So Long, My Friend

We are a tight knit group, those of us who were there to shake Gabby's hand on January 8, 2011. Contrary to reports floating around on the interwebs, we are not a group of actors who knew one another before that morning.  We didn't stage the event; we were there when it happened to us, unwilling participants in a spark that ignited the current frenzy over sensible gun control legislation.  That is the public piece of it all. The private piece is much more special.

We each have a role to play in the on-going drama that is our lives, post getting-shot-on-a-sunny-Saturday-morning.  Some of us talk to the media, some of us organize get-togethers, some of us lobby on Capitol Hill. Each of us acts, in some small way, as a representative of the larger group.  Not everyone has the same set of skills in their toolbag; together we're a fully functioning unit.

We are gun owners and gun fearers, parents and grandparents, mothers and fathers and sons and daughters. We've brought our significant others into the fold; the power of shared tragedy and the healing journey is a bond too strong to be kept from those we love.  At the top of this food chain of inter-connectedness and compassion sits Randy.

Randy, always ready with a smile and a hug and a big "How ya doin', kid?"  No matter the baggage I bring to the moment, just seeing him lightens my load.

He's a retired mental health professional whose experience with the system has been invaluable.  He explains the ins and outs, the tangible and the unsubstantial-but-real consequences of diagnosis, treatment, incarceration, and rehabilitation.  He's had first hand experience on the front lines.  He's seen it from both sides - as a recipient of the horror and as a comforter of the afflicted.  It makes for a very interesting package.

He's tall and fair and curly haired.  He's in blue jeans and sandals most of the time, embodying the Tucson experience.  He's at every hearing, every press conference, every party.  He knows when a smile will suffice and when more than a hug is needed.  His uncanny ability to know when "I'm fine" means "I'm on the verge of losing it entirely" has saved me on more than one occasion.

And now he's leaving.

There's a house to be fixed up in Hawaii, and a wife already there and settling in. Can he live on an island?  He's not sure, but he's willing to try.  He's moving on. Why do I feel as if he's leaving me behind?

I've come to count on his presence, knowing that he could put the right words to the unfathomable emotions roiling beneath my surface.  He provided validation and acceptance and humor and joy and I will miss him ... terribly... totally... completely.  There will be a void whenever the rest of us gather.  He will be missed.

I should be glad for him, and I am. He's making a change, taking the next step, living the life he might have had had bullets not interrupted its trajectory. He's the first of our group to leave. My issues are personal; for him, I have nothing but good wishes and great expectations.

I am bereft.  I've felt this way before, when friends moved far away and left me behind, holding the baggage of our relationship alongside the emptiness in my heart.  This is a little bit different.  The whole experience has been sui generis; I've managed to hold it together by hanging on, sometimes with only my fingertips, to the connections our little group has forged.  I'm having a hard time letting go of even one piece of the puzzle.

Since I have no choice, I've begun stockpiling the memories.  His steady hand on my back when being upright was just too much. His bright eyes towering over the tiny women who make up a good proportion of those of us who were there that morning.  His hugs... oh, my, his hugs.... those need the reality to be fully appreciated.

I wonder if he thinks we're kidding when we tell him we're having a reunion at his house next January 8th.  Hawaii after New Years sounds pretty good to me.  The fact that Randy and his sweet Barb will be there is just the icing on the cake.

I know that life goes on.  I just don't like it when it wrenches a stanchion from my tent.

Here Are the Pictures

What's a gardening post without pictures?  I wondered about that myself, as I posted last week.  But, life intervened and the sun had set before I could get home and take the photos I wanted.  Now, after a lovely, warm, breezy, sunny weekend, I have finished upgrading the irrigation, installing plants in the containers, and begun growing veggies for salad delights.

My timer was covered in lime.  Even with new batteries, it didn't make a sound.  So, Brother and I bought me a new one and I installed it today.

I was glad that I remembered to use the thin white tape to cover the threads as I screwed the pieces into one another.  It's still leaking and the hose bib connector may have to be replaced, but none of the connections are seeping, and that is a good thing.

It's hard to dig a trench to bury the lines.  I was struggling and feeling annoyed until I remembered a lesson learned in Master Gardening.  I soaked the ground I wanted to trench and was able to create a ditch large enough to conceal the tubing.

No one wants to see tubing.  We want to see flowers.  The rose bush I bought last year was pruned to four canes, and has small buds budding.

This is the rosebush I bought at Rillito Nursery yesterday.  Promised to do well in high temperatures, I thought of my new-best-friend, Jean Jennings, when I saw the name.  Chrysler Imperial.... how could I resist?

I planted Super Sweets and Cherry tomatoes along with sweet basil this year.  I've given up on peppers and curcubits and going with what I know works.  Maybe next year I'll be more adventurous.  For right now, having an imperfect body is enough disappointment for one person.

Not everything needs irrigation. 

These desert marigolds are volunteers, and seem to do just fine with the run-off from the containers nearby.

Going with my "plant what works" theme, I stuck carnations behind the hyacinth bulb which has appeared every year since I put it in when we arrived in 2006.  It's nice to see an old friend every springtime.

The dead stump in the front of this container will, I hope, be a strong and vibrant zinnia come summertime.  For now, purple on purple carnations are filling the emptiness.

Remember the weeds I showed you in January? 

They are now these lovely blue wildflowers, dotting the courtyard and pathway and spreading to cover the entire front yard.

The desert mountain laurel pods are still hanging on.

I'm sure I could do something creative with them.

I just don't know what it might be.

 Instead, I spend time sniffing the fragrance of the blossoms.  Would that I could package it and send it your way.

Those nubs on the top of the cactus will be big flowers in a week or six.

One never knows with these things.

The sun on the cholla made me smile.

It, too, is beginning to bud.

Red flowers will attract the ground squirrels, who have been curiously absent lately.

Something is living here, though.

These five holes are snakes... or lizards... or mammals of some sort.

No one can tell, for sure.

 I could fill them in, or run water into them, or leave them alone.  I'm opting for the last choice; those beasties were here before I was, and will be here afterwards.  I hope they enjoy the wildflowers I'm seeding for them.

