The Smile Initiative

     The world is becoming a cold, hostile, & mistrustful place. Yet, we are not a cold, hostile, & mistrustful species. By and large, human beings like other human beings. We all have some specific humans we don't much care for, but we like the species as a whole. Few people can be off by themselves for any length of time without losing our marbles (think: Jack Torrance in The Shining). The need for others is deeply ingrained in the human psyche, we are actually fairly warm & friendly. Physical safety is only part of the reason we shared caves back when were hiding from our Neanderthal ancestors.

     So why are we becoming increasingly fearful? There are lots of reasons, such as watching too many crime shows, reading all the stranger-danger articles our friends share on Facebook, & too much diversity. Too much diversity? Isn't diversity a good thing? Yes. And no. The more exposure we have to others, the more alone we sometimes feel. If you feel like you are the only woman in the crowd, you feel very scared. If you don't believe that statement, I'll wager you are a man.

     As our schools, neighborhoods, and workplaces become more diverse it is both easier to find someone like you and harder to find a lot of someones like you. Realizing that there are many ethnicities around is exciting. It can be unnerving as you also realize that are a lot people who are different. On crime shows the perpetrator is often different from the victim ~ different = bad.

     But here's the reality, asshats usually attack those most like themselves. And people who are different, whether ethnically, religiously or what have you, bring something new to the table. We need to stop running from the new & different. When someone who seems like you ignores you, the assumption is that they were distracted. When someone different ignores you, it's a snub (we are warm, but paranoid).

     I live in a neighborhood that has no majority. Seriously. It's pretty evenly divided by gender & age and no racial or ethnic group is over 40%. The only clear majority are English speakers and low-income households. And we all hurry by the "different ones" with our eyes cast aside. Crime goes up. A neighborhood Facebook page plays a game called "Gunshots or Fireworks" where too many of us know the difference.

   It is time to change. It is time we stop looking away from the different skin color or generation and start looking toward the common humanity. It is time for the Smile Initiative. I started a sociological experiment a few weeks ago and it's going quite well. When I get out of my car & someone is walking by, I smile and say something outlandish, usually, "Hi!"

     That's it. Just a smile and a generic greeting, sometimes I just nod. No one is annoyed, although some look perplexed. Nearly everyone smiles back. Most return the greeting. One young, black man had to recover his bearings at being greeted by a middle-aged white woman, then he gave me huge, sincere smile.

     Take the initiative, smile at a stranger. Wave as you pass one another in your cars. You will be amazed at how many smiles you get, and at how good those smiles feel. The thing about a smile is that it is humanizing. When we acknowledge one another's humanity, we don't fear them without reason. If you're part of a group, smile first ~ people are easily intimidated when they are outnumbered. And don't offended if someone doesn't return your smile ~ we've forgotten how that is normal human interaction. It'll take time for some people.

     But do try. Just smile at someone walking by though they were another human being who has a right to exist. It can't hurt. It is simple, and I realize it's a bit naïve, but all emotions are naïve ~ let's emphasize the good ones.

Eleanor Speltz ~ In Loving Memory

That contagious smile.
She had pretty much the haircut from about 1950 on ~
but the glasses give away the decade, don't they? 

My favorite aunt died Thursday. My apologies to all the other cousins, I loved your moms, too ~ but there was always something special about Eleanor. She had four boys and no girls, maybe that was part of the charm, my other aunts had their own daughters, so I didn't feel special. I don't think that's all of it though, Eleanor was, at core, a joyous person. She was the woman who introduced the family to the group hug. That is brave behavior for short person.

Eleanor was never a halfway kind of person. She never sat quietly on the sidelines, like so many Midwesterners. She dove all in. If something interested her, she never worried about looking foolish. One of my earliest memories of Eleanor involves a walk along Minnehaha Creek. There was whirlpool in the creek and she explained how nice it was to sit there ~ and demonstrated by sitting in middle of the whirlpool, fully clothed. I honestly can't picture any other adult I knew doing that. It did feel wonderful, by the way.

From the Minneapolis Tribune, the caption
 reads, "Mrs. Vern A. Speltz, 4544 Columbus Av.
.and her son, John, 4 , ate popcorn and dangled
 their feet in Lake Harriet Wednesday night
as they listened to the last concerto the season
 in the lake bandstand. The season ended in a
 blaze of brass, with the Hall Brothers New
 Orleans Jazz Band, shown on stage in
 the background."

One evening at a restaurant, someone noticed a man standing nearby, his back to us. Discussion ensued, it looked like Dave Moore (the biggest news anchor in Minnesota). Could it be? No, it couldn't. Maybe? Eleanor settled it. She tugged on his jacket firmly enough to get him to turn around; then sat there looking innocent. It was Dave Moore, by the way ~ that may have been my first brush with fame.

When our families camped together, everyone in the campground knew ~ and worried about those crazy people over there by the river. And it was all Aunt Eleanor's fault. You see, she found a card game called Pit. If you've ever played, you know why everybody knew we were there. Pit involves yelling, as the game goes on, people tend yell progressively louder to be heard over the next guy ~ it was a blast!

For many years, she worked at the Minneapolis Musician's Union. A nifty little perk of that job was knowing all the good local musicians, and where they were performing for free. She always knew where we could see a good concert in the park and the Speltz & Yaeger families saw a lot of live performances. All those free shows meant I grew up appreciating a wider spectrum of music than a lot of my friends ~ and therefore raised my own children with more than one or two genres of music.

Both of our Eleanors

It was Eleanor who always did her big sister Ada's hair for dates. El was 15 when Ada got married and she was really put out that Ada hired a professional to do her hair for the wedding. In the end, Ade didn't like the professional's do and had Eleanor redo it. When Ada had a little girl a few year later, she named her Eleanor ~ it's kind of surprising there aren't more Eleanors in the family.

Tiny Chicken
Farmer

She showed me childhood pictures of herself, my dad and their sisters  this was recent, she was her eighties. In the background of several pictures an odd structure, like a flimsy kennel, was visible. I asked what it was and this sweet, gentle, little old lady snapped, "Those damn chickens!!" That's how I learned they grew up with a chicken coop in the yard, three-quarters of a century later, she was still mortified by the memory of having chickens in their yard. Grandpa's thick German accent was apparently another source of humiliation ~ I'd never heard Dad or the aunts mention that before. It's nice to know that when I embarrass my children, it's just family tradition.

Biking on the old Luce Line

It was Eleanor who learned about the railroad tracks being removed from the old Luce Line route to become a bike trail. She's in back with the camera, so unfortunately you can't see her, but she got this crowd off our duffs and out riding the new trail. It was, briefly, an annual event. Personally, I'm still a bit traumatized about the first year, before the railroad trestle was replaced with a wooden bridge ~ that trestle scared the living daylights out of me. I admit it, I've never been as brave as my aunt.

With Aunt Eleanor around, we did things outside ~ and sampled history before it became history. Along Highway 100 in Minnesota, there used to be picnic areas (the one at Hwy 81 on the Southwest corner is still there) complete with beehive shaped grills. Yes, we cooked out there. Anyplace with a table merited a festive picnic. When my kids were young,we had a picnic in the gazebo at her apartment ~ the kids were thoroughly impressed ~ especially because she made her own chicken strips. She believed in finger foods for children.

