Visits With Daisy and Birdie

I learn when I visit Daisy and Birdie. On two back-to-back weekends, Big Guy and I had the privilege of spending time first with Daisy, and then with Birdie.

Both girls are happy. Alleluia! (Even with their possessing some astonishingly well-pummeled football teams)

The girls are pet-starved. Both visits began with squeals of "Tequila!" Both first hugs went to daughter-starved Big Guy, who stood directly in the path of getting to the 12-lb. blondie chihuahua-mix.  (Note to self: Strangers don't understand "Tequila" shouted in the parking lot mid-morning. Or maybe they do at Arkansas.)

Neither girl needed money, though both enjoyed Big Guy pulling out his wallet to pay for nearly everything. Daisy coaxed a tank of gas out of Big Guy, while Big Guy coaxed Birdie into buying ice cream cones--illustrating the difference in frugality that two years in college make. Birdie will figure it out.

Both have a few roommate issues. Daisy shares a house with three other girls. The girl who owns the house loves to clean the house and schedules times for everyone to clean with her. Daisy hides in her room to avoid the intense cleaning sessions."She even wanted us to clean the microwave!," exclaimed Daisy. It probably needed it, I thought.

Birdie shares her dorm room with a quiet girl. Birdie doesn't do well with quiet. And quiet doesn't do well with Birdie's intense. It's not bad chemistry; it's not great chemistry. Quiet is better than Daisy's constant cleaner or the weeknight partiers that live one room down.

At the start of the school year, I warned Birdie about skunks. Turns out she is too busy to dabble with them. Daisy has found time to dabble--and he is not a skunk.

I learned--kind of, sort of, Birdie saved a chemistry building on campus. She said that as she walked by in the dead of night, she saw smoke pouring out as fire alarms blared. She called the fire department. It responded and determined the smoke was nitrogen gas. Birdie shared that story forgetting I'm her mom. All I heard was "walked by in the dead of night." I asked for more details. She declined to provide them.

Turns out, neither girl is wild about laundry. One wants more socks so she will never have to wash. The other believes that as long as she goes to sleep "clean," her sheets stay "clean."

I'm not telling which girl is which. 

My November Vote

Long ago, I voted for a Republican to become our next president of the U.S. It was an uneducated vote as I was young, easily influenced by movie stardom and not interested in the issues. 

I'm more educated now. I treasure my right to vote and, it seems, perpetually cast my presidential vote for the Yellow Dog. I gave up considering that I'd ever vote Republican, until I had the opportunity to listen to a former U.S. Senator, a Republican, speak candidly about today's political climate.

The Senator said a lot of really good stuff--and as a few days have passed, I don't claim that everything he said is related with total accuracy in what I'm writing. But these are the thoughts I'm mulling over--

American voters need to decide if they want more government or less government. Voters have become self-indulgent. We no longer want to hear about how one or the other candidate's policies will make America better or stronger--we want to hear how policies will benefit "us," and only "us," so that is what politicians tell us. No matter how short or long a politician's term in office may be, the day after he or she is elected, he is once again running for office. The Federal budget has always cycled through budget surpluses and budget deficits; however, we are stuck in an increasing deficit situation because elected officials are afraid to compromise. What makes Washington DC work is compromise--a willingness to give and take so that good policy, that benefits many, gets made into law. That has changed largely due to voters that want only what benefits them. Politicians--good politicians--who are willing to compromise are punished--they lose elections. Voters will not vote for them and that is why politicians won't compromise and nothing is accomplished in Washington DC. The budget deficit is at a precarious position--if interest rates rise, and they are historically low, the amount the U.S. government owes to its creditors will skyrocket and dramatically deepen the deficit. More than 70% of the U.S. budget consists of mandated transfer payments such as social security and medicare. There is very little in the budget that can be increased or decreased.

As other smart, thought-provoking stuff was said, I thought--when will I hear any candidate running for office speak as simply, carefully and clearly as this former U.S. Senator? And then the Senator threw me a carrot that renews my interest in the Republican Party--even as I cast my yellow-dog Democrat vote this November. 

The Senator said, and I paraphrase with the uncertainty of not having written down his words: If the Republican party loses this election, it will have to conduct a serious post-mortem of 'what went wrong.' It may have to separate itself from the narrow group wrapped up in social issues that drive away huge blocks of the electorate such as women and Hispanics and return to its historic role as the party of fiscal responsibility.

