According to a local news report a movie theatre had to be evacuated yesterday because of an altercation involving a man with a gun.  It was reported like this.  A child was kicking the chair of the man in front of him.  This man turned around and cussed out the kid.  The kid’s father proceeded to chew out that man who then pulled a gun, all alledgedly of course.

In my view here’s what should have happened.  A child old enough to be taken to the movies should already know better than to kick the seat in front of him, so that should not have happened.  If the child has not already been taught to be considerate of the others in the theatre his father should immediately direct him to stop and he should politely apologize to the man whose seat was being kicked.  The adult who overreacted by swearing at the child should have turned around and politely asked the child to please not kick the seat anymore.  The father, instead of making matters worse, should have calmly asked the man to use less offensive language and apologized for his son’s behavior.  The other guy should not have pulled out his gun.  He should have either sat down and shut up or moved to another seat.

But oh, no.  These two “adults” had to prove to each other that they are tough and can’t be pushed around. Great example there ass wipes.  I hope that the dad has realized that his  child needs to be taught some manners.  That could be a challenge if he himself has none.  I don’t know whether or not that is the case.

Now, the guy with the gun that he apparently needed to defend himself from little kid feet ought to never be allowed anywhere near a weapon again.  He is just too stupid.

It seems to me that responsibility is in short supply in our society.  The choices each of us makes affect others.  Our actions often have unintended consequences.  A peace office makes a poor choice causing injury or death to someone who appears to have been innocent and riots break out in protest.  An unintended consequence.  In a misguided attempt at vengeance someone shoots a cop who had nothing to do with the first issue.  An unintended consequence.

Even greater irresponsibility is demonstrated by those who just don’t care how others may suffer as long as they get to do what they want.  From the school  yard bully to the polluting factories selfishness and greed ignore the damage done.

I have seen this lack of responsibility everywhere.  On the lake where boaters run full speed and the wake behind them swamps other boats.  On the highway where fools texting cross the center line and endanger oncoming traffic.  Wild fires burn forests and homes because campers failed to put out their fire.  Buildings collapse due to shoddy workmanship. On and on and on.

Like other problems this will not get better unless we hold ourselves and others accountable for what we do.  Parents who fail to teach responsibility to their children set the rest of us up for trouble and the children for failure.  Teachers, elected officials and police all have an obligation to set an example of appropriate behavior.  Neighbors and strangers have an obligation to be civil toward one another.

And for crying out loud, grown men ought to have the maturity to deal with a kid kicking a seat  without needing a deadly weapon.

 

There is a lot of talk going around about taking things back.  Take our country back.  Get back to values.  Go back home. Get back to better times.  It all seems so silly to me.  Most things seem silly to me lately.

The people talking about taking their country back annoy me the most.  In the first place who says it is, or was, theirs?  Maybe it’s mine, our yours, or I get it, ours.  All of us.  Well actually this land was occupied long before the wing nuts who are making noise about taking it back were an itch in their daddy’s britches.

Here’s another thought about that.  Back to what exactly?  What I am hearing is wishful thinking for an imaginary  time and place where the people were pretty much alike.  I think they long for a nation of Mayberry RFD style towns where all the people are white, go to the same church and always say please and thank you. What the gobackers want Is not real and never was.

I lived in that place they think they want to go back to and it was not great.  The small town school offered us a limited education at best.  No music or art. We had two kinds of people; white and colored and the two were expected to stay in their place.  We were taught to be nice to the colored kids at school but don’t bring them home. There were probably homosexuals but they certainly were not acknowledged.  I remember five churches none of which were Catholic.  I was twenty years old before I met a Jewish person and did not even know Islam existed until I was out of high school.  It was a place that left one feeling ignorant and small.  It was dangerous on a somewhat smaller scale from more sophisticated cities just because of the smaller number of people there.  I witnessed a robbery and murder on the street outside my house before I was twelve.  I knew kids at school who were abused at home on a regular basis.  There was a preacher who had an affair with his neighbor and more than our fair share of drunks.

Count me out of going back to a fantasy better time.  I had rather go forward.  The future interests me more than the past and I prefer improving to regressing.

 

 

It’s been a strange few days.  Some pretty rough storms early last week canceled our plans for the 4th holiday so that we stayed home and watched east coast fireworks on television and then tried to get some sleep between the neighbors blasting fireworks.  Okay, only once a year so we can deal with it.  More storms the next day knocked out the electricity from mid afternoon until about nine thirty the following morning.  It was a long hot night without the air conditioning. Great timing from the electric company restored power about half an hour after we got the generator going and plugged in to the necessities (fridge and television).

