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 |  Who knows what's to be found inside my head? |
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March 12, 2007 Life in transition. It’s a common theme for everyone, I think. In one way or another all our lives change day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year. Sometimes though, the changes come fast and hard. When I got married I moved out of the home I’d lived in since I was eighteen months old. In a few weeks I’ll move out of the house I’ve lived in for the past twenty-eight years, and away from the local I’ve lived in my entire life. After thirty years of being the wife of an executive who worked sixty hours a week, and took numerous business trips out of the country each year, I will find myself the wife of a semi-retired man who works from home. After a lifetime of suburban living, where no convenience is out of walking distance, we’ll be living in the mountains, thirty minutes out of town. Yeah, life is changing. Can I keep up with it? That’s the question. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Sunset in April on the lake in our Forest Lakes back yard. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Thank you to Voxxylady  for the fantastic sig!Thank you to carlton607  for the gift of the awardicon. If you have time, visit his port. He's a talented writer, and I'll bet you enjoy the Cash N'Advance and Gil and Dolores stories.{/b}
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| The weekend is here, and so is summer in all her hundred degree glory. She’s been a long time settling in here, at the Southern California coast. But, she’s welcome, welcome. Weekends are funny days around my house. With Ron home, they are occupied with all kinds of different activities, and getting the time to write is difficult. It’s a bit greedy of me to sit behind my desk when the two of us have time to be together. So, I think I’ve decided not to worry about blogging over the weekends. I’ll read those of my blogging friends when I can – to keep caught up – but as for my written contributions, they’ll take a few days off each month. Right now, I’m headed out to the pool to socialize with the hubby who wants to cool off in the chlorinated waters. And the rest of you, enjoy your first weekend of June! |
| Late yesterday afternoon, Ron called and said, “If I can get off work early enough, let’s walk down to Rubio’s for dinner.” This is a habit we got into two summers ago, making the mile walk to the newly completed shopping center for dinner. We’d do it once or twice a week, usually taking Rowdy with us and eating on the restaurant patio in the cooling air. It has been a genuine treat. But yesterday, I had mixed emotions about the prospect. As I replied to Ron with, “Sure, that’s a good idea,” I was thinking with a sigh, “another two miles.” I’d already been out with the dog for my long, four miles in one hour walk up and down the sidewalks of our hillside neighborhood. By the time Ron phoned, I felt walked out – our weekend trip, while not exhausting, had taken a toll. Sure enough, my husband made it home well before dark – an unusual occurrence these days. As we stepped out onto the front porch, he asked me if I was sure I wanted to walk. I told a fib when I said, yes, I did; but I knew he wanted and needed the time out, strolling. The stress and garbage at his job are beyond belief; any price I may pay in going on a walk with him is dinky by comparison. I reasoned that since walking with Ron is – well, let’s just say it’s not aerobic – I could surely take another two miles for the day. It was a nice walk, perfect temperature for shorts, and we enjoyed passing through the crowd of parents and little baseball players pouring off the park fields. We also ran into two friends and had a very pleasant evening. As we lay in bed at the end of the day, Ron said, “Thanks for that walk. It was the highlight of my day.” This morning though, I knew I’d overdone it. Not by a lot, but enough that I realized I’d have to forego my exercise if I had any hope of accomplishing all the other things on my must-do list without crashing half-way through the day. (is it FRIDAY already? No more days for procrastinating  ) Ron generally asks me each morning how I slept, how I’m doing and what my plans are for the day; as I lay warm under the covers today, I decided I’d lie to him. No way could I tell him that I was feeling under and would have to skip my walk. Even if I didn’t tell him why, he’d know – and he’d never suggest taking the evening walk to dinner again. If I were to give him the real low-down, I’d snatch something good from him. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything that might rob him of the highlight of any of his days. I am no martyr. These are the little sacrifices we all make in our relationships. Mothers, wives, husbands, friends – we choose regularly to do or not to do something, to say or not to say something. Sometimes the choices are made selfishly, lots of times they’re made out of love for another. The tricky part – and this is what I have to watch for – is not to keep score. We know. We’re fully aware of those times we make one of the little, secret sacrifices. Do you find yourself keeping track, at least for a while? If I’m not careful, in a day or two, when Ron requires something of me that I don’t want to give, I’ll remember back to last night and be tempted to think that I’ve already paid my dues. My little account manager will be waving that deposit slip. He’ll be murmuring in my head, telling me it’s time for Ron to meet me, instead of the other way around. It’s funny how he conveniently forgets to remind me that for every little sacrifice I make, Ron makes one somewhere, too. And I know that he makes big, visible ones – has done for the length of our marriage. It’s not as one-sided as it sometimes seems to me. With the kids however, it’s a different story. I guess there will always be some relationships in our lives that require us to be the primary givers. I’m hoping that as my young adult children mature, the scales will balance. My own experience as a daughter tells me this is not an impossible expectation. In the meantime, I will continue to do the giving and sacrificing there, and not complain that they aren’t quite reciprocating. Besides, I’ve gotten used to it  This morning, I didn’t even have to really lie. I just avoided talking about walking and since he was a bit harried getting out the door, Ron didn’t probe. So, my secret is safe. |
| Mervyn made his first appearance in our lives in April, 1979. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have spotted his shadow when I first walked into our new house and really looked a the yellow shag carpeting. I’d been so excited to buy this house that I readily overlooked the carpet. That, after all, would be an easy fix. Never utter the words. Once we moved in, getting rid of the shag became number one on our list of things to do to the house. There were numerous issues we intended to address, one at a time, but the carpet had to be done first. Then, the following year, we’d begin tackling other things – with the carpet taken care of I could live with the walls and kitchen floor for a long time. We found carpeting we liked at Sears and had the dude come out and take measurements. That’s when we really looked at the walls. The walls in the family room were painted with yellow and white stripes. Only, the yellow stripes weren’t simple inch and a half passages painted from floor to ceiling. They were half-inch thick slats of wood. Those slats of wood went all the way to the concrete floor, and the yellow shag carpeting was laid around them. Naturally, the yellow slats had to come off the wall before my new, blue carpeting got installed. Well, those slats of wood weren’t merely nailed into the drywall; they were epoxied on. When they came off, chunks of drywall came off, too. Unwilling to go to the expense of hiring someone to patch and re-texture the walls, we opted for paneling, which may have ended up costing as much in the end. But it was easy to slap up. With the walls taken care of, we directed our attention to the breakfast area adjoining the family room. It was a tiny space and served as a dining room as well, so we thought it would be a good idea to expand it into the family room area. The job would have to be done when the carpet was laid; why would we want to lay carpet into an area, only to pull it out in a year’s time? Of course, this necessitated pulling up the kitchen tiles and replacing them so as not to have a bare concrete floor in the expanded eating area. Oh well, we were started on the project, we may as well finish it. We rented a heating thingy and pried up the ancient linoleum tiles, then laid down newer, they-never-need-to-be-waxed ones. Now everything was ready for the carpet installation. Except the hallway. Did I mention the hall was draped in yellow and brown striped wallpaper? It was quite tomb-like. Nice, if you like tombs. The paper had to come down before the new carpet went in. Who wants to do that kind of messy job with new carpet on the floor? Then, of course the walls had to be painted, and we decided to paper the bottom half and put up a chair rail. Well, you don’t want to do the job half-way, do you? May as well get it done the way you want while you’re in the midst of it. No point putting it off. NOW we were ready for the carpet. And what a relief, when the installers left, to survey the rooms and be glad that we’d gotten that simple job done. |