My wise voting ears are listening. I want a Republican presidential defeat in November that is painful enough to recast the party into one that stays out of my womanly business. Then perhaps both parties can focus on the economy and their vision for fixing Social Security and Medicare and how to keep Americans employed and  medically solvent.

With political parties freed from worry about what I or my daughters, neighbors, friends and complete strangers might do or not do--or whom they might choose to marry or not marry--the candidates can run good hard-fought races. And the winners can arrive in Washington, DC, ready to compromise.    

Groupon Support -- It's Worthless

Miss Flonotes email:

I have a Group-on to have my carpets cleaned. In June, I scheduled the service for August to be sure it was done before the Group-on expired. The day before it was to be done, I called to confirm, and the owner of the company said he'd have to reschedule because his girlfriend was scheduled to have a baby that day. I said fine, but I wouldn't be able to reschedule until after the Groupon expires. He said he would honor it in full. Now, he won't return my calls. I want my money back. 

Groupon: I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. Since this Groupon was purchased between November 1, 2008 and December 1, 2011, you may be eligible for a replacement voucher from a class action settlement. If so, you should have received an email notification at your Groupon-registered email address. If you haven't received a claim form, please go to http://grouponvouchersettlement.com or call (800) 589-1256. The settlement website offers several ways to obtain and submit your claim form online. Alternatively, I can provide you with the form directly if that's more convenient. This class action lawsuit specifically pertains to expiration dates and other restrictions on Groupon vouchers. We have voluntarily entered into this settlement because it's best for our customers, merchants, and Groupon. As a result of this settlement, we are unable to issue a refund for this Groupon directly. If eligible, you will receive a new voucher for this business that can be redeemed for the face value of the deal -- the price you paid for the Groupon. If the business is unable to honor this new voucher for whatever reason, a monetary refund will then be made available to you. If you have any other questions about this, please contact groupon_notice@grouponvouchersettlement.com for additional assistance. Regards, Jacob H. Groupon Customer Support   Miss Flonotes email: Jacob, has this merchant already received the value of the voucher? Jacob at Groupon: I am very sorry but I am unable to release that information. Regards, Jacob H. Groupon Customer Support  Miss Flonotes email: Are you really sorry?    Jacob at Groupon: Unfortunately, if you wish to claim a refund for a purchase qualifying for the class action settlement, I am unable to issue the refund directly. Instead, you'll need to request a claim form by visiting http://grouponvouchersettlement.com or calling (800) 589-1256. The settlement website offers several ways to obtain and submit your claim form online. Alternatively, I can attach the form to this email if that's more convenient. I apologize for any inconvenience this might cause. If you have any more questions about this, please email groupon_notice@grouponvouchersettlement.com for additional assistance. Regards, Jacob H. Groupon Customer Support Miss Flonotes email: Are you the same Jacob? I can’t tell that you’re sorry or for that matter that Groupon is sorry to not stand behind its commitment.   Jacob at Groupon: I will not be able to process your request at this time. Regards, Jacob H. Groupon Customer Support   Miss Flonotes email: When you move on to a new job, send me an email and let me know what you really think about working for a company that forgets it said: “If the merchant refuses to honor this voucher because the promotional value has expired or for any other reason, Groupon will refund the amount paid. Period.”

 

Bear Spray

Tourists who purchase bear spray in Glacier National Park do so with the intention of fending off attacks by grizzly bears, There are 600-800 grizzly bears that live in the park and the wooded mountains that surround it. Bear spray is an aerosol concoction of extremely strong pepper dust that sticks to everything it hits.

According to park rangers, it is wise to carry bear spray if you know how to use it. Most of the bear spray that tourists buy is never used. A very small of bear spray is directed at grizzlies or their smaller cousins the black bears.

Here is what also happens with bear spray, say the park rangers. Or as I like to call it: You're the reason why there's a safety on the can.
Visitors to Glacier National Park have been known to:
Remove the safety, hold the can backward and squeeze the trigger to see if it works. It does.
Impress the girlfriend with  their quick draw, aiming the bear spray right at her and squeezing the trigger. That's when she discovers the safety is off.
Spray the outside of the tent. It's a deterrent, not a repellent. And it sticks to everything.
Spray the inside of the tent. Again, the powder sticks to everything and everyone.
Spray down the children to make them less appealing to bears. And considerably less happy. 
And lastly, spray the park ranger approaching from the other direction on the trail. While he is tall and sports a full beard, grizzlies don't wear a uniform.