Flaunting that joie de vivre at Waikiki

Eleanor was one of those people who always seemed to arrive with something fun. Her idea of a hostess gift was something playful ~ a dollar store find, a bag of balloons, a bottle of bubbles. El was never stuffy. She shared her joie de vivre with more than just the family. for years she volunteered with the Blind Society. After Uncle Vern died, that didn't keep her busy enough. She joined St Leonard of Port Maurice, where she became a pillar of the parish ~and she loved that parish. She was a Eucharistic Minister who, in addition to Sunday Masses, also brought the Eucharist to parishioners who were in the hospital. She helped at Loaves & Fishes. She became one of the church cleaning crew. She helped with lunches and was one the group responsible for the creation of the world-famous (in the parish, anyway) Sunday brunches.

The world has lost one of the great ones. It will never be the same without her. But it is a better place because she was in it. And, while we weep for missing her ~ she isn't in pain any more. We know she's in heaven with the love of her life, and that makes our loss easier.

Don't you just know they're grinning like that right now?

Please, add your memories in the comments section. I know everyone who met her knows something about her that we'd all enjoy.

Diamond Anniversary: Romance & Reality

Today, my parents celebrate their diamond anniversary (that's 60 years, folks). That is a very long time. They have been married through eleven presidents, seven popes, and far more important to them: two kids, five grandkids and nineteen homes.

They are very much of The Greatest Generation. They were born & raised in Minnesota and grew up during the Depression. Dad joined the Marines in September of 1941, finishing Boot Camp in time for Pearl Harbor. He spent most of the war in California and North Carolina ~ the year-and-a-half in Samoa he downplays. He wanted to be a fighter pilot, instead he maintained runways. He says he's not really war vet because he never saw combat. I disagree, he was in easy roundtrip distance of the Japanese base in Kiribati and it is a reasonable assumption that American pilots (and their postwar progeny) consider him a vet and appreciate his service. Mom spent the war in a small farm town and probably suffered as much privation as Dad. She didn't have to worry about being bombed, but she had no luxuries like indoor plumbing.

Ruth & Frank's wedding day.

Mom graduated on D-Day and promptly moved to Minneapolis. Dad was discharged and went to LA to drive streetcars. A few years later, Dad moved back to Minneapolis and attended the University of Minnesota. About the same time, Mom moved to San Francisco. Towards the end of the Korean War, Dad joined the Navy. Home on leave, he met a girl at a party who suggested he look her up if was ever in Frisco. Then the Navy sent him around the world.

Come spring, his ship returned to the US and stopped for a week in San Francisco. Finally, they were in the same city at the same time. Frank called the girl, who had started dating someone in the meantime. The girl convinced her roommate to show the sailor around town. At last, Frank met Ruth. They began dating. Ruth moved back to Minneapolis and the Navy sent Frank to DC. Romance progressed quickly, they met in late spring and by September, Frank called Ruth to propose. They married in December and headed to Washington and their first home together.

In time, they lived in Virginia, Florida, Maine, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Arizona, Illinois & Minnesota. They drove up and down the Eastern Seaboard more times than they could count. Their first child was born while Dad was thousands of miles away. Mom battled cancer. Dad finished his stint in the Navy and enlisted in the Coast Guard. Suddenly, they were living together more than they were apart. Dad kept getting transferred; Mom kept packing & unpacking the household. But now, for the first time, they could be together for extended periods.

In Hawaii, after their twentieth anniversary.

They moved. And moved. Adopted a child. Bought a house. Got transferred. Moved again. Then Dad retired from the Coast Guard and they moved to Minnesota. And never moved again. (Kidding ~ eight homes after the military.) They bought a house and settled down. They got jobs and raised their kids. They joined the American Legion and the VFW. They studied ballroom dancing. We travelled on vacations. None of my friends did that. But the peripatetic years had left their mark, my parents wouldn't settle for the same four walls day after day.

In Canada, about twenty years ago.

They've never stood still. In their fifties, they joined a hiking club, an RV club and ~ to the extreme horror of their adolescent daughter ~ took up square dancing. They took vacations without the kids (also something no one else did in the early eighties). For over twenty years they wintered in Arizona.  And they kept traveling. A year-and-a-half ago, we went to South Carolina for my uncle's birthday. This past summer, it was the South Dakota border for a 70th high school reunion. They don't travel alone anymore, but they still get out and do things.

Between them, there have been four cancers, a pacemaker, a permanent catheter and several other medical delights. The morning Mom got her pacemaker, Dad poured her a cup of coffee before remembering she was in the hospital. Mom gets him to all his doctor's appointments. Every time he is hospitalized with another infection, she worries that this is the last time.

Some days, they just plug along ~ others, they revel in. This year, Dad saved his Bingo winnings so Mom wouldn't know he was buying anything and had me pick up a bracelet for her birthday. He's 93 and still sweet on her. She's 88 and still happy to be his wife.

They've cleaned dirty diapers & dog poo. They've danced & seen the country. They go to church together every week. They still like to go out to dinner together. They (usually) have tremendous patience with each other and the curve balls life throws. They don't dance anymore, but they still enjoy music. They are adorable together. They have fun and laugh with each other, sometimes at each other. Through them, I've learned the importance of taking marriage seriously, but not taking myself too seriously.

Last year, at brunch. My flash was too slow, I missed the kiss.

Happy Anniversary Mom & Dad!

Rape Is Rape. And It's Always Wrong. Always.

The Vancouver police have a great series of
 Don't Be That Guy posters. Click
 to see more.

Is it that hard to understand?
No means no.
Too drunk to say "no" is too drunk to say "yes."
"Uh" is not "yes."
"Don't. Stop." is not the same as, "Don't stop."

Too many people with power ~ politicians, DA's, police and the media, cannot seem to grasp the concept that rape is assault. Rape is a crime of power. It is violent (usually physically, always emotionally). It is a violation. Rape is always, always, always wrong. Repeat after me: Rape is wrong. Keep saying it until you get it drilled into your skull. No one asks for it. No one deserves it.

Recently, I learned about the Red Zone. Not the football term, exactly, but there is a frightening correlation. In football the Red Zone is the twenty yards before the end zone, it's where the offense asserts its will over the defense so they can score. On college campuses, Freshmen Orientation to Thanksgiving break is known as the Red Zone because of the frequency of campus rapes, particularly against freshmen.

A freshman at Hobart William Smith made it two weeks before she was raped by football players. And then the school violated her all over again. She is a brave, strong woman who is speaking out against the culture of rape. I read her story in the New York Times and alternated between nausea and fury when I read how the college handled her case. Rape is a violent crime. It should never be handled by campus disciplinary boards ~ violent crimes should always be handled by the police.

Wesleyan University had a fraternity so bad it was known as the Rape Factory. In March of 2010, school officials warned students to avoid the building because they could not guarantee students' safety. In the fall of 2010, incoming freshmen were not told of the warning and attended a party. A freshman who was raped that October got no help from the school ~ she reported the Saturday night rape but was not taken to the hospital, nor was she provided a counselor. In fact, she was told to wait for her exam until the student clinic reopened on Monday.

