Emptying Out the Town

JannyLou and Fast Eddie drove out just now. There's a trailer and a rooftop carrier and the suv is filled to the window ledges with plastic containers and ice chests and clothes and entertainment enough for the summer.

The houses bordering the golf course have their security shutters firmly clasped and the heavy padlocks discreetly hidden behind the flowering plants.  Those garage doors won't open again until Thanksgiving. 

Though Princess Myrtle is freezing in her first San Francisco summer, Tucsonans are quietly melting in place.  Those who know what's good for them are heading out of town.  The roads are empty; traffic signals have been readjusted over the past few weeks to reflect the absence of kid-transport.  At 4pm it is now possible to drive the thirteen minutes from Amster's house to my house without being stopped by a single red light.  Adhering to the speed limit has never felt so good. 

The pool was too hot by 9:30; I don't enjoy sweating while swimming laps.  The sun was baking the upward facing side, and I could feel the sunscreen surrendering.  I pruned the containers in the shade, but those pesky climbing weeds covering the heavenly bamboo will have to wait until I remember to go outside before breakfast, when the sun has not gotten over the roof.

Taking in the trash cans is an adventure.  The handles are burning, the lid nearly soft enough to be bendable, and the snakes are out on the ground cover, watching my bare toes in flip flops.  I'm not used to planning before doing that particular chore; it's only an issue for these four months.

Summer camps are traipsing across the UofA campus; teenagers in ever lengthening, straggling lines; little kids in matching neon t-shirts; busloads from Sonora.  How they manage to smile is beyond me.  The air conditioning is powerless if the car isn't parked in the shade.  I sweat behind the steering wheel as they walk by.

Walking with Brenda Starr is an indoor activity these days.  Hiking, were I able to join my friends, starts at 7am, 3,000 feet above my house, on Mt. Lemmon.  Ten degrees per one thousand feet is the rule of thumb; 85 down here is in the high 50's at the trailhead.  I cannot imagine ever needing a jacket again, as I watch the lizards doing pushups in the garden.

Then, I remembered taking G'ma for a picnic on just such a day.  She refused to consider bringing a sweater, but was quite glad to take advantage of the stash in my trunk.  She wondered why she was so underdressed, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that she'd soon be returning to triple digit temperatures, returning to air that felt as if it were melting her thinning skin.  And for right now, that's exactly where I want to be.

New Tires

My car gives me too much information.  It tells me how many miles per gallon I'm getting as I'm tooling along and I find it incredibly distracting.  I could change the display to tell me how many miles I have until the gas tank is empty, or to count out the miles on my second trip, but it's all annoying.

Not as annoying as the fact that the trunk locks automatically and I have to remember to press the button three times to release my groceries, but real close.

With alarming regularity, it decides that my rear tail light is malfunctioning.  This is a difficult issue to address if you are alone.  I am always alone in my car.  The service manager didn't mention it to me at my last check up, so I've decided not to worry about it.

As G'ma advised, if you hear a noise in the car, turn up the radio.  Still hear it?  Turn the music louder.

So, when the dashboard announced that The Schnozz was suffering from low air pressure in the tires, I shrugged it off.  The temperatures had been vacillating wildly over the week, and that always makes the tires swell and then calm down.  Historically, the computer has had a hard time dealing with it.

But when TBG told me, with horror in his voice, that my right rear tire was flat, I drove straight to my friends at Discount Tire.  I parked under the FREE Air Pressure Checked HERE! sign and waited my turn. The neatly dressed young man informed me that all four of my tires were bald, and that the right rear one had a screw in it, to boot.

I have had more flat tires in Tucson than I have had in my entire driving career.  I have not heard that this is an early warning sign for dementia (like leaving the gas cooktop aflame) but I was beginning to wonder.... aloud.... until the kind kid reminded me that every road in a five mile square radius is under construction and that there was no way to protect my tires, no matter how vigilant I might be.

