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.

Costumes And Who We Are

At Halloween, I think about costumes. I believe Daisy, having a birthday mere days before Halloween, was born thinking about costumes for her birthday parties and for trick-or-treating.

For her fifth birthday, Daisy chose to be a princess. I went to my sewing stash and picked out a piece of neon pink fabric to fashion into a gown suitable for a five-year-old, pre-K princess. Daisy loved it. And I was left with a problem: Birdie, the Little Me-Too.

The pink gown caught Birdie's eye. And suddenly, she, too, demanded to wear a princess gown. I didn't have pink fabric left.. So I reached deep into my stash and pulled out a remnant of white cotton fabric sprinkled with black and white cows and red hearts. I cut and stitched it into a Birdie-sized gown, slapped a flower on the front and presented it to her. She loved it, cows and all.

I believe that costumes reveal something about who we are or whom we want to be. For Halloween, I have dressed as a witch, a clown and a gypsy. Daisy tends toward beautiful witch, Hula Girl and kitty cat. I'm told that Birdie will be a Hula Girl this year. But in Birdie's younger days, that cow gown started something. Like other girls, Birdie dressed as a fairy and an angel. But sporting cows fed her imagination and need to color outside the lines. Birdie--like it or not--is a free spirit. She can dress as a broom, a strawberry or a Mad-Hatter cabaret singer.

I know college-age Birdie isn't pleased that these photos are out. But I hope she takes a close look at them before she demands that I remove them. Birdie is a girl who loves life and goes where others won't. Silly photos or not, the world needs more Birdies.

I could have dug much harder through my fabric stash to find a shred of royal purple or sapphire blue. But then Birdie wouldn't have been Birdie. And where's the fun in that?

The Daisy Birthday

I remember Daisy's first birthday party. From her Minnie Mouse throne of a high chair, she ruled the event. She wore gift bows as her crown and waved a grape Tootsie Roll Pop to keep our attention. And all of our eyes were riveted on her, the prettiest--the only--baby in the dining room.

On Friday, Daisy turned 21. Big Guy and I drove to Columbia, Mo., to meet her for dinner at a nicely grown-up restaurant. Her roommates joined us. They brought Daisy's wallet. She had forgotten it on the one occasion when she yearned to be carded. Then the waiter forgot to card her. So Daisy waved her I.D. in the air, until he checked it. In that moment, she reminded me of the Tootsie Roll Pop-waving tot, so certain of her well-loved place in the world.

The tot Daisy, with candy-sticky hair and chocolate cake-frosting'd face, got put to bed shortly after her first birthday party. On that night, Big Guy and I stayed up to toast ourselves as parents...successful parents of a now sleeping one-year-old.

On this 21st birthday, after dinner with her parents, Daisy and her friends hit the bars of downtown Columbia for her first swing at full-fledged adulthood. Big Guy and I reminded her to be careful and gave her money for a taxi in case her ride fell through. Then we drove two hours home and put ourselves to bed. That's the ending shared by two exceptional birthdays for one exceptional girl. Someone went to bed. And someone celebrated long into the night.

Happy Birthday Daisy!

Jelly & Beer

As I stepped on to mom's front porch--exhausted after a nine-hour drive--I saw the raccoon catcher baited with grape jelly and beer. I didn't think twice about it. Until later. Do raccoons like canned domestic beer? Would they prefer it  bottled and imported? And what about grape as a jelly choice? If I eat grape jelly, it's with peanut butter.  I don't eat my jelly with beer or drink my beer with jelly.

But what do I know? Mom understands raccoons. At one time, she had three of them living with her as invited house guests. While Moss-Coon and Tonto were confined to the screened back porch, the most senior raccoon Zolone romped through the house. He swung from door knobs, pulled pots and pans out of cabinets, tossed down illicit aspirins like candy, rinsed wrist-watches in toilets, annoyed cats and ran his saucy little paws through the sugar in the sugar bowl--which pretty much made it "his sugar."

It took Mom two solid years to get Zolone and his companions out of the house and into the wild. In fact, she found it easier to send Sis to college a semester early than to unwedge the raccoons from their cozy digs.

But that was long ago. Mom has grown wiser. No more falling for cute bandit-masked raccoon babies. No more warning visitors away from the sugar bowl. The current raccoon trap, she says, is set strictly to resettle raccoons who eat cat food while lazy cats nap.