Mommy Wars

How I got caught up in this I'll never really know.  I was struck by a comment, I ruminated, I couldn't find an answer in my own brain, I wrote it up and published it.  I found that my readers had strong opinions, and their answers helped me clarify my confusion.  I'm still not sure that I'm right, bu now I know how my audience feels.

I also hurt my friend's feelings.

This blogging stuff has lots of points and corners and twists and turns. I seem to have made a wrong one.

Little Cuter called me and wondered if my friend was hurt. She saw what others saw and what I had not considered: I was calling on people to disparage another's parenting.  Though that wasn't my intent, I quickly came to see how it could be construed as such.

I really didn't know what to think. Her son, after a long hard week of single-parenthood, offered to make her a margarita.

She'd be giving her son the opportunity to make her smile, to present her with something she likes. He offered to do it for her, he's demonstrating his love, he enjoys the process... what is my problem?

I was really wondering.  It made me uncomfortable, and I didn't know why.  I know she's a strong role model, a positive parent, a woman who makes those around her feel comfortable and included.  She wondered, in the Facebook post that prompted the brouhaha, whether she was a bad mother or a great mother and I took the question to heart.  I mulled it over, I talked to my friends in real life, I went back and forth, and then I sat down to type.  I was really wondering.

We all use our blogs for different purposes. This blogger is obviously more confident in her parenting skills than I was/am:

And I am certainly not going to go and write a blog post on whether your choice to provide samplings of alchool to your children is ethical or a good parenting decision. I don't need an audience to tell me "I'm right"

I wasn't looking for affirmation; I was looking for context, for other opinions, for analysis other than my own.  I wasn't sure where I stood and I was asking for help.  My title was a question, in and of itself : Am I Right?

It's worked for me as I heal, as I parent my 90 year old mother, as I deal with family stress.  I had no idea it would be so controversial when I brought up parenting. I've always aired my troubles to my friends.  It's how I make decisions.

"Is this what you do in your playgroups?" another comment asked.  Yes, indeed, it was.  We wondered aloud and with one another about our choices, our concerns, our stances on the issues.  Was she overly-anal or merely super-organized, our friend who had her full-time sitter fill out an hourly log of the children's activities? We thrashed that one out, over and over again, with her in the room.  Should my sitter have gotten her 17 year old daughter birth control pills when she asked for them?  There was a lot of disagreement over that one, believe me.  Don't imagine that my alcohol-free-party screeds were not contested, either.  We relied on one another, we listened, we learned.

I can see how my friend felt bashed by the number of people who took the issue seriously, who wondered about alcohol and tweens, who were concerned about the message it sent.  I suppose my opening comments, and their repetition throughout the post, were not enough.  Saying "I like this woman.  I respect this woman.  I wanted to answer her honestly,"  obviously was not enough. 

I'm still not sure about the right answer to the original question.  I can see them giggling over the ingredients, frothing the beverage til it was just so, hugging as the joy of making mom smile overcame them all.  As my son commented, 

As long as the parents are engaged and actively pay attention to how their actions are being perceived and parroted by their kid, I don't think this is necessarily a red flag.

Context is everything, as he says.  I know that the parents are "engaged and actively pay(ing) attention" and I know that their hearts are in the right place.  I'm still not sure about the right answer, but there's more that I want to say. I'm moving on to the meta-issue.

I think it's sad when we look at questioning as disparaging.  Sure, some of the comments were strongly on the side of NO, but if you look at them, you'll see "stepdad was an alcoholic," "family of alcoholics" running through the comments as a steady stream.  Once again, context is everything.

Our questions are a snapshot of our own issues; as a member of a generation that venerated sex and drugs and rock and roll these subjects roil around in my brain all the time. Are misogynistic lyrics the ruin of today's youth?  What about Mick Jagger singing "Under My Thumb?"  Is bad behavior by rock stars leading them down the road to hell?  What abou the Grateful Dead's Casey Jones, "ridin' that train, high on cocaine?" My parents were appalled at my music, just as I am appalled at Elizibeth's choices; it's a rite of passage and, with good adult supervision and values modeled by the grown ups in our lives, damage can be avoided.

But, if we look at an answer with which we disagree as an ad hominem attack, if we take issue with  raising the question, if we can only preach to the choir, then how will we learn? In the original post, I tried as hard as I could to present my quandary - a good parent wondered about a nuanced issue and I wondered, too.  I want to keep up with the times, I try to be accepting of cell phones on the table next to the 20-somethings in my life although it screams RUDENESS to my aged ears.  I try to recognize that life goes on, that perceptions change, that my reality is based on a 20th century, industrial age education, one where it was taken for granted that our children would do better than we did.

Faced with underemployment and instant access to information and wealth inequalities and dysfunctional government on all levels, the world is a vastly different place than when I was a young mother. My circles were live and in front of me, not spread over the interwebs. Who I was figured into what was said - by me and about me.  We've lost that connection as we've made more and more intersections.

Actually, I think that's the crux of the matter.  My readers intersected with my friend.  They never really connected.

It is an awful feeling when your words hurt another.  I'm responsible for giving my friend some bad moments, and for that I apologize and seek forgiveness.  I had no idea that the Mommy Wars would touch The Burrow.

I remember the school psychologist telling the 5th grade moms that we were "parenting against the culture," back in 1993.  It seems as if it's only getting worse.... with more eyes and ears to hammer home truths... if truths they be.

So sorry, Becca.  So very very sorry.

Planting in the Short Desert Spring.

There was barely a transitional stage.  It snowed within recent memory; the pictures are still cropping up on Tucsonans' Facebook pages.  We awoke after torrential rains to snow capping the mountains this weekend.  It had melted by the time I arrived at the Festival of Books, but the image was burned into my brain.  Elizibeth and I shared the warm clothing I'd brought along; flip flops were out of the question.

My polar fleece wasn't too heavy as I crossed the campus to my car.  I rolled down a window, and cranked it right back up once I began to move.  The breeze was frigid, though the sun was out and the trees were barely moving.  That's as wintry as Tucson gets, and I'm glad.

TBG turned on the pool's heater and the sun warmed the water as the mechanics did their job but the air temperature hovered near 60.  I was too cold to contemplate donning a swimsuit and taking a dip.  The winter seemed determined to stick around.