In 2013 another freshman at Wesleyan attended a party at a different fraternity. Pledges at that party were required to strip. Hazing is a form of torture perpetrated by coercion, and sometimes violence. Hmmm. . . can we guess where this is going? One girl wanted to leave (who can be comfortable watching people be publicly humiliated?) Instead of being allowed to leave, she was thrown over the arm of a couch and raped while a crowd watched.

Parents, do not send your children to Wesleyan. I don't care how good the academic education may be, the social education is horrific.

The connection between sexual assault & fraternities is nothing new. My freshman year at Wells College (way back when Reagan was president) we were all invited to a ball for freshwomen held at a fraternity at Cornell. The ball was an annual event ~ the fraternity drove to Wells College, picked up the girls who wanted to attend and drove us to Ithaca. The greeted us with champagne. It was a formal dance. It seemed so very grown-up. And that year, unlike past years, they assured everyone there would be rides home. Some girls took the precaution of signing up for the last campus van of the night anyway. I had a friend with a car. I knew to go to the bar and order my own drinks and never let anyone else hold my drink. I was a drinker in high school, I knew my limits. Nonetheless, I ended the evening on the patio, puking in the corner.

I was very lucky.

Months later, a friend shared the information she'd heard ~ there were two sets of bottles. One for the frat boys & their dates, another for the "guests". Ours contained Quaaludes. Apparently, I have a sensitivity to 'ludes, and I'm very happy about that. Another friend then explained how she had been molested, two others ended up having sex with guys they didn't know and didn't really remember consenting to. Of the seven girls I had known at that party, at least three were sexually assaulted.  No one told either of the colleges, or the police, or even their friends for a long time. They were so ashamed. They'd been drinking. They were at a fraternity.

Here's the deal: they made have made themselves more vulnerable ~ but they did not deserve to be raped. No one ever deserves to be raped. Nobody. Deserves. Rape. EVER!

When headed off to college, one should worry about making friends, doing well in their classes, making sound financial decisions. One should not have to worry about rape. Longwood University gets it, as you can see by their page on sexual assault at their student health webpage. They are very clear about consent ~ they even have good info for victims. They specify that the police will take you to the hospital and the state will pay for the rape exam. Some victims refuse the rape exam because they worry about the bill.

So what can we do? How do we destroy the Red Zone? We destroy the myth that rape is about sex ~ rape uses sex as a weapon, it is about power ~ rape may be the ultimate bully act. We stop blaming the victims. We start blaming the rapists. No one should be shamed into leaving school for reporting an assault; the perpetrator should be shamed into leaving school. They should be tried by the courts, not the school's disciplinary board.

We can watch out for everyone. There are no limitations to who can be a rapist, or a victim. If you see someone who looks too far gone and get a bad feeling about the person helping, speak up. If you're getting nowhere (or you're afraid for your own safety) ask for help. Call 911. Don't ignore that sick feeling in your stomach.

Think of sex like a contract, anyone who can't validly sign a contract cannot consent to sex. Talk about rape; make it clear what rape is and that you are so not okay with it. Create positive peer pressure. If party-goers at the above linked stories had spoken out, maybe those girls wouldn't have been raped. And wouldn't you rather be the person who stopped a violent crime, than the one who stood around watching?

I Love My City, But. . . .

I love my city. I really do. Minneapolis is an amazing, vibrant, cosmopolitan, beautiful city. Four-hundred-thousand people call Minneapolis home, that's big enough to be a full-fledged city, small enough to still feel welcoming. There is an image of Minneapolis as a lily-white expanse of bo-ring. That is the image carried by people who don't know us.

In fact, more than one out of three residents is not white, one in eight is LGBT, and a surprisingly large percentage are not Scandinavian Lutherans. We have scads of immigrants from around the world and we embrace that diversity.

We have an extraordinary cultural life. Only New York City offers more live theatre per capita. Everyone knows Prince, but did you know we also have an orchestra? And we've more polka bands than you can shake a stick at. Oh, that one just feeds the stereotype, doesn't it?

We are the third most literate city in America (although, I'm not sure that's saying much) based on things like bookstores, newspaper circulation, education. We have produced some writers. We have   scads of museums and boatloads of artists. Seriously, everyone in Minneapolis who isn't a writer or an artist, knows one. It's like actors in LA.

There're plenty of sports here. Minneapolis is home to the NFL, MLB & NBA along with the U of M Golden Gophers. We having bowling, golf, tennis, even free public bocci ball courts. Foodies are truly blessed. There is a steakhouse from the 1930's that has a trout stream in the patio so you can catch your own fish, a tiki bar on the river with a double-decker patio, a lobster shack and fifteen places that have been featured on Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives. You even have the option of wood- or coal-fired pizza. We have ethnic restaurants like crazy: Greek, German, Indian, Ethiopian, Polish, Japanese, Swedish, Lebanese, Vietnamese ~ and they're good!

And the parks. Oh the parks. We have so many parks (197, to be precise). Big parks & little parks and they're always free (although parking'll cost a buck or two). There are more than a dozen lakes within the city limits, oodles of playgrounds, ballfields and nature sites. There are miles of parkways looping around the lakes and along the river (both sides). Even with all that water, we still have pools in the parks, swimming pools in some and wading pools in most. We have a rose garden, a wildflower garden and a tamarack bog. Don't forget Minnehaha Park ~ with the famous falls and paths along the creek all the way to the Mighty Mississippi.


But, she has her flaws. Her flaws are not small.

The crime rate is frightening, particularly on the Northside ~ known as NoMi. Thirteen (of a citywide fifteen) shootings in the first two weeks of July occurred in NoMi. There have been seventeen murders in Minneapolis between January 1 and July 14. That would be an annual rate of less than ten per hundred thousand ~ not too bad, unless it's you or someone you care about. But twelve of those homicides have been in NoMi, population about 60,000, which puts my neck of the woods at a homicide rate of forty per one hundred thousand, third worst among cities in the US (based on 2012).

After a while, you feel ignored by City Hall. We can't even get rid of the damn mattresses. That is not a non-sequiter. Inexplicably, mattresses are drawn to the streets of NoMi. Mattresses waiting by the alley ~ next to the garbage can, especially around the first of the month, when renters move ~ are understandable. But we get them everywhere. There was one on dumped on a boulevard garden on Dowling Ave (very high-traffic street) that took days for the sanitation department to pick up.  Another was floating in a flooded street last week. There are so many mattresses that many residents have decided St Mattress must be our patron saint.  We just haven't figured out whether the mattresses are gifts from, or offerings to, St. Mattress.

What do the mattresses have to do with murder rate? Everything & nothing. Weird litter does not cause crime. But the number of calls to the city asking to have these frighteningly stained health hazards removed is often absurd. We all know that a dirty futon lying in a vacant lot in South Minneapolis would be promptly removed. Betcha they don't get put on hold by 911 as often as the NoMi folks either. And Betsy "I'm the Mayor" Hodges Tweets quotes from Thoreau while the police chief wants us all to get along.

We're tired of feeling like the forgotten stepchild. Most of the residents of NoMi are good people who care about our neighborhood. We want action. When we call about an upholstered public health issue, we want it gone. No more drive-by policing, if someone calls, the cops need to get out of their cars. Hollering, "everything okay here?" from the driver's seat is not policing. Slumlords need to be held accountable for the condition of their rental property.