The fact that there was no tread on any of them was another matter.  He assured me that I should not drive one more mile without taking action.  Recognizing that tires are the most important part of the driving experience - they are the only things between you and the road - I agreed and followed him into the showroom where, after perusing the comparative merits of Michelins and Pirelli's and less sporty Michelins than the ones already on the car, I opted for the stickiest-and-therefore-priciest foursome. 

With a rebate and a lifetime-even-if-I-hit-a-brick-in-the-road-and-there's-no-tread-left full replacement guarantee, I was satisfied with the price.  Sighing, I wondered when they would be able to do the work.  It was 4pm on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, after all, and every bay in their garage was full.

"We'll have it for you by 5:30."

TBG picked me up and brought me back; it's around the corner and he was glad to do it.  The phone rang at 5:29 to let me know that it was ready.  Parked right in front, facing the correct direction, keys handed to me with a smile, I entered the perfectly paved downhill slope toward home.

New tires... no potholes... no traffic.... it's really a shame that the road passes right by the Sheriff's Department HQ. 

Otherwise, it was the perfect confluence of events.
*****
This post is dedicated to Jean Jennings, writer, editor, hat doyenne, and friend, who was fired by the new management at Automobile Magazine last week..... along with all the other women who held executive positions at JeanKnowsCars.com.  She made a real difference. 

Random Thoughts - The Driving Around Town Edition

I was on my way to the pod-castle, only there was no one there to visit.

Lazy Sunday afternoons, triple digit temperatures making any outing an indoor experience, the heat enervating and heavy on my shoulders.... it all led me to G'ma's orange chair, Law'n Order on the television, the same three stories recirculating between us.... a perfect way to while away the hours.

I'm beginning to forget the weakness at the end; my memories are sweeter this way.
*****
While away the hours--I had to stop in mid-paragraph to Google that phrase. AuthorSally assuaged my fear that I was over-thinking the issue.  Wile, as in beguile or entice, is exactly what I intended, but the h stubbornly refused to leave my brain.

There's an ongoing discussion of this issue on-line, but I am not entranced by its wiles.
*****
Politics is the only thing that's moving in the air these days.  As the yellow mesquite and palo verde blossoms have turned to brownish dust gathering in fitful piles on driveways, covering golden barrel cacti with intractable glee, campaign signs are beginning to crop up to replace them.

There are at least three Republicans running for almost every contested seat on my ballot. For the first time, ever, anywhere, in my memory, the Democrats have refrained from shooting themselves in the foot.  There's one candidate for each race.

In this state, it's enough to be not a Republican.
*****
I ended up in my favorite low-rent burrito place, eating half of the always-too-spicy-but-exactly-what-I-wanted lunch and reading The Essential Dashiell Hammett.  My June class  covers the history of the detective story.

Did you know that the detective story was invented? I did not.

I am as anxious for school to start as I ever have been in my life.
*****
I avoided the yarn store and managed to hold my FlapJilly purchases to pretty too-big-to-be-swallowed buttons. At the nursery, I checked out with two ebony vinca in 4" plastic pots and a small jar of citrus fertilizer (pure nitrogen).

Even the credit card is exhausted.
*****
Driving home, past the pod-castle, I remembered how soft G'ma's hands felt as we sat on the couch in the rec room, watching old musicals with the other residents and their families.  I thought of how soft FlapJilly's hands and feet will be, and I smiled.

It's that circle of life thing again, denizens.  I can't deny it.

A View From The Inside

Lunch at Cafe 54 is delicious in so many ways.  The food is fabulous, the atmosphere is light and lively, and The Editor is always good company. We were breaking bread and sharing stories before she leaves for Maine, and it looked like we'd end up kvelling about our children, once again.

At least, that was the plan.  Then The Author walked in.

She's a member of the writer's group at The Clubhouse next door.  It's a safe place where those dealing with mental illness can have a cup of coffee, play a game of cards, read a book, learn a skill, take a class.  Cafe 54 is run as a Clubhouse project staffed by members; the customers are an eclectic mix of jurors on lunch break and downtown office workers and students and those involved in Clubhouse programs.  It looks like very other busy Tucson cafe at lunch time; the difference is evident only in the fact that you pay no tax at a not-for-profit venture.  It's a guided step back into the real world for those whose illness has given them a time out.