| Murphy has a brother. His name is Mervyn. I’ll bet you’ve met him. Though not as well known or as popular as his brother, Mervyn has his own law: Any simple project will transform into a time and money devouring monster. Mervyn has become a regular member of our family. Ron learned years ago, when embarking on a project, to announce, “I’m making my first trip to the hardware store!” As it turned out, Ron and I weren’t alone on our trip to Colorado. We weren’t really going on a true vacation. It was more of a working vacation, since there were a few little jobs to be one on our rental condo. This is information that I rarely divulge – the fact that we have a resort condominium as rental property. I once lost a friend over the purchase of a sofa, which we bought to replace the secondhand couch we’d had since we got married. Oh, but we also bought a little folding rocker at the same time. A woman who had been a close friend confessed to me that she couldn’t handle the fact that we had a few hundred dollars to spend on furniture, when she and her husband were counting pennies. Ever since then I’ve been a little shy about some things. But, in February Ron and I happened to be in the right place at the right time and opportunity came a-knocking. So, we have this condo in the ski resort above Durango. One of the reasons we got a good deal on the place was that it needed some grunt work – mostly cleaning and painting touch-ups– to bring it up to an ‘A’ rating, which would place it at the top of the list for rental offerings. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Here’s our building. Our unit is on the sixth floor. That mountain forest is outside the entrance to our little place. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Looking down at the resort from part way up the slopes. That was a great hike. We trudged to the top, dodging patches of snow and fighting for breath in the thin air. But dang, it was a blast and charged the batteries. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This is outside the front of the building. You can see why these units – called ski-in, ski-out – are hugely popular with winter sports lovers. And not just skiers, either. Snowshoeing is popular, and they have a toboggan run, too. Instead of paying the staff to do the work, we decided we’d do it ourselves. This is our habit. When we had horses, Elizabeth and I worked at the stables to pay for their board. When we had the boat we were the ones scraping and varnishing and re-plumbing the head (don’t even ask about that!) and fixing the engine and scrubbing out the bilge. This weekend I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the balcony, looking for all the world like a char woman, complete with scrub brush and bucket. I thought of asking Ron to take a picture of that to share with you all, but he was on his hands and knees scrubbing the grout in the shower. We thought we had hit the jackpot when I discovered a full gallon of wall paint in a closet, enabling me to do touch-ups, and saving us the expense of re-painting the entire unit. Our celebration was short-lived, though. Mervyn came tromping through the door. He held in his hand the two week old, 2006 inspection sheet. The unit that had been rated a ‘B’ last year, is now a ‘C,’ which meant our weekend got suddenly busier and more expensive. Meetings with various managers of the resort and the general contractor took our hiking time, but on the upside, we did get to meet some very nice people. And, if you’re ever interested in knowing where to find something in the Durango Home Depot, I can tell you. Screws, shower gaskets, paint brushes, hammers, lighting, indoor/outdoor carpet, light switches, knives, adhesives, wall putty, cleaning supplies – you name it, I can tell you which aisle it’s on. I can tell you Vicki is the lady to ask about the price of the patio furniture in the front of the store, and Joe has a wealth of information about window coverings. I can also direct you to the restrooms. The condo job is far from over. It’s barely begun. Much of the work is going to have to be left in the hands of the general contractor, and the rest I’ll have to direct and manage from home. Thanks to the wealth of the resort’s current owners, who are pouring money into renovations and improvements, the mountain is emerging as a hot spot for winter recreation. Projects are underway to expand summer activities as well, which is creating a year-round vacation draw. So, the resort has incentive to help the owners with their upgrades. Something we will, by necessity, take full advantage of. But this all reminded me of the first time we ran across Mervyn, all those years ago……… |
| No real blog for today. Ron and I are leaving for Colorado for a much needed time away. We’re driving. Flying is faster – sometimes – but not much less of a strain, and the airlines are gangsters, charging triple for tickets over the holiday. Anyway, I love the drive. To southwest Colorado, it’s a long, one day trip but beautiful, even though most of it is through desert. The desert has its own unique landscape that I find fascinating. Not knowing if my daughter and her husband would still be living here, I’d made arrangements for Rowdy to spend the five days at his birth home, with his brothers and his sister, Charlotte, the Ritalin dog. Rowdy is especially welcome there when Charlotte is home because the two of them chase each other around the yard and she gets into less mischief, like digging and pestering the chickens, cats and rabbits. So, even though I do have doggie sitters still in the house, Rowdy is going to Camp Teller for a few days of romping. I usually take him there for a day of play once every couple of weeks. On those days he comes home exhausted; he eats his dinner, then stumbles into the house and collapses under the coffee table. I wonder what kind of condition he’ll be in after five whole day of Charlotteville. Either he’ll pass out for a few days, or he’ll be so conditioned that he’ll drive me crazy, running in circles, chasing the cats. Maybe he’ll go through withdrawal. I won’t know until Tuesday, when we come home. What clever vacation planners we are, waiting until the holiday traffic is off the roads before heading home. I should have intermittent use of the internet, but I’m not sure, so if I’m not heard from until next week, you all know the reason why. I hope everyone enjoys the holiday weekend. |
| My younger sister’s husband loves to hunt. He sold his business a few years ago and they moved to Washington State so he could retire and hunt. My sister is quite a marksman herself, I hear – at least in shooting skeet. I don’t know if she’s ever shot a deer or a duck. I’ve taken the “don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to” approach. In the days when my father was still alive and able to be out and about in his wheel chair, she and I used to take him to a park with a huge lake, where we’d feed the ducks. I’d tease that I hoped those birds never flew within sight of Richard and his gun. She talked about overcrowded flocks and herds. I was reminded of these conversations when I read an article about a twenty-year plan to manage overcrowded elk herds in the Rocky Mountain National Park. Currently, there’s an estimated 2,200 – 3,000 elk in the park, and this is a number that strains the environment and ecosystem to a breaking point. Vegetation is in danger of disappearing, and other species of wildlife are threatened. In a naturally balanced system with predators sharing their territory, the elk herd numbers would not likely exceed the limit of sustainability. As it is, men with guns will have to do the job of thinning the ranks. Note that said men will be using silencer-equipped weapons so as not to disturb park visitors. I have to say, if I was one of those visitors, I’d much appreciate that bit of consideration. Some have mentioned introducing wolves to do the job naturally, but it would take a literal act of congress, and of course, there are those ranchers who are strongly opposed that solution. I have such mixed feelings about all of this. I have a brain, and I know that overcrowded herds of anything result in unhealthy individuals, and that such an imbalance creates a ripple effect that impacts other wildlife, from the large to the microscopic. I’ve watched my share of Nature programs and I understand how life and death operate to keep the scales tipped just right. But I always close my eyes when the alligator rises from the water and clamps its jaws on the zebra, or when the polar bear snatches the seal. I want the bear to have its dinner, but I don’t want the seal to be eaten. My heart and my mind simply do not operate on the same wavelength when it comes to this subject. My skin crawls when I read about the logistics involved in transporting carcasses and testing for disease in the dead animals. Numerous images are evoked by the idea of this year’s goal of 700 dead animals, each the size of a horse; none of those mental pictures are pleasant. I was gratified that there was mention made of processing the meat. Probably for animal feed? I don’t know, but perhaps the killings wont be a waste. It’s a job that needs to be done. I’m glad it’s not mine. And I still don’t want to know if my sister has ever shot a deer. |