It's time to stop ignoring the Northside. We need help from City Hall. We deserve it.

What If I'm Not Interesting?

Tomorrow morning, I audition for Jeopardy! This is cool, thrilling, even. When I asked for the day off, my manager approved, saying, "It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." Um, not exactly, I've done it before. Three years ago I failed to impress the interviewers and was, therefore, not on TV. My ego really, really wants to be on Jeopardy! Okay, to be totally honest, my ego really wants to destroy Ken Jennings' record.

The first step was an online test in January. Everyone who scores above a predetermined score qualifies for auditions. From that group, a set number of people are randomly selected to audition. At the end of my previous audition, they announced that we were all in the contestant pool. As I understand it, that means we all answered enough questions correctly. After the audition, you wait up to eighteen months to be called. If they don't invite you to be on the show after eighteen months, you can retake the online the next time it is offered. In other words, there is a lot of luck involved.

They sent an application form to fill out and bring along to the audition. They ask for tidbits about your job, hobbies, embarrassing moments, etc. They specifically state that these facts will IN NO WAY influence whether you appear on the show. Then why do they ask?

They're looking for the kind of thing Alex Trebek asks about after the first commercial break. If this has no effect on selection, why not wait until you get to LA? Or at least, ask when they invite you to be on the show? Aaaack! I'm getting paranoid!

I can't help thinking that funny or fascinating answers will improve my odds. Trouble is, I'm ordinary, superlatives do not apply to me. So, I find myself thinking about what makes me interesting ~ my daughter is transgender, but that makes her interesting; I wrote my father's biography, because he is interesting; my mother is a cyborg, which is an interesting fact about her. The most interesting thing I can think of is that I am only six degrees of separation from Adolf Hitler, it takes several degrees of removal to make that interesting. I was once a foot away from Prince ~ which might be exciting if he had been even vaguely aware I was there. I walked in a Gay Pride Parade (accidentally) thirty years before I was ever in a gay bar.

Well, it's better than mentioning my incomplete collection of Nancy Drew books, but it's still pretty gosh-darned ho-hum. When it comes down to it, most of us are rather ho-hum. Imagine you were about to be interviewed for TV, what would you say to keep viewers awake?

The Holy Spirit Is a Woman

Yeah, yeah, I know, the Holy Spirit has no gender. Malarky! Remember in Catechism, learning about God the Father (clearly male) God the Son (clearly male) and God the Spirit (genderless)? Does this make sense? Why does only one leaf on the shamrock have no gender?

It is Pentecost Sunday, the day the Spirit came to the Apostles and they became filled with it, so naturally, the Spirit was the topic of the homily. Throughout his sermon, Father Don kept referring to the Spirit with masculine pronouns ~ and I realized: he is wrong.

The Holy Spirit fills Christians with strength, courage, faith and joy. The Holy Spirit inspires, ennobles and encourages. The Holy Spirit pushes us in the right direction. It guides us. It comforts us. It helps us notice what we need to notice. The Spirit never demands, never forces us to accept it. The Spirit waits for our invitation. And the Spirit really doesn't get the credit it deserves. Sure, we all know about the Spirit, but it's always the third branch.

Who gets the praise? The Father & the Son. Who gets the glory? The Father & the Son. Who does all sorts of amazing things behind the scenes because they need doing? The Spirit.

See, the Holy Spirit is female. And it's not just any female. The Holy Spirit is a mother. All those who insist God is a woman, are not entirely wrong. So, on one of the special days where we recognize the greatness of the Holy Spirit, I hope you are all filled with her fire and inspired to go and share the joy.

D-Day

6 June, 1944 ~ At the time, back in the States, it wasn't obvious what had happened. I've asked my mother how she felt when she heard the news. She doesn't really remember. In 1944, there were no 24-hour news channels offering instant images and expert analysis of the war. You found out the next day, or even the next week. We invaded France and it appeared successful. Lots of Allies died, but that's what happens in war. It wasn't until later that people could look back and see how D-Day really was a turning point.

Crystal Lake Cemetery, Minneapolis

It was a brutal, bloody battle ~ the Allies lost 4,400 young men (2,499 from the US alone). An additional 8,000 were wounded. It took the world far too long to grasp just how evil Hitler and the Third Reich were, but once they realized it, they gave their all to stopping him.

Over a million (yep, one followed by six zeroes) Allied troops were involved, mostly British & American, but also Canadian, Polish & French. Over 150,000 men landed. Think about that. 150,000 people ~ that's half again as many people in battle (on just one side) as attend the Minnesota State Fair on any single day. And there was no food on a stick waiting on the other side of the beach ~ just more C rations, more violence, more time away from loved ones.

Getting all those troops into Europe, along with their equipment turned the war. They gave us a foothold. Despite the boldness (recklessness? insanity?) of mounting such a huge invasion when the weather was a little iffy and things weren't exactly as planned, they succeeded, mostly. Not as quickly as anticipated, but they took the coast of Normandy. They marched toward Paris. They won.

These people faced hell. They helped stop the Axis. They helped end the war. It was, in the end, a very big deal. Everyone who was involved is a hero in my book. It was a team effort. I applaud it.

I appreciate them all immensely. If you (or your father, or grandfather) was there, be very proud. They did an amazing, brave thing.

Grandma's Quasquicentennial

It is my favorite grandmother's quasquicentennial, which means she was born one-hundred twenty-five years ago today. She made it to ninety-six, so I actually had plenty of years to get to know her. Grandma was pretty amazing. Her grandmothers were Wilhelmina (Lutheran) and Margaret (Catholic). She was baptized Minnie Margaret in the Lutheran church. Her Irish Catholic grandmother offered to babysit one day and took Minnie to the Catholic church and (in order to save her soul) had her properly baptized, as Margaret Minnie.

At twelve, she contracted scarlet fever, which kept her out of school for several weeks. As a result, she was to be held back. There was a neighbor boy who was a year younger and had skipped a grade. If Minnie were held back, the younger boy would be a grade ahead of her. Minnie would have none of that and told her father as much. His response was that if she left school she would need to get a job and help support the family. And that is how Minnie dropped out of the sixth grade.

Twenty-year-old Minnie
with one of her charges.

She got a job helping a neighbor get ready for company. Minnie cleaned every inch of that house and eighty years later was still mortified about the wastefulness of washing the floors with milk just to make them shine. The neighbor's mother lived with them and was generally ignored by her family. She sat in the kitchen while Minnie worked and told stories to which Minnie (unlike the old lady's family) listened attentively. Once the company left and Minnie's services were no longer needed, the old lady gave Minnie her prize possession, a handkerchief of real China silk. Minnie hung on to that hankie for decades, before passing it on to the granddaughter who listened attentively to all her stories.

Minnie went on to work for several wealthy families as a nursemaid ~ once the kids were old enough for a governess, she needed a new family. She worked for at least two families in Minneapolis. When rich people travel, they don't want to take care of their children, so Minnie went with. She went to the White Mountains in the summer, Florida in the winter. She even got to see the pink sands of Bermuda. While living in Minneapolis, she met Winnie, who introduced Minnie to her kid brother. World War I got in the way, then for reasons I guess I'll never know, it took two-and-a-half years after returning from Europe for Winnie's brother August to finally marry Minnie. They were to be married on Friday until Minnie realized that was 13th and no way was Minnie going to get married on Friday the 13th. They got married on Sunday instead. They met before the war and she had to wait until 1922 for a ring. She must have really loved August.