The Author was a college student when she became ill; that intellectually curious woman is at the core of who she is right now.  The woman she is right now speaks openly and candidly about schizophrenia. She laughs about the voices in her head as she tells us that her autobiography began as an answer to their comments.  Walt Whitman and Paul Theroux and involuntary commitment.... our conversation was wide ranging and profound.

No one wants to have a public meltdown, she informed us.  The stigmatization felt internally by those with her diagnosis is matched by the concomitant worry of public exposure.  Waiting in line in the cafeteria, having an episode, The Author was startled and then comforted by a friend's hand on her shoulder and his Okay, now.... in her ear.

Overtly, she rejected his help. Inside, back at the person who defines her, she could see the love.

The rejection of help is the symptom.  Helpers should not be put off by protestations. "I'm fine," she told us, is the self-protective cocoon of the illness itself.

At her core she knows this.  It's not easy to mirror it on the outside when your mind is creating incongruencies.  It's an isolating existence, this combination of being constantly on guard and feeling judged for behaviors over which your control is limited.  It feels safer, easier, more comfortable, to shrink your world.

That fixes the outside, but, again, at the core she knows something is missing.

No one wants to feel alone.

You do feel the comfort inside, even if you're rejecting it on the outside.

The conversation began with Santa Barbara, an event of which she was unaware.  As she considered the similarities to Tucson, I wondered how she would tread the line between public safety and individual rights.  What would that system look like? How do we protect innocents from incarceration....

.... and then she began to talk.

When she is dealing well with the world, she recognizes that some of her previous behaviors had been bizarre, that she had truly deviated from the norm, that something was not right.  When she is having an episode, that reality check is missing.  Asking her if she wants help is beside the point; she's not dealing with that right now.  Helpers should not forget that she feels their love even when her behavior says otherwise.

Reframe the conversation, she suggested.  The hospital is a safe place. They understand and accept the experience.  You can have symptoms without judgment.

She was tired of people telling her to pull herself out of it.... and the person who tired her the most was herself.  Going to the hospital is pulling yourself out of it.  It is not admitting defeat, it is recognizing a pathway to the other side.

She wasn't presenting a locked ward.  She was presenting a comforting place to have your meltdown. She was occupying the present moment, speaking to the issues which define her experience: isolation and stigmatization, first cousins to mental illness.

Her solution to the problem of young white men with untreated mental illnesses is early intervention. She is able to see the hospital as a refuge, and has taken herself in for the occasional tune up over the years.  She and The Editor will be going over the first draft of her autobiography in the Fall, talking back to the voices by telling her story.

There was so much passion and raw emotion and absolute silliness in our conversation.  We teared up and laughed uproariously and agreed that others should hear her point of view.  Stay tuned to hear updates on our plans for A Salon at Cafe 54.

The message is simple

It's hard to try to find the person on the other side, but it's worth the effort. 

And, on that other side, she is able to see the love.

The Answer to A Minor But Worrisome Issue

Answers are so hard to come by.  Questions are easy, because I believe what they taught my children:

The only stupid question is the one you do not ask. 

Answers, on the other hand, seem to be in short supply recently.  Is the Santa Barbara shooter mentally ill or a bad seed?  Would stronger legislation or better training for first responders or stiffer penalties or a fully armed populace make us safer?  Does a rallying cry take the place of real action? Is that the purpose of a shout-able, repeat-able, quotable slogan?  Is raising consciousness a worthy goal in and of itself? 

 

I've been torturing my brain with these and other thoughts all weekend long.  It started at the quilting bee; it got worse when I returned home to find TBG glued to the news reports from SoCal.  Rain's comments to my post on the subject, and our subsequent conversation, just fanned the flames. 

 

I want to know why.

I want to know what to do.

I am tired of facing a problem without a solution.