| As I struggled through my day today, I kept thinking of this woman I read about a few weeks ago. After eight years of nursing, and while she still had three small boys, she went to college, then medical school. She became the first woman surgeon at a local hospital during a time when only two percent of doctors were women. So, in addition to the rigors of gaining her education and training, as well as meeting the challenge of motherhood, she faced a host of other difficulties that come with being the first woman – anything. As a role model she stood out. But she wasn’t done, yet. Family medical crises showed her the blank spaces in the allopathic formula so she left to travel the world, expanding her studies in integrative medicine. Now she’s back, a doctor who’s more than a doctor. So much she’s accomplished. To do such things – this is my dream, my ideal, my fantasy. It’s not about being a doctor, it’s about being energetic and active every day and having the mental focus to DO something that spans decades. I can barely imagine living through life with that kind of sustained energy and focus. As soon as I think the thought, it whispers away. I’ve experienced periods of ample energy and enthusiasm, but even when they last a couple of years, those episodes are short-lived, compared against my entire life. And they are generally followed by years of up and down, in and out, struggling from day to day. There are many millions with difficulties greater than mine; I’m not complaining especially, it’s just that on days like today – when I can hardly envision living another twenty years, much less accomplishing any sustained forward movement – that I realize for me, life has to be lived by faith, day to day. It’s funny that it’s taken it so long for this to really settle in with me. I never know when I go to bed at night what kind of condition I’ll be in the following morning. Each day I have to pray for the wisdom and strength to make the most of what I have. I’m learning not to resent my illness. Not that I’m successful every day, but it’s dawning on me that though what I battle isn’t evident to the outside world, it is a sort of cross – my burden to bear and learn from; my challenge to learn faith and trust and how to be joyful in darkness. I continue to hope and pray for healing; I look to the time when I can know, as I go to bed at night, that I’ll awaken ready to conquer the day. But I’m coming to understand that if I’m never blessed with such healing, I still have a fruitful life to live – and to accept what I’m able to accomplish without falling into the pit of self-deprecation because I don’t measure up to my imagined ideal. I guess the growing up never ends, does it? |
| Before leaving the house this morning, Ron told me about a memo that circulated around work last week, while he was out of the country on business. It fueled the flames of angry frustration that I’ve been keeping tamped. Now, I’m going to rant. I must offer a bit of backstory (aren’t you thrilled?) When we first married Ron was in architecture and designed everything from commercial high rises to tract homes. But he loved engineering and ended up working in the field of Hollywood Post Production. In the seventies, that meant taking the finished movies to the video format for home distribution, and also adding any special effects to the film. Now, of course, there are other companies that specialize in special effects. The video format has been replaced by DVDs, but those DVDs must have menus designed and programmed into the discs, so the creative element is still in place within the Post Production world. In the early nineties, Ron was hired by Universal Studios to start up a Digital Video Compression Company, and to do the research and development for the American standard for High Definition TV, so it could be brought to the consumer. He did both with great success, and built a multi-million dollar company with the reputation within the industry of being the only place where work was always done to the highest standards. Part of the success of DVCC had to do with Ron’s management of the employees. He’s never gone to college and cares nothing for what the Master’s classes on management emphasize: endless meetings, goal sheets, tables and charts. He holds his people capable and asks them to do their jobs. If for some reason they can’t, the reasons are ferreted out, remedies made, and Ron tells them what a good job they’re doing. And they do a good job. Clients line up at the door, willing to spend their money on the quality product the company offers. The employees work their butts off, never griping, but taking pride in what they accomplish, and hungry for the praise they know follows. It was this well run and profitable company that Universal sold a couple of years ago. And it’s this company that now is under assault by the corporate mentality. The first year under Deluxe Digital Studios was fine, and everyone worked as they always had. Then, the larger company was bought out by another corporation that is currently spreading destruction in its wake, as it rushes toward enriching its exutive officers. No longer are employees encouraged and held capable and left to do their jobs as only they can, they are now brow-beaten and berated and hollered at. Not by Ron, but by “corporate.” When advertising for workers, Ron is forbidden to request applicants with experience. Bringing in a mix of experienced and novice employees has always provided both opportunity for the new ones to break into the field, and insurance against falling behind in delivering to their clients. But, hiring experienced workers means paying them higher salaries; so Ron must hire only kids directly out of school and attempt to train them in an oppressive and discouraging environment. The kids who once worked tirelessly now piddle around whenever they can, getting into trouble requiring disciplinary measures. The man who has coached and mentored and encouraged them all these years is being removed from his office, located among the hustle and bustle of the work, to be transferred to a different floor, with the other managers. No longer will the employees be able to walk by his office and ask if they can come in for a talk, cry on his shoulder or ask for advice. Ron is now plagued with paperwork and meaningless demands that serve only to bog down the system, interfere with productivity, and undermine the client relationships he’s worked on building over decades. The company he started, which was built to such success on the belief that people – clients and employees – are more important than anything else, is being torn to shreds by corporate mentality. Here are two examples. One of the benefits his employers have always had in Ron is his skill as a designer and draftsman. Every time an addition must be built onto a facility, he is the one who designs and drafts it. He also purchases the furnishings and equipment, and oversees the construction and installations. All this is done in addition to tackling his regular workload, and is outside the parameters of his employment contract. His employers basically get two for the price of one, when they get Ron. He’s already completed two complete building projects for Deluxe and they are currently using him to work on a third. When he delivered drawings to the newly-hired corporate drone the other day, Ron didn’t receive the usual, “Thank you!” Instead he heard, “Congratulations on making your deliverable.” And that memo that got me so riled? It said, “Morale is low. You need to work harder. If you don’t like it here, go somewhere else.” Honestly, would you run a business like that? It’s beyond my powers of reasoning to understand how a group of men can come into an established company and sweep the accounts to buy their jets and beachfront homes, then expect that browbeating the workers is somehow going to refill the coffers. I won’t be surprised if the executives’ end of the year, profit indexed bonuses are lower in 2006 than they were in 2005. It really is a life lesson. Treat people well, expect the best, and you’ll usually get it. Not always, but at the very least, you open the door for excellence to enter in. Life is relationships, not deliverables. Whether we’re talking about family members or fellow workers, our connection to life is through our relationships. I’m not exactly aged yet, but I’ve lived long enough to have experienced numerous times the phenomenon that arises out of relationships of mutual love and respect. Somehow, everything else seems to fall into place – not that everything is perfect, but good does follow (as well as profit), and contentment reigns. * * * * Ok, the blog is over, but I want to brag just a little. For those of you who have ever seen the movie Predator, with Arnold Schwarzenegger, this bit may be of interest to you. Back in the days before CGI and the companies who do all those special effects, the movie effects were added at the facilities where Ron worked. The director and other big-wigs would gather in the darkened room looking at the footage and brainstorming about the desired effects. As head engineer, Ron was almost always among them. On the day they were running Predator and wondering how to make an invisible creature that the audience could still sort of see, Ron got an idea. “What if you took the background and reflected it back in layers, like this?” He showed him what was forming in his mind, and voila! The monster was born. He did this sort of thing all the time. But don’t look for any credits. He never got them. |
