filled with the notion that others thought that thank you notes were a worthy way to spend my afternoons?  As I reclined on my couch, watching the sun move through the heavens over three long months, writing to family and friends and strangers near and far kept me connected.  Others understood that.  I wasn't alone.  I was supported.

At the first anniversary, another check was offered. It covered transportation for SIR and Little Cuter to join me for the first annual Stroll and Roll.  It covered permits and publicity for the event. It gave GRIN a sound financial footing, to cover stickers and colored paper and signage and markers and more stickers. They weren't asking for any receipts. They wanted us to have the money and they trusted us to do right with it. It filled a hole in my heart.

They were established to get us through the duration of the court cases.  Barbara LaWall, Pima County Attorney and human being extraordinaire, had not ruled out a local prosecution after the Federal case had been tried. She wanted to be sure that we were all covered. This had the potential to go on for years. Once the Department of Justice's elegant indictment, naming every one of us who was in the path of bullets that day, secured a conviction, without the possibility of parole or appeal, Ms LaWall stepped back. She will not be prosecuting the shooter, although it is her right to do so.

The shooter was convicted of harming each of us.  None of us must come to terms with incarceration-for-hurting-someone-else-but-not-me.  The judicial system served us all, and now it's done.  Ms LaWall recognized that there was nothing to be gained by further prosecution.  She told us so in the conference room after the sentencing hearing, holding the letter we'd signed, asking her to let it be.  She listened.  She thought.  She considered.  She decided.

We are all ever so very very grateful.

The thought of reliving the events for a trial was more than I could bear.  My testimony would have been required.  There would have been days of trial preparation set inside months of emotional angst.  I try to keep the shooter out of my head as much as I can; the passage of time makes that easier and easier.  Having another court case looming on the horizon was not something to which I was looking forward.  Not at all.

How rare and wonderful it is to know an elected official who is more concerned about the people involved than she is about herself.  There would have been a great deal of publicity for Ms LaWall and her office; she gave that up because it was the right thing to do.  She told us that it was over right when we were ending the Federal case.  There was no time spent worrying if we'd have to go through it all again.  She ended it right then and there.

The legal piece has closure... another of those words I do not like. No one will require that I allow the shooter into my personal space ever again.  I can say no to reporters and authors and strangers; I couldn't refuse the DOJ.  I have another small measure of control over my life, and I am grateful.

It's another way in which our community has come together, and it's reflected in the name and motto of the fund which has our backs.  It's called Tucson Together.  The logo exhorts the reader to Volunteer-Donate-Be Kind.

I can't think of a better way to start every day.

Letting Go

My kids are nearly thirty years old.

Can you hear the screaming from their desks right now?  "Not til May!" he cries. "Not for two more years," she yelps.  NO! It cannot be.

I share their perplexity (have I just coined another new word?). Thirty years is a very long time.  Decades begin to be counted.  Humans are born who have never seen a land line, a pager, a world where the Red Sox never win the big one.

I knew my grandmothers for thirty some years; they were always old and I was always young.  They gave advice.  I listened dutifully.  There was never a question about it - I was young, they were old.

I never thought to ask if they saw me as an adult.  It never crossed my mind.  I was always their little girl; Bubba called me tateleh til she died.  Tateleh, little one, was how she saw me.  Though I had her first great-grandchild, the only one she knew before she died, I was still her eldest grandbaby, her tateleh.

I'm having the same problem with my own kids right now.  They are certainly living their lives as adults.  They are working and loving and cooking and paying the bills.  I don't check for tied shoelaces or missing buttons before they walk out the door in the morning.  Little Cuter's winter coat had a defective zipper, causing her to step in and out of the garment rather than removing it gracefully from her shoulders.  It wasn't my place to take it to the seamstress and have it repaired; it was hers to laugh at and deal with.

That is not to say that the fact of the broken zipper didn't eat at my soul.

That's the ongoing burden of parenthood, I suppose.  I look at her womanly curves and see the mis-matched socks and uncombed curls of kindergarten.  He's taller and stronger than I am, than I ever will be, and yet all I see is the toddler running Monday morning errands with me.