While I visited, Mom took a break from baiting the trap. After I returned home, Mom resumed her beer and jelly baiting. She caught an opossum. It took the dim-witted creature about 100 tooth punches to guzzle three cans of beer. There was no sign left of the grape jelly. Mom called Bro to remove the hapless drunk so she could restock with beer and jelly. Bro, too, knows better than to think too hard about her beer and jelly system.

After all, Mom cut her teeth on critters. And if she says beer and jelly catch critters, she's probably got reason to think it. Before there were raccoons in the house, Mom had an opossum as her childhood pet, a dairy cow to milk and a goat-pulled cart to collect the mail. When she was a teenager, there was an incident of kid goats turned loose in the house while her parents weren't home. She credits her brothers with the crime. But I know she enjoyed it--perhaps as much as the opossum enjoyed the beer and  jelly spread.

"Oh"

Big Guy: "Daisy called. She wants me to bring her the old kitchen table and chairs."

Miss Flonotes: "Yeah. She told me."

Big Guy:  "I guess I can take that table apart."

Miss Flonotes: "Take the table apart?"

Big Guy:  "To get it in the car."

Miss Flonotes:  "The car? We have a minivan."

Big Guy:  "Oh."

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.

Room Mom

At Ross Elementary School, I gained fame, or notoriety, as the room mother who dumpster dives. Like most legends, it's not completely true. When Daisy was in third grade, I didn't dive dumpsters, so much as I pawed through an entire neighborhood's worth of driveway recycling bins at 6:30 a.m. in search of empty food cans.

I needed 600 cans so every child at Ross could make a tin can snowman as a take-home craft at the classroom "winter holiday" parties.  A month out, I started feeding the family canned corn, canned beans and canned tomatoes--but a family of four that doesn't like soggy canned vegetables isn't going to plow through 600 cans worth so kids they don't know can make tin can snowmen that'll probably get left on the school bus. And that's how I discovered the joys of other people's recycling.

No one actually asked if I'd come up with 600 cans--and I didn't singlehandedly. But at that point in my life, I always wanted every child to have what every other child had, and for holiday parties to be mellow.

Today, I'm not as concerned about everybody else's child as I used to be, but I still come running when Daisy calls. That's why, tonight, I'm sleeping on the sofa in her house in Columbia. Tomorrow, I'll be "room mother" for the day at her sorority as girls go through "Rush." My duties, I'm told, are to fill cups with water, collect trash and throw it in the dumpster out back.

I don't plan to dumpster dive. But if Daisy asked, if she really needed me to do that for her, I probably would. She is my daughter and I love her grown-up self every bit as much as I loved her as a nine-year-old.

To Be Child-Free

When tuxedo-cat Slim Jim woke me three times before dawn, I should have known that my vision wouldn't hold true. For me, there would be no self-pity Monday spent settling into the unfamiliar quiet of a child-free house.

With loud wrenching, Chihuahua blondie-mix Tequila threw up twice this morning. Then fresh off the final vomit clean-up, I watched as tabby Cracker scooted his butt through backyard blades of grass to quench a delicate itch.

Child-free? Not hardly. 

The two that left--Birdie and Daisy--are the only ones who sleep through the night and handle nausea without Mom batting clean-up. And neither one would scrape her fanny through the yard--at least not in the bright light of day, with Mom there to witness.

When Birdie Flew

Yesterday, Birdie and I stood in the evening shadows outside Pomfret Hall, her dorm at the University of Arkansas. We had unpacked her things, met her roommate and gone to dinner with the roommate and her family. We had even made a final run to Wal-Mart. Nothing remained undone.

Now, in the dark, Biride hugged me tight and I hugged back. The dog Tequila wound her leash around us. Birdie sniffed. I felt her shoulders start to heave. Even a good good-bye--one nearly 19 years in the making--hurts, I thought.

Staving off the tears, I unwound Birdie's hug. Gently, I grabbed her shoulders. I reminded Birdie: She is a good daughter, with good parents, and this moment of letting go is one that she and I are ready for. She nodded, then turned and walked through the doors of Pomfret Hall. Big Guy accompanied her as Tequila and I waited.

Alone for the moment, I felt my heart begin to break and prepared for my tears to flow. Then I spotted three juvenile skunks skittering along the dorm's brick wall. The mini-fleet of wildlife refocused my thinking. Big Guy returned, with Birdie in tow for one final good-bye. We hugged the brisk hug of good-byes already said. Then Birdie left for good, armed with one new bit of Mom advice: Watch out for skunks. Four-legged or otherwise. 