| My husband and I have reached a mile-stone. Or, maybe it’s a speed bump, I’m still not sure which. Yesterday, we put our motorcycle up for sale. Several years ago, we traded sailing for cycling. Our girls got too old to crew with us on our boat. Well, too old in the sense that they had jobs and other weekend activities demanding their time. The years of the four of us spending hours and days together on the water were over. It was inevitable; children grow up and build their own lives. We’d known it was coming, but felt a bit of sadness at the loss of those weekends of closeness. I have a couple of pictures that I particularly treasure. One is of Ron and Elizabeth cuddled together under a towel in the cockpit, dozing together. The other shows Elizabeth and Rebecca topside. Elizabeth is sitting and Rebecca is lying, her head in her sister’s lap. The two of them are sharing secrets. We had many adventures on that boat, fun ones and scary ones. In a short Writer’s Workshop exercise, I wrote about one of them : "Invalid Item"  I am forever grateful for those memories.Because, as we know, life is ever changing, and change it did. We sold the boat and got a Harley Davidson Electra Glide touring bike. Ron and I had our fun weekend adventures again, only this time we had them alone, and on land. We took many weekend trips, including one to the Sequoia National Forest. We’d been there before, but there’s nothing like driving among those Giants on a motorcycle. The sensations, the scents, the nearness to the earth and trees turned out to be, in many ways, a healing experience for us. We've explored roads and traveled to places we never would have seen in our car. It’s funny, but true. The motorcycle instilled a craving for exploration and adventure that surpassed any desire to reach a destination. Sitting in the back, and usually daydreaming, I often wasn’t aware of where we were or how we got there. On a few occasions, we’ve repeated a trip, but many we’ve done only once. As the warm weather finally settles in on us here at home, I remember a ride we took through an agricultural area on a hot afternoon. On a deserted two-lane road, I felt safe enough to take off my leather jacket and enjoy the heat of the sun on my skin, exposed by my spaghetti strap top. The sensation of the heat of the sun and the heat of the breeze and the hint of damp coolness rising from the recently watered fields is seared into my memory. Part of me has wanted to ask if we could find that place again, for one final ride. Another part of me has wanted to hold on to the memory, knowing that it could never be just as it was that first time. Our years on the bike broadened our horizons. But, as I said, life changes, and it’s changing again. We have an opportunity to make an investment in property that will go a long way toward securing our retirement years. We had a five-year plan in place, but with the advent of this year that plan has been put on a fast track and we find that suddenly, the future is dogging our heels. We find ourselves having to decide between our present fun and our future security. So, the bike is for sale, and already we have someone looking to buy it. There is some regret, but when we think of the woods in Colorado where we will be moving, it seems like a reasonable trade-off. We’ll take different kinds of adventures in the car, with the windows down and the sunroof open. Life is still good. I wrote a short essay about a recent motorcycle ride: "Invalid Item" The memories last a lifetime. |
| Yesterday, I didn’t do any blogging – writing or reading. Instead, I spent my evening hours doing something else: I wandered through the ports of all you who have been supporting my blog. I went visiting and read items and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Somehow, I’ve gotten connected with a group of highly talented writers, and I feel honored to be associated with you all. I didn’t review anything, and my excuse is a simple one: there just wasn’t the time. Your stats will show I was in your port, your Feedback will not. Even as I say it, I feel a twinge of guilt. When I began my life here at WDC, I had the glorious intention of reviewing everything I looked at. I’m sad to admit I have not lived up to that self-imposed expectation. But I have also learned I am not alone. It’s been a maturing process for me, learning not to take it personally when I see my stories are being read and not reviewed. My gut reaction was to attribute views without reviews to my failure as a writer. It seemed logical to me that the readers clicked on, began reading, simply couldn’t tolerate the mediocrity of the storytelling, then clicked off. Or, that they read the whole story and couldn’t bring themselves to write a review because it would take hours to point out all the faults in my writing. I’ve come to balance those discouraging thoughts by reminding myself my writing isn’t that bad, and that I have learned from my own reading experience the numerous reasons for reading a story and not reviewing it. So, I’m learning to take pleasure in the stats that show my port and its contents are getting views, without fretting over a dearth of reviews. But this does bring me to a pondering point. I’m always amazed when I look at someone's story that has been posted for one day and within that time has garnered ten reviews. How does that happen? I’ve only found a couple of review forums that regularly produce reviews. These are forums that require the payment of GPs, which I’m happy to give over. But I’d never get more than three reviews from each of them, over the course of a week. So I’m still left wondering about those authors who receive numerous reviews within a day. In my short time here on this site, I have discovered there are a number of authors who really only want a pat on the head and a 4.5 star review – who aren’t especially interested in editing their work to improve it. I am not among those; I desire thoughtful, specific reviews. A few of the stories in my port have undergone numerous edits and great improvement, thanks to wonderful feedback. I tell people, I’m homeschooling – myself. I’m learning to write by doing it and posting it and changing it. I rely on reviews to guide me as to what I’m doing right and what I need to learn to do better. And I think it’s because I look for helpful feedback, especially on new stories, that I feel guilty when I read something on-site and don’t do a review. Some niggling thought within me taunts, “You’re cheating them, and yourself.” My excuses generally fall into two categories: time and intent. Both of these came into play last night as I savored what I read in all your ports. I went in intending not to review because I would never have time for it all. So I apologize, but I must say, I so enjoyed discovering a little about all of you who have been sharing in my life and thoughts over the past few weeks. Thank you for taking me in, for offering me your support by reading and commenting on my little blog entries. I am in good company. |
| In a neighboring town, school teachers are once again poised to strike. I shake my head at this; not because I don’t think the teachers ought to hold out for a pay raise (they haven’t had one in four years), but because there should be enough money to compensate them fairly. I don’t even know how many years ago we California voters were asked to give our permission for the State to establish a lottery for the express purpose of providing money for our schools. I checked out the lottery prizes for this week: Mega Million – $94,000,000.000 Super Lotto - $32,000,000.000 And the Fantasy 5 and Daily Derby combined are giving away $256,000.000 So, I wonder, where is the money for the schools? I get so fed up with our governments – Federal and State – crying that there’s not enough money. There’s plenty of money. The problem is, what they take from us is tossed around carelessly and ends up lining pockets before it ever trickles in a weak stream to its intended beneficiary. My husband makes a good income, but we are definitely middle class people. We live in a middle class suburb, in a home we bought twenty-six years ago. I shop at stores like Sears and Penny’s, not Nordstroms. I would never dream of hiring an interior decorator. I drive a Toyota. My husband drives a Lexus, but that’s only because his former employer paid him to. They wanted him out of his Honda; in his business, impressions make a difference. A few blocks from us a new housing development was built, with the homes selling in excess of a million dollars. They were going like hotcakes. We looked into buying one, but couldn’t afford it. We’ve had some luxuries, such as horses and a boat, but we had to give one up for the other, and we paid a price of financial security for our fun. We have more than some, less than many, yet pay more in annual federal taxes than many earn in a year. It’s ridiculous. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-taxation. I realize that in our society there are mutual needs that can only be met by the contribution of all. And there are those who are truly unable to work and need the support of their community. What I hate is the greediness and recklessness of our leaders and those responsible for dispersing the money our taxes provide. The triillions of dollars they collect from us each year should be more than adequate to cover all the necessities, with money left over. The funds collected in our California lottery ought to be adequate to support the schools and supplement the teachers’ salary. And the fact that those who can least afford to spare any of their income are the ones pouring money into the lottery system that’s throwing it away is another issue, altogether. I don’t imagine it will ever change. I’ll just keep griping about it. |