With creature comforts restored we could catch up on the news.  What a shame that the only way to stop hearing the same old politics on all channels is for tragedy to strike.  And strike it did.  First two black men killed by police then the horror in Dallas.  It seems to me that I have had this what the hell is wrong with people feeling over and over.  I just don’t know how to process this shock and disgust anymore. Everywhere; neighbors at the grocery, all over social media, on the news and in the papers, blame is assigned.  It’s guns.  It’s racism.  We made god mad. It’s payback for some dumb thing in the past.  Baloney.  I say baloney because I am trying not to say bull shit so much.

The questions I ask myself when these events occur are probably the same as most others ask.  What can we do?  More particularly, what can I do?  I feel certain that racists and bullies should not be police officers, but can I do anything about that?  I could approach the sheriff and chief of police where I live and state my concerns.  Whether or not that would have any effect depends on how it’s received and whether these individuals are genuinely concerned about this issue.  I could write letters to elected officials but it has been my past experience that these are not acknowledged or are only acknowledged with a condescending form letter.  Maybe I will try anyway.  I am equally certain that dangerous or disturbed individuals should not have access to deadly weapons.  It is painfully clear that doing anything about that is not possible in the USA.

That leaves me with what can I really do?  All I can come up with is do whatever you can wherever you are.  When you are among people try greeting them instead of ignoring them.  Say thank you to the man who carries out your groceries and to the stranger who opened  a door for you. If you see someone drop something pick it up and give it to them.  Put someone’s need ahead of your desire.  If someone new moves into your neighborhood go say hello and welcome them.  The world may not get better from one person’s kindness and consideration of others, but that person’s world will feel better.

Yesterday I made up my mind to find a way to show some kindness to a stranger.  Not as easy as you might think since I mostly stay at home.  I did however need to get groceries so I made myself concentrate on the people I came in contact with and to smile or speak instead of keeping my eye on the shelves and minding my own business to an unnecessary degree.  Most folks smiled back and I got to checkout feeling more relaxed than usual.  The person bagging my stuff was not very fast and not all that skilled, but I thanked her anyway as she seemed to be doing her best.  There was an elderly lady, even older than me, loading bags into her trunk so I stopped long enough to help her out.  She wasn’t all that grateful, but her gratitude was not my goal in the first place so I am glad I made her chore a little easier.

All those things I think I can manage to continue to do regularly, for the purely selfish reason that I feel better when I am nice to people.  A good opportunity presented itself as I pulled into the driveway of my house and spotted a man cleaning up the neighbors yard.  This neighbor is not able to do much and with all the rain we have had his lawn and all the bushes around his house were a huge mess.  The day was very hot and I noticed the man doing the work was sweaty with a rag tied around his head to protect from the sun.  He stopped to lean on the shovel he was using, waived and said “How you doin?”  As soon as I  had put things away I poured some lemonade into a to go cup and walked over to offer that to him.  He put his hand out and introduced himself as Lional and asked my name.  We had a short visit.  He wished me a good day and I wished him the same.

This is not a life changing event for either of us. But maybe I will not be reluctant to approach another stranger to offer some kindness just because he is black.  And maybe Lionel will consider it more likely that a white person respects him because one woman did. For now this is the best I can do.

I am so very tired of living in a society that requires choosing sides.  Are you a Democrat or Republican?  A citizen damn it; a citizen.  Are you a Christian or Muslim?  Atheist buddy; I am an atheist. Are you black ? Seriously? Look at me.  Do you support the police?  Are you against police brutality? Do you own a gun?  Are you for abortions? North or South?  Coffee or Tea?  Belts or suspenders?

There were actually talking heads on television today arguing whether it is worse for a cop to shoot a black man than for a black man to shoot a cop.  This is just crazy.  No room for logic.  I am wondering how murdering police officers in Dallas, supposedly as revenge for a murder in Louisiana, makes sense to anybody.

Having lived almost seventy years I know where I stand on most issues and have enough sense to know that more information may be needed to decide about some ideas.  It seems to me that taking time to gather information and consider the possibility that someone else may know more and have a better idea would be wise and might result in less conflict.

