Sugar Beets & Spinach

Within a five-minute span, my mind jumps from sugar beets to spinach to cities in St. Louis County...and then stops with Malcolm X. Names intrigue me. When I think of sugar beets, I picture huge, bright magenta sugar cubes lined up in neat rows in a field. Not exactly. Sugar beets are a root vegetable, not much more exciting than a turnip.

Spinach isn't a name issue, so much as a bait-and-switch. As a five-year-old, I begged my mother to buy canned spinach. Popeye ate it. When she caved in and bught a can, then served it--I scooped up a big forkful, tasted it, and then cried.  I didn't understand "sell-out" then, but I do now. I hope Popeye is still picking that nasty green goop out of his teeth. Though if he'd been gnawing on a sugar beet, I would have wanted one of those, too.

And now--cities in St. Louis. When Big Guy and I came here searching for a house, the real estate agent handed us a St. Louis map, and said, "Where do you want to live?" On the map, Riverview, Cool Valley and Huntleigh read equally delightful. One is home to millionaires--the other two are pockets of poverty. We didn't look at homes in any of those cities. Eventually, we rented a home in Manchester-an o.k. sort of name. Eventually we moved. Now we live in St. Louis County--surrounded by cities we don't belong to.

To belong, or not to belong, reminds me again of Malcolm X. I can't begin to know the mind of Malcolm X--and if he lived in this time, and perhaps were my neighbor, he probably would make me nervous. But I think that "to belong" eluded the man. He was born into a black family in Nebraska, his father died young--and, some speculate, was murdered for his racial activism. Malcolm's mother ended up under psychiatric care, and Malcolm and his siblings bounced among foster homes. Islam grabbed Malcolm's attention, but religious and racial turmoil haunted his life until its violent end.

The X of Malcolm X intrigues me.I wonder about the moment when Malcolm X, born Malcolm Little changed his name. It is said that he viewed Little as a legacy of slavery and choose X to be in place of his lost African name. Was it in a quiet moment that he made the switch? Did he agonize? Did he consider options other than an X?

In any moment, how much power does a name carry to say who we are, what we believe or what we'd like others to believe about us?

Malcolm X

I remember the name Malcolm X scrawled in spray paint on downtown building walls in Durham, NC. The angle of the scrawl exuded anger. The name plastered where it wasn't meant to be. As a white girl, riding cocooned in our white Dodge Dart, I felt the anger directed at me.I didn't know that Malcolm X, the man, had already been dead for several years.

In the turbulence of the Civil Rights Movement, names carried power. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of pulling together and creating a future of all men created equal. Malcolm X --as I gathered from the graffiti--didn't play by the rules, wasn't interested in peaceful change and--in his perfect world, Malcolm X had no use for white people.

Although Martin Luther King Jr. is now honored with a national holiday and Malcolm X is reduced to a footnote, I intertwine the two men as twin sides of penny. One side may be more familiar, but both sides are necessary to make the penny whole.

Malcolm X told white people that no matter what they called black people--colored, negro, or anything else--his race wasn't going to wait with infinite patience to sit at lunch counters, drink from water fountains or ride the bus. Malcolm X carried rage, distained white people and increasingly advocated violence. He provoked fear. He got attention. Eventually, he was assassinated by a group of disillusioned followers. 

Without Malcolm X, would we have recognized how mad black people really were? Would we have understood that their demands for a better life weren't going to go away? Without the threat of a violent future, would Martin Luther King Jr have spoken as fervently? And would we have listened?

Christmas Pen Pal

Big Guy has a pen pal. For the second year in a row, he has received a Christmas card addressed to him, alone. Pen Pal includes a chatty little note and a photo of her family. The only problem--she is sending her card to the wrong "Big Guy."  My Big Guy isn't the one that used to work with Pen Pal. Somewhere there is someone with the same name that Pen Pal knows and cares enough about to keep up with, once a year. But it's not my "Big Guy."

When Pen Pal's first Christmas card arrived, Big Guy double-checked and triple-checked his memory. He doesn't know Pen Pal. I sent a Christmas card--signed Big Guy and the Girls--back to her. I figured she'd sort through her mistake and move on to the right Big Guy.

That didn't happen. About a month ago, Big Guy received Pen Pal's annual Christmas card along with a fresh photo of Pen Pal, her husband and her toddler daughter. They are a cute family. Again, she included a Christmas catch-up note. Once again, Big Guy searched his memory--he doesn't know her. And neither do I--except sort of, I do.

