Not Our Finest Moment

I was stunned to read this piece in the local paper this week.

First of all, if I could meet Desiree, I would give her a hug. It took courage to share her experience, a kind of courage that clearly is lacking in some of those who give in our community.

I think various comments on the site have covered some of the basic etiquette issues, so I won't beat a dead horse, or a long-expired box of pistachio pudding mix, either.

I can't stop thinking about what Desiree's experience says about us all. When did we all lose sight of doing good works just for goodness' sake?

It doesn't matter whether you believe the Bible-- "Do all things as unto the Lord"-- or whether you're more comfortable with a more secular version of The Golden Rule-- "Treat others as you wish to be treated." Either way, clearly our community is missing the mark in some ways.

I'm a guilty as anyone. I have a lot of things to accomplish, places to be, and people to tend to. I find myself sometimes cutting so many corners that I create a whirling dervish in my wake. I haven't been thinking much about resolutions for the coming year, but one I think that I am going to demand of myself is this:

Do more things that matter. Do more things that are good. Do those things with a spirit of excellence.

This Deserves More Discussion...

… as uncomfortable, and sad, and depressing, and heartbreaking, and unimaginable as it may be.

Some time between Friday night and Saturday morning, a lovely, vibrant, 17 year-old Foothill High student died in an alcohol-related death. You can read some of the details here.

Hours before this story-- even without the name of the student-- hit the paper’s website, the details of this tragedy were hitting the cyber network, wending its way virally among the youth of our community. My son-- who attended classes at U-Prep with the victim a few years ago-- began receiving text messages about the incident well before noon on Saturday.

This is why we all should be discussing this situation: our children-- the victim’s peers-- are talking about it. They are texting about it. They are posting on MySpace, Facebook, and other social websites about it. They are emailing, voice mailing, cell phoning, writing in journals, and erecting displays in the community about it. They are communicating about it in ways many of us don’t even have access to.

We owe it to ourselves, our teenagers, and to each other to talk about what happened.

For a teenager, coming to grips with the imminent frailty of life through a tragedy like this can be overwhelming. And more importantly, the number one way a teenager (whose brain is not yet fully developed) is going to likely process this information, is through a filter of denial.

“It can’t happen to me.”

“I’m not like her. I drink something different that what killed her.”

“I am careful when I use alcohol or drugs.”

One of the more eye-opening aspects of this situation for me has been the level of sophistication that teens have about alcohol and drug use. Constant in the teen chatter I’ve heard about this incident has been comments like, “I wonder why no one remembered to roll her over?” or “I can’t believe that she didn’t stay sitting up.”

The prevalence of drinking to such excess is clearly more commonplace than any of us care to admit. This tragedy is far from an anomaly. In fact, this weekend's fatality is the THIRD in the past year that has touched my own teenagers' social circles locally.

If you have a teen or know a teen, talk to him or her about this. Steel yourself through the sighs, the eye rolling, the abrasiveness, the evasiveness, and the rest of the unease. This conversation could save a life.

For a parent, the loss of a child-- of a precious part of one’s own self-- is unimaginable. If you know this family, find a gentle, unobtrusive, meaningful way to extend your sympathy. And not just now. Remember them this spring, this summer, next year. Affirm for them the life that was their daughter.

As neighbors, we should be constantly dialoguing about what our kids are up to. If someone comes to you and tells you that they have heard your child is making risky choices, receive the information graciously, and investigate! Assume you’ve been given this information in a spirit of good will. Denial and indignation could cost you a child’s life.

As any parent of a teen well knows, 24/7 vigilance is impossible, and the teenaged desire to strike out on one’s own can lead to misinformation and outright prevarication when it comes to their plans and activities. Consider your neighbors and parents of your teenager’s classmates as allies in your endeavor to get your child to adulthood in one piece.

We cannot afford to remain silent. When one family suffers this kind of tragic loss, our entire community is the lesser for it as well.

This morning’s Wednesday Morning Album Track on Red 103.1 FM was Synchronicity by the Police. I tuned in about halfway through, while I was in the drive-thru at Starbuck’s slapping on make-up. As Synchronicity II blared through the speakers, I was awash with this strange sense of nostalgia that played completely inconsistent with every other thought I’ve ever had about that album.