I don't want to turn back the clock.  I am delighted that they've reached adulthood relatively unscathed, armed with the tools they need to face the world.  They've forgiven me my parenting mistakes, they've acknowledged my failings and the fact that I did my best, they are moving on with their own lives..... and I cannot let go.

I feel as if I'm living a country music medley.

I'm working on letting them own their own problems.  I can't fix them.  I shouldn't fix them.  I won't fix then.

I find myself intoning those phrases at stop lights.  They may be living their own lives, but I still retain a part of them, under my heart, deep in my psyche, permanently embedded in my Worry Box.  I won't act on my angst, but I won't let it fester, either.  Growing up is hard work for the child; it's also a difficult task for the parent, I'm finding out.

When they were in college I could justify my intrusiveness, my obssessive need to know, my compulsion to fix things.  We were paying the bills; we still owned a piece of the rock.  Now, years later, I have no excuse.

You're only as happy as your unhappiest child defined my child-rearing years.  I thought I'd have a new mantra by now.  I was wrong.

Little Cuter bemoaned the fact that we won't be seeing her this holiday season.  TBG doesn't want to travel to the cold when it's 80 and balmy here in Tucson. She and SIR have to work, making travel expensive and awkward.  I'm stuck in the middle, loving them both but capable of being in only one place at a time.  I don't want to disappoint my baby.... my married lady baby... my nearly thirty year old baby.... my little girl.

Life goes on. That's a good thing.  I just wish I had been better prepared for the fact that I still see them as mine.  I really thought I'd have had an easier time letting go.

A New Heroine

I like reading mysteries.  It's not so much the who-dunnit piece, though I have fun matching wits with the fictional detectives. It's not the procedures and the structure and the insight into the back rooms of the precincts or the attorney's offices that attracts me, although in the last two years I've begun to enjoy comparing their experiences to my own.  It's not the twists and turn which bring me back for more; in fact, they annoy me more than they should.  What draws me to these stories are the characters.

John Lescroart weaves a huge cast in and out of his novels.  For a while, I tried to read the stories in order by character; it was impossible.  Without reading the stories in chronological order, I was missing little bits and pieces of information which made my attempts at character study quite frustrating.  James Lee Burke and Patricia Cornwell follow one family and its hangers-on; children grow up and take lovers; relationships begin and end in what feels like real time. Marcia Mueller straddles the two.  Sharon McCone has so many relatives and relatives of relatives and employees who end up married to relatives that the stories weave in and out but never go very far from her office by the Bay.

I like them all.  I've watched Alafair Robicheaux grow up as her dad won and lost his battles with women and alcohol and his best friend, Clete.  Clete's the prototypical side-kick in modern mystery writing, or so it seems to me.  He has all the bad habits a dissolute lifestyle might desire. So does Marino, Kay Scarpetta's bete noir.  The alternative wing-man, the kindly landlord, is a strand followed by Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton.  There are Lords and butlers and I could go on about Peter Wimsey and Richard Jury until even the most devoted of you would would click away.  As I said, I like them all.

These series go on and on and on, although I am a little worried as Kinsey Mulhone moves on inexorably to Z is for.... That is another reason I love them.  There is always another one on the shelf.  That's also why I hate them; they are often not on the shelf.  The library has to order it, the book store might not carry it, in any event, it's not in my hands right now, when I want it.

All that can serve as prologue to the topic of this post; I have a new favorite heroine, and she's in my hands whenever I want her to be.  I'm in heaven.

I cured myself of playing games on my Kindle by force-feeding them to myself for a week straight. by the seventh day, the very thought of dropping bubbles or matching diamonds made me ill.  I haven't played since.  The device sat, unused, for a few weeks.  Slowly, I began using it as a tablet, checking my email, tweeting (@ABattheBurrow, if you're interested), staying current on Facebook.  TBG could watch sports all day and night; I was amused and sitting next to him at the same time.  As the days got shorter, I found reading library books to be taxing on my eyes.  I needed the large print volumes to read once the sun went down; a good reading lamp is on my holiday list.

Those large print tomes defeated the purpose of reading print books instead of e-books; there was no connection to the author's hand in the binding or the font or the paper quality.  I turned on the Kindle and spent an hour with Susan and Oliver in their Angle of Repose and then, when I picked it up after getting a snack it had defaulted to the books homepage which was offering a free mystery, the first of twenty, the last due in February.  How could I refuse?