Birthday

Big Guy likes my birthday. It is one day before his own Big Day, so he hogs mine to stretch his own celebration to 48 hours of nonstop presents, well wishes and double cake and ice cream.

This year, my birthday started abruptly, at 4 a.m. with a phone call.

"Mom, I'm really sick. I want to come home," said Birdie.

"Find Daisy. Make her take you to the medical clinic," I replied. I would have taken Birdie. But while I was in St. Louis, The Girls were in the city of Santiago in the Dominican Republic--footloose, fancy-free, except now Birdie wasn't.

Rousting himself from slumber, hearing my reply, Big Guy knew: This year, he wanted no part of my birthday. It wasn't going to be fun.

Back and forth, the phone calls went. Birdie landed in the hospital emergency room with an IV, needle sticks, prodding and poking, and finally, an endoscopy. I hung by the phone in St. Louis. I wanted only to wrap my arms around Birdie. Big Guy felt the same. He went to meetings. I worked on a project. But in our hearts, time stood still.

On my birthday, Birdie lost a lot of dignity. But she got great care, at about $400. Early evening, she went home to a Dominican mama with a huge heart, hugs and an offering of a simple soup then sleep in an airconditioned room.

I felt a bit better, having Skype'd and seen with my own eyes Birdie in a kitchen, with soup in front of her flanked by a mama and Daisy. I still wanted my Birdie, but she'd found a nest for the night. She'd recover. She'd live another day to roll her eyes, sigh and wish that she was anywhere but at home in St. Louis with her parents.

With my day smoothed out, Big Guy and I went to dinner with Brad and Angelique to celebrate my birthday. As the drinks flowed, I could feel Big Guy starting to hone in on my birthday as a precursor to his own.
Then dessert happened. Four gelato cones. Four mystery flavors. As Birthday Girl, I picked first. I picked blindly. I picked ice cream flavored with Fuit-Loop cereal. In that moment, as I struggled through my artificially surreal gelato and Big Guy slowly licked his pistachio gelato, it was clear: This birthday, with all its twists and turns, belonged solely to me.

While I Was Visting

I'm home. I won't say that Mom sent me packing, but in my short near four weeks with her...the dishwasher broke, the airconditioning broke, the garbage disposal took a temporary breather, the start knob on the dryer died and the plumber fixed the toilet--twice. Imagine if I'd stayed a bit longer. Visting with you was fun, Mom. And I'll be back again soon. You might want to check into extended warranties, on everything.

Got One!

Yesterday, I caught a fish while casting my rod from the dock. Immediately I panicked. No Big Guy to take it off the hook for me. Worse yet, I didn’t have my camera to prove I caught it by myself. Putting on my Big Girl panties (a Candy Squared saying), I grabbed the good-sized bass, yanked its fish lip free of the hook and threw it back. I can hardly wait to catch another one.  

While Big Guy sparked my recent interest in fishing, my grandmother “Forwee,” which in the South comes out said as “Fa-wee,” was the first to take me fishing on Clark Hill Lake. Once each summer, Forwee would capitulate to a grandchild’s plea and load 5-7 youngsters into the ski boat.

In the big water outside the cove, Forwee anchored the boat. Then she handed each of us a long cane pole baited with a minnow and issued her standard reminder:  Watch the red and white bobber and don’t drop the pole. Ten minutes later, two of us would yell “Got one!” Turns out, 10 minutes is about how long it takes for two minnows to find each other and wind their fishing lines together. Sometimes, more than two lines would tangle, which really got the boat yelling.

With lines untangled and hooks freshly baited, the excitement of fishing quickly died. Maybe one of us would catch a sunfish or a small crappie. More often than not, we evolved into bored, hot and hungry whiners. Our fishing trip would end. Back at the dock, we jumped in the water. Forwee pulled minnows off poles, stashed poles high in the dock rafters and put away the tackle box. All without much in the way of thanks, or help.

A saner adult would not have taken a bunch of impatient kids fishing armed with cane poles and sharp hooks. But I’m lucky to say, Forwee was my grandmother. She wanted each and every grandkid to love lake life in all its glory. And I do, especially when the fish bite.

Soldier's Brand

At Fort Campbell, KY, Gunner prepares for his fifth tour in a war zone. A branded cross marks his right shin. A brand. Not a tattoo. Gunner's Mom, a rural Tennessee mountain of a woman, works as a home health care aide.

On Tuesday, my mother was one of her many charges. Mom is recovering from a knee replacement. I didn't expect to have much interaction with Gunner's Mom. But she works carefully and makes the time to talk with families. 