| Two and a half years ago I brought home a Border Collie puppy. My then walking companion, a yellow Lab, had been stricken with cancer and left us. A friend of mine, who owns and breeds search and rescue dogs, happened to have one puppy left out of her most recent litter, and I snagged him. A Border Collie is not a Labrador Retriever, let me tell you. It took a while for me to adjust to this new personality in our family – to accept his stand-offish ways with strangers and to make sure I got him out and exercised each day. A Lab may be content to spend the day lounging around the house or yard, a Border Collie is not. Overall, I’ve done a good job, testified to by the fact that my dog doesn’t have any behavioral problems common among those of this breed that are not provided enough stimulation. The thing is, a Border Collie needs to have a job to do. They are scarily intelligent and bred to be active and interactive. Rowdy’s job has been to go hiking and walking with me, scoping out the territory ahead, and to keep watch over the cats that belong to my daughter. And to guard my feet when I’m in the tub or shower. I have to fight my way past him just to step into the tub because he horns his way into the small space to take his place of oversight. If I’m in the tub he stands over my feet panting, oblivious to anything else that may move around him. Flailing arms and hands are barely registered in his peripheral vision; my husband calling to him receives no more than a momentary blink, if that. But if I move a toe, he’s right there, nose millimeters from the water, making sure all is well. All the world is feet. When I shower, he lays quietly on the floor until I prop my foot on the tub rim so I can shave my legs. Then he stands and noses his way past the shower curtain to watch the foot. I guess it’s true that my dog has a foot fetish. As far as his jobs go, the walking and watching of my feet occupy a very small part of his day. Tracking the cats however, is another story. When they are awake, he is trailing after them, following them from room to room; watching with heightened anticipation (of what, I don’t know) when they are wandering the kitchen counters; lying on the hardwood floor at the end of the living room, from which vantage point he can oversee their meanderings along the hallway. This occupies hours every evening, and leads to my soon to be realized problem: My daughter and her husband are moving into their own place in a couple of weeks. Naturally, they’re taking the cats. In many ways I’m glad to have the kitties move away – they shed all over the place and scratch my furniture, not to mention the cat box issues – but what will Rowdy do with himself? I’ve heard that border collies often are enraptured at the sight of fish, swimming to and fro – that the dogs will sit for hours watching fishy activities. Since I don’t really want a cat, I thought maybe an aquarium of fish would occupy my dog’s attention. After all, Rowdy certainly is content to watch my feet under water. Surely fish would be much more interesting. But before investing in an aquarium of fish, I thought I ought to test the theory on my dog, and I’m glad I did. I took him several times to the pet store and walked him among the fish tanks there. Going to the pet store is a special treat for Rowdy, and he romped beside me swinging his head from side to side, taking in all the sights and smells. He was a little tense, which is usual for a dog that is bred to be suspicious of anything outside his zone of protection, until that thing has proven not to be a threat. But in spite of his wariness, there was a definite bounce to his step. That is, until we approached the tanks of little fish. Those scared the crap out of him. He backpedaled, then stopped cold and looked at the floor. He really is a good dog – obedient and trusting. So, when I tugged gently on the leash and told him to follow me past the dangerous tank of fish, he figured out a way of walking by without looking at the enemy. Head down, looking away, and sidling sideways was the trick. After that little demonstration, I was happy to see that he didn’t mind the big fish – you know, the ones that cost forty dollars each. He even paid some attention to them, for a few minutes. His eyes focused and followed their movement, and his ears pricked. Maybe there was hope. But when I took him back a second time, they held no interest for him. A casual glance was all he would deign to offer before looking away, bored. It doesn’t seem that fish are his thing. But when I stop to think about it, when you’ve got cats to look after, what fun are fish? I don’t know what I’m going to do. Rowdy will miss the cats no end, and he’s smart enough that he’s not likely to forget about them any time soon. Maybe, after the cats have been gone long enough and fish have no competition, he’ll show more interest in keeping track of them. If only fish had feet. |
| This Mother’s Day is a bit different for me because my husband is away on a business trip. Consequently, this Sunday morning was much like any other Sunday when we don’t attend Church. The fog burned away early and the sun was shining by the time I stepped out the front door with my dog, for my regular neighborhood walk. Generally, on weekend mornings I encounter more neighbors than I do during the week, but this morning the neighborhood was eerily quiet. There was something else different. Everywhere, I smelled breakfast cooking. Pancakes and warmed syrup. Bacon and eggs. Even for a weekend morning, this was unusual. But then, again, this was Mother’s Day. Evidently many mothers were being treated to a hot breakfast, courtesy of Dad and the kids. It reminded me of those special Mother’s Day mornings when my husband and daughters told me to stay in bed and await a surprise. They showed up with a breakfast tray laden with yummy food and a flower in a small vase. Then they left to eat their breakfast in the kitchen. The breakfast tray was a loving gesture that I treasured, but somewhere along the path of reason, my husband didn’t realize that breakfast in bed was no fun when I had to eat alone. So, after a few years I made a Mother’s Day request. Instead of breakfast in bed, I asked if Ron and the girls would do the laundry for me. One of my favorite pictures captures the three of them sitting in the floor folding clothes, with underwear on their heads. The year our older daughter was three, her daddy took her out with him to do some secret shopping, early in May. I knew what they were doing – I’m no fool. When they got home, I asked Elizabeth what Daddy had gotten for me, never expecting her to answer, or even to know. I was just goofing off, honest. She said, “Jewry.” I knew enough not to expect a collection of Jews, but something gold. That surprise was a bit spoiled, and I never posed such a question to one of my daughters again. The last memorable Mother’s Day passed several years ago, when Ron suggested we all go for a drive; a full day of driving within lush canyons, then along the ridge of a mountain range that afforded us a view of the Channel Islands on the right, and a lake-dotted canyon on the left. We struck out with an adventurous spirit and drove miles down a rutted, dirt road to find some hot springs. And, I got to be the boss of the music. I brought tapes I wanted to listen to and nobody complained. Ah, to be uncontradicted once a year. Now, aint that grand? This year is different. Both girls are working, and one has a show to perform in. One married daughter will be spending her few free hours with her husband and his mother. The other daughter and her husband are taking me out to dinner. My husband called across numerous time zones to give me good wishes this morning. Life changes. I watched it happen to my mother as my older sisters got married and were no longer around for all the special occasions. I watched it continue when I got married and had to divide time between two sets of parents. I’ve always known it would happen for me too, when our girls grew up, and I think today the point is driving home with force. I’m not grieving or complaining, just feeling the emotions of having to grow up myself, and look ahead to a different life. Ron and I are looking forward to wonderful experiences together, and the freedom that comes along with having grown children is not to be scoffed at. But there may always be a part of me that misses the years of the four of us together. |