Right now I'm on number ten, and I'm in love with the heroine, Kate Shugak.  I have learned more about skinning a moose than I ever thought I'd enjoy. I have a growing sense of the geography and topography of Alaska, and I know how hard it is to slog upstream in the rain.  I know this because, like Kate, I hate having wet feet.  We don't like to be interrupted when we're reading.  We've been known to twirl around on the top of a mountain with our arms outstretched to the sky. Dana Stabenow brings a chunk of the Bush to my Kindle with a tap of my finger.

Yes, it cost some money, and a library book would be free.  I'm reminded of my mother's line about not buying green bananas, and I laugh as I admit that getting shot has damaged my ability to delay gratification.  I don't want a lot, but what I want, I want now.

It's win win all over the place.  I'm immersed in the story line and the characters are following me all over town.  I can read without additional illumination.  I have a new friend, and I'm less than half way through her saga.  Best of all, the newest volume will be released in February.

Kate knew I couldn't wait much longer than that.

She's Sleeping in Her Car

... and her car is parked in front of my house.

Granted, it's on the other side of the street, but considering the fact that this is a residential neighborhood, with no commercial or long term parking spaces, it's an oddity at best.  The house across the way, the one in front of which she is parked, is set in the middle of 25 acres of undeveloped land. Until the road construction began last year, we never saw any activity in or out of the gate.  Once it became impossible to enter the property from the main road, service vehicles began using the gate.  Gardeners, electricians, pick-ups of all shapes and sizes were going in an out.  We never saw anyone who looked like a resident.

Turns out, JannyLou and Fast Eddie have been watching that driveway, too.  They haven't seen anyone who looks like they might live there, either.  Not until the white pick-up with the 40-something driver arrived the week before Halloween. 

It was scary at first. None of us slowed down to see who was behind the wheel, and none of us were brave enough to knock on the window in the dark.... and she always arrived after dark.  Was there a baby in the car?  Sometimes it looked like the woman behind the wheel was caring for someone or something on the passenger seat.  But, since none of us spent too much time staring through her window, we couldn't tell for sure.

Then, one Thursday afternoon, she arrived at 4.  I walked out to retrieve the garbage cans, and, disregarding my family's pleas to take care and not put myself in danger from which I would be unable to outrun a pursuer, I rolled the can over to her vehicle and knocked on the window.  I figured I could hunker down behind the trash can if she came at me with force.  

Instead, she smiled and apologized for taking up space on the street.  

I've got to do something about this fear of "the other" that is running through my psyche.  The sense of relief I felt was immediately followed by shame and remorse.  She wasn't scary at all.  She was stuck.

She's a bridge inspector.  She lives outside of Phoenix.  She was called down to Tucson by her employer specifically; she has a skill set he needed and there was no one else to call.  It was work, and she heeded the call.  The owners of the property in front of which she has been parking are casual acquaintances.  They had offered her a place to stay if she were ever in the neighborhood.  Rumor has it that the owners rent the house to UofA grad students; offering it to our transient bridge inspector seems to fit nicely with that narrative. 

The problem seems to be that the owners are divorcing, are arguing, are living there or arguing over who is to live there, and "we don't want you to be in the middle of it" has been their answer when she rings the bell.  

She wishes she had gotten that information before she accepted the work.  Without their hospitality, she's sleeping in her car.  She can't afford to maintain her home and rent down here, too.  She's sorry that she's worried us, sorry that she's causing problems, sorry that her friends are so ditzy, sorry, sorry, sorry.

So am I.

Fast Eddie and JannyLou offered to let her sleep in their home.  TBG and I are not that generous.  I'm not comfortable inviting a stranger to sleep in Little Cuter's bed, even if she looks as nonthreatening as our bridge inspector.  Then, again, I'm not giving my house up to the wedding party, as JannyLou and Fast Eddie did for Little Cuter in September. They have more of that midwestern if my neighbor needs help I'll do what I can gene than we do. 