From Rillito Nursery

We have a six week window for planting, here in the desert Southwest.  The danger of frost must have passed, and the temperatures have to stay in double digits so that the roots don't burn up before they become established.  Valentines Day is the usual start to the gardening season; this year, it snowed.  Tomato plants required the cosseting of a water wall.

I put off planting anything.

It's hard enough to coax a tomato to grow here; I want them to have a safe and comfortable start.

So, I didn't get Brother to help me repair the raised bed.  I didn't buy new soil.  I had no plants resting in the shade of the acacia tree, waiting to be placed in their new home.  The irrigation set-up (timer, resistor, tubing) is connected to itself, but not to the garden plot.  It's been too cold to work outside.

And then, I woke up today.  Ernie called to remind me that he was coming to wash the windows and clean up winter's destruction of the yard.  I put on a long sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts and walked outside, intending to survey the scene and develop a strategy for the yard guys.  

I began to perspire almost immediately.  It wasn't even 9am, and it was H-O-T.

The actual temperature is immaterial; it felt like an outer circle of hell by the time I dragged myself across the expanse of the front yard.  Mexican Birds of Paradise need to be trimmed to nothingness; I could barely bend over to check for green (growing) shoots.  The wildflowers I've determined are weeds covered the stones; there are too many to pull, they are too close to those I've chosen to keep, and the Round-Up I sprayed last week doesn't seem to have accomplished a thing. 

The guys had a lot to do.  I wish they had paid closer attention to Ernie's instructions.  The volunteer crepe myrtle which had established itself amidst the purple lantana in the front yard fell victim to the power pruner's blades.  It will return, but I miss its smiling tentacles rising from the detritus of the spent ground cover below.  There's a price to be paid for having helpers in the yard; I was working with Ernie when the cutting began and wasn't there to save the pretty pink flowers from ruin.  Sigh....

Ernie cut the bougainvillas down to the nubs, and then worked on removing the unproductive, thick stumps near the ground.  We trimmed the branches which were headed toward the wall; this year the bougies are going to flower outward and upward, if I have anything to say on the subject.

The rosemary was a different story; I had hopes that a hedge would form.  They are doing nicely, but still look like distinct plants, plants which are growing forward and backward instead of left and right.  Ernie says they will eventually climb to the top of the pony wall and drape delightfully over to the other side.  

Given that the definition of a weed is a plant in the wrong place, I took issue with TBG's description of our courtyard as full of weeds.  I like these blue volunteers which are sprouting all over the place.  I like thinking about the animals whose coats dropped seeds, whose digestive tracts and excretions left bundles of beauty for me this spring.  The circle of life is quite obvious out here.

Soon, the entire courtyard, and a good portion of the front yard, will be blue and swaying in the breeze.  For now, it's a work in progress, with new flowers popping up every day.  I'll collect the seeds from them, and sprinkle them over the ground during the first summer rain.  Ernie promises that they'll take; I'm choosing to believe him.

The raised bed has boards that need reattaching and soil that needs enriching.  I'm considering a variety of possibilities for making it higher, but I think I'll have to wait til next year.  Summer came too quickly for me and there's no more time for thought.  Action must be taken before the climate intervenes and makes further work impossible.  

I'll plant tomatoes and basil and jalapenos; they've been successful in the past and I am sure I can grow them again.  I'm going to skip the melons and the beans and the peppers; I'm tired of investing energy in things that disappoint me. When it cools off, I'll put in lettuce, a cool weather crop that provides free salad and a smile every afternoon as I'm preparing dinner.  Yes, home grown lettuce tastes a lot better than that which you find at the store.

My citrus trees are a sorry example of my abilities; they are trying, but not having much luck at all. I'm blaming my irresponsible inattention to irrigation, when I'm not wondering why I chose plants that require so much coddling.  I'm reminded of G'ma advising me to find my houseplants at Woolworths.  "If they can survive there, they can survive with you," she told me, and she was right.  I expect compliance from my plants; a hard scrabble upbringing was always a good indicator of their success at home.

That's the joy and the frustration of gardening in an inhospitable climate.  The aloes and agaves froze when I was too lazy to go outside and cover them during our frigid winter.  It broke my heart to cut them off; I knew I had failed them, sending them to an early doom.  I promised that I'd do better next time.

By the time the electric blowers were on the gardeners' backs, I was drenched in sweat, my hair was stuck to my head, and my heart was full.  I have a few more holes to fill in the yard, a few more spaces to enhance, but, for the most part, the heavy work is done.  When the temperatures have climbed to triple digits I'll be able to admire my handiwork from air conditioned splendor. 

It's not as much fun as digging in the dirt all summer long, but we make do with what we have.  What I have is good.

Down in the Dumps

I spent 45 minutes in the gym this morning.  I did leg curls with 20 pounds on the machine and squats without weights.  I couldn't move the seated leg press machine with my right leg, couldn't move it an inch... until I looked and saw that there was 50 pounds on the weight pin... and then I felt better.... until I remembered that I'd been doing much more than that before....

Before.... I was fast, I was confident, I scurried.  Before.... I didn't have to worry about keeping my planters hydrated while I visited Big Cuter for a long weekend.  Before.... I was symmetrical.

It's been a while since I've been so disappointed.  The sun is out, the air is clear, the wildflowers are blooming, and I'm blue.  I have plans to visit with Amster's kids this afternoon, and there's a massage awaiting me later on, too.  My kids are healthy and happy and G'ma is stable and as delightfully confused as ever.  There's no real reason for my heavy heart.

The Senate Judiciary Committee passed a universal background check proposal this morning; our side is flexing its muscle and I should be beaming.  I've had a (very small) part in the effort; I should be proud.  I am... kinda sorta... but there's a cloud sitting on my lap.

Actually, the cloud is centered on my right thigh, just below the hinge of my torso. It's an interesting pain, sharp and deep and consistent.  I like consistency.  It keeps me centered.  I just wish this little piece of heaven would leave me alone.  It's changing my posture and my outlook.

I find myself shifting to the left as I type; I just rearranged myself in my birthday chair.  It takes a conscious effort to weight both sides of my sitting apparatus on the best of days.  Today, that effort involves working through the pain.

Yes, it's pain.  I've had discomfort and I've had anguish and I've had searing, stabbing, unrelenting awfulness over the last two years, but I've rarely used pain to describe it.  Today, I'm giving in.  I'm in pain.