That's how the brand came up. Five years ago, in a war zone, Gunner scratched a cross with "Jesus Saves" into the door of a Humvee. A week later, an enemy combatant blew up the vehicle as it traveled with a full crew including Gunner. 

The blast mangled Gunner's right thigh and propelled him to the ground. Munitions inside the Humvee caught fire and exploded causing the red-hot, cross-etched door to burst free. It landed on Gunner. The cross he made then seared into his flesh, just inches below his wound.

In Germany, doctors patched Gunner together. Surgeons at Walter Reed Army Hospital rebuilt Gunner's thigh with a titanium rod. His mother says, Jesus kept him from losing his leg with its cross. The medical care made him well enough to go back to where he wanted to be, in the war zone. 

Gunner's Mom explains: Gunner believes that soldiers are all that stands between America's sworn enemies and civilians. And soldiering is in his blood. Though she also thinks the Army brainwashes its young soldiers so they won't quit.

The emotions run deep in Gunner's Mom. Others were less fortunate when the Humvee exploded. Gunner pulled one soldier friend--on fire--from the wreck. He survived with 85 percent of his body burned.

And there's the dead lieutenant. Sitting near the front of the Humvee, in an instant she became the 90th female solider killed in that war. She was the commanding officer and Gunner's friend, notes his mom.

Mother to mother, she keeps in touch with the lieutenant's mother, who lives five states away in Colorado.

"She is not doing well," says Gunner's Mom. "In the summer, she has horses to take care for and can get outside.  In the winter, when it gets cold and with all that snow, it's hard."

An Inquiring Mind

Birdie and Big Guy think I ask too many questions. But that's how they and I learned Crown Candy Kitchen deep-fries 300 pounds of bacon per day--10 pounds at a time with the grease changed after every 80 pounds--and that there's a dedicated fry person.

Candy Squared had it on her bucket list to visit Crown Candy Kitchen while in town for Birdie's graduation. In her memory, Big Guy, Birdie, Sis, Sis-in-law and I made the journey for her, which as we plowed through mammoth BLT sandwiches, brought up the discussion of how Crown Candy could possibly produce enough superbly crisp bacon to satisfy the 90% of customers (my estimate) who go for their world famous, heart-stopping concoction.

It's amazing what can be discovered by asking a question. For example, I found out where not to go for a tattoo. While Birdie was shopping for prom dresses, we stopped by a shop where someone she knew from school worked. They were talking over the dilemna of how to have a tattoo either "show" or "not show," as a tattoo cut in half is not a pretty sight. The clerk said she had selected a dress that didn't show her recently acquired tattoo.

Being a question asker, I asked about the tattoo. Shop Girl pulled up her shirt to show off a honking big, vertical scripted 'no regrets' running down her side.

"It's bigger than I thought it would be," said Shop Girl, "But I really like it. "

"Wow," I said, "Where did you get it?"

"I went with my ex-boy friend to a shop he knows off Kingshighway. I got a discount."

Birdie purchased her prom dress from another place on another day. She chose an empire-waisted pomegrante and tangerine gown. Prom night, Birdie looked incredibly beautiful and self-possessed, inside and out. But then again, dress that girl in rags and she'd still look that way to me. And for the record, in case you want to ask, Birdie's prom dress covered her tattoo.

Daisy Skype

Daisy is in the Dominican Republic. But Skype keeps her close. She pops up on the computer screen. Already I've met--and chatted with--the Big Sis of Daisy's host family. And what I see on Skype confirms that it is really hot in the DR. Daisy's hair curls in tight humid circles around her face. And the fan is blowing. Daisy speaks longingly of showers even as she fills me in on what she and her new friends, and her borrowed family, are planning. And I am so glad to see her, to know that she's o.k. Thank you Skype for keeping Daisy as close as the laptop propped open on my lap tonight, even as she grows into a world citizen two time zones and many latitudes away.