I used to be Pen Pal, juggling a toddler (or two) with laundry, writing assignments, and the nitty-gritty of life. Most of the year, I did well. Then Christmas slipped into the mix and I went into over-drive. We bought the fresh tree, crafted hand-made gifts, slapped the girls' paint-embellished hand prints on sweat shirts, ornaments, cards and anything that stood still long enough. We did the Santa scene. And we drove with the girls strapped in car seats through neighborhoods lit up like Las Vegas. And, without fail, I'd come up with a perky Christmas letter and photo to stuff into cards. I wanted perfect bliss for my starter family.

I got memorable. Inevitably, Birdie or Daisy would catch a cold; a snowstorm would slow our 11-hour drive home or I'd run out of ribbon--after a while in the Christmas chaos, it didn't take something large to put me off my cheery overdrive pace. But year-after-year, the Christmas letters went out without fail.

Then one year, I didn't send out cards--and it felt so good.  

I love the Christmases we have now--but they aren't as sweet. Birdie and Daisy are in college--and gift cards are their version of a box with a book. I ditched the real tree as no one helps pick up fallen needles. And until midnight mass moves to 9 p.m., I'm not going. But there was a time when I did it all, kind of like Pen Pal.

As I look at her card, addressed to "Mr. Big Guy," I feel a tickle of the do-it-all days of Christmas. Big Guy and I will send Pen Pal a card--soon because it's OK to send a card in January. And next December, if Pen Pal sends a card, maybe I'll revive my Christmas letter. If she can do it, with a toddler, I can do it without one.

Guns

Each murder ends a life. Each murder changes lives. Today, a troubled individual shot to death children and adults in an elementary school in Connecticut. He also murdered his mother. Experts, most of whom have never lost a loved one to violence delivered by gunfire, will declare--with the confident detachment of onlookers--that guns do not kill people.

Seven months ago, in Ellicott City, MD, I walked the floors of the sanitized aftermath of a killing field--the offices of St. Peters Episcopal Church. I stood on the vacant spot that marked where sister-in-law Candy Squared was shot, sitting in her chair at her desk. I skirted around the fresh laid plywood floor where the other woman died, most likely trying to flee. If the mentally ill person who shot and killed both women had not had a gun--if he had been forced to use a different weapon--perhaps both or even one of them would have escaped.

Madness will envelop some lost souls; anger will feed others and the consequences can be horrific and unfocused. Once again today, as in May, I wonder bitterly: Why does my nation--why do my elected leaders, neighbors, friends and those who share my blood--support laws that supply killers with weapons that multipy death with such cruel and aching certainty? 

And So She Reminds Me

Lately, Tequila and I walk a lot with Angelina.. For an hour or so, Tequila gets two moms. Almost with one voice, we instruct her to stay on the path, catch up, slow down and behave herself around other dogs. The only thing we don't do in tandem is pick up after Tequila. Like a favorite aunt, Angelina holds Tequila's leash while I fish through the fallen leaves with my plastic bag-encased hand.

Our chatter is wide-ranging as we walk. But Angelina always covers one point very well: Never again does she want a cat. I deserve the reminder. When Cracker was a sort of cute and very noisy kitten, I tried to pass him slyly from my house to hers by coaxing Angelina's daughter Ballet Girl into holding the sweet kitten for a moment. Ballet Girl didn't take the bait. She knew better than to sneak a loud, squirmy feline into her house. At that time, Angelina was mopping up after an elderly cat that boldly peed, at will and with great frequency on the dining room carpet, protected by the tender-heartedness of Angelina's Brad.

When Angelina reminds me about her cat policy, I often wonder if she remembers the puppy. I came within one furry whisker length of unloading a puppy on her. Ballet Girl, Birdie and Forgotten Friend stumbled upon a white and black speckled puppy wandering a road in Tennessee. I was the driver, so I played my part. I stopped the car, the puppy "Iris" hopped on the backseat and cozied up with the girls. We drove home, another 450 miles.

Fortunate for Angelina, Forgotten Friend's mom took the puppy for the night. I'm told it took three baths to get all the fleas off Iris. The next day, I called Stray Rescue and soon the pup renamed Chattanooga found a real home.

I understand the depths of Angelina's resistance to the unpotty-trained--she has raised her children and she was way more successful with them than with the cat. So next time a furry creature presents itself, I'm going old school. Living in Springfield, Va., I remember Mom gathering up the kittens. She'd place the furry babies in a basket and Bro, Sis and I would cart the squirming basket around the block, ringing doorbells. We never went further than a block--as we weren't allowed to cross the street, and the basket always came home empty.

Angelina's home has a working doorbell. And I have a basket.