Accepting the ups and downs of recovery has been the most difficult piece for me.  I like a steady course, one that rewards effort and demonstrates progress.  Too bad.  As I used to sing to the Cuters in similar situations, You can't always get what you want.

Right now that fact is making me sad.

Peeking around the corner of my brain, however, is a ray of sunshine.  The title that my fingers found for me is reminding me of My Man Godfrey, William Powell's 1936 Depression masterpiece. A rich boy running from responsibility, he is found living in the dump by a rich girl on a scavenger hunt.  He's her lost man and she's going to save him.  As with most of the comedies of that era, he ends up saving her, as well.  Only this time, the benefits cover the other lost men, those who were living in the cardboard shacks in the dump right next to Godfrey.  The details of the story are less important (and I would hate to spoil the tale for those of you who are going to watch it on Netflix tonight) than the lesson I'm finding within.

Those men were truly down in the dumps.  Again, like most Depression era filmmakers, de Cava portrays them as down but not out, lost but not despairing, alone but helpful to their neighbors.  I find myself wondering how they could smile... and why I can't.

I'm laughing at myself as my fingers tell you that movie characters are pushing me to look deeper at  my life, but it's true.  I'm searching everywhere for pieces of the puzzle that seem to have gone missing over the weekend.  I walked, I learned, I ached.  I thought it was the vastness of the Festival of Books that did me in, but it's two days later and my leg is still screaming.  It's hard to stay upbeat and focused when, just sitting here typing to you, my thigh is announcing its presence with authority... in a loud voice... laced with pain.

I'm usually pretty good at pushing the aches to the background, but the warm weather and sunny skies remind me that I'd rather be digging in the garden than whining about my hurting hip.  The effort I'm expending to move the pain off the front burner is taking all of my inner strength... and I'm failing.  I can't distract myself today.

And then, back I go to Godfrey.  When the trash intruded on their living spaces, the denizens of the dump moved their shacks to a clearer patch, and then helped their neighbors do the same.  The characters were cognizant of the changes but not overwhelmed by the challenges.  I'm holding them in my head as I take myself to the shower (where bending to wash my feet will make me wince) and to lunch with TBG (where lowering myself into the Boxster will make me gasp) and to watch Amster's kids while she's in trial (where I won't be able to play tag or chase them down the hall).

All those problems.... and I'm here to have them.  That's a good thing.

I just wish it didn't hurt so much.

Words of Wisdom from the TFOB

I reread the notes in my Moleskine last night, as I regaled Big Cuter with my day at the Tucson Festival of Books.  He's a fan of Patrick Rothfuss in particular and fantasy in general; I tried to make it real for him.  As I revisited the day in my head, I realized that there were many more pearls of wisdom hidden in the talks and that yesterday's post only scratched the surface.

So, today, I bring you The Best of Ashleigh's Notes:
*****

"Research is so seductive."

"Writing from history is the best: you are given a great story 

and you don't have to make anything up."

"I have a folder full of Books I Never Wrote."

The Loch Ness Theory: 

If people are making money off the legend, 

they will lie to keep it so.

On the main players at the OK Corral:

Wyatt Earp had a "deep, cold well of rage, which he kept hidden."

"Old Man Clanton was a real son-of-a-bitch."

John Grisham's prodigious output and phenomenal success 

has put pressure on other authors to do as he does: produce a book a year.

Knowing that Stephan Pastis loved the Mr. Bill segments of Saturday Night Live explains a lot.

For those in the audience who were ignorant of his existence, 

Mr. Pastis described Mr. Bill as "a character who died in awful ways."  

He had a comical glint in his eye.  

As I said, it explains a lot.

I think I might enjoy his strip more if I read it in an afternoon paper.

I prefer a less hostile start to my day.

"We are only the temporary guardians of our atoms."

Questions like these are at the forefront of cosmology right now:

Is an event horizon mute to information?

Is information stored in the event horizon of a black hole?

I loved the fact that I have a vague-hazy-better-than-I-did-ten-years-ago understanding of the issue.

"The most interesting things are happening on television today, not in the movies."

"George (R.R.Martin) is an emotionally ruthless author."

And, finally, there was this:

A novel was written.

The main character was despicable, even to the author.

His agent loved the book but couldn't sell it.

The main character was too loathsome.

The author was at a loss so he went home and asked his father what to do.

"Add a dog. Everybody likes dogs."

He did.

They did.

My moral?  The reason I love the TFOB? Why reading and readers and writers fill my soul?  Because even as I'm laughing in a cold tent on a blustery Saturday morning, I'm reminded that the same lesson can be both simple and profound. 

Which lesson?  

It's okay to ask for help.

Thank you to the woman who offered to spare me the trip down the steps to the end of the line by inviting me to join her party.  I was headed elsewhere, but she gets credit for the good deed anyway. Thanks to the 20-something who offered me his seat right by the doorway, as I paused to catch my breath.  Thanks to the security officer whose concern for my limp-with-a-hiking-pole trek across campus nearly broke my heart.  I was fine, ma'am; I took my time and arrived safely.

This event is a milestone for me. I went from racing in Keens to being pushed in G'ma's wheelchair to stumbling slowly to one venue and then home to this year, spending two days, lurching but moving and doing what I wanted to do.  I'm forced to think of my recovery and evaluate my progress.  I'm glad that I can do it surrounded by thousands of others who are also thinking their own deep thoughts.

Thanks for the help, TFOB.

Tucson Festival of Books

It was a busy weekend in Tucson.  The Wildcats were playing softball and basketball on campus, even though it's Spring Break and the kids are supposed to be gone.  That's the premise behind scheduling the Festival of Books for this weekend; the campus and the parking garages are supposed to be empty.  It's also supposed to be warm and sunny; it's March in Tucson, after all.

The best laid plans, as they say.... the kids and I headed out through sprinkles, wearing sweatshirts and polar fleece, parking much further than my achy hip appreciated.  We were there before the festivities officially started at 10am, which is how we could be up close and personal with the Mad Scientist

whose coloring book with the appearing and disappearing pictures gave Messers 7 & 9 the giggles. He was "messing with our minds" and we couldn't decide if that was a good thing, or not.