Already Missing Daisy

One-half of the dining room table is covered with Daisy clothing. A neatly laid line of Daisy shoes sits underneath the table edge. In less than 24 hours, all of that stuff, and Daisy too, will be in the Dominican Republic. Daisy, who wants to be a nurse, will spend seven weeks in the half-island nation living with a host family and taking classes in Spanish medical terminology and public health. Already I miss her. She is not gone until tomorrow, but I feel the void creeping in. No Daisy sleeping on the sofa five minutes into a t.v. show she just had to watch. No Daisy drinking all the milk. No Daisy blocking my car with hers or calling me to come back to her room to see for myself how cute Cracker her cat looks as he sleeps. I think Big Guy feels the same. He has given Daisy lots of advice today, telling her everything at least twice. This D.R. trip is a big deal, especially as Daisy is our No. 1 Baby. The parent part of me misses her even when she is only 10 miles away working in Chesterfield. Birdie is less sentimentally attached to her sister. She is a bit fed up with sharing the bathroom. But I know she will miss Daisy when she isn't here to split mowing the lawn or help take out the trash. From experience, I know sibling love is a bit self-serving. But that is o.k.  Daisy will miss Birdie in the same way--when there's a spider to be killed or clothes to be borrowed.

Thirty-Two Years

Thirty-two years: Five addresses; two states; four churches; 11 cats; three dogs; six gerbils; one iguana; lots of fish, snails and earthworms; four turtles; seven cars; two pickup trucks; two sailboats; two kayaks; five sets of dishes; two microwaves; two clothes washers; one dryer; four dishwashers; one freezer and three refrigerators--one pink, one avocado and one (thank goodness) white.

Thirty-two years:  Numerous squabbles forgotten; way more good tiimes remembered; countless comfortable moments shared.

Thirty-two years:  Two bright and beautiful daughters--potty-trained, bicycle-riding, driver-license toting and high school graduated. A Mizzou Tiger and an Arkansas Razorback in the making.

Thirty-two years:  Snoring. First soft and cute. Now just plain loud.  But that's ok. I'll take 32 more years of Big Guy sleeping beside me.

Happy Anniversary Big Guy!

Book Treasure

On my nightstand, I have a stack of books brought back from Candy Squared's apartment. Their titles alone are a peek into Candy Squared--The Christmas Tree by Julie Salaman, My Cat Saved My Life by Philip Schreibman, When Bad Things Happen to Good People by Harold Kushner and two books by Barbara Brown Taylor--Leaving Church and An Altar in the World. I feel so lucky to have these books as Candy Squared and I both read, a lot. Already Taylor's books are refreshing my view of the world and faith. As I read Leaving Church, I enjoyed discovering that it also hit home with Candy Squared. I found passages underlined exactly where I'd want to underline also, if I were an underline -type reader. With that book finished, I started to read An Altar in the World. I noticed an index card tucked inside. Another spiritual connection to Candy Squared? I flipped it to find a single word penciled: Hairball. Hairball?  Sometimes a index card is simply a handy place marker, I think. I'll make use of Candy Squared's Hairball bookmark. It'll see me through the remainder of An Altar in the World. Eventually, the index card will travel to other books to hold new places. I will lose track of it. Someone else will flip it over, read the smudged scrawl Hairball and think Hairball?  

The Sudden After

It annoyed me. The late night ring of the phone. I guessed it would be Big Guy--breaking the rule about not calling during The Big Bang Theory. I started to chide him as he was fishing in Kentucky, then I caught the pain in his voice and stopped my inane late night chatter.
"It's Candy Squared. Somene shot her. At the church. It's really bad," he said.

In that moment, I fell into the sudden after. I don't know what else to call. Before Big Guy's call, I knew of violence. After his call, I felt violence with a sharpness. Four states away, someone I didn't know intentionally shot my sister-in-law in her church. Big Guy hung up to call his two other sisters. Birdie had heard every word of my end of the call. She knew it was bad. She felt the sudden after.

I texted Daisy at Mizzou. "Call me now."  She called back, impatient in her coral dress--faint party noise in the background. Like a bandage ripped, I told her, "Candy Squared's been shot."  Then Daisy, with loud keening cries, fell too, into the sudden after.

In the early morning hours, Big Guy drove home to sleep an hour and then fly to Baltimore. Birdie and Daisy sleepwalked through arranging to skip or postpone exams. I moved Daisy out of Mizzou--it was that time of the school-year. Birdie went to prom. Big Guy wanted her to go. And Aunt Candy Squared would have wanted it, too.

With prom complete, Daisy, Birdie and I began our two-day drive to Baltimore. We had numbed ourselves with our talk to so many who wanted to know, who needed to know. And so, caught in the sudden after, we delved into our familiar Candy Squared tales--she was the babysitting Aunt who made Daisy and Birdie practice violin for two hours straight after Daisy let slip on a Thursday that her teacher expected 20 minutes of practice per day. We discussed the ferventness with which Candy Squared sang in church. I related the terror of riding in a car driven by Candy Squared. I learned the hard way that Candy Squared looks at whomever she talks with--even as she drives 70 miles per hour on I-75 heading into Atlanta.