Minnie with little Bud, on the
porch of a house with no
plumbing.

August had a friend with a vulcanizing business in Browns Valley (way out on the end of railroad line) who offered August a job. So they went west. They had a couple of kids, Mack and Ruth, their names needed to be short because Grandma didn't want nicknames. Then she called Mack "Bud."

They didn't travel. They didn't have luxuries. Grandma's dresses were homemade. She wore the same pair of glasses for at least the last twenty years of her life. Neighbors moved in down the block, Emma was a sixteen year old bride who hadn't a clue how to run a house or care for a baby. Minnie took Emma under her wing and taught her to be a housewife (their daughters became best friends). The depression hit. Money, never in great supply, was hard to find. Minnie took a job as the telephone operator and ended up getting the first Social Security number in Browns Valley.


Over the years, Minnie helped many woman with the babies, she was always ready to give advice or a helping hand. Bud left to fight World War II and ended up on the East Coast, wed to a local girl. Ruth moved to Minneapolis, then San Francisco, married a serviceman and lived all up and down the East Coast. In the fifties, Minnie & August were finally able to add a bathroom to their house. That's right, the woman who lived in mansions raising the children of the wealthy, married a pauper and spent thirty years without indoor plumbing.

She must have really loved August.

August & Minnie
~ this is how I think of them, white-haired, smiling, lovable.

They retired and began traveling. I don't think they ever went anywhere that didn't involve family. All the pictures taken outside Minnesota, are either at their children's homes, or nearby. The now grown kids, and their families, visited Browns Valley. When my father retired from the Coast Guard, we moved back to Minnesota, meaning we could visit more. Minnie was a quintessential grandma ~ she made awesome coffee cake, with raisins. My brother hated raisins, I loved them; so just about every visit there were two coffee cakes, one with and one without.

After 55 years of marriage, August died. The only time I ever saw her cry was when she threw herself on him in the casket and sobbed. Gut-wrenching sobs. It was awful, and beautiful. That night, she told my brother she could count on one hand the fights they'd had. She really loved August.

It amazes me to think of all she saw in her lifetime: 19 presidents, 8 popes, the invention of the automobile to the space shuttle, early days of the telephone to cable TV. Before she died, she even had air-conditioning. She travelled extensively. She knew everyone in her small town. She didn't finish sixth grade, but most of her grandchildren graduated college (and all attended). She was the heart and soul of a town, and a family. I am blessed to have known her. Happy Quasquicentennial, Grandma!

Christ the King and the Big One

Today is the feast of Christ the King. It is the celebration of the coming kingdom of Christ (you didn't see that coming, did you?). There are some great truths out there waiting to be discerned. Christ the King makes me think of The Big One.

Anyone raised Christian learned in childhood that Jesus died for our sins. It's pretty matter-of-fact that He had to come to Earth, in the form of man, to be sacrificed so God would forgive our sins and we could go to heaven. Well, not really, but when you know that almost your whole life, it seems matter-of-fact. It's actually astonishing. Think about it. You're God, you can do anything, and you're born as human. Voluntarily. The diaper stage alone is a lot to go through, when you know what's going on. The Passion, that's nothing, that's a couple of days ~ truly hellacious days, but days. Imagine going through puberty, just to be nice to us. Acne, growth spurts, hormones (Christian theology tells us He is wholly human as well as wholly divine, so He had to deal with it all) for our sins. That's a couple of years. I can think of nothing that would make me willing to go through puberty again. Menopause dancing in front of me, taunting me, is still more appealing than puberty.

But that is still not The Big Truth. I cannot imagine that the nuns didn't teach this, but I can imagine that didn't pay enough attention. I do tend to be rather easily distracted. (Oh, look at what Peanut's doing. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, sorry.) It is amazing that Jesus would go through thirty-three years as one of us, for us. It seems odd, a bit sad, and even mean-spirited that God would do this to His own Son. Why couldn't He just allow our sins to be forgiven? And this is where The Big One comes in to play. Like I said, I assume that it was taught, but I didn't learn it. Sometimes, God whispers in our ears, and we brush Him away like a fly. His messages can be hard to take, it is easier to ignore Him. Sometimes He lets it go. Other times, we will hear what He has to say no matter how afraid we are to get the real message. It's like He whomps you upside the head with a spiritual two-by-four.

We cannot feel the extent of God's love. Our little human hearts cannot bear it. We get teasers, but we won't be able to completely bask in it as long as we inhabit these bags of bones. When our souls are in Heaven, then we will revel in His love. It is because of the limits of our humanity that is easier to think God made Jesus endure more than three decades as man to earn redemption than to accept theTruth. As hard as that is to believe, it is still easier for our fragile human hearts than the Truth.

A couple of years ago, we had the old family movies copied onto DVDs. No one had watched them for about thirty years. My Grandma has been dead more than twenty-five of those years. As I sat in front of the computer, watching two-year-old me with Grandma, I found myself cheering for the toddler, "Pick her up. Oh please, pick her up." As though she'd heard my plea, long-ago Grandma bent over and picked up long-ago me. I could feel her arms around me once more. I could feel her love. (I still miss her ~ she was a great lady.) It was so wonderful to feel that again. I think she was in heaven watching me watch us. It was so overwhelming, I wept.

Once He finally made me understand The Big One, it was like that film of Grandma Johnson, to the nth degree. God didn't make Jesus do it. We did. We know we're unworthy. We offered sacrifices since the dawn of time, trying for expiation. God stopped Abraham from sacrificing his son, Isaac, to show us that we don't have to be worthy. He loves us anyway. We couldn't, or wouldn't, grasp it. Jesus came down, lived as one of us, died for us ~ not so God would forgive us, but so we would accept God's forgiveness. So we would believe that He'll forgive us even though we aren't worthy.

It is a love so powerful it is hard not to weep. It is so much bigger than any human love. We are so unworthy. And He doesn't care. Like any parent, He loves us regardless. He is waiting patiently to forgive us, we just have to ask. That is a mighty regal concept, befitting Christ the King.

Palestinians Are People, Too

Loath though I am to admit this, until quite recently, it hadn't registered that Palestinian is the name of an ethnic group, not a political/terrorist group. Deep down, I may have known better, but certainly not on a conscious level. Palestinians are people of Arab descent. Mostly, they're Muslim, there's quite a few Christians, probably a few atheists (maybe not, though, there are no atheists in foxholes). They are men & women, children & elderly. Palestinians are born, grow up, go to college, marry, have children ~ you know, just like everyone else. I'm sure that there are few black sheep in the family to go with the doctor, the deli owner, the professor. Don't they sound dull? They are. The Ailabounis are ordinary, just like the Andersons and the Schmidts.  I bring this up now because Israel's current activities are, for all intents and purposes, lauded by our president.