As I react to national events of the last two days I choose to stand firmly right here in the middle.  It is apparent that black men in this country have good reason to fear the police, even though most peace officers do not want to do them harm.  Maybe it would be helpful if police departments vetted their officers more closely and made a conscious effort to avoid hiring those who are obviously racist.  There is another personality that has no place on the police force — that is the hot dog.  You know, that guy from high school who thought tying empty cans to the dog’s tail was funny.

Maybe we need a different kind of public service announcement.  Instead of the dangers of too much soda how about an ad for how to respond to a police officer?  Cover some simple basics like don’t reach into your pockets or start running.  Stay calm and respectful and follow the instructions you are given.  This probably works in most communities for young white people and should, should work for young black men.

The problem is that we don’t love each other.  Not even a little bit.  That Golden Rule thing would take care of so much that is wrong.  When a person is pulled over by a police officer they should consider how it must feel to walk up to that car window hoping and praying that this is just a routine traffic stop and not some psychopath ready to shoot.  If you were the one walking up to the car wouldn’t you feel safer if you could see the driver’s hands on the wheel?  Wouldn’t you be more pleasant to someone who treated you with respect and complied with the requests you make in order to do your job?  Of course you would.

A police officer who has noticed an expired license plate or a tail light out might want to consider that the driver already feels uncomfortable.  If the rolls were reversed wouldn’t simple politeness and respect be appreciated? Using the opportunity to prove to yourself that you are tough and in charge would be likely to get negative results. Arrogance has no place in a job described as “to protect and serve”.

If I really have to choose sides, well I am on my side.  I hope I am on the side of what’s right and kind.  I am trying.

I don’t know what to do about cops who keep murdering black people. But I do know that I live in a bubble of white ignorance. I am ensconced in privilege because of centuries of racism, building up like a geological shelf in this country. We add a thin layer of progress and then cover […]

via On whiteness, silence, and complicity — Little Stories

The word of the day — childhood.

The word instantly brings memories to mind of sandboxes and swings, cookies and Kool Aid, catching fire flies and riding bicycles.  Childhood ought to be about being carefree, feeling safe and happy.  I think many of us remember it that way, even if there were painful times.

When I remember my own childhood the best times come to mind first. Like ice cream sundaes at the drug store with my grandmother.  We got dressed up to go, she with her hair put up in combs wearing a dark dress, maybe navy blue, and pumps, me in starched cotton with white cotton socks in Mary Jane shoes.  We walked the two blocks past neighbors sitting on their front porch, stopping to say hello and the ladies telling my grandmother how sweet I looked.  At the drugstore Gracie and Ethel worked behind the counter and always greeted my grandmother with “Why hello Opal. And here’s your sweet little grandchild!  Butterscotch sundaes today?”  We always had butterscotch sundaes and even when I was in high school Gracie and Ethel always called me “Opal’s little grandchild”.  That’s my good memory of my grandmother.

Opal died young when I was about to be four years old.  Her death was more confusing for my young self than sad.  I remember her bed being placed at the window in the front room of the house so she could see the trees in the yard and people often walked up to the window to wish her well.  I remember going to the funeral home to see her laid out in the casket and being curious about why only the top of her was visible.  I remember a somber man lifting the lower part so I could see that she had on proper shoes.  I am sure that my parents were heart broken, but none of that is real in my memory.

My family lived in several different places when I was small before settling into my grandfather’s house a few years after my grandmother’s death when he became ill and needed to be taken care of.  So, we left the little white house on one side of the river and moved to the other side into the same house we were living in when Opal died and there we stayed until I finished high school.  I had really liked the little white house and grandpa’s house felt like home.

The places we were in before that were not so great.  There was an apartment near Chicago where the train ran along the edge of the back yard for a few months.  It was cold and dreary. There was a trailer (excuse me, mobile home) in a park where no grass grew for a while and an apartment in a housing project for a period of time that my parents were separated.  For part of that time I stayed with my paternal grandparents on their farm and that is one of those good memories from a not so good time that I cherish.

So, childhood, much like the rest of life, has it’s ups and downs.  I find that talking about the downs upsets people.  It’s as if they consider it whining to mention the negatives, especially if you mostly had it pretty good, which I did.  I had rather dwell on the fun I had, the people I loved who loved me back, the things I learned and adventures I had.  I can’t forget the injustice of bullies at school and that one really awful teacher but I survived those with little lasting effect. I prefer to remember classmates who became friends and teachers who were also examples.