Our conversation moved on to tales of Candy Squared's misplaced cash and a Candy Squared misplaced wallet. I reminded the girls that Candy Squared used to win baking competitions. We worried over her beloved cat Judith Boy. In typical Candy Squared fashion, she thought she adopted a girl kitty to keep her then kitty Issac company. And so Judith became Judith Boy.

And as I do so often, I reminded the girls that Candy Squared loved them. That even in those moments when her idosyncrasies and theirs clashed, her love was a constant. Like always, they answered back, "Yes, mom, we know."

By the time we arrived in Baltimore, I'd thrown a protective layer of good memories between me and the sudden after.It worked until we met up with Big Guy at the church where an angry person armed with a handgun shot and killed two churchworkers. A freshly painted empty office and a new patch of floor were all that marked the tragedy.

 I saw the strain on Big Guy's face. I felt the sudden after creep into my thinking. I pushed back. Yes, I'm on the raw and tender side of the sudden after. I feel the afterprint of violence.  But as I think it through, a lot of good people--mothers, fathers, sons, daughters and friends--have had to walk in the sudden after. But no one--especially not a killer--can take away the goodness and good memories of our loved ones. And no one can take away our intention--my intention--to keep doing what's good, even when evil so clearly exists. 

To Forgive

Candy Squared, the quirky aunt who stole away with Birdie and Daisy to facilitate Birdie's Thanksgiving weekend, first-ever tattoo, has died.
    On May 3, a mentally ill, homeless man shot Candy Squared with a registered handgun as she sat in her church office chair, preparing her Sunday homily. At her memorial service, in Baltimore, Big Guy--brother to Candy Squared--asked that we all move forward with compassion and forgiveness, as Candy Squared would have wanted.
    I wondered, at the time, if he were truly right. Would Candy Squared have granted forgiveness in that moment when uncontrolled anger pulled the trigger?
    Since that time, I have read some doctoral program writings of Candy Squared and glimpsed the deeper, spiritual side of a sister-in-law Episcopal priest I didn't know well enough. In her homework (not her confidential papers), she admits to long time periods when she feels God's absence. Yet she keeps the faith and puts one foot in front of the other. She counsels souls lost to drug and alcohol addiction, physical and mental abuse and anger; and in working through their hurt, a newborn humility emerges in her writings. She curbs preachiness and perfectionism, learns to like the unlikable, and figures out how to facilitate and be present without assuming control.
    In none of Candy Squared's papers does she touch upon handguns or personal safety or unlocked church doors. But clearly she walks the walk with those she counsels, and forgiveness of her killer is what she would offer. The shooter was not among those Candy Squared counseled. He was a client of the church's food bank and he couldn't manage his anger. He was the sort of soul Candy Squared would have made time for, if only he had asked.
    And so, because Big Guy asks--and Candy Squared would have asked, too--I forgive the shooter. It is much harder to come to terms with a way of national thinking that legally places a gun in the hands of a mentally disturbed, angry person.

It's Gonna Be A Good Day

Through my 6:30 a.m. drowsiness, I felt fat cat Slim Jim tense up on the bed next to me. Then he began to gag, graphically, right beside my left ear.

Fortunate for Slim Jim, his four plump paws hit the bedroom floor mere seconds before most of his predawn snack of mouse did the same. As I leapt out of bed, Slim Jim ran with his fat cat sides waddling, pausing once more to spit up in the bedroom doorway. I raced after him. Big Guy slept on.

In chubby cat fashion, Slim Jim dove awkwardly into the piano room--seeking to upchuck in comfort on the Oriental rug. I grabbed his right hind leg and tugged hard to drag him off the rug. Then, I threw him outside. 

In that moment, I knew my Friday would get better. Birdie and I are driving to Mizzou today to enjoy a Girls Weekend with Daisy. I can think of more pleasant signs of Good Karma and a great day in the making. But I'll take the sign Slim Jim provided, whole mouse tail and all.