| As I scanned the local headlines this morning, my attention was snagged by this: “Sergeant’s Wife Refuses to Testify at Hearing.” Who could resist looking at that story? This police sergeant beat up his wife, then cleaned up the bloody mess while his young daughters looked on. He gave the girls strict instructions not to talk to the police about what they saw. How it got to court I don’t know, but now that it’s there, the wife / victim is legally required to give evidence, which she refuses to do, even in the face of imprisonment. The judge is not going to let this woman off the hook. Either she testifies now or she goes to jail until she will. I can think of numerous reasons this battered woman would choose not to testify against her husband, and none of them give me any comfort. Half of me is infuriated at her for her willingness to keep the man home and place herself and her daughters in jeopardy – physical and emotional, and half of me cries over her impossible situation. Left free, he most certainly poses a threat to her and their children; if put behind bars, he will be freed someday, and perhaps the threat will be then renewed. He has most likely got an entire force of officers behind him, offering support and encouragement. I wonder if she has anyone in her corner, encouraging her to find courage and refuge. For so many of us women, standing up for ourselves is something we never learned. Refusing to be victimized is a foreign thought. I never stood off against an opponent until I was thirty-six years old. Running or giving in or ignoring had always been easier choices, and they still are. But when I stood my ground I learned about the empowerment of dropping fears and refusing to be made a victim. If this wife fears what her husband may do to her in the future out of angry retaliation, those fears are real, and not to be discounted. But I wonder what’s really going on with her, as she is quoted as saying this, in court: “Nobody is listening to me. ... You don't have the right to tell me who I am ... I am a good Christian. We are all good people.” This sounds an awful lot like denial, which isn’t uncommon among battered women, and is most frightening as it perpetuates the cycle of violence. I have a daughter who is married to a man who screams and yells and threatens and belittles. This behavior has been going on since their first months of dating, and I continually begged her to leave the man and find someone who would treat her with the love and respect she deserves. For some reason I still don’t understand, she was addicted to him and could never resist taking him back after each break-up. Her denial and refusal to see the reality of the situation frustrated me no end. They got married, they had a baby, I crossed my fingers and prayed he would get his act together. A few days before their first anniversary he struck her. They separated for a time, but are back together and getting counseling. I don’t know if this is more denial or a road to recovery for them. I’m hoping it will have a happy ending – that they are finally getting the help they need to break free of his violence and her co-dependence, but if he hits her again, we’re calling the police, and she knows this. Maybe she’s counting on it. Her father and I will not stand by and let her fall further into the cycle of victimhood. I imagine the sergeant’s wife will eventually testify, but she faces a hard road no matter what. My heart goes out to her and I fear that regardless the outcome, unless she gets help, she will continue to be victimized throughout her life, and will hand that legacy down to her daughters. A heartbreaking prospect. |
| I see some of the most fascinating stuff on TV. Last night, while my hubby worked late, I watched a show that documented the King’s Cross tube fire in London. I don’t remember hearing a date given, but Princess Dianna was still Royalty, if that’s any clue. I’m writing about this from memory – I didn’t take notes – so I might get some of the finer details wrong. Those of you who live in England and remember the incident are free to align my ramblings on this. This fire began underneath the wooden escalator, and from the time it was first noticed as a glow between the moving risers to the time it blew in a torch of flame up the escalator and into the ticket station, a mere half an hour or so had elapsed. In excess of thirty individuals lost their lives and more than twenty were injured. Needless to say a full investigation was underway right off. Terrorism was ruled out. So was arson. The investigators discovered, beneath the right side of the escalator, signs of numerous previous fires – eighteen to be exact – that had evidently burned, then extinguished themselves. This, they concluded, was due in part to escalator etiquette. In America, pedestrians plant themselves on escalators. It’s not really permitted to walk up or down them. I don’t know if this is a real rule, or just laziness, but that’s how it seems to be. In European countries I’ve visited, anyone standing on an escalator is liable to get bowled over unless they are parked politely on the right side, yielding the left to those who want to move. Investigators reasoned that those standing on the right of the escalator were most inclined to, say, light a cigarette while taking their ride. Never mind that inside a tube station smoking is banned; it seemed that folks lit up with regular impunity. The men puzzling all this out figured that perhaps lit matches had been dropped on the escalator, starting the fires as they ignited the lubricating grease below. But lubricating grease doesn’t catch afire, nor stay lit, easily. There was however, an added ingredient that turned inflammable grease into a torch. Evidently, people standing on the right, and probably many walking up, also had a penchant for discarding their trash at their feet. Four decades of trash was embedded in the grease, and in experiments the concoction lit readily and flamed with vengeance. The experts still had the puzzle to solve relating to how this fire, which by all accounts should have been easily put down, blew into an inferno before anyone had a chance to stop it. They turned to the brains at Oxford University who set up computer models. This fascinates me. There are so many parameters that have to be considered. Like gravity. I’d never think of the role of gravity in guessing how a fire might behave, but it’s an important factor. They tweeked and checked and double checked their details and still came up with a scenario no one could believe or understand. So, in time honored investigative fashion, they built a model of the escalator and ticket station and set it on fire. Sure enough it burned just as the computer models had predicted, with the flames laying close to the steps instead of standing up, then suddenly blowing forward like a blowtorch. This turned out to be phenomenon no one had ever seen before – they discovered something new. The sides of the escalator acted like a tunnel and focused the heat of the fire, which sent hot gasses up ahead, where they superheated the wooden risers to 1500 degrees F, drawing the flames low and forward until the conditions were right for that incredible rush to the top. I think it took eleven months to get all this worked out, but in the end, though they couldn’t say why this fire rampaged while previous ones hadn’t, they knew with certainty that years of littering provided the bed of fuel for a single thrown match. And devastation followed. I’d hate to have been one person in particular on the day the media broadcast the news of the solved riddle. Someone had spent the previous months telling friends of their near escape from the King’s Cross fire. Just half an hour before they’d been right there, riding up, out of the station. Can you just imagine if that fire had started half an hour earlier? Or if I’d been on the late train? Someone was looking out for me that day, I’ll tell you. I imagine such thoughts of deliverance changed to different ones; thoughts never to be shared as that person recalled his habit of lighting a cigarette on the way up to the ticket station. That would be a burden I’d never want to bear. |
| Last summer a man named Steven was enjoying a day on a local lake with his two sons, Tyler, 10, and Stephan, 19. They sailed peacefully along on their catamaran until an intoxicated driver of a motorboat rammed them. Only the older son survived. It took a week to find the father’s body. The wheels of justice grind slowly, so it’s taken nearly a year just to get a formal plea on the case. The driver pleaded guilty to the DUI and is to be sentenced next month. The maximum sentence he can receive is a $1,000 fine and one year in county jail. If this makes you see red, you’re in good company, but not joined by the ex-wife and mother of the victims, evidently. She’s happy to have the guilty plea. Her only regret is that is applies only to her son, and not his father. She is however, set to lobby for stronger boating laws, but not with the goal of seeing more appropriate sentencing for manslaughter on the water. She hopes her efforts will prevent similar accidents in the future by requiring California to mandate boater education or operator licensing. I’ll tell you, if I were in her shoes I’d be storming the doors of justice. One former husband and a child dead, another child looking ahead to years of surgeries and all she wants is education or licensing? I’m asking myself where the woman’s head is. How can it possibly be that a drunk man can use his boat as a weapon and pay a price that amounts to a slap on the wrist? If he’d stolen a car he’d be looking at higher fines and harder time in prison. And a woman who is poised to work at making a real change is settling back and expending her efforts on a worthless cause. I don’t get it. Does anybody else? |