Barack Obama says that the US is "fully supportive of Israel's right to defend itself." That's cool. I can accept that. What I can't accept is Israel's definition of defending itself. Apparently, three Israeli civilians were killed recently by Hamas rockets, so Israel is fighting back. Israel, which borders the Gaza Strip (Palestinian territory captured by Israel in 1967) on the northwest & southwest, blockades access to the Mediterranean on the northeast, so the only "friendly" border is the southeastern border with Egypt. This is akin to the US being surrounded by hostile forces except for the California coast. Unnerving, isn't it?

Israel lets Palestinians enter Israel to work, when it feels like it. The border crossing makes a day with the TSA feel like a picnic. And, since the borders are closed capriciously, even Israelis who want to hire Palestinians often can't, due to unreliability ~ you need your employees to show up. Israel controls which people, food and supplies get into Gaza. When they want, they can completely close it off. Yes, there are smugglers' tunnels. Weapons probably get through, but so do frivolous things like food and drugs (antibiotic type stuff). No one should have smuggle food. EVER!

With this much control over Gaza, and with the size of the Israeli Army (176,000) they should easily be able enter Gaza City, find the Hamas leader and do whatever they wish. Israel has all the coolest new military toys, as well they should, considering that they spend $14,000,000,000 dollars a year on their military ($2,799,500,000 from the US). So does Israel go on a manhunt? Nope. They send rockets, and drones, and drop bombs on the suspected houses of Hamas leaders. Not smart bombs, old-school blow-up-the-block bombs. Israel loves to say that Hamas is at fault when civilians are injured because they put headquarters in civilian areas to use civilians as human shields. 

"Hamas is using the Gaza population as human shields," said Brig. Gen. Yoav Mordechai, the chief Israeli spokesman. "They are exploiting crowded residential urban areas." With a population density of 12,000 per square mile, everywhere is crowded. The reason bad guys use civilians as human shields is because it works ~ because the good guys do everything possible to avoid hurting innocent bystanders. There are terrorists in Hamas (the government of the Gaza Strip) but over 40% of the population is young children. And most adults aren't terrorists either.

In five days, 37 Gaza civilians have been killed ~ I've read the Old Testament ~ it's an eye for an eye, not 12 eyes for an eye. As many ten Israelis have been wounded, so they wounded 720 Palestinians (again with that funky math). Makes you wonder who the bad guys really are. Israel seems to want to eliminate the Palestinian people. Every year on Yom HaShoah, Israel remembers the Holocaust victims, perhaps they should reconsider their own actions. It's time they stop. Israel must stop treating the Palestinians the way the Nazis treated their families. Shouldn't God's Chosen People be better than this?

Happy Halfiversary!

My son Joe got married six-months ago today to Lynn, a wonderful woman who has the energy and patience for him (and that's saying a lot). They are one of those couples who are so obviously perfect for each other that you end up saying, "Awwww" or "Ewww" depending on how romantically inclined you are.

Lynn hates to be the center of attention in a large group, so it's no surprise that they didn't have a huge "traditional" wedding. Instead, they were wed on a lakeshore with six guests. After the wedding, we changed out of our dress-up clothes into hiking clothes. They chose to celebrate the formal beginning of their life together by casually hiking up a mountain.

Those puppies, Gelato & Pizzelle

It was appropriate. They've known each other three years this week. In that time they've moved four times, including a move from Minnesota to Colorado with no jobs lined up (I don't think I've ever been that brave). They've dealt with Joe falling through the ice on the Mississippi River ~ honestly, I don't know who that stressed more. They had jobs with shifts misaligned enough that they rarely saw one another. They have puppies whose primary functions in life are chewing up everything, and piddling everywhere (they are getting better ~ but beagles never get mellow). Joe started college. Joe dropped out after a year. Joe takes after his parents. The first job Lynn found after they moved was so bad, she left during orientation, another relationship strain. The job Joe found wasn't bad, but it was another of those "we never see each other" schedules. Yet, they grew stronger.

They didn't want us to have to make a special trip just for their wedding (sometimes, I think they're both a little nuts) so they decided that when we said we were coming to Denver, they'd get married. Lynn & I used to work together (you know what a supportive place that is). So, they knew vacation requests are made months in advance. Unless, of course, Dad turns 50 in Minneapolis four days before Grandpa turns 70 in Phoenix, and a spur-of-the-moment trip to the halfway point (Denver) comes up. We gave them two weeks warning. And they still managed to plan the wedding, on Grandpa's birthday, no less.

They keep jumping these hurdles and climbing these hills and growing ever closer. I've seen Joe mature under Lynn's influence. I've watched Lynn, who had to grow up way too soon, learn to play. They don't just bring out the best in each other, they shore up one another's weak spots. And, together, they climb mountains.

Dream Lake ~ the destination of the wedding day hike ~ is just ahead. This is the
closest picture I have without people, and since I haven't asked for anyone's
 permission to publish their picture, you'll have to make due with this.
And how perfect, to start a marriage with a dream in the heavens
(okay, only 10,000 ft, but who's counting?)

Happy Halfiversary Joe & Lynn. You are a fabulous couple!

I didn't spot this sign at the trailhead
until we got back. Once again, the
fates got to laugh at me.

By the way, Dream Lake is absolutely worth the effort. For a Flatlander, going from 9400 feet elevation to 9900 is a huge an horrible thing. There is no oxygen. None. People say there's less than at sea level but I couldn't find any at all. Halfway up, my lungs jumped out of my chest and rolled done the path looking for oxygen. But, eventually, I made it to the top, preceded by everyone in the group, including my 70-year-old father-in-law.

It was worth it. Dream Lake is breathtaking (in more ways than one). Also, the return trip is exciting. On the way down, I slipped in the snow and landed on my ass. Three. Separate. Times. Because even when you've found the right person and been together twenty-six years, life still has its ups-and-downs.

Happy 91st Birthday!

Chief Petty Officer Yaeger in his brand new uniform.

It is my father's ninety-first birthday. About a month ago he decided it might be time to give up bike-riding, Seriously. A couple of weeks before his ninetieth birthday, he was hospitalized with sepsis. Lots of people were planning to come to his birthday party ~ and we had every reason to worry they'd instead be coming for his funeral. But Dad is tough. He is an ex-marine after all. And that is part of what makes him fascinating. A year-and-a-half ago, eating in a restaurant with Dad, I learned he liked pickled beets. Hmm, mildly surprising. A year ago, he announced he "might not dislike onions after all." Uh-huh. Maybe the Mayans were off by a year? Dad doesn't dislike onions, he hates them with a fiery passion. In their nearly 57 years of marriage, Mom has never been allowed to put a chunk of onions in anything. She can grate in a teaspoon of onion juice, if he doesn't see it (kind of "don't ask, don't tell" onion policy). Within weeks of turning 90, he changed his mind.

Told you they square-danced ~ now it seems cute.

That openness to new things may have something to do with why he's still going strong. He took up skiing in his fifties. Downhill skiing. He bowled & biked until this year. He comes from a generation that expected to slow down at fifty. Dad was just getting started. In the past forty years, in addition to skiing, and going to casinos (he is old, after all) he took ballroom dance lessons with Mom. They took up square-dancing, much to my horror ~ no teenager wants her parents doing that in public. They joined a hiking club. They joined an RV club. They moved into a two-story house that had Dad on a twenty-five foot ladder cleaning out the gutters until he was 86. Mom finally decided they had to move into an apartment because it was the only way to keep him off that damn ladder.