Big Guy and I survived Glacier without bear spray. I hiked its trails slightly stressed, hollering and singing to avoid surprising bears. Big Guy walked with the smugness of knowing he can run faster than me. Next time, I will buy the bear spray. Fair warning, Big Guy--I know how to use it.

Pot Roast Family

I remember the pot roast. When my college roommate Firebird went home for the weekend, she often returned to Athens, GA, with a fully cooked roast to share. And the four of us,University of Georgia students who shared an apartment, would gather as a family and devour it. Then, we would clean the dishes and go our separate ways--satisfied and a bit more civil and connected with one another.

Saturday morning, as Big Guy and I traveled to Daisy's shared house near Mizzou to spend a football weekend with her, guilt nagged at me. I wanted to be as generous as Firebird's great mom with her pot roast. I intended to arrive at Daisy's house with a steaming hot casserole of macaroni and cheese. I wanted to give her the gift of a family meal to share with her roommates.

I planned for my mac 'n cheese. The previous Sunday, I bought the ingredients. I sat the box of elbow macaroni on the kitchen counter where I'd see it. Then Monday slid into Tuesday and Tuesday into Wednesday...and I didn't think again about my casserole intention until we pulled out of the driveway Mizzou bound. 

We didn't arrive empty-handed. Big Guy brought a case of Bud Light, as Daisy requested. Beer makes a fine gift. But perhaps not as fine as my mac 'n cheese would be. In my mind, I envision offering up a gift of mac 'n cheese nearly as tasty as the pot roast that made roommates into family. I want Daisy to have a shared table to remember as roommates, even good ones, can be hard on each other. Now, I just need to make the casserole and plan myself another Daisy visit. Chances are, she'll want some beer to go with it.

Moon Landing

The day after my 11th birthday, Neil Armstrong landed on the moon. Like many July days, I was at my grandmother's lake house--as was the rest of my family, along with aunts, uncles and cousins. My great grandfather was present to witness the event--his lifespan dated back to before planes flew or cars rolled.

I remember the humid heat of July and the freshness of unending rows of bright red tomatoes lined up on the back porch table. Presents lay scattered about, all mine, and among them, the silver Bulova wristwatch given to me by my grandmother. It was my first watch. I was thrilled to own a watch and I possess it.

I recall my wavy brown hair hanging down my back--straggly and split-ended. Blissfully unaware of genetics, I strived for Hawaiian hair--thick, black and straight. My skin was deeply tanned, the residual of Hawaiian living. And the swimsuit that I wore, every day, accented the tubby awkwardness of morphing from child to preteen. Though at the time, I wouldn't acknowledge, even to myself, that I was growing up. 

Midday, on that July 20th, bodies pressed close around the TV in the lake house living room. That room wasn't used much during the day, as it wasn't air-conditioned. As the solemn newscaster spoke with a gravity befitting the event, through a black and white grainy haze, we witnessed a man descend from the space capsule and step onto the desolate surface of the moon.

In that moment, I knew, without doubt, the moon is not made of green cheese. The astronaut, whose name I was not interested in, lobbed a golf ball across the moonscape. That, and the laughter of the men squeezed tight around the TV, didn't impress my newly eleven-year-old self. I watched for aliens to burst out from hiding, attack and consume the astronaut. That didn't happen--somewhat disappointing as I did not yet realize the precious fleetingness of life, nor the bravery of one risking his Earth--his reality to travel into space and land as alien somewhere humankind had never stepped before.

Today, Neil Armstrong will be buried at sea. Thank you, Astronaut Armstrong, for making my 11th birthday day-after as memorable as the day before.

Peter

If Peter wore diapers, Birdie would blaze a trail home from Arkansas simply to stuff his supply in the toilet. She isn't taking well to the notion of being a "middle child" and has heard many times about how Daisy stuffed Birdie's diapers--as well as her own diapers--in the toilet when Birdie joined the family.

Plastic rabbit Peter stands about 4 inches tall. He has a snarky grin, Birdie should recognize as similar to her own. His head falls off a lot as his ears are too big. What's best about Peter: He drops candy out of his rear-end--something neither girl ever did in a recognizable form.