| After a full week of pain, I slept through the weekend. When the pain let up, I guess my body just needed to rest and recuperate. What a good feeling it is not to hurt. Now, I’m writing this blog entry, but I don’t know when it will get posted because our internet is down. It’s nice to be behind the desk again, though. Almost exactly a year ago I had an experience I never would have predicted for myself. I’d signed Rowdy up for his first training in avoidance of rattlesnakes and had decided to save some money by volunteering to help out at the clinic. If you volunteer for half a day, they take half off the fee. I was a little hesitant to do this, as I’m not one to jump into unknown waters, but when the lady told me she’d assign me to doing sign-ins I decided I wasn’t risking much. I ended up handling rattlesnakes. The dogs faced three rattlesnakes, at three different stations, and there were three snakes at each station - one was "working," the others were resting up for their shifts. After the working snake had faced off five dogs, it got rotated out. As the handler, I had to uncover and cover the working snake and trade it for a rested one when the time came. Here's how it worked: Out on the lawn was an orange bucket turned upside down. Hidden under the bucket was the snake. On top of the bucket was a grabber for grabbing a-hold of the slithering critter if it should prove unruly. When the trainer came within sight, I had to walk out to the grass and uncover the snake, tipping the bucket back toward me, and walking away backwards – all the time holding the grabber, just in case. When the dog was finished with my snake, I held the bucket before me as I approached the snake from behind and put the bucket back over it. It got to be quite a dance, holding the bucket and grabber just right so the whole act of covering and uncovering the snake could be done in one fluid motion without fumbling for the handle of the grabber, or losing grip on the bucket. After the snake was covered again, it had to be watered. I kept a watering can full and sprinkled the bucket and the lawn so the snake didn’t get overheated. The trickiest part came when the snake had to be exchanged. Over on the patio were two other buckets, each containing a rested snake. I needed to get the working snake into the bucket and lidded. Then it could be carried into the shade of the patio and a replacement snake was gently readied to scare dogs to death, as I overturned its bucket onto the lawn. Ah, getting that snake into its bucket. Here’s where the grabbers came in handy. The critter never exactly volunteered to slither into the orange container, so I had to grab the thing and shove or lift it and deposit it in its temporary home. A full grown rattlesnake is heavy and wriggly and not so easy to pick up with a grabber. The critters tend to try and escape from time to time. In fact, near the end of the day I had to rush to the aid of another handler whose snake was running away. They run away fast. Between the two of us, we got her snake into the bucket. Maybe now would be a good time to tell you that the snakes have their mouths taped shut. But still. It’s unnerving, manhandling a thick, slithering snake that can run away like crazy. I always breathed a sigh of relief when I had made a successful exchange. It was too bad that an hour before the end of the day I threw my back out lifting the newly filled watering can and spent the rest of the work period and clean up hobbling hunched over and limping in pain. Despite that, I had a great time and can tell people that I’ve been a rattlesnake handler. I do this while looking off into the middle distance, huffing on my fingernails and polishing them casually on my collar. And you know, years ago, I would have gone running from the chance to do that job. Fear of doing something wrong and looking like a fool, or losing the snake, would have kept me at the sign-in table. And what a shame that would have been. Actually, there is some pity because I know there are dozens of experiences I never had, since in the foolishness of youth I declined the risk. I could kick myself. In some ways I’m really glad to be older. |
As I put my dog Rowdy, in his crate last night I thought, “Poor guy, he has no idea what’s in store for him tomorrow.” I can guess what you’re thinking, but he didn’t go to the Vet. We went to Rattlesnake Avoidance Training. This was his second year. I never knew such a thing existed until last year, and since he and I go hiking on trails, I thought it would be a good idea to teach him about avoiding snakes. We’d never encountered any before, but I figured that was dumb luck, due mostly to the lack of rainfall we’d had. And wasn’t I glad we’d experienced the clinic when just a week later he alerted twice to snakes on the trail that I would have stepped on. Those rattlers just disappear into the brown. All summer long I watched him give a wide berth to something in the bushes I couldn’t see, but his actions alerted me and I followed his path, in safety. The trainer recommends yearly refreshers to maintain the dog’s alertness, so we returned today. I knew my border collie would be unhappy about it. He hates the zapper, and he hates rattlesnakes. That’s why I felt a little sorry for him. But I was mighty proud when, after thirty seconds the trainer said, “I’ve seen this dog before, haven’t I?” because Rowdy refused to get anywhere near the snake. He wasn’t even going to be dragged there. So he never got zapped, but was frustrated no end until the ten minute session was over and he got to run to me, finding a far track around the snake. So there I was, feeling sorry for him, but knowing he’s got to go through this for his future safety, and knowing it would only last a little while and he’d survive it. It felt a lot like emotions I had as my children were growing up. And it reminded me to stop complaining to myself about being so sick the last three weeks. These are my moments of frustration and pain, but just as Rowdy couldn’t appreciate the future value of his little torment today, I can’t know what value will be the outcome of my illness. A few zapps turned my dog into something more than he’d been before his first training. The zapps I’m feeling now will do the same for me. It all comes back to getting to the thought about the thing and allowing an eternal perspective to enter in. Any California readers who are interested in this training can check out www.patrickcallaghan.com |
| This is a dang long entry. For that I apologize. You’ll be forgiven if you pass it by, but if you read on I bet you’ll think of lots of things I never got to mention or elaborate on. I had to bite my fingers off to keep from putting down all the thoughts this generated. The county I live in is largely agricultural. A drive from my house to the coast, no matter what rout you take, direct or circuitous, leads past numerous types of farms. Needless to say, we get good produce year round. That we get it at very reasonable prices is thanks to illegal laborers who work for less than minimum wage, stooping in the sun, protected by their wide-brimmed hats as they gather ripe fruits and vegetables from ground-hugging plants. This, as I mentioned yesterday, is a job few Americans would consider doing, even at a wage above the minimum. There can be no question that the illegal immigrants perform a needed service for the rest of us. But I wonder if we are doing them any kind of return favor by paying them a miserly wage, which prevents them contributing to the society they have chosen to work in. Is it respecting them as people to use their labor and pay them pennies for it, then give them social services to make up for the slight? It seems to me all this does is communicate disrespect and disdain; that it fosters a mentality of separation among a people living and laboring here but who have no investment in this country. And it breeds resentments among legal immigrants and Americans who feel cheated by the “edge” given to these millions. Many of the problems might be solved by the simple act of respect. These workers are disrespected by the wages they are paid. They are disrespected when they are offered free services. And, I think, they are disrespected by our willingness to keep them separate from us through our embracing of bi-lingual – everything. They do not see themselves as part of the society they work within. Here in California the popular mantra among Mexican workers has become, “We were here first!” True, but it’s a baseless argument for preferred treatment, and a reflection of their sense of isolation and separateness from the America