Elizibeth's new phone timed the teen who was saying the colors instead of reading the words, and then beat his time by 2/3 when he read the words themselves.  Our brains were on fire.

After trips through booksellers and book givers and bookmark makers, we took a rest at the circus stage, where the world's most flexible sisters

amazed us.  Thankfully, there were no clowns.  Elizibeth hates clowns.

Once I recovered, we strolled back to the kids' area where we bumped into Fernando and his mother; the boys went off to his house to play while Elizibeth and I continued to improve our minds.  We heard John Sayles tell us that we "have God's power" as a book author, but absolutely none as a screenwriter.

I asked how the panel members, authors and screenwriters all, handled the movies changing the ends of their stories.  I had Bernard Malamud's The Natural in mind, and was appropriately ecstatic when Sayles used it as his exemplar.  The whole thing was delightfully serendipitous.

We heard Alice LaPlante talk about fiction writers needing to be great liars, after Craig Whitney shared absolutely nothing new in his talk on "A Liberal and the Second Amendment."  I questioned his membership in the NRA, an organization whose public posturing reflects not the sentiments of its membership but the paid for beliefs of the gun and ammunition manufacturers who fund group.  He couldn't talk his way out of it. Perhaps I was expecting something different; I was looking for a reasoned response to a gun-totin' interlocutor.  Then, again, I bring a certain perspective and bias to the issue.

By that time, we were frozen to the core; we skipped the last two sessions and ran for home.

Sunday was a sunnier, warmer, lonelier day for me.  Elizibeth took sick in the cold; I went alone.  From ten til five I lumbered across the mall at the University, climbing steps and fitting myself into uncomfortable folding chairs while my brain was transported to its own happy place.

Mary Doria Russell and Ann Kirschner talked about Wyatt Earp.... after leading a sing-along of the tv show's theme song.  They took such joy in sharing their work, their habits, their philosophical bents; it was uplifting to sit in the audience.  What happens when the law fails you?  How do you deal with fanatics who live on Planet Earp, who take issue with every deviation from the canon?  These are things I will ponder in the coming days.

Then, it was on to Family Matters, where the Nivens's

 and the Palmers

talked about their "enormous pride and joy" as they shared "writing time" with their loved ones.  The conversation ran from romances written from a guy's perspective to their love of The Bachelor on television.  The personal stories were interspersed with snippets on writing ("Doctors love words.  There are doctors who don't love words.  They become surgeons.") but mostly I watched their faces.  They were great faces.

Stephen Pastis writes my least favorite-yet-I-read-it-every-morning-comic-strip, Pearls Before Swine.  I was glad to know that the abuse his character takes for writing puns is there because he knows I hate them; I admit to reevaluating my opinion of the strip over oatmeal this morning..

He was on a panel with Alex Rex and R. L. Stine, childrens' authors extraordinaire.  The room was filled with young readers, all of whom had questions.  We learned that R.L.Stine types with one finger, that Stephen Pastis writes with a "Music To Kill Yourself To" playlist blaring from his computer's speakers, that Alex Rex has a portfolio of "cute animals in waistcoats" just waiting to be put to good use.  The youngsters were beside themselves; it was fun to watch.

I indulged myself in an hour of cosmology with Chris Impey, wallowing in the Big Bang and quarks and the Higgs Boson .  I learned that Congress has authorized (pending the sequester's outcome) half a billion dollars to study gravitational waves... and I have a vague understanding of what gravitational waves are.

Then, I took my expanded brain power to the last session of the last day: Epic Novels.  Though the conversation started out with The Iliad, Patrick Rothfuss, pictured, went straight to the heart of the "intimate epics" he and Diana Gabaldon and Sam Sykes write.  This was nerd heaven.... just look at the man and dare to disagree with me. The conversation started fifteen minutes before the session officially began, and was full of in-jokes and the laughter at the arcane jokes appreciated only by the initiates.  I missed Big Cuter by my side; I needed an interpreter.

Diana Gabaldon told us that she is "not the God in (her) story; (she is) just the spectator," and I went back in my head to the other panels, the other authors, the other brilliant, successful humans who took time out of their writing to talk about the process with us.

This is the fourth largest book festival in the United States, if their publicity can be believed.  All that was missing was you.  If you're looking for a vacation for next spring, why not include Tucson, the second weekend in March, in your planning.  I promise it will make you smile.

Random Thoughts - The Busy Week Edition

I love it when a plan comes together.  You can all pat yourselves on the back... all of you who made the call or wrote the letter or sent the email or the tweet.  The Senate Judiciary Committee passed the first piece of President Obama's gun control initiative, making straw purchasing (the buying of guns on behalf of those who are prohibited from owning them) a federal crime.

Sen. Chuck Grassley, a Republican from Iowa, voted with the ten Democrats on the Committee. I'm stopping off at his website to thank him for his support.  It seems like the polite thing to do.
*****
Sen. Grassley's home state saw ads on responsible gun ownership in the days leading up to this vote.  Americans for Responsible Solutions, Gabby and Mark's PAC, must be feeling pretty good right about now; their dollars paid for those ads and they seem to have made a difference.
*****
I wore the same blouse today that I wore to the press conference yesterday .  It's a pretty salmon color, and several people commented on its loveliness.  Of course, most of those people remembered seeing it on television, too.

There's a lot more to being a faux-celebrity than meets the eye... or the wardrobe... it seems.
*****
Thucydides is describing the collapse of Athenian democracy, as my Humanities Seminar wends its way through the Peloponnesian War. We're up to the Melian Dialogue, wherein the Athenians explain to the inhabitants of Melos that negotiations can only happen between equals, that Athens will crush them should they resist becoming a colony, that feelings and religion and the rightness of their position were immaterial, that might makes right. The Melians choose to fight, the Athenians win, and then, as Thucydides so succinctly puts it, the Athenians put to death all the grown men whom they took, and sold the women and children for slaves....

This led to our professor's startling (to me, at least) revelation that there is a branch of scholarship devoted to the logistics of annihilating the population of an island.  How many Melians could an Athenian slaughter before his arm got tired?  How long did the process take?  How did they dispose of the bodies?  It's an island; was there room for them all?