 



I tried to lose myself in crocheting a sweater set for FlapJilly

When that didn't work, I tackled a less weighty but still bothersome issue - the efficient sharing of photographs.

 

 

I could post them on Facebook, but I don't trust the privacy.  They are a public company, beholden to the bottom line, and after facing down angry shareholders as value plummeted in the wake of the IPO, Mark Zuckerberg seems unwilling to stand in the way of financial gain ever again.  If he can make money by alerting advertisers to the fact that I am crocheting or quilting I'm certain he will do so.

 

Normally, this would not be a problem for me.  I adhere to the other piece of good advice my children heard, this one passed down to them from Daddooooo:

Don't do anything you wouldn't want published on the front page of The New York Times.

If I post it on the internet, I expect it to be circulated to the ends of the earth.  I am careful about including others' personal details in The Burrow (I always ask first) and I think three or four times before adding my own photos.  Flowers and sunsets are no brainers; anything else requires deliberation.

Which brings me to the Worrisome Issue - pictures of my impending grandchild.

I want to show her off.  I want to revel in her smile and your smiles as you look at her image in pixels on your screen.  I want to share the joy.

But....

I have come to recognize that, by posting her image on-line, I am making a decision for her.  She will have a web presence before she has a chance to decide for herself if that's a path down which she wants to travel.  Her image could be hijacked for indecent purposes or bizarre obsessions or other creepiness. 

I might place a birth announcement in The New York Times, but I wouldn't post albums of baby pictures.

Today, after failing three or four or seventeen times to send 41 images to the local Moms Demand Action manager via Picasa and Gmail, I tried Google+.

In three simple clicks - one to select the album, one to Share, one to add her email - she had the pictures and I had a prompt for a post. 

I can set up a circle of recipients and promote my grandchild's progress with impunity.  I can set it up to prohibit re-sharing, so the images will go only where I send them.  I can share and not worry and now I can move on to another nagging problem......

...... there are so many of them, aren't there?  Isn't it nice to have a solution to one of them?

You are welcome.

 







Again?

Six are dead.  Thirteen are wounded.

Again.

Those are the numbers we heard in Tucson.  Dory and Judge Roll and Gabe and Christina-Taylor and Dot and Phyllis are long forgotten, though.  Too much time has passed.  CNN's retrospective on mass shootings in America listed the last ten.... in the last two years.... and Tucson was too long ago to be mentioned.  Our event is ancient history, it seems.

Yet, it is exactly the same story.... a preventable story... a story that will resonate for a while and then vanish into the collective unconscious.... unless I keep nagging about it, I guess.  So......

Another disturbed 20-something white boy, this one with parents and therapists and an academic career to go along with his legally obtained weaponry, shot up a peaceful college town.  His family warned the police; he deluded the officers with politeness and his whiteness, I'm sure.  His written manifesto mentions his glee that they did not search his home and find his weapons cache.

He obviously knew right from wrong.

There were two sorority sisters on the front lawn.... a young man on his way to the deli.... bike riders and errand runners and their lives are ended or altered because the laws have not kept up with the problems.

I don't know how to write the law, because people shouldn't be locked up just because they see the world through a different lens.  Crazy and Creative are first cousins, I think.  We don't want mad men walking the streets, but we don't want to incarcerate people just for being weird.

On the other hand, our shooter heard voices, and told others about them, in private, in a journal, on MySpace.  The Santa Barbara shooter posted his whinging on YouTube and wrote his own 140 page screed, promising vengeance.  I think it would have been obvious to anyone who looked just a little deeper that neither should possess deadly force.

I can say that with some authority, since Stan, the guns-and-ammo manager at our local Wal-Mart, refused to sell our shooter ammunition.  Why? "It was obvious he wasn't a person who should be given ammo."  If the salesperson at the shooter's second Wal-Mart stop had been as attentive to his job, perhaps the bloody Safeway scene could have been avoided.

Sometimes, it just takes a little bit of common sense to make a difference.