Instead, I went to Interfaith Community Services this afternoon.  I shared her story with the receptionist, and wondered if there were services they could offer.  Rental assistance, perhaps?  A senior with an empty bedroom who's looking for company?  Something? Anything?  It was getting harder and harder to drive past her and pull into my driveway; my heartstrings were tugged tight.

I left with the phone number of a women's shelter. She was in her truck when I came home, and we smiled at one another as I drove by.  She was surprised and grateful when I handed her the paper with the shelter's information.  Once again, she was embarrassed by her friends' locking her out, she was grateful but not willing to accept my neighbors' offer of shelter, she was touched by my generosity in seeking help for her situation, she laughed when I said that I would go with her to ICS or the shelter if she needed company, and then I went inside and she stayed in her truck... parked across the street from my house... where she sits, hours later, waiting for who knows what.

With a tent and a sleeping bag, she could camp on parkland fifteen minutes from here.  She'd be just as homeless, but she'd look less out of place.  I type this knowing that it's written from a selfish perspective - I don't like being reminded of the have-nots.

Do any of us?

Do We Tell G'ma?

My great-aunt died.  The timing wasn't great; Superstorm Sandy had just finished washing away the east coast, where she and all her relatives live. Her grandson's school was closed for the disaster, and there was no back-up child care.  She had been child care. My sister drove in from New Jersey to collect him and amuse him and take him to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; that will be an odd memory for him to fold into the tale he tells of his grandmother's demise.

She was old, Aunt Lilly was.  She had been sick for a while, and palliative care was the most recent prescription.  It was only a matter of time.  As TBG describes these events, it was sad but not a tragedy.  It was also a fact.

Aunt Lilly and G'ma weren't close. G'ma wasn't close to anybody, except, perhaps, my sister. There was no antagonism, there was distance and disinterest.  Still, the woman was married to her brother; she was a part of my mother's life.

The question is, should her death become a part of that narrative?

I wrestled with it alone.  I talked about it with TBG.  I slept on it.  Now, I am writing about it.  I'm not sure what to do.  

I asked my siblings for their advice.  My sister urged me to have the conversation, because "death is part of life and life has unhappy moment in it."  Since my oft-stated goal for my mom is "No Unhappy Days," this presents a dilemma.

I sat next to her at Thanksgiving, watching her remind herself that she was at my house, with my husband and that young man who must be my son and her grandson sharing the festive table.  There was turkey; it must be Thanksgiving.  The short-sleeved linen top was anachronistic; what was she doing wearing a spring top in the fall?  Oh, right, she's in Tucson, the desert, and it's hot.

All that in five minutes.... and then we started in again.

Why didn't my limp go away?  Would it ever go away?  "You were shot... in the ass... and a little girl died"..... over and over again.

Could she help?  Was there anything she could do?  "I am just sitting here, watching," she'd laugh, and then, after a pause, she'd ask, again, if she could do something for me.  I reminded her that she'd unwrapped the butter and opened the bag of croutons and then she laughed at herself sitting and doing nothing.

The next time she started in on my limp, I pre-empted her: I'm limping because I was shot.  I'm in therapy and they say I will get better but they don't know when. Exercise is boring but I do it because I have to.  Over and over again.

She has no memory of the wedding or the rehearsal dinner or the wonderful time she had at both events. She doesn't remember being surrounded by her grand-daughters' love.  She doesn't remember that her skirt fell to her hips as she stepped into my living room (sometimes having no short term memory is a blessing) nor does she remember that I wore pink sneakers to the party.  

She knows she doesn't remember and she's sad about it when I remind her that it happened.  What's the upside to that?  I can't find one.  She's oriented to herself and her tv and her remote controls. She knows she's supposed to love me, even if she sometimes forgets who I am.  If I don't visit for several days, she holds no grudge.  She doesn't know if I come every day or once a month. 

I recognize the importance of staying connected to the world around her; we went over every nominee and every proposition on her ballot, and she was engaged and thoughtful throughout the process.  Of course, I could have gone over the same races all over again and she'd have had no trouble voting all over again without any memory of the first time around, but, in the moment, she was there.

Does she need to have that moment with Aunt Lilly?

My brother says no.  I'm seeing both sides.  I'd love to know what you think.