Answering The Bell

 There I sat, awaiting that first bell. Not the one that would bring all the children inside the building for the first time in eighteen months. The one in side my head. The one that was ringing to remind me to wake up. To throw off the covers and the sleep that was binding me fast to the horizontal. I needed to be moving because there was so very much to do.

There always is at this time of year. Even last year, we were meeting to figure out how we were going to bring two hundred kids to a spot on a Zoom meeting to shepherd them through a year of isolation. We were constructing, in one of my colleague's words, an airplane at the moment that we were taking it for a test flight. And maybe that airplane never quite got off the ground, but we did make it fly. After a fashion.

Now we are charged with inviting all those kids back into the hallways, playground and classrooms that we left behind so very long ago. How can we make everyone happy and comfortable? Custodians, teachers, parents, kids, neighbors? This great big old building that has been sitting so quietly in the middle of the block is suddenly alive again with the business of elementary education. This is where we work, and for many of us, this is where we live. 

This is the moment where everything is possible. This is the time when we see our path is clear. Soon enough will come a distraction or a meteor crashing down from the heavens. Kids will fall down and scrape their legs. Teachers will be absent without lesson plans for substitutes who may or may not show up. It will rain during recess time, forcing all those kids back inside. 

And there will be days that I will not feel so inspired. I won't have all these high-minded ideals and expectations. You have my permission at this moment to remind me, politely, that I was once this full of life affirming energy and idealism. Right now it's more than just a job. It really is a calling. That's the bell I hear ringing. It doesn't stop. I find it very hard to ignore. Sometimes I am not fully aware of the clanging. It's there. It's an alarm and it's a reminder. 

It's coming from inside my head. 

Ugly Mess

Two more Capitol police officers who responded to the January 6 insurrectionist riot have committed suicide. These deaths are added to the first two officers who took their own lives in the wake of the ugly mess that occurred shortly before the inauguration of the forty-sixth President of the United States. The ugly mess that was encouraged by the embittered forty-fifth who expected to have his supporters disrupt the certification of the election results by both houses of Congress. People died that day.

They are dying still. 

And there are those who choose to deny the ugly mess ever happened. Case in point: Tucker Carlson. This should not come as a shock or surprise that Young Tuck mocked the tears of one of the officers who survived the ugly mess. Another Fox News "host" suggested one of the officers testifying at the hearings about the ugly mess receive an award for his acting.

Acting hurt, disillusioned, afraid? 

Suicidal?

So currently in that same building where the ugly mess occurred, we are putting on a show of concern. And here's the twist: There are apparently two sides to this discussion. Like the Congressman from Georgia who described the breaching of the chambers of Congress as being akin to "a normal tourist visit." If those tourists were masked and carrying zip ties, shouting threats and looting as they rolled through the halls. The representative, Andrew Clyde, was photographed as the ugly mess unfolded. He can be seen helping to barricade the doors. To keep the normal tourists out, apparently. 

But now there are those who want us to take a step back and compare what happened on January 6 of this year to the protests that erupted across the country in the name of Black Lives Matter. There are those who would like to suggest that nothing was done to halt the rioting and looting in the streets during the summer of 2020. 

Let me make this clear: Those scenes were ugly and unfortunate, but not once were they reframed as "a normal tourist visit." The anger expressed in the summer of 2020 was four hundred years in the making. It was in response to the deaths of countless men and women of color at the hands of those who are sworn to protect and serve. The ugly mess of January 6 was the result of a bunch of people who do not understand the electoral process or basic math, who were egged on by the forty-fifth former president. The one who does not understand the electoral process or basic math. And in the middle of this comparison of apples and oranges, the defenders of the ugly mess would like us to forget that they had only recently been defending law enforcement officers and holding them up as heroes. 

Somewhere along the line, that perspective was replaced by one of derision and mistrust. The men and women assigned to the job of protecting Congress and its inhabitants became the problem. 

They are dying. 

This ugly mess needs to stop. 

Before anyone else gets hurt. 

Why Not?

 Why Clear Lake? 