Reframing pieces of the issue toward mental health may open the door to sensible legislation just a bit wider.  Again, drawing the line is a difficult task, but little steps would be better than no steps.

Yes, the legislation on the books should be enforced. Yes, states should comply with mandatory reporting requirements, and the hardware and software should be easy to access.  Yes, there will still be horror stories.  But, perhaps, with expansion of our mental health services and a willingness to look at more than the client-in-the-interview, we might have a chance of preventing more posts like these.

Because that's the part that grabs my heart and twists it like a wet washrag.... both Tucson and Santa Barbara were preventable tragedies.  Had appropriate care been available, had the shooters been treated... medicated.... kept away from deadly weapons because everyone agreed that their brains were not functioning well enough .... I'd have less notoriety and a 13 year old friend.

Moms Quilting Bee

I went to a Quilting Bee Saturday afternoon.

These ladies were the actual quilters.

The rest of us 

were there to create squares 

Patrice and Alyssa's Peace and Love square.

for the Mother's Dream Quilt Project.

We were assured that no skill was necessary.

They assumed we could all use scissors.

The rotary cutters were a different matter entirely.

They are devilish tools with hidden safety locks and the ability to remove slices of a human finger with reckless abandon.  We saw the remains on a quilter's hand.  It would behoove us to take care.

There's a reason I crochet blankets for babies - they always fit, despite my mistakes.

Quilting requires a lot more precision.

The lucite measuring square must be exactly positioned, and JannyLou's kinfolk couldn't keep their hands still long enough for me to take a picture.

 There were cardboard templates to move around and help to center the square on the desired design element. The quilters were there to advise and suggest and to remind us that anything is possible.

So the doctor's wife and I got to work.

The first task was to convince the quilters that it was okay to cut up his white doctor coat.

We assembled the rest of our materials from the archived fabrics left around Tucson at the various impromptu memorials after January 8th. 

We separated stitching from pillowcases, and thought of Yvonne whose name tag we left, intact, for someone else to discover. 

We measured 

and played with fabric placement  

and filled out the paperwork (why is there always paperwork?) 

which included a statement about the person honored in the square.

Gabby sent material for her own square.

and I made one for Christina-Taylor and me.

It's purple and green and the flowers reminded me of Christina's Business, the plant watering service for which she and I made business cards and advertising flyers and it was just that kind of afternoon.

Doing good work.

Having a good time.

Missing those taken too soon.

Moving On

She broke her engagement.

"I pulled the band aid off."

She wants marriage and children and a family like the one she still cherishes, her parents and her brother, loving and concerned and moving in the same direction.

The fiancé seemed less interested in them and more interested in his own road.

She looked for a long time, and was so glad when she thought she'd found him.  But, she's neither stupid nor unaware, and she could recognize the incongruities and so she's sending back the ring.

She feels better than she has in a long time.
*****
She decided where to send her daughter to high school.

Yes, the daughter had an opinion.  That opinion made the decision an issue.

She struggled to define her reactions, to consider the options, to investigate her reasoning.  She loves her child, respects her style, admires her tremendously and knows where the power lies -- with the grown up.

She did what she knows is best, what her daughter, reluctantly but not altogether unpleasantly, agrees is best, what her relaxed demeanor demonstrates really is the best.
*****
The court date is set.  The issues are laid out. There's nothing to do but wait.

Dad showed up at the piano recital, his eyes glancing at her and then jumping away, as if burned.  There were no words exchanged.  There wasn't a handshake or a smile... and don't think the kids didn't notice.  It wasn't hostile or awkward as much as it was vacant, empty of emotion.

The court will decide who is right and who is wrong.  It is out of their hands and so they sit, powerless to move on, and they wait.

They'll both be glad when it's over.
*****

Is it Weird?

I sent her furniture for the baby's room as her birthday gift.

I think I forgot to get TBG to sign the card I remembered to mail.

This morning, her email to me wondered what it meant that she kept forgetting that her birthday was approaching.  Is it weird? 

Yes, sweetie, it's very weird.  It's not unusual, but it's weird.