they work and live in. We are a nation of immigrants, and our Mexican population is not the first to undergo prejudice and ill treatment. The difference is that our governing officials, for the first time in our history, are not inviting the immigrants to join us; instead they’re encouraged to keep to themselves within our midst. And what is the message that sends? Some will say it’s a message of cultural tolerance, and understanding that America is not a god among nations. I think the message is, “you’re not quite good enough to be one of us. So keep your language – don’t learn English. Stay to yourselves and don’t join us. In fact, we’ll help by paying you next to nothing and handing out freebies to keep you in your place of dependency. But please work as hard as you can.” For the first time America is not a melting pot, inviting the foreigner into the American fray. It’s become a kind uncle condescending to take the poor nephew under his roof, but insisting the child not wander the house or make too much noise, while requiring he do the gardening and wash the windows and clean the toilets. If we feel frustrated at the Mc Donald’s drive-up window because we can’t understand the worker who barely speaks English; if we want to blow up in anger as we are turned out of the emergency room due to not having insurance, while an undocumented Latino is ushered right in, we are wasting our energy in directing those emotions toward the workers. Our legislators have set up a system that has caught the immigrants in a wave and is sweeping them along. I felt quite a bit of frustrated anger on Monday as I listened to illegal labors clamor for “rights” they have no claim to. But they have been taught to believe they do have such rights, by a system that hands them out after stealing the Latino’s labor. They’ve been kept separate from us and taught to see themselves as victims of the great American Democracy, and as such, entitled to preferred treatment. The resentment goes all ways and feeds on itself as it bounces back and forth between cultures. My older daughter married a man who was born in Tabasco, Mexico. He lived there until he was fifteen years old, when his mother brought him to the US. Having no English when he got here, he managed to graduate high school with honors – and this was not a bi-lingual school system. He’s proceeded through college on the Dean’s list and works his tail off, holding down a full time job, along with classes. His father, who came to America just a short time ago, still knows little English, but is working as a legal immigrant among English speaking men and is making his way with success. They both are happy, productive and proud to be making their way in this country. They think of themselves as belonging here. They have a vested interest in America. Most people have within themselves the ability to overcome difficulties, and when more is expected, much more is accomplished. They, and we, end up better people. What would have become of my son-in-law if he hadn’t been pushed to learn English in order to pass his classes? If he’d been put in a bi-lingual school and granted easy passes as a consideration of the hardship of going to school in a foreign country? Somehow, I doubt he’d be the Multi-Media Specialist for a California State University, at his young age. He would have been cheated, but it wouldn’t have been his fault. Millions of undocumented Mexicans are being cheated. So are we. There may be answers, but I am unqualified to discuss the possibilities. I swing them about in my head and end up dizzy when all the questions start bumping into each other. The only thing I can do is not disrespect the people and use my vote when I have the opportunity to make my voice heard. |
| Two days ago, on the first of May, there was a strike. Millions of Latino workers, both alien and legal, walked off their jobs. I live in Southern California where Mexican laborers are prevalent. The illegals outnumber the leagals by a league. They perform any number of services that allow them payment by means other than a paycheck. Basically that means they work for contractors laying floors, tile and carpet, they paint and do construction and perhaps most importantly for the economy of my county, they harvest the fields. The truth is, they do many jobs none of our teenagers would consider doing, even for a summer job. And they do it for a wage our kids and unemployed would spit at. I read a comment in another blog, the comment having been written by a non-American who observed on her visit to the South West, that there was a high degree of animosity between the Americans and the Mexicans. If they’re doing jobs that otherwise wouldn’t get done, why do we Americans resent them? I was the third among four daughters born to my parents. Two of my sisters are nine and eleven years older than me; the baby of the family came along three and a half years after I was born. I held an interesting position in the family order. A definite middle child, but also sort of an oldest. This created some interesting dynamics. On the one side I got all the razzing and teasing and humiliation older siblings subject the younger ones to – but once they were done with me they didn’t care too much about laying it on my little sister. On the other side I watched as my aging parents quit fighting battles and handed to my younger sister what I’d been made to earn for myself. When I was in eighth grade, the only thing I wanted for my birthday was a ten-speed bicycle. Back when I was growing up, in the old days a bike was a necessity. Parents didn’t drive us kids the two miles to and from school. Or to the library or to our friends’ houses. We walked or we rode.The year I entered seventh grade I became responsible for making dinner for the family, since my older sisters were by then married married, and my mother was working. Often I’d get home from school and find a note on her desk saying something like: “We’re having enchilada bake for dinner tonight. Go to the market and buy ground beef, lettuce and green onions.” Money and the recipe were laid by the note. Without a bike I would have had to make the trek on foot and carry the groceries home. I never minded making dinner; in fact I kind of enjoyed the responsibility and diversion from homework. What I resented was also having to do the dishes afterward! Anyway, I got to an age where a stingray bike with handlebar basket and banana seat was an embarrassment. I had to have a ten-speed. I begged my little sister to beg my parents to get me the bike for my birthday. I swore that they could make it a combination birthday / Christmas present, I was that desperate. But I could make no headway against Mother’s insistence that they could not afford the $110.00 plus tax. I didn’t get the bike. I got a lot of other spiffy stuff, including a stereo, which I enjoyed; after it was over I figured Mother had spent at least $110.00 plus tax on the combined presents, but I buried that little thought deep, for the sake of self preservation. I was just going to have to save my babysitting money to buy that bike. Let me just tell you that in those dark ages a babysitter earned fifty cents per hour. I went above and beyond when I babysat though, also doing housework that sometimes garnered me an extra buck or two. By the following June, which was junior high graduation, I’d saved up all but about $25.00 needed for the bike. The best of my graduation gifts was the card my parents gave me, containing a check for $25.00. I’ll leave to your imagination the level of my ecstasy. The next day Mother took me to the bank to empty my savings account, then to the sports store where I bought my precious bike. It was a few months later that I learned Mother had to be persuaded by one of her best friends to give me the money. That little tidbit got buried, too. What never got buried was the event that occurred two Christmases later. When my younger sister and I rushed to the living room, there was a ten-speed bike all shiny and bowed – a gift for her. What does that little bit of segue have to do with illegal aliens? Do you think this act of paternal generosity fostered friendship between me and my sister; that it invited me to have a similar generous heart toward her? Not likely. In fact it did the opposite. Resentment began to seep in and this was the opening of the door of genuine animosity between us. This is not fun to confess, but it’s the natural outcome of such actions – when some are made to earn and work for what they need or want, and others are given the same, for no clearly justifiable reason. Another outcome is the inevitable development of a sense of entitlement by those who are not required to earn their privileges. This happened with my sister; as she grew into a woman she caused grief for many when she didn’t get what she felt she was entitled to. Our illegal immigrants, though performing useful services, are not taxpayers, yet have been given rights my own mother was denied in her aging years, and that are denied US citizens today – still they cry for more. It can be no wonder there are tensions between them and the citizens of this country. there are two sides to every coin and tomorrow I may ramble on about the other side of this one. |
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