As Little Cuter said when she heard of a friend's college coursework on Modern Norwegian Fiction, "Some people have too much time on their hands."
*****
I had the opposite issue today - too little time and too many events.  I threw up my hands and went to lunch by myself.  Sometimes self-comforting is in order.
*****
I visited the newest addition to sheltered care for the demented in our neighborhood this afternoon. It is bright and clean and thoughtfully appointed.  The hallways are broad and well lit and long... very very long.  There are a few private rooms; most are shared bedrooms or adjoining to a shared bathroom.

The pod-castle looked a lot better to me as I left that shiny new building. I walk into a foyer and a living room when I visit G'ma; the new place has a generic waiting room and a locked portal into the living space.  I drove over to hug my mother and congratulate her on raising a daughter who managed to find the best place in Tucson for her to live, but it was Movie Afternoon and she was busy.  The shades were drawn, sodas were poured, popcorn was at hand, and the residents were enthralled, watching a movie the way movies are supposed to be watched: together.

I didn't disturb her.  I refilled her bowl of chocolate and slipped quietly away.
*****
I'm taking Amster's kids to the Tucson Festival of Books tomorrow, and I'm concerned about the weather. Only in Tucson would a mid-50's-and-occasional-shower forecast be considered stay-home-and-stay-warm weather in early March.  Of course, today we were in the mid-80's, so I'm kinda sorta spoiled.

Don't hate me .... move down and join me.
*****
All our teams lost this week; none of them were even close.  It was a dismal way to end the regular season, and a less than promising way to start the run-up to March Madness.  Still, it's fun to see the recipients of our tuition dollars on the television screen.

I'd write more, but neither of the kids wanted to talk about it and that's where most of my chatter originates. Poor babies, they had to hide their sorrows in silence.
*****
I just called Senator Jeff Flake's office to confirm that he had voted against the straw purchasing bill in his committee meeting this morning.  The lovely young woman who answered his phone in Washington had no idea, had no one to ask, couldn't direct me to anyone who could answer my question, and offered no guidance on where to turn.

She did take my address so that she could get back to me with the answer.  Of course, that doesn't help me much for this post, now does it?
*****
Little Cuter is breaking down and buying herself an ereader.  She's feeling guilty about abandoning her physical books, but the weight of them is becoming an annoyance on her daily commute.  I tried to reassure her, to console her, but I think that Dana Stabenow said it best: they are complementary tools.  You use a pen and a pencil and a keyboard, after all.

Gabby, Roxanna, and Me

We stood on the concrete where, as Emily said, her son, Gabe, lay for hours. We were surrounded by the media and the survivors and the sheriffs.  There were lots of sheriffs.  We made sure of that before we committed to attend.

The sun was shining, the temperatures were in the 70's, we knew the players and the program and our roles.  Americans for Responsible Solutions held a press conference, and everybody came.

Colonel Bill spent this morning scanning the crowd for miscreants; he and TBG crossed paths on their circuit at the back of the pack.  Carol made sure we had tissues and stiffened spines.  Pia went over the talking points. Roxanna and I sat on the swivel chairs outside the store; our achy hips weren't having any more standing than absolutely necessary.  I'd be speaking, but she'd be right beside me, holding the picture of Christina-as-flower-girl at her uncle's wedding.

We were to stand close by the podium as Mark introduced us, five of us, each of us with our own perspective, our own analysis, our own shtick.  They are roles with which we are comfortable, because they are extensions of who we are.  Randy, the mental health professional, talking about treatment and responsibility.  Ken, the scholar with the Constitution tucked in his rear pocket, Emily, the mom with a hole in her heart, Pam, Gabby's staffer and pseudo-mom, and I.

We were right there twenty-six months ago, I holding the hand of an excited nine year old, Gabby wearing mittens Pam bought for her at the Walgreens next door. Mary's daughter, Emma, stood with her as her Tom's, father and son, hit Walgreens out of boredom.  Mavy and Dory and Phyllis and Dorothy and George stood in line, waiting to meet and greet their Congresswoman, exchanging pleasantries.

Nothing was unusual.  Nothing seemed different.  And then, it was all of those things, and more.

I was privileged to stand at the podium and wonder why, when so much has been lost, when so many lives have been shattered, when the time is right, why do nothing?  A common sense measure is before our Senators, and I urged them, Senators McCain and Flake, to represent those of us who were standing in front of the Safeway this morning.  They are my men in Washington; I urged them to listen.  I hollered at the listeners to call and write and make their voices heard.

Then I walked into Gabby's embrace.  She's a tiny slip of a thing, yet her strength held me upright as I caught my breath.  I put myself out front and center in a divisive issue; it's a little scary.  But within the arms of my inspiration, that didn't matter.

Mark told the audience that, as Gabby leaves for therapy in the morning, she turns to him and says:
(cue Gabby chiming in with a smile and a raised, clenched fist) Fight! Fight! Fight!

If she can do it, so can I.... and so can you.

So, I'm asking, what did you do today to make the world the kind of place that Christina-Taylor imagined it could be?

It's Time to Start Hollering

Prepare for a screed.  Prepare to be harangued.  Prepare to be brow-beaten.  I've come to the conclusion that the only way to get on the national radar is to holler.

I'm not using the word in a pejorative sense.  I'm not condoning screeching or other loud noises.  Hollering, when I was growing up, meant speaking with more than the usual amount of intensity.  The voice did not need to be raised; it was the emotion powering the words which turned normal, Long Island forcefulness into hollering.

It's time for us to start hollering about sensible gun legislation.

I'm not getting into a 2nd Amendment argument.  I've managed to stop the conversation by reminding my interlocutor that the first few words of that Amendment include well-regulated, which to me, condones some measure of control. I'm not a constitutional scholar; I can't parse the verbiage beyond read the words, for crying out loud.  That piece of the argument is fruitless, and is why we have a Supreme Court.

I'm talking about common sense.  I'm talking about making government work on the business at hand.  I recognize that there are many opinions on the topic; I'm asking our government to shine a light on the issue.  I'm finished with hearings.  I'm finished trying to change minds.  I want to know where my representatives stand.  I want them to vote on measures which could have prevented, could have minimized the damage, could have deterred the mass shootings in Tucson, in Aurora, in Newtown.

I want to know who is on which side.  I want you to tell me who you are.