He always been a go-getter. In the summer of 1941, he decided to join the Coast Guard, but he couldn't find the Coast Guard recruiting office, so he joined the Marines. He finished boot camp just in time for Pearl Harbor. He never saw combat, so he insists he's not a hero. It's not that he tried to avoid it, in fact, he tried to be a pilot. But the Marines put him to work maintaining the runways on the base in Samoa. He left the service after The War. Tried civilian life for eight years and went, again, in search of the Coast guard recruiting office. Found the Navy that time. The Navy put him in charge of big guns. And they sent him around the world. Before he left, he met a girl at party back home in Minneapolis. She told him to look her up if ever got to San Francisco. Months later, he got to Frisco, and she had a boyfriend. She convinced her roommate, Ruth, to go out with him. Dad was so nervous (33, ex-Marine, literal world-traveller) that he showed up with friends. He must have said something right, eight months later she married him. At the end of his Naval enlistment, Dad finally found the Coast Guard office. He loved the Coast Guard, stayed there until he had enough years in to retire. He got so good at what he did that the Coast Guard had him teach at the Academy for two years. After retiring from the military, he drove bus around Minneapolis for sixteen years. Then he learned to play.

Dad ~ on his 90th birthday. The W279 is the Eastwind,
the ship that had him spend a summer in Antarctica
(hence, the penguins).

They retired almost twenty-seven years ago. They've travelled all over the country, to Mexico & Canada. Took a Hawaiian cruise. Spent twenty-six winters in Arizona exploring the Southwest. And now, finally, Dad is starting to slow down. Just a little past fifty. Now that he's in his nineties, he wants to learn to use a computer. Oh yeah, he took up Wii bowling, too.



Happy Birthday, Dad! We'll throw you an even bigger party for your hundredth birthday!

Take Back the Holiday!

ENOUGH ALREADY! No more of this nonsense! Black Friday starts earlier each year. Walmart and Toys R Us are opening at 8:00 Thanksgiving evening, Target at 9:00, etc. This is insanity. Half my family works in healthcare, the other half in a combination of retail & hospitality. Obviously, healthcare workers, police & fire people need to work holidays. I understand restaurants and hotels being open on holidays. But who needs to go to Michael's on Thanksgiving? Seriously? You can't wait until tomorrow to get that latch-hook tree-skirt kit? Come Christmas morning, Sophia is not going to know when you bought her VTech Tablet. Aiden will not care that you left Thanksgiving dinner to go buy him a Dreamlight Pillow Pet. He might, however, remember that you weren't there to read a bedtime story.

Have I mentioned Holidays are at my house? We actually like that, it's our choice. The restaurant my husband works at is open most of Thanksgiving for people too lazy to make their own meal. For years now, we've dealt with him not being home until evening. Holiday dinners are already tricky. Now that my parents stopped doing the snowbird thing, they're here for the holidays, and they're old. Really old. "I don't understand why they call it an 'Early Bird Special'. It's served at dinnertime" old. Now the store my niece works at is open Thanksgiving and she may have to be late. My son's store starts Black Friday Thursday evening. A couple more years and it will be impossible to find a time when everyone can be here for dinner.

Peanut prepares for a holiday dinner.
My family may prep differently than yours.

I'm planning for eight to ten people. What on Earth do people with big families do? It is time we Take Back the Holiday! Refuse to shop those Doorbuster Specials. Resist the urge ~ you can do it. Do not shop until normal store hours on Friday. It may take a couple of years ~ but we can win this. We can get our families home for Thanksgiving. Don't shop on Thanksgiving at all. So you forgot the mini-marshmallows, be creative, make a streusel topping instead, or put sugar on it, pull out your blowtorch and have Yam Brulée. Actually, I'm kind of intrigued by yam brulée. Forgot the wine ~ have bourbon instead, it's more American. Forgot the dinner rolls? Tell everyone you've reduced carbs in the meal so we can all have a bigger piece of pie! Who'll argue that?

Can't wait to save thirteen cents on stocking stuffers? Get over it. Buy one less present to make up the difference, we have too much crap anyway. Take Back the Holiday! Don't just not shop. E-mail those corporations and let them know that you have a life and therefore will not be spending money in their stores between 12:01 Thursday and 9:00 Friday so they needn't be open. As sales go down, they'll catch on. Don't you miss holidays where everyone hung out for hours, eating, watching the game, talking about whoever didn't show up? I know I do. Refuse to cooperate with mass-merchandisers (by the way ~ small businesses can't afford to hire the people necessary to be open for twenty-four hours straight, if this becomes the norm, what do they do?). Live your life on your terms. When the L-tryptophan from that turkey dinner kicks in, you should be safely on someone's sofa with your pants unbuttoned, snoring. Do not encourage people to drive to mall while groggy ~ that's dangerous. Take Back the Holiday! It's a matter of public safety.

COOKIE!

I even make cakes that like cookies!
BTW ~ I'm posting this on Joey's
26th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Sweetie!

As Thanksgiving rolls around and the furnace (despite its amazing skin-drying abilities) becomes one of my nearest & dearest, I start thinking about cookies. I like to have at least ten kinds of cookies by Christmas, and at least two candies. I love cookies. I love baking cookies. I love eating cookies (one doesn't become "The Spherical" by shunning sweets). I love experimenting with cookies ~ one of last year's experiments, a cookie that was supposed to be green and red, turned out so ugly it was dubbed "reindeer turds". At least it tasted good. One year, again trying to get red & green, I created a cookie that looked like  moldy, raw hamburger. Even the reindeer turds were more appetizing. One creation, the stained glass cookie, was beautiful. It really was. It tasted like food coloring. Blech.

Oh no! The aliens have arrived!

This year, I've already tried two experiments, in my first batch no less. Candy corn and salted peanuts make a tasty combination, so I thought candy corn in peanut butter cookies, sprinkled with salt instead of sugar, would be wonderful, plus, the cheery fall colors would make a terrific Thanksgiving cookie. I was wrong. Candy corn melts. I knew it would, just not quite so much. Instead of a cheery fall cookie, we were invaded by aliens. Really nasty tasting aliens.

The second experiment worked much better, except I forgot to take a picture. Peanut butter and bacon cookies! Since it was an Elvis inspiration, I think I'll call them King's Cookies. They were nummilicious. I still need to work on the proportions, but it's definitely a keeper. As I progress through my Christmas baking, I'll keep you apprised of the successes and disasters. Especially the disasters, they're usually much more entertaining. Seriously, I wish I had a picture of the moldy-raw-hamburger cookies, you'd be amazed that a cookie could look that bad.

Happy Veteran's Day!

August Johnson ~
my Grandpa & favorite doughboy

Did you ever wonder why Veteran's Day is November 11? Well, before World War II, it was called Armistice Day and celebrated in the signing of the armistice that ended the war-to-end-all-wars. The treaty ending World War I was signed November 11, 1918 at 11:11am. When, less then twenty-five years later, we were enmeshed in another world war, the name was changed. So that's why Veteran's Day is not on a glorious summer day when we could have a picnic ~ no one wanted to stretch that war out eight more months. Deal with it.

