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.