Michael Bloomberg wants to die a pauper.  He's putting his considerable wealth behind Mayors Against Illegal Guns. He's been successful, as the Christian Science Monitor reports:

Score one for New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg and his national gun-control campaign. The candidate whom his political-action committee backed for a congressional seat in Illinois – to the tune of $2 million – won the Democratic primary Tuesday...

Suddenly, the money is being matched.  The Chicago candidate put her pro-gun-control position front and center in her campaign, and she won. She attacked an opponent's A+ rating from the NRA, and promoted her own desire to ban assault weapons and she won.  As the winner, Robin Kelly, said in her post-election speech:

You sent a message that was heard around our state and across the nation. A message that tells the NRA that their days of holding our country hostage are coming to an end. And their days of scaring Congress to submission on gun control is coming to a close

There are lots of us out there.  We've just been flying below the radar.  Now is the time to start to holler.

A beloved relative's posts have been blocked from my Facebook news feed because I was tired of deleting four or five or ten or twelve Glenn Beck re-postings. All day, every day, he was trolling for that which supported his cause.... and he was sharing it widely. Rarely, he included a joke.  For the most part, he was preaching to the choir/converting the uninitiated/annoying the hell out of me.

But, he also got me thinking. Perhaps he was on to something, my wrong-headed relative. He was promoting his agenda, shoving it in my face, forcing me to think about it. It occurs to me that, perhaps, I ought to do the same.

Those on the other side are on talk radio, are writing letters to the editor, are calling and emailing their legislators on the local, state and national level.  They aren't one-and-done, either.  They are on the phones and the interwebs every day.  They have been hollering for a long time.

We, on the other hand, polite and right-thinking as we are, make our one stab at contacting our Congressman and then, patting ourselves on the back, move on to the next good deed on our list.  It never crosses our minds that we need to use our voices, that we need to make a statement, that we are not being heard. I'm here to tell you that we are not heard, we are not valued, we are not considered.  There is no reason for us to be part of the equation - no one knows we are out here.

I'm going to use my Ashleigh Burroughs Facebook page to repost, to share, to holler about sensible gun legislation.  If you're not my friend already, send me a request and it will be granted. The messages will be tweeted  @ABattheBurrow, too. I'll be encouraging you to share and repost as well. Our time is now. If a stricken Congresswoman, an assassinated Federal judge, twenty dead kindergarteners, movie patrons mowed down on opening night... if all of that doesn't move you, please let me know what will.

I'm willing to engage in the conversation.

I hope you are willing to carry it on, to push it forward, to holler along with me.  Thinking right thoughts is wonderful, but not as wonderful as acting on them.

How Did This Happen?

How is it possible that our Playgroup babies are now entering their thirties? I would like someone to explain it to me.

The Bride wonders if the Cuters can meet her in Atlanta for her big day.  I read the query on Facebook, and it stopped me cold.  I read it and reread it and tried to smile.  Really, I tried to beat back my beating heart and my flushed face as I looked around for some joy.

The kids (kids?!?!?) have been friends forever; there's never been a time when they weren't invested in one another. Now she's turning 30 and looking to share March Madness with alums who might also be in the Final Four.  Kansas.... Georgetown.... Indiana.... I'm sure great basketball wasn't the only reason they chose those schools, right?

I try to avoid thinking about the fact that Little Cuter set off for her freshman year a decade ago.  She's still my little girl, with the untamed hair and the feisty attitude.  The hair is neater, the attitude remains.  She's happiest when she's busy, then and now.  The only difference is that now she's behind the wheel of a car, she's paying her own bills, she's organizing her own life.  I have input, but as a mom.  I'm no longer "the decider."  I am humbled whenever I tumble over that fact.

I sent her a package today, filled with report cards and diplomas and awards.  She has her own house, with storage space aplenty.  The items are hers; resting in my filing cabinet only until she was ready to receive them.  I understand G'ma's need to divest herself of possessions.  I also understand the little bit of sadness which always tinged the smiles as she gifted her crystal bowls, her costume jewelry, her car.

Do they think about us as much as we think about them?  Probably not, I imagine. I don't remember my own parents being front and center when I was their age.  My own space was so full of new and unexpected adventures, my horizons were expanding and my options seemed limitless.  I see that in the three of them and it makes me smile.... and tired, too.

I'm not setting out on an ice floe any time soon, but I am beginning to notice the turning of a tide.  I am going to concentrate on staying afloat and avoiding becoming the undertow.  Life goes on... forward... and the kids are the grown-ups now.

And still, I wonder.  Just how did this happen?  Where was I when this was going on?

Wherein I Become Susan B Anthony

I was inspired.  I was thrilled. I was moved.  That part was great. The part where I began to realize that, like my similarly-initialed-heroine-from-my-childhood, I was also irrelevant... that part was a somewhat less fabulous lesson, though it was a lesson that needed to be learned.

Arizona List held its annual luncheon on Saturday, and Elizibeth and I got dressed up and attended in style

There was no doubt that we had the best shod feet in the room.  Of course, the waitress who kept tripping over my I-can't-pull-them-in-any-closer boots might have had her own opinion on the subject.  We were comfortably elegant, and I, at least, felt very grown up.

We were hobnobbing with the best Progressive minds in Tucson.  I was able to introduce Elizibeth to many of the dignitaries; I've met them all since bullets and I intersected.  Barbara LaWall, Pima County Attorney, hugs with the best of them.  After meeting her, we decided that Elizibeth should hold her phone in her left hand so that her right hand could be free for shaking.

This stood her in good stead when she had the chance to shake Congressman Ron Barber's hand a few minutes later.  They spoke about debate as I busied myself taking photos and basking in the intensity of their conversation.  She was really listening, he was taking her seriously, and I was feeling my heart swell.  Some very wonderful things have come my way since January, 2011; being on a first-name-hugging-basis with my very own United States Representative is one of them.

Shaking hands with Mayor Rothschild was fairly anti-climactic after conversing with a congressman.  

The event was a celebration of Progressive Politics, and progress was the theme underlying the event.  Pat Wiedhopf, one of the honorees, spoke of her desire to "pay it forward for the next generation." Her work allowed her to mentor and to be mentored, reminding me that there's always something else to learn. We were sitting in a room full of "talent, dedication, and commitment," as Representative Ann Kirkpatrick reminded us in her video address. This was definitely a see-and-be-seen event for the politicians in our area, and those of us who had donated time and dollars to see them elected were able to feast our eyes on the fruits of our labors.