I can’t write about childhood in any personal way without the best part of all — siblings and cousins.  When I was three my brother was born and I was given my first big responsibility — watch the baby.  This involved sitting by a play pen and reporting any activity to my mom.  She would pause in her work and ask from the door “Are you watching the baby?”.  “Yes.  He still isn’t doing anything.” He amazed me.  Still does. My cousin, Danny, stayed at our house a lot.  His mom, my aunt Marie, had a house full of kids and not much else, so her children visited us often to be looked after until she could manage for them to come home.  Danny, two years my senior, was my protector and favorite companion.  I was allowed to roller skate all the way around the block if Danny came with me, and he always did.  We played in the creek for hours and picked black berries and pretended to be The Lone Ranger and Annie Oakley.  When I was eight my sister was born.  She was a tag-a-long, following us older kids everywhere.  We didn’t mind because she would do anything we told her to and she didn’t tell on us when she could have, maybe even should have.

My last sister lived only four days.  All our hearts broke then.  My brother, sister and I had all been so excited about the new baby and had such plans for her.  She was utterly beautiful.  I was eleven then and childhood began to end, as everything does.

I have been tinkering with words lately.  Not writing as I am want to do but just turning the words over in my mind and rolling them across my tongue to get the feel of them. While reading a novel or even the newspaper I pick out a word to play with, to study, to analyze.  It’s one way to occupy my mind that requires little from me and keeps me amused briefly. Then I got onto the reader part of my wordpress blog to check the works of others and discovered that a word-of-the-day is provided to get one started to write.  Just what I needed. So, sky.

I was watching the sky while out for a walk just yesterday and thinking how it is constantly changing.  The sky I watched at noon will never be exactly like that ever again.  The clear vibrant blue of a summer day will be clear and blue on many other summer days, but it will not have exactly the same fade from shades of aqua to turquoise beginning so pale it’s almost white on one horizon and blending, bleeding into a royal hue on the opposite.  Those puffy cotton-ball clouds playing against the robins egg blue of late spring mornings will have the shape of 8:28 a.m. on May 27 only that one time for that one moment.  The dark green-gray clouds announcing the approach of a thunderstorm will hold the shape we see only for as long it takes the wind to march them into something else.

Flying from mid-America to New England a couple of months ago I saw the sky from up  in it.  Those puff ball clouds that we make imaginary shapes out of from below look very much like snow when looking down at them rather than up.  Then I could not ignore the fact that there are bumps in the sky.  So deceiving that serene smooth looking blue and white space way above our heads.  Had I not ever flown in a plane I would not have considered how changing and formidable air is.  Wind as I had experienced it on the ground seemed to present itself differently up in the sky.  Stronger and unpredictable for all that it is invisible.  No leaves to stir or flags to straighten out from the wind up here.  It is felt, not seen.

The night sky holds separate wonders from the day.  On cold clear winter nights when the wind has gone to sleep with everyone else and sleep doesn’t like me I wrap up in coat and gloves and walk under the bare trees looking up at stars that seem to be tiny pin holes in black satin letting only the wee small bit of light sneak through from the other side.  I especially like the black night sky when there is snow and light seems to glow from under your feet into the night and then die before it reaches the divide between earth and sky.  Winter’s naked trees form patterns of lace across the face of the moon and clouds, if there are any, seem to have captured the glowing light escaping from the snow below but can only hold it for a moment before the night becomes all shades of gray and black.  I could sit and watch this sky for hours, but the cold chases me back into the house, leaving the sky to deepen into purple before allowing just a touch of light to melt into the east changing the purple to lavender before streaks of pale yellow announce dawn. A dawn similar to many others, but not ever exactly the same as any other.  Each moment of the sky is unique, never to be again.

On Christmas, not this last one but the one before that, my kids and husband gave me a digital camera.  It’s awesome.  It will do many things.  It can be adjusted just about a million different ways to capture all kinds of images.  All I have to do is use the proper settings for the  photo I want.  So I sat down with the manual that came with the camera and begin to study.  I found all the parts listed in a diagram with lines from the names of the parts from those words to the corresponding part on the drawing of the camera.  I managed to charge the battery and find the button to push for taking a picture and remembered that you have to press this half way, pause, then press all the way.  So far so good.

So on a reasonably pleasant winter day I charged up the battery, inserted it into the camera, set it on full automatic and took a walk around the neighbor hood to snap a few photos.  Shot a few trees, a cat, one of the neighborhood kids, a front door, and quiet by accident, my boot.  Back in the house I got out the card reader my daughter showed me how to use and loaded my images to my computer.  A couple of hours and a few cuss words later I actually managed to see my efforts on the screen.  It became painfully obvious that I needed to put in some work to get any good at this at all.