Purposing Peeps

Say "No" to the Jelly Bean Cocktail. Jelly-bean infused vodka cut with half-and-half, topped with a yellow "Peep" marshmallow chick and served in a blue sugar-rimmed glass tastes really bad. I'm disappointed. I wanted to surprise the Easter Bunny and Jesus with a use for "Peep" chicks. Now the Peeps float forgotten in a bad concoction of bathtub flavors held within fancy crystal glasses. Unless Cracker the cat figures out half-and-half and a yellow chick make a fancy meal, nothing will save those Peeps from drowning. And I think Cracker understands the difference between a marshmallow chick and a real one. Jesus--I will keep searching for a use for Peeps as I know all things are made with purpose. Easter bunny--start hopping. Next year, I'm trying the Chocolate Bunny Martini. Take one bunny, chocolate not furred, shaken not stirred and blend...

The Masters

There's something to be said for boycotting The Masters. This morning I was reminded by NBC's The Today Show that Augusta National, host of perhaps the most prestigious golf tournament in the world, allows only men (of any color, now) to belong to its club. But setting aside my mini-rant, I admit: To walk the rolling greens of Augusta National as the best golfers in the world compete, produces a thrill that defies explanation. Lush grass, stately pinetrees and intensely bright azaleas vibrant enough to set my eyes to aching, team up to tempt me to frolick and roll like an uninhibited young filly. That explains why I'm not at the Masters, and Birdie and Big Guy are. To attend the Masters requires enough self-restraint to avoid breaking out in a chorus of "The Hills Are Alive...," as Tiger Woods tees off. Spectators also need to park their cell phones in the car and leave the azalea blossoms where they belong. To break the rules means losing Masters tickets forever. And forever would be very long time in a family that shares a set of tickets. The four-day Masters Tournament concludes as the winning golfer dons the ugliest, most sought after, green jacket to grace Georgia. At no point in the event do I think it's fair or right that Augusta National excludes women. But the unattractiveness of the jacket makes me feel a tad better. I wouldn't want to wear that shade of green anyway, even if I were invited.

The Unclaimed

A tiny forgotten Negro cemetery lies on the edge of land that used to be the family farm. I know where to find it because Mom pointed it out to me once. The casual eye would see a stand of pine trees and underbrush. But look close, and about six grave-sized dips add depth to the ground. The pine trees tower over them. Chances are, the ones who dug the graves and mourned their dead never had the money for markers more fancy than a wooden cross. None of those crosses remain. And even the mourners may now themselves be dead. Memories of this hidden cemetery popped into my thinking as I studied the long list of Missouri boards and commissions. I decided to apply to serve on the Unmarked Human Burial Consultation Committee. The committee, in consultation with the State Historic Preservation Officer, determines proper disposition of human remains, considers request by professional archaeologists for extensions of research time, and considers requests for methods of dating human remains. There are six slots on the committee. None is filled. I plan to wait patiently while Governor Jay Nixon considers my request to serve on the vacant committee. I know he has more pressing matters--like the quorum-desperate hair dressers. And I'm not the archeologist or Native American Indian that the committee creators really want. I'm a vanilla suburban mom with a wide streak of liberal. Qualified or not, this committee feels like a good fit to me. A remain that rests where it shouldn't be or where it has been forgotten deserves to be thought about. And I'm a thinker.

Boards & Commissions

Turns out, Missouri has a bunch of boards and commissions. At least 800 citizens serve as members. Many of them hold their seats for years after their terms have expired, mostly because no one steps up to replace them. A lot of position holders are attorneys. On some boards, including the three that are full-time salaried ones, the number of Republicans and Democrats serving is limited. So sometimes a governor of one party may have to appoint someone of another. My guess is that those appointments get made with limited enthusiasm. The governor appoints each member of every board, and new members attend a tea party at the Governor's Mansion once their appointment is approved by the General Assembly. So everyone gets a say--even if the board is one that oversees amusement park ride safety or hairstylist certification.  Some boards stayed filled with influentials, like the pardons and paroles board and the board of county sheriffs. Other boards teeter on the brink of losing their quorums and without a quorum, they can't make decisions. Missouri's two historically black schools Harris-Stowe State College and Lincoln University fall in that category--along with the hairstylists. If I can't get my hair cut when I want, it's a nuisance. If a newly minted hairstylist can't get her license, it's a crisis--ditto for colleges trying to function for their students. No one at the intro meeting jumped up to serve on anything--it wasn't a volunteer-on-the-spot situation. But the crowd asked questions, mostly about the background check required of applicants. "What if 'someone' has bad credit...a criminal record...owes taxes...is related to someone else who has a criminal record?" I left the meeting knowing that Missouri wants 'someone' to serve if they can get on the path to right with their finances and haven't personally committed a felony serious enough to embarrass the state. My finances are fine. My felonies are nonexistent. And Missouri is a lot more likely to embarrass me than I am to embarrass it.