One thing I love about Arizona List is that it quantifies its successes.  As a state Super PAC, pooling small donations, they are a significant player in the process.  In eight years, endorsed candidates have won 79 elections on the state and local levels.  I never feel that my money is going into a black hole of overhead and waste.  Those dollars are being put to good use.

As the chicken and rice entree competed for my attention with the carrot cake already on the table, Beautiful Annie spoke of gun control and reproductive rights and the power of engagement.  It was a warmed up crowd which welcomed the main speaker, Sandra Fluke, to the podium.

She spoke of new-found, unexpected fame.  This photo says it all, I think. She was waiting for her ride in the hallway after her presentation, fodder for perfect strangers (me) to photograph her pulling her phone from her pocket.  As I've learned, there are no "off camera" moments when you're a celebrity.

She shrugged off the label of "young superstar," reminding us that Sara Weddington was six years younger when she argued Roe v Wade in front of the Supreme Court.  Still, for the older women who made up the majority of the audience, she was fresh faced, bright eyed, unsullied by years of doors slamming in her face.  Nothing in her speech refuted that.

Instead of being Pro-Choice, we were encouraged to support Reproductive Justice, the new, esoteric term in women's studies.  Rather than focusing on defending the results of yesterday, the movement is building on past successes and creating an agenda for going forward.

Progressives are inclusive, trying to find agreement on the common sense issues where consensus can be built.  Breast cancer screenings were her good example of something non-partisan.  The fun part came after the example.  "If they can't agree, then they gotta go!" she told us.  "Shine the spotlight on them," she said.  Don't let them run from the fact that they don't find detecting cancer at an early, treatable stage a worthwhile endeavor.

This was her segue into the differences between then and now.  A 60-something woman wondered where the younger generation was hiding; she was tired of marching for choice when the women for whom it was a current issue were no where to be found.  The answer was simple, according to Ms Fluke; "We march less," but they have a much stronger internet presence than we might imagine.  They sign petitions, they write emails, they connect on social media and tweet their hearts out.  In the 21st century, this is how things get done.

I have never felt so irrelevant.  I am pro-choice, but now I have to say that I am an advocate for reproductive justice.  It's wonderful to be inclusive, to join with those who want government out of how they create or parent their children.  In response to legislation seeking to ban IVF procedures, men who wanted to be fathers were able to join the cause of reproductive justice... they were looking for a means to exercise those rights.

It was an interesting paradigm.  It forced me to think.  When the high school girl wondered how her Feminism Club could use language to engage rather than affront her peers, another new piece fell into place for me.  Feminism is "a word we created to do good work behind.  We didn't create it as an excuse for another fight." Ms Fluke suggested Gender Equality as an alternative, "if that works in your community."

If that works?  I don't remember wondering how I'd be perceived, how I'd be heard.  We were shrill because we had to be shrill; those on the other side had not had forty years of training to be ready to think about gender equality. We had to point it out to them.  We had to get their attention.  We didn't worry about their reaction.  In retrospect, perhaps that was a mistake.

And so I went back to feeling like Susan B Anthony.  No one worries about women losing the right to vote, and her temperance platform looks awfully silly as marijuana is legalized across the country. Will we, one hundred years from now, think of our current battles as delightfully quaint examples of a different century?  I will not be here to laugh at myself, but their children will be.

Sandra Fluke and Elizibeth

I'm just glad that I had a chance to look through the window into the future.  It's in good hands. 

I wish it didn't make me feel so old.

At Cafe 54

Lunch was delicious.  The grilled spinach was wilted but not soggy, the bread was crisp and crunchy on the outside and soft and gooey on the inside.  The entire sandwich had structural integrity; I finished it in record time.

After lunch, I followed my friend next door, to the conference room. There, I watched something magical explode.  It was subtle, the change in attitude as the hour wore on.  I began as an outsider and left as a friend.  I can't pinpoint the tipping point, but all of a sudden we were all talking about the same thing at the same time, agreeing, laughing, sighing.  It was respectful and joyful and rueful all at the same time.  It's been a while since I've felt this way.

Cafe 54 is a project of the Coyote Taskforce, whose mission is

to support individuals recovering from persistent, chronic mental illnesses; to help them regain their ability to move towards their recovery with a focus on reintegration into the community.

My friend leads a writers' workshop, and it was they who invited me to visit this afternoon.  She thought the group would benefit from hearing me talk about resilience.  They never got the chance to listen to me wax eloquent; we were engrossed in conversation from the moment I finished my introductory who am I? sentences. They had their own agenda, and I was happy to follow along. They were sharing their lives with me, just as I'd shared my bullet wounds with them.  We were up close and personal in short order.

The shooter was in the room, too, off in the corner, observing and being observed. I don't think that I was alone in sensing his presence. I was in that room because a young man with a mental illness changed my life.  The larger truth, the one we were talking about, the piece that was nagging at us was articulated by one of the participants:  That's not all of us.

The fear of "the other," the one who looks different or responds strangely or cannot participate in society in a way that is acceptable on the surface, that was what held us up. My shooter was as threatening to them as he is to me.  That he never received the help he needed, that he never had the opportunity to get to a manageable place with a chronic condition, that he was alone while he was getting sicker - all that pierced our hearts. I've talked about forgiveness and understanding and what I can and cannot accept in many venues over the last two years; this afternoon was a whole 'nother ball of wax.

Though our topics ranged from gun control to the availability of services to research in brain health the theme was unchanging.  Inclusion and understanding.... is that so much to ask? We are all in this together. Preventing tragedies like Aurora and Newtown is possible; on that we were all agreed.  It was the larger question of mental illness in society today with which we were tangling.

We had no answers. We created no solutions. We shared different sides of an equation, and I only hope I was as helpful to them as they were to me.

The workshop is creating a chapbook to move the conversation along. Historical, poetical, and lyrical pieces will be included.  I've been asked to contribute to the project, too.  Flattery will get them everywhere; I'm compiling ideas amidst the mess on my desk.  Until then, I'm continuing to explore my role in this issue. I'll keep you posted on how we can help.