To this, I feel the only correct response would be: Why not Clear Lake?

When I was thinking about places to go on an overnight adventure to celebrate our wedding anniversary, I considered several options. For several years, we had been making a late summer pilgrimage to the south, taking in the sights that could be seen in anticipation of seeing our son in San Luis Obispo. It was a way for us to all gather together. 

A hundred years or so ago, we headed north, with our newly minted baby in tow. We visited Willets, California and rode the Skunk Train to Fort Bragg. Please don't tell me I don't know how to show a girl a good time. We put a pin in our metaphorical map and only spoke lovingly of the experience, though careful reminiscence would bring back memories of the sleepless night we spent with that newly minted baby. 

We have found ourselves in Napa, and Santa Rosa and some of the other cities and towns just a day's ride north of here over the years, but not a lot because we consider ourselves to be residents of Northern California, so the need to show off any further in that regard seemed a little unnecessary. Oh, there was a trip to Calistoga that included a mud bath for her and introduced my son to what would become his favorite Ben and Jerry's ice cream flavor: Phish Food. 

Somewhere along the line, our son stopped being a vital component of our anniversary celebrations. He certainly always wished us well and many happy returns of the day, but his presence as his parents recalled how we happened to take this long strange trip called marriage began. He was there when we renewed our vows in a little chapel off the Las Vegas strip with Elvis officiating. There are other places for him to be. His life stretches out in front of him like another hundred years of possible anniversaries of his own.

But his trips to Clear Lake with his buddies in high school got me thinking: We've never gone to Clear Lake. Our son has, but we haven't. So we packed a bag and headed out to discover what all the fuss was about. It wasn't about the four star dining. It wasn't about the deluxe accommodations. We had a solid three star experience at our motel, and our anniversary dinner will be memorable primarily for the speed with which it was delivered to our table. We had reservations for seven o'clock, and we were walking out the door by seven forty. There was no lingering. Which was fine, because it gave us time to absorb the real feature of the evening, which was our sunset tour of the winding route around the lake. 

Here's the thing: We have been married long enough that we don't need surprises, but it's really nice to have one, now and again. Like Tatonka Mini Golf, which we enjoyed/endured through hundred degree heat, and the adjacent thrift store. These memories will last longer than those of the blue green algae stench that we caught with the breeze every so often. 

Why Clear Lake? Because now we can answer that question. 

I Gotta Tell Ya

 First, I want to thank you for dropping by here to read what I have to say. Write. Can you still be saying when you're writing? 

Thank you was where I was going with that. Because I have what some might suggest is a compulsive need to tell stories. As I have grown older, I have caught myself chomping at the bit when someone else begins to spin a tale of their own. Story Time! I'm next! I'm next!

But I don't have to be. There are plenty of folks out there who can spin a yarn every bit as interesting and amusing as I can. It's not a competition. 

But it has been. In the past I have had a habit of barely listening to those around me once I have readied my own lengthy response to the amusing anecdote that seems to be just going on and on. Whatever, whatever, whatever, "Which reminds me of this time..." and I'm off to the races. 

A couple of horse analogies in there, but I'll spare you the story of how I used to ride a pony to school. For now. Because I have become worried, as I grow older, that I might be missing out on other's experiences. Not being fully present in a conversation is a nasty habit that I would rather not be accused of having. 

Another secret: I'm reasonably certain that not all of my stories are all that interesting. Sure, I get points for having tangential experience that I keep carefully catalogued for just such an emergency, but that doesn't mean that they make for captivating listening. I did study at the feet of a master: my father. He could talk with just about anyone about everything and make you feel good about it. He was a salesman who fully embraced the idea that the first thing he had to sell was himself. 

In a good way. 

And I am also assailed by the voice of Laurie Anderson, who once insisted that life would be much more interesting if we had better editors. There are far too many establishing shots, and fearful amounts of exposition. The love scenes could use a little trimming, and the action sequences really should build to something besides a visit to the emergency room. 

So I'm working that out here, if you don't mind. This has been my relatively infrequent meta-blog in which I ponder the reason for me to keep doing this thing. 