We are fortunate enough to have a community college not too far away and they offer a beginners photography class.  I signed up.  The instructor for this class is an engineer who photographs special occasions  as a side business and has exhibited his work in local galleries.  A very knowledgeable and patient man. He began the first class with a discussion about F-stops (what?) and aperture (I had a small idea what that is) and how to choose and frame an image.  It all made sense while he was saying it and I nodded as I fiddled with the settings as directed (or as near as I could get to as directed).  I left with a bit of a headache and a homework assignment that involved placing an object on a table and shooting it with several variations of settings then down loading the photos to a card to show at the next class.  I did nothing but photography homework for five days and got to the second class with seven pictures of a blue goblet that really were not that different from each other.  Even so, I stayed, determined to become proficient with my camera.

Now you have to understand that there are a couple of handicaps here.  One, engineers make me nervous.  All that precision and planning and using numbers to define everything.  Exact numbers.  Engineers don’t understand winging it, and winging it is my strong suit. I have hated numbers since third grade and use them only as absolutely necessary.  Two, the last time I took a class was belly dancing about twenty years ago and longer than that since I had to actually study anything.  My brain may well have atrophied.

Class number two was all about light.  Flash or not.  Sun or shade. Indoors or out. Reflectors  and slave flashes and background.  We took shoots of each other and the mundane furniture in the room and I felt like I might be coming along.  Then, homework.  Go home and use the manual settings on your camera for a portrait shot, a landscape, and an action shot and print those to show the class.  Well I tried.  The laundry piled up, meals were carry-out or fix your own and the dust bunnies took over the house.  The portrait of my dog was not centered and his eyes were straight from the devil.  The landscape of the lake shore was too busy and the tops of the trees were cut off.  After hanging out at the ballpark for an hour or so I gave up on the action shot.  At this point I was just grateful the class was not for credit.

The class met for six sessions and I attended four.  I could have managed the last two but something else I wanted to do came along, so I ditched class.  Not actually a first for me.  The camera and I have an on and off relationship now. I really like what I am told is micro photography.  Close ups of flowers, birds (really hard to get) odd things I see along the road side like a discarded shoe and sometimes just a leaf.  Sunsets are another favorite and I never get tired of lake scenes. I always thought I wanted to take a lot of pictures of the family get-togethers and outings with friends but I get too involved enjoying myself to stop and take pictures.

Those shots I should have or could have taken have to stay just a memory without being preserved by the camera and I am okay with that now.  I got okay with it recently when I sat down to go through some very old photos of great aunts and uncles that I barely remember. I identified all that I could and made notes for whoever looks at these when I am no longer around to tell the story behind the picture.  I realized that the real memories died with people who held them inside while they lived.  I have a picture of my son holding his sister so carefully on his lap when she was no bigger than a house cat.  I haven’t looked at that picture in a long time because I don’t have to.  It lives in my head to be recalled at will.  When my brain and I are no more the memory will also be no more.  That’s just how it is.  It’s my special memory and you can’t have it.

It’s spring time here in the neighborhood.  The trees are telling it from house to house.  The Bradford pears are transitioning from white blossoms to green leaves, just a shade lighter than the new grass.  Most of the lawns have not been mowed yet, though they will be in dire need of a trim after only a few more days.  The warm green grass has cool tiny spots of purple and pale blue violets scatted all about and those odd purple weeds have popped up in the ditches and along the drives.  Dogwood trees are abundant on our block with one in front of just about every third house.  They burst forth in glorious white flowers a couple of days ago and are now a mass of white petals.  The addition of Red Bud trees here and there make a walk around the block a visual feast.

Children are the most noticeable harbinger of warm weather if only due to the volume of their voices announcing small victories such as a basketball through the hoop or reaching the bottom of the hill on a skate board without a tumble.  I am not sure what number would constitute a gaggle, but what seemed to me to be a gaggle of boys on bicycles came zooming down the hill as I was going up this morning, smiles on their faces and the usual taunts of “You can’t catch me” and “Watch this” tossed from one to another.

Folks that have seldom been seen through the winter are now engaged in serious porch sitting and across the fence visiting.  This winter the dog and I trudged along empty, dark streets almost all alone and unnoticed by anyone.  Today we were greeted by a child, a neighbor or another dog pretty much every few feet.  I can’t decide which I prefer.  Probably depends on where my head is on a given day.  On this day I like it just as it is.