She's getting to the point where the individual years blur together. I remember it well.  She went to a 1980's theme party; I was bemused. I missed the 1980's; being pregnant and parenting little ones was as far as I could see. My musical tastes ran to Raffi and lullabies, my reading material centered on Margaret Wise Brown, and forget about fashion or lifestyle trends. Were I to be invited to that theme party, I'd have worn sweatpants.

My birthdays came and went and I was happy to buy my own strawberry shortcake and take a long bubble bath and be done with it all.  I had decade-celebratory parties for TBG, but I wasn't that interested in creating hoopla over my own. My girl's planning a similar weekend for herself - a pre-natal massage and a sunny weekend in her garden.  No fuss. No muss. Just peace.


Daddooooo always wanted Peace and Quiet for his birthday.

I sent clothes.

He wore brand new polo shirts while building and painting birdhouses.

The stains drove G'ma nutty, but they always made me smile. He had me around while he was doing the work, like a giant hug that he could wash and put on again and again.

I can see it and feel it right now.

That's what's weird about it, Little Cuter.  You're changing from celebrating outside yourself to celebrating within.  You're looking at your life from a different perspective, with someone new anchored firmly at the center... literally and figuratively.

You're rotating around a new axis, and the old pieces have to find their way.  They announce themselves with varying degrees of surprise... like, really, kiddo, HOW could you forget your birthday?????... or a yawn.... or ..... furniture for your birthday present.

Or, maybe, it's just that you have a lot on your plate right now?

Or, maybe, it's pregnancy-brain?

Or, maybe, it's just plain weird.

Whatever it is, there's one thing for certain: It's YOUR day.  That much hasn't changed. It's the day that you came out to join the party... a party you've been enlivening ever since.

Happy Birthday, Little Cuter!

It's Not Perfect, But....

By the time it went live, yesterday's post was old news.  I tagged on a quick update before I went to bed, but I woke up thinking about it and then Megan commented and I have to revisit it.

Not the why do you need to bring an assault rifle into a taco joint? issue.  If we have to argue about the propriety of such behavior we are too far apart to agree on much of anything else. I'm not a defeatist, I'm a realist.  

I'm thinking about the meta-issues, those that hover over the facts, providing context and nuance and a window into our world.  

How about the undeniable influence that Moms Demand Action was able to assert?  Chipotle is a feel good, healthy, hot, fast dinner stop for a family shuttling between piano lessons, karate, and t-ball.  It's not the only choice, though, and without that organic, range-free chicken, no GMO's vibe... with, in fact, a decidedly anti-warm-and-fuzzy feeling... when it's linked in Mom's Decider Button to guys with assault weapons.... that's not good for business, it seems.

So, Chipotle asks gun-toting-customers to leave their weapons behind.  They reassure families that a safe experience is in everyone's best interests, and they hope that we come back real soon. And then, they decide that since the issue isn't business-centric, it ought to stay out of their stores.  Really, it belongs in the legislature, not in the burrito line.

And that's where I lose them.  I alluded to it yesterday, and the irritation I felt then has grown into something close to outrage.  Corporations are people; the Supreme Court told me so.  If they are annoyed that the issue has crossed the threshold of their establishments, then let them weigh in, on one side or the other, and make their voices heard.  That's what we do in a representative democracy - we participate.  

Saying that the issue should not be decided in their stores is vaguely un-American to me.  

They were called upon to take a stand, and, perhaps, that made them uncomfortable.  Being put on the spot usually does.  These long gun toting fellows with the goofy facial expressions put them there.  Moms Demand Action didn't ask for a response out of the blue; they were taunted by bullies.

Honestly, does he need to have his finger on the trigger?  Was it really that dangerous in there?  I've seen correspondents on the evening news, reporting from  the Cameroon/Nigeria border, who are less well protected.

But the best way to defeat a bully is to stand up to the bully... not to ask that the fight be taken outside.  Out of sight-Out of mind does not work in the real world any more, because there is no place to hide. With one Share click, entire networks of humans can be similarly appalled.  