Grandma & Grandpa really believed that was THE war-to-end-all-wars. Imagine how horrible for them when they sent their sons off to fight in yet another global battle? Actually, because the two were only 23 years apart (for Americans, for Europeans it was 21) some men got to fight in both, heck, WWI infantry who stayed in and became officers could still have been active duty for Korea. Yegads!

Back to Veteran's Day ~ it was changed to honor all vets. Some folks (who hate having their mail disrupted) think it should be merged with Memorial Day, but Memorial Day honors the fallen, those men & women who died in service to our country. What about those who served, who did their duty, and had to spend (hopefully) decades dealing with what they saw? That is what today is for. This is not the day to get on a high-horse about everything that is wrong with the military. Most everyone who served did so because they love their country, because they love freedom, because they want those freedoms to be available to their children.

Francis Yaeger ~
my father & favorite jarhead

To everyone who has ever served, I offer a heartfelt "Thank you" because, overall, America is a great country. It is fabulous to live in a country where I can publicly say, "I think the president is a short-sighted dipshit" and I only have to worry about offending people. I do not have to worry about being "disappeared" or "re-educated" as folks in some countries. This is a pretty terrific concept. If you don't like America, you can say so. You can run for office to try to change what you don't like. You can campaign for someone you believe will fix things. You can do all of these things because someone was willing to put on a uniform and defend with his life, your right to disagree. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which is my fondness for debate, I really appreciate our vets. Thanks ~ all of you. Happy Veteran's Day!

Shasta Embarrassed Herself

Peanut, the early days

I have a cat in my face. It's easier to type without one, but Peanut absolutely, positively must sit on the mousepad. He's always loved to do that. When he was a baby it was gosh-darned adorable. But now that he is a fully-grown ten-pound cat, he's in the way. He doesn't care. He just gives me that patented, "If you really loved me, you'd let me sit on the keyboard" and rubs my face. Every movement sends a cloud of soft fur into the air. He is adorable, in an annoying way. Peanut is part kitten, part puppy, part little brother. Kittens are playful; puppies are cuddly; little brothers are (I hear) a pain in the neck. In no way at all is he part cat. Cats are cool, sophisticated and more than a little condescending.

Shasta is all cat. Any love she gives is strictly on her own terms. And you'd better be appropriately appreciative or you won't get any for weeks. She shuns better than the Amish. Humans have their uses, she'll acknowledge, for instance, we're much better than she at opening Fancy Feast. That is our primary function, cleaning litter boxes is second. As long as we remember our place, we get to live. Peanut doesn't care, he just wants his belly rubbed. In other words, just like my children, my cats have very distinct personalities. Despite (or maybe because of) this, they are super close. Peanut seems to think Shasta is Mom. Shasta thinks Peanut is her pet, although he does embarrass her, after a particularly clumsy move, she looks away as though to say, "I don't know you." It is very important to Shasta that she always be elegant & dignified.

Shasta, the way she prefers we think of her.

One thing cats really like to do is hunt. Peanut hunts Shasta ~ if she's in the mood to play, they chase each other around the house, then wrestle until Shasta has a couple of paws-ful of Peanut fur, then she's ready to quit. Peanut is rowdier and therefore, usually, the instigator. But this morning, Shasta started the fight. She was atop the china hutch (the tallest piece of furniture, natch). She saw Peanut on the floor and hopped to the bookcase, the entertainment center then, thud, skid, crash ~ she landed most clumsily behind a chair. When she reappeared, her tail was huge. I commented on its size, and Dave replied, "What do you expect, the floor just kicked her ass."

Voting: Privilege and Responsibility

Great Hall Ellis Island

As Americans, we have a moral responsibility occasioned upon us by the privilege of voting. We are the first country in modern times to put running the country entirely in the hands of its people. That is an awesome (as in jaw-dropping) power. Many of the people who came here willingly, came because their homelands gave no power at all to the people. There was a time when anyone could come to America (more on that in a future post) the trouble was getting permission to leave the old country. People came because they wanted to choose their future. The American Dream for nearly every previous generation, was the possibility that, with hard work and careful saving, one could own a home ~ not a McMansion on five acres, a house on a standard city lot ~ and the amazing opportunity to have a say in who made the laws.

Part of that dream included responsibility. No one expected a free ride. No one really wanted a free ride, there is dignity in providing for oneself. There is dignity in meeting one's responsibility. Voting is one of those responsibilities. We cannot sit idly by and complain about the country going to Hell in a Handbasket (as a child I wondered about this Helena Hanbiscuit and why people always seemed mad when they talked about her) if we won't even vote.

Tuesday, I worked as an Election Judge. I sat in one spot from 7:00 AM until 8:00 PM, taking one quick break at the end to cast my own ballot. I spent the entire day registering voters. Thirteen hours registering voters. One-third of the votes cast in that precinct were by people who registered on Election Day. Many states don't have that option because they are afraid of voter fraud. Minnesota routinely has one of the highest voter turn-outs in the country and the Same Day Registration is a significant factor inthat. As the forms are inspected after the fact, when it is too late to undo the fraudulent vote ~ they discover almost no bad applications. In other words, the fears of those who would forbid Same Day Registration are unfounded.

What I noticed among those people registering was that nearly all of them fell into one of three groups:

A) Somehow, inadvertently dropped from the roster. People who had lived and voted here for years, lost into computer oblivion. Would you deny them the right to vote because they were screwed over by a computer?
B) Poor people ~ like the homeless guy who didn't know upon whose couch he'd spend the winter so he couldn't pre-register. His kindhearted friend vouched that yes, for the time being, homeless guy lives here. (N.B. in Minnesota, you must vote at a specific polling place based on your residence) Poor people whose rental was condemned after the cut-off for pre-registration and may have found a new place mere days before the election. Poor people like the grandma who moved in days ago to avoid a state-run nursing home. Poor people like a pregnant girl whose boyfriend ran when the stick turned blue and grandpa just took her in. Fate just kicked them around and now the state should do it again?
C) Educated, entitled, middle-class folks too lazy to register in advance (Doesn't it happen when I move? Not if you don't tell us, dumbass.) Or who can't grasp the whole voting where they live concept (Well, I work over here, this is easier)

Guess which group is least likely to have the right paperwork? You guessed "C"? Why, you're brilliant! Don't feel bad when I can't help them. A & B on the other hand. . . I had a mother come in with her son and his birth certificate, because his ID had just been stolen ~ actually, she just had to vouch for him. I had dozens of people come in with state issued ID's with a correct address and an armload of back-up proof, just in case. Getting a new ID costs money, we had families come in with one person who had changed the ID, vouching for the six who hadn't yet. I had more than one adolescent Hmong come in with Mom, Dad, Grandma & and Auntie to fill out all their forms and act as translator. I had a couple of newly Naturalized Citizens and a lot of newly minted adults casting their first vote.

Statue of Liberty

I felt privileged to assist them. They were so eager to vote that I found myself trying desperately to get them registered. We almost always found a way. The vouching option is a Godsend ~ a registered voter in your precinct can sign your application and vouch that they know you and you do live nearby. People came back with boyfriends, wives, grandpas, cousins, even a landlord was willing to come in. And then the vouchers may as well vote, since they're already at the poll; some of them I'm sure wouldn't have otherwise. All those folks so eager to vote reminded me of how great America is. Thank you, voters.