With Daisy at Mizzou and Birdie at Arkansas, Big Guy and I left for our first extended vacation in 21 years without the girls. As we pulled out the driveway, camper in tow, empty-nest syndrome hit hard. I raced back in the house and picked up Peter.

Turns out Peter is the perfect child. In the minivan (yes, I still have one), Peter rides upside down in the cup holder of the front passenger door. If he rode right side up, his head would fall off, hit the pavement in some anonymous grocery store parking lot only to be crushed by a tire. It's true--a headless Peter would have candy coming out both ends. But, quite frankly, Big Guy and I get enough odd looks carrying Peter around with his head attached.

Peter never has to make a potty-stop; so he won't be a co-writer on the family memoir: Potties of America, Flush, No Flush and Distinctly Tree-like. I've had enough help from the Girls getting that pup written.

And Peter is really cheap to feed.  Anything he eats comes out the other end totally sweet and delicious. Again, neither Daisy nor Birdie ever reached that height of recycling.

Daisy, being two years older than Birdie, has taken the high road when it comes to Peter. She ignores him. As long as Peter stays out of her stuff and she isn't asked to babysit, she won't focus the wrath of Daisy on him or on her parents. I think.

Birdie didn't like Peter accompanying Big Guy and I on vacation to Glacier National Park, the Badlands of North Dakota and points in between. We blew a tire on Montana's Beartooth Highway, she texted to plug it with Peter. A rodent in Glacier National Park stole Peter's head; her text cheered for the rodent. A donkey in a bar in Sturgis, SD, wrenched Peter's body free from his head, Birdie texted "Good donkey."

Now Peter is home; we're home. As Birdie feared, Peter gets her room to make his own. At the moment, he is wiping road tar and creature spit all over the bed. But eventually, he will go back to shooting candy out his butt--a talent that makes him a child worth keeping.

Many Rooms

I went to bed last night fairly satisfied with what I wrote about Sept. 11. Today, I awoke to learn that American diplomats died violently in Libya. I knew at some point that I would want to share what Big Guy said, in May, about his sister Candy Squared at the Eucharist of the Resurrection in celebration of her life. Candy Squared abhorred violence, in any form, and in that belief she wore her heart on her sleeve and never failed to speak for peace. On this day, with more violence added 11 years later to September 11, it seems appropriate to share Big Guy's words.

Words spoken on May 8 at the Cathedral of the Incarnation, Baltimore, Maryland.

"In my Father's house, there are many rooms."

This verse from the Gospel of John was one of Candy Squared's favorites. My sister embraced this philosophy in how she lived her life and I'm so proud to be her brother.

Candy Squared believed that God wants and loves everyone and has a room prepared for everyone, no matter how disenfranchised, how marginalized, angry or disturbed they might be. My sister joyfully lived her life in service as, here on Earth, she walked from room to room in God's house, being available to those who needed God most. She traveled to wherever God wanted her to be.

A passion for social justice threaded throughout everything that Candy Squared did. She hated war and violence in all forms, even as she ministered to veterans suffering post traumatic stress syndrome. Candy Squared counseled crime victims and held the hands of dying AIDS patients. She ministered to hospice patients. She listened to those most difficult to minister to--ones that were angry with God or vehement in their belief that no God existed.

Candy Squared loved children, and one of the things she loved most about serving as a parish priest was the opportunity to work with children--both the preschoolers so certain of God, and the teenagers who doubt everything. My sister adored her nieces and nephew. It thrilled her to participate in their big moments.

First, and foremost, to me, Candy Squared was my big sister. Seven years older than me, we were different in many ways but still managed to connect. I remember visiting her at Duke University when I was 17--she tried to feed me vegetarian food but I snuck off to Burger King. We certainly didn't agree on everything, but Candy Squared made room for me as she went on to make room for so many others. I miss her.

What would Candy Squared say about the events of last Thursday? I think she would say that God has a room prepared, even for a troubled soul such as Douglas Franklin Jones. She wouldn't want us to dwell on Thursday, but instead to leave here today remembering that in choosing to live our lives with grace and forgiveness, we move forward from this moment.

In my Father's house, there are many rooms.

Tell Me. I Want To Know.

On this day 11 years ago, terrorists ripped a gash through our nation as they killed innocents in New York City, in a Pennsylvania farm field and at the Pentagon.  Four months and a week ago, a mentally ill gunman ripped a gash in our family when he shot and killed Candy Squared. 