The Thoughts I Think

If I were to split open my head, I'm pretty sure a rush of bizarre thoughts would flood out. Like for example, how much cat hair did I swallow when I picked up crazy tabby Cracker while sucking on a piece of hard candy? If I think too hard, I start imagining a hair ball coagulating somewhere in my gut.

Then there's my theme for November: Thank you Lord, I'm not waking up in the Land of Akin. For those who too quickly forget, Todd Aiken is the U.S. Senate hopeful who felt that some rapes were more legitimate than others and that women who are raped, legitimately, have an inborn mechanism to avoid pregnancy. If I think too hard, and too joyfully, about Aiken losing, I remember what happened to John Ashcroft, a hard line conservative. In running for U.S. Senate, Ashcroft lost to a dead man. Democrat Mel Carnahan died in a plane crash shortly before the election. I celebrated Carnahan's post-death victory. Then John Ashcroft went on to serve as the U.S. Attorney General under George W. Bush. Please Lord, don't let Akin end up with a booby prize bigger than what he lost.

Tonight, I worry about sneaky burglars. It's a transient fear. Big Guy will return tomorrow and I'll follow my usual strategy of positioning him between me and the open bedroom door. I used a modified strategy to guard against grizzly bears while we camped in Glacier National Park. I let Big Guy smear stinky crack-healing ointment on his feet at night, even though I thought bears might find the smell attractive. With his two well-greased feet, I figured one Big Guy was enough of a feast for up to two bears.

I think about ants. I'm working on a story about fire ants. Hundreds of them sneak up from their dirt hill home and bite their prey--or as they see it, their attacker--at the precise same moment. It's very painful. Thinking about that reminds me of when Birdie bit Daisy at Disney World. That was a sneak attack, too. And it was very painful. Again, thank goodness, there was only one Birdie and not thousands of biting toddlers all waiting to nip while in line for Thunder Mountain.

And I'm still thinking about ants. I have one ant that constantly crawls around the kitchen counter. I fear that it is the same ant even though I have poisoned it, washed it down the drain, thrown it in the trash and ran it through the dishwasher. I would declare a truce, except I'm afraid the ant will crawl in my peanut butter sandwich. And once I eat the ant, it will live forever in my stomach with the Cracker cat-hair hairball.

I may have to give up peanut butter. I may have to release my Aiken fears. This ant thing has got me thinking.

The Ohio Vote

I understand all the yammering about Ohio and the relentless hedging about which way the finicky state will vote. I had my campaign swing through Ohio. My issue wasn't presidential; it was soybeans. Ohio growers were voting to decide if they would compell every soybean grower in Ohio to pay one cent per bushel to promote use of their crop and fund research to improve it.

 It was a tender, touchy issue. Major soybean-producing states like Iowa and Illinois required that their growers pay into what they called their state "soybean checkoff" program. Growers in mandatory check-off states felt that states like Ohio that didn't pay were riding their coattails.

I worked for the American Soybean Association. It wanted Ohio to participate. State checkoff programs funneled a lot of money to the national organization. The American Soybean Association sent me to Ohio for a one-week campaign assistance stint. My mission was to drive around a checkoff-friendly Ohio soybean grower and make the introductions as he met with newspaper editors and radio broadcasters.

My most vivid recollection of the week was the white Lincoln Towncar that I drove. I could barely see through the steering wheel. The parking lot attendant had to explain how to use the power seat to scoot myself close enough to reach the gas pedal. It drove like a boat. I was a sad and pitiful sight bumping down country roads while trying to read poorly folded road maps.

During that time, a lot of American Soybean Association touched down in Ohio. They joined with the locals to lobby the press, glad-hand the broadcasters and work one-on-one with obstinate growers hoping to convine them to pay to promote their soybeans. As a group, we had a great confidence that Ohio would sway our way. 

But Ohio growers said "no." By seven votes, they turned down the soybean checkoff. Slapped, the American Soybean Association changed tactics. It lobbied and won a national soybean checkoff. Growers in Ohio and everywhere else suddenly had to pay to promote. Stung, they collected the money, but then chose not to give the American Soybean Association nearly as much funding as it expected. The national association imploded. It gave back a building it bought. And a lot of staff, including me, lost our jobs.

Those seven Ohio votes changed my life. If the vote had gone the other way, the American Soybean Association might have never lobbied for a national checkoff; it might have never imploded. Perhaps, I'd still be working at a job not near as rewarding as the life I have now. Even worse, maybe I would be driving a Lincoln towncar.

Vote on Tuesday. Somewhere, someone's vote will change a life. It could be your vote; it could be your life.