And then you're forced to decide - are you on the side of the worshipers of Baal or do you stand with The Lord?  

You decide which is which.  I'm going to sit here and smile. Like it or not, the tide is turning and you, Chipotle, are being swept up in the wave.  

Burritos and Bullets

I was shot standing ten feet from my Congressswoman, on a sunny Saturday morning, in front of a grocery store. My little friend, Christina-Taylor Green, died while holding my hand.  A licensed, legally carried weapon was used.

Today, I opened Facebook and saw these guys

Yes, those are the round trash holes and marginally comfortable stools you find at every Chipotle in America.

I stand in line at Chipotle at Foothills Mall about once a week.  There's lots of glass,lots of people milling about, and no reason on God's green earth for an AK47 to join me. I wonder if the Chipotle's in Dallas, where this photo was taken, are somehow less secure.

I'm wondering just how strong the fellow on the right thinks he is.  That weapon he's holding has quite a kick.  It also shoots more than one bullet at a time.  Should his spindly arms get tired while he's aiming at the bad guy, those bullets might just stray and spray the families sharing guacamole nearby.  

Are assault rifles really necessary accompaniments to tacos?

Fast Eddie, JannyLou, TBG and I were dining at Five Guys last spring when a handgun on a patron's hip sent me scrambling for the exit. That link will take you to the original post, where I describe the chilling effect of that handgun... a legally carried hand gun.... and the kind but powerless response of the local manager.  

Company policy is not dictated by the locals. corporate management is in high rises, not a glass box in a parking lot in a strip mall.  No one is walking in for a 10 o'clock meeting with the CFO while toting a long gun, I'm sure. Were that to happen, I imagine security would be accompanying the weapon wielder.

Sure, it may be legal.  But is it right?  Do you really need a weapon to eat a burrito? . Besides, by the time they managed to put down their structurally compromised foodstuffs, the damage will already have been done. Those meals are not neat.  Dripping salsa cannot be helpful while aiming an automatic weapon.

Texans concerned about Right to Carry laws have been staging these protests to draw attention to the fact that handguns are banned in many places where long guns are not.  They are attempting to change the laws by bringing public attention to the issue.  That may be true.  It may be that these gentlemen were waiting for a reporter to inquire about the deeper meaning behind their armed presence in a family-friendly fast-food joint.  It's possible that they would have responded to a question with an in-depth analysis of the issues underlying the inequities in the law.  It could be.  I just haven't heard it.

It took some searching to find anti-Moms-Demand-Action bloggers who made this point.  If change is their aim, I think they need to find a new PR person.  The message is not getting across.

Guns, alcohol and families do not mix.  A rapid fire assault weapon was frightening to me when I saw it strapped to the back of a teenage soldier dressed in camouflage in an airport in 2001.  The threat felt very real.  Somehow, sitting over a chicken burrito with hot salsa and sour cream, children and grandparents and construction workers surrounding me, it's absolutely sickening.

Chipotle's paper bags are filled with love songs to gently raised animals and vegetables and the natural life.  I don't need an AK-47 to round off the meal.
*****
This kerfuffle lasted less than one day.  Chipotle posted a request on Facebook that customers refrain from bringing assault weapons into their stores.  This, at the end of the statement, seems disingenuous to me

this issue is not central to the operation of our business, and we do not feel that our restaurants should be used as a platform for either side of the debate.

Sorry, guys.  You live in and do business in the USofA.  The debate happens out in the open.  It's called activism.

This time, the good guys won. 

Mall Walking

Brenda Starr and I are in training.  There's a 5K through the pecan groves near her house next November, and we've paid for the t-shirts and the number and the snacks.  There's no avoiding it - we'll be the slowest participants in the race but we'll be participants, nonetheless.

Her husband is in charge of our logo, a riff on my constant references to the fact that we galumph instead of glide as we cover ground.  There'll be a Jabberwocky (Jabberwalky?) connection because Lewis Carroll got there before I did, but I'm taking credit for the original idea.  We are many things when we walk; graceful is not one of them.