Collectively, we heal from tragedy. On this September 11, new construction continues at New York City's Ground Zero and news reports indicate that fewer survivors feel the need to return for a public mourning of their loss.

In our home, where our violence is still fresh, we share memories of Candy Squared. We laugh about her scatter-brained forgetfulness and remember her zest. This is a woman who once doubled the length of a six-hour trip when she left her wallet at a convenience store after filling her car with gas. She is the priest who baptized Birdie and the aunt who came to Daisy's fifth birthday party dressed as a princess. She is the sister who first learned her little brother met a girl he really liked--that being how she became my sister-in-law. So even as Big Guy struggles to sort through the pottery, china and bits and pieces of Candy Squared's life, we heal.

In my healing, I find room to think about the family left behind by Candy Squared's killer Douglas Franklin. Big Guy and I met them in June. We stood in their side yard. We spoke with Douglas Franklin's brother and his wife. She cried when she learned who we were. We shook hands with Douglas Franklin's nephew as he held a toddler son in his arms.

I saw for myself that these are good people. They work hard. They are poor. They do not understand what happened anymore than I do. They live in tragedy's shadow--on the bottom floor of a white-framed house owned by the church where Candy Squared and another woman died. The house sits catty-corner across the parking lot from the church. They knew both women.

They told us about their Douglas Franklin: A man who loved his brother; a man who fished; a great-uncle who dubbed his toddler-great nephew "Pork Chop." They have those memories, but a bewildering numbness possesses them in this first summer of grief. The brother confessed his fear that the madness that gripped Douglas Franklin might run through the family. They knew Douglas Franklin was ill; they didn't know he was dangerous. In their new reality, the brother tells his wife: You let me know if you see me acting odd.  I want to know if I'm going crazy.

That takes me back to the terrorists: The large bunch of them that struck on Sept. 11, 2001. That day might have been slipped by in anonymity, if even one had said to his loved one, "Tell me if I'm going crazy. I want to know." And that loved one had known what to do about it.

Beneath its layer of civility, our world has a rawness. Differences breed fanaticism, mental illness exists, tempers boil, guns are cheap and unforgiveness festers. Please, loved ones, tell me if I'm going crazy, if you see a hatred consuming my soul. I want to know. And then, loved ones, help me figure out how to regain my humanity.

The Glory of the Stars

Savannah Steel asked about my favorite moments. Just back from a two-week camping trip Out West, I stumbled for an answer. Her question, in the mindset of a Monday morning, caught me off guard. Then I told her about The Stars. Big Guy and I departed our primary stop Glacier National Park, drove two lazy days across Montana, then stopped to camp in the quiet of North Dakota's Theodore Roosevelt National Park.

At each new evening camp, for the first hour, my mind misses the beauty. I see only work: Setting up the camper, the cook stove; finding the bathroom, the water pump; preparing the dinner and pushing through the clean-up.

At Teddy's Park, that is how it went, except for the two wild horses grazing through camp. I would have told Savannah Steel about the horses--but they were out-ranked by the glory of the stars.

On that night, when darkness fully settled, Big Guy and I walked--not hand in hand, but with a nearness to each other.  Big Guy pointed upward. My eyes followed then melted into the richness of jet black velvet scattered with clean white, hard diamonds. Some stars shone so close and bright, I wanted to touch them, to capture them like lightening bugs in a jar. Others stood so faint--so standoffish--I doubted if I really saw them. The Big Dipper stamped its presence, bold and insistent. A multitude of stars unknown to me were layered in time between close and faraway.

I think of stars as souls departed, as spirits who have flown but shine near. On this night, I felt that intimacy and wondered: Is this where Candy Squared, the Lovely Senorita and my dad have gone? Is this where my precious pets--Chuck, June, Smut, and so many more, have moved on to? Are the stars mansions prepared by the Creator?

I left these esoteric thoughts and returned to the business of walking without tripping, of keeping up with Big Guy. But, once seen, the Montana night sky begs not to be forgotten.

This wasn't my first glimpse of the Montana Big Sky, as Savannah Steel reminded me. About 12 years ago, during a work trip, I saw it--an overwhelming bold blue and white by day and magnificent by  night.  Savannah Steel and I both saw the sky during a hot June week of promoting a wheat herbicide. This time, seeing the Sky with Big Guy, at a relaxed pace, was better. But even long ago, between shaking the hands of farmers and swatting mosquitoes, the Big Sky looked pretty darn good.