Sausage

In Costa Rica, I saw how sausage gets made. I watched as workers pushed chunks and scraps of raw meat, ribbons of yellowed fat and a mix of pungent spices into a huge metal funnel with grinding beater blades. I remember the workers, in their red-flecked clothing, smiling and nodding their heads in greeting. I vaguely recall my very kind host, a consultant for the American Soybean Association, explaining the sausage program, funded in part by U.S. soybean growers. Most vividly, even 20+ years later, I recall the strong scent of spices and blood mingling and how my stomach hovered on the brink of nausea. I survived, although the faint scent of sausage cling to my clothing. I vowed to never again watch sausage being made. Tomorrow, I take the first step toward another sausage grind. I plan to attend a meeting to learn how to serve on a Missouri state board or commission. I am not adept at sitting still or wading through long agendas. And I possess a low tolerance for windbags. However, I am a sausage survivor. And in a state preparing to honor Rush Limbaugh with a sculptured bust in the Capitol building in Jeff City, that credential alone may qualify me for service.

Girl Scout Cookies

While Birdie bought the Girl Scout cookies, Big Guy is enjoying them. Birdie intentionally stashed the cookies in "her car," so Big Guy wouldn't find them. Then Birdie slept in this morning and Big Guy drove "her car" to work. But like a fox set loose in the hen house, Big Guy sniffed out the cookies. Now he is snacking in style. If I were Birdie, I would have hid the cookies underneath the mound of clean laundry heaped by the dryer. Big Guy never looks there. But then again, neither does Birdie.

Why Aren't We Talking About Jobs?

Posted by a friend on Facebook: This is why job hunting for graphics jobs has been less than productive! Designers aren't valued much these days as this ad suggests, this is what I have been finding over the past few years: 

Full Time Graphic Design for Websites $3-5/hr budgetWe are searching for a top notch CREATIVE graphic designer to work for us full time! You must be very creative and know how to create website designs, logo and more.
No companies!!
No agencies!!
Only freelancers / self employed designers
This is a long term job and cost is everything to us! If you looking for a high rate per hour don't apply!Full Time Graphic Design for Websites $3-5/hr budget
- United States
 Comment:  They've got to be kidding, right? Shouldn't there be at least a 1 in front of those numbers? Do they really think they are going to get someone with actual talent?

 

Reply: Well, 1) they get what they pay for IF they get anyone at all and 2) Orlando in particular is bad for graphic designers because you have Full Sail graduating 2 classes who are graphic design oriented every month, plus UCF, Valencia, SCC and Rollins all have graphic design degrees and IADT and what ever other vocational schools around here have graphic design programs. There are more graphic designers than there are jobs around here and with so many out of work, someone WILL take this job.

 

Comment: While back I ran into an ad that wanted a manager for a night club that was hand's on being the host or hostess with the mostest which also included hiring the music acts AND running the website, MAKING the web site ..the pay was not near the amount needed for the superperson they were looking for and then was the kicker..Drug free ... and I said "are they kidding?"

 

Reply:  I understand everyone wants more for less, but this kind of thing is insulting and shameful. At least they should be offering minimum wage. I know this market is over run with graphic designers and if I want to stay in this field, moving would be the thing to do. It is still frustrating to be so undervalued!

 

Comment: Can they even do that? Offer below minimum wage?

 

Reply: It's contract work, they can offer whatever they want. Now getting someone to accept that offer is a whole different thing! Unfortunately this days, with so many people looking for work, they will more than likely find someone who will take it as it is more than nothing.....just barely! But then again, they will not be getting top notch either.

 

 

Goodbye Little Book Store

Tonight I grieve for The Little Bookstore. In two weeks, its owner will lock the doors and walk away. Almost from the start, my faith in the little shop failed. It was up against a big-box bookstore and temptingly clickable Amazon. And booklovers, too, are a spoiled bunch. They crave the crispness of a never-turned virgin page and the immediacy of a bestseller. They dump their dog-of-a-book at the used bookstore for credit and keep their treasures. Purists use the library. Book groups share among themselves. To many of us who knew the little bookstore, it stood like a David encircled by Goliaths. And this David lost. Other Davids remain--ones better equpped with new stock, specialities, author connections and children's story hours. I plan to shop the David stores, but I will buy from the Goliaths, too. I'm a booklover and I'm spoiled.
What I'm reading now:  Ape House by Sara Gruen.