We are determined  We are purposeful.  We concentrate.  We correct one another.  We try not to list too heavily to one side or the other.... especially when our listing leads to our shoulders connecting.  Turning around is a sight to behold; we take up a lot more room than you'd imagine.

Still, we are doing it.  One weekend morning each week our little white cars are parked beside one another, waiting for our return. We have walked through Reid Park and the Rillito River Path and funky neighborhoods but now it is triple digits when I bring in the morning paper and walking outside becomes less than pleasant, unless you begin at 5am.

I'm too old to set an alarm to work out.  We've relocated to the mall.

The doors open early in the morning, though the shops are still closed.  There's pathway delineated with black linoleum squares following the outer edge of the mall.  We step in each of the boxes.  It is tempting to cut corners, but the color demands your attention and, before you quite realize it, you've made the turn and are rounding the corner toward home.  It's possible to cover a great deal of ground while admiring the sneakers for sale behind the plate glass windows. 

Today we walked 1.6 miles.  We were quite impressed with ourselves.

We were not alone, though.  There are many others in my age cohort making the rounds as well.  Today we were amused by the woman with the blown out white hairdo, a combination of a page boy and a beehive and an afro.  The temptation to run over and pull it off her head was nearly uncontrollable; it's a good thing that I don't run anymore.  We laughed and wondered and then stopped as we watched her walk by... with her bright red lipstick and bright blue eye shadow and hot pink phone case stuck to her ear.  The fact that she had three friends tagging along didn't dissuade her.  She was yakking.

The fit 50-something gentleman in the striped polo shirt and khaki shorts sped past us at an alarming rate.  He was making firm contact with the ground, as the soles of his shoes announced with authority as he took each step. 

The elderly, bent, walker-attached man was much slower.  We passed him easily.

There were families who seemed to be enjoying the air conditioning and not doing much else. 

There were worker bees in some of the stores, stocking shelves and sweeping detritus.

And there we were, part of the early morning summer in Tucson scene.  The Muzak was blaring.  We were galumphing.  It's not what I used to call exercise, but it certainly qualifies as such for now. 

We only have to increase our distance by 100%.

In Horto, In Desertum

We should hit triple digits this weekend.

The petunias were spent.

There were pretty flowers at the tips of long, bare, yellow stalks.

I snipped them off.

I was ruthless, as you must be when changing seasonal containers.

This one was never attached to the irrigation system.

It did just fine until I went to Chicago just as the thermometer and  the wind picked up.

It was hard to cut down the dead gladiolus; I felt guilty about abandoning them.

Properly watered, they shine on 4' stems like these.

It's too bad the hibiscus (the deep green foliage on the right) wasn't in flower.

The bright red blossoms are a nice counterpoint to the white and yellow.

This rose is resting comfortably in its container, but there are no blooms.  Nor are there buds.

Instead, the leaves are a sickly yellowing green.

I was motivated to fertilize everything by this fellow's distress.

On the other side of the backyard, this rose is just about ready to pop.

It will be the first of may, the second set of blooms from this plant this season.

I must be doing something right.

Keeping the hanging basket properly hydrated was an issue until I hooked it up to the irrigation timer. 

This is how it looked after I pruned it of the less than amazing flowers.

It's the gift that keeps on giving.

My tomato was also a victim of being ignored.

He sat in the small plastic pot for two or three hot days.

He's not very bushy but the fruits are certainly tasty. 

Lest you think that my only successes are containers,look at this lantana. 

Little Cuter planted a pink and yellow variety in a small pot on the plant stand on her patio.  

Here, they are close to being invasive.

This was cut back three weeks ago.

And then, there's this rose.

I diverted the irrigation myself.

I dug the hole myself.

I separated it from its container and settled it neatly in the ground.

I was kneeling and bending and feeling just fine, and I think the plant knew it, too.

It's been rewarding me ever since.

In Horto, In Desertum

Garden in the Desert.