And now, back to our story...

Stoned And Obsolete

 What's Fort Worth? A fair question, answered by most folks with the simple explanation of "a city in Texas." But what about a true cost/benefit analysis of the fifth largest city in Texas? Everything, we are told, is bigger in Texas, so we can assume that all the good things that exist within its city limits are just that much better than good things found in other municipalities outside the Lone Star State. And, one might conclude, things that skew a little odd would read all the more strange when viewed from a perch outside Longhorn Country.

Like the story of Miguel Chavez. Mister Chavez died a week ago. So far, nothing that peculiar. He was forty-two years old, which might seem a little young, but it was the manner in which he died that starts to twist the narrative. Last Monday, Miguel showed up at a party and shot at least one of the guests. As yet, this seems like a pretty awful way to spend a Monday night, but in the United States more than a hundred Americans die from gun related violence. 

Every day. So there's nothing confounding about that incident in and of itself. 

Here comes the interesting part: Outraged witnesses to the shooting took out after Miguel Chavez, and when they caught up to him, they stoned him with landscaping bricks found nearby. Stoned him. He kept shooting while he was being chased. Three more were injured, but the bricks did their work. When authorities arrived, Chavez was pronounced dead at the scene. 

So let's take a moment to examine the environment in which this took place. A little over a month ago, a  law was passed in Texas making it legal to carry a gun without a permit. Or training. Or a reason beyond the desire to kill someone. Or something. Going to a party unarmed seems like a pretty bad idea in this habitat. What are you going to do if you find yourself in a public setting without a gun?

Look for the nearest heavy object. Something you can bash the bad guy with. Under Texas law, you are allowed to use deadly force to defend yourself, so charges are unlikely to be filed against the stoners. Remember: when landscaping bricks are outlawed, only outlaws will have landscaping bricks. 

Texas. 

Games People Play

 In case you missed it, the Summer Olympics are taking place in Tokyo. I know this primarily because my news feed keeps nudging a "medal count" graphic in front of me to make me care more intensely about this worldwide event. Those elite athletes who are not currently suffering the effects of the global pandemic have been invited to come and compete for medals of gold, silver and bronze. Currently there are no plans to include a bitcoin medal for any of the scheduled events. 

I am reminding folks that this international celebration of sportsmanship is taking place because it seems to be getting a little lost in the wash of all the other things that can take place during a summer in which the earth is boiling and its inhabitants are still enduring a global pandemic. The stands for all the events are empty as Japan has declared a state of emergency due to a surge in the aforementioned COVID-19. Meanwhile, there are plenty of places to catch the bits and pieces of what is taking place, a year after they were originally scheduled. Online. Streaming. Half a dozen or more cable networks are replaying highlights as the mood strikes them. And it could be that all the confusion about what year it is may be keeping folks from tuning in. 

Or maybe the world's attention is currently diverted from the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. Or maybe we're a little too focused on that defeat agony thing. There's been plenty of that over the past couple of years. Reading about Simone Biles, one of the most extraordinary humans on the planet had decided to withdraw from the overall all around gymnastics competition. For mental health reasons. Ms. Biles told the world, “It’s been a long week. It’s been a long Olympic process. It’s been a long year. Just a lot of different variables and I think we’re just a little bit too stressed out, but we should be out here having fun and sometimes that’s not the case.”

Should be fun. That reminds me of what I tell kids when we are playing games at recess or PE. If they're not having fun, they probably shouldn't be playing. But some of these folks have been waiting for years, training and preparing for this moment. The moment that came after a year's delay stirred into a pot of plague. 

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? 

Will it ever be fun again? I expect it will. I hope it will. I'm looking forward to it. Hopefully it won't be another four years. 

Must Be Love

Kale

Meatless Monday

Should

And yet I stick around

Must be love

Form over function

An awkward sense of time

Could you turn that down?

And yet I stick around

Must be love

All those mysteries

All those romantic cues

Used up and set aside

And yet I stick around

Must be love

We are building something here

We are creating something extraordinary

We are very seldom bored by it

Of course I stick around

Must be love.