Synchronicity was one of the best selling albums of 1983, and its voyeuristic ‘Every Breath You Take’ was the number one song on all the top Billboard charts. I must’ve heard that song five or six times a day on the radio. It was the theme song at three weddings I attended that summer.

In the years since, the ragged vocals, edgy lyrics, and cacophonous, haunting melodies, have always reminded me of the pain of my mother’s sudden death that year. With just a few notes of “King of Pain”, and I am usually jettisoned directly back to a place in time that was cold, wet, shivering, empty, and a very slippery slope for a teenager.

I’m not even fully sure what it is that was so different about today. Perhaps it’s simply 25 years of hindsight and the kindness of time that has dulled some of the jagged edges of such piercing memories. Perhaps it was the bounty of a quarter-century of hard work and unmerited blessings that include a husband, two amazing children, and abundance in most every sense of the word.

Whatever it was, today’s reckoning with Synchronicity was completely different. Today, I recalled the year I first loved a boy. I relived the moment I knew that in some fashion or another, I would always be a writer. I remembered the birth of teenage friendships that have endured time, geography, perspective, and life choices. It was the year when who I am became more emergent than my circumstances.

It was the time of lip gloss, 501 jeans, moccasin shoes, and BIG 80’s hair.

It was a time of Synchronicity.

Winter Memories

Last night, as I listened to the weather forecast which is predicting a cold snap, and possibly even snow to the valley floor, it brought to mind the winter I was in the 5th grade.

The week before Christmas vacation, it began to snow intermittently. I went to school the first two days, trogging nearly four miles to the highway to catch the bus. On Wednesday of that week, the snow was up to my waist. My mom kept me home to help my dad shovel snow. The following two days, school was canceled. By the following week, the snow was almost level with the redwood deck around our mobile home, totaling around five and a half feet.

I can remember the entire forest seemingly transformed into a quiet nether-world. It was how I had always imagined C.S. Lewis’ Narnia. The neighbor kids and I bundled up and set out to discover this new world. We must have been quite the site-- Dale, age 15, Bonnie, age 14, and me, age 11. Dale took the lead, forging our way through unbroken snow. I brought up the rear, working extra hard to literally jump into the footsteps of the other two.

It was so cold that the small ponds we shared were completely frozen over. Using plastic garbage bags, we slid down hills and onto the ice, screaming the whole way. I remember vividly the feeling of jettisoning completely out of control onto the frozen pond.

Once we tired of the multitude of steep climbs back up the bank, we ambled off in the direction of Ken Knowles’ abandoned property. After much pushing and tugging of one another, the three of us managed to climb the 25 feet or so up onto the roof of the metal shop building. The view of the tops of the snow-laden trees was impressive.

After a few primitive calculations and the calling out of a couple triple-dog-dares, Bonnie and I shoved Dale down the sloped roof and into the deep snow below. Bonnie, ever the dare devil, slid off right behind him. I, never quite as agile as the other two, held fast to the roof until my comrades suggested I was a coward and questioned my parentage. With my good name in the balance, I let go from the roof and slid down into the deep snow below.

I’m not quite sure what it is about free falling that I find so exhilarating, but that 25-foot drop was wonderful, each of the half-dozen or so times we did it.

Once we had flattened all of the snow around the building, we decided to wander over toward the old trading post. What normally would have been about a 15-minute walk, turned into over an hour of pushing and pulling one another through the deep snow drifts, only to find ourselves about half way to our destination. We decided to continue on, knowing that there would likely be a warm woodstove at the other end of the journey.

We were amazed at the complete change to the landscape. Where there had once been rocky trails, Manzanita bushes, and other facets to the terrain, was obfuscated by an indistinguishable blanket of white.

While I was in the process of trying to get my foot jammed back into the boot that had become wedged in a tight snow step, Bonnie and I heard a garrulous whoop from Dale, who had vanished in front of us. Bonnie and I looked at each other for an instant before we heard Dale hollering from a snowy cavern below us.

Where Dale had fallen through the snow, there was a huge hole, and down below was Dale, standing on bare dirt among a vast Manzanita forest. Without even thinking, Bonnie and I jumped down as well. We roamed around among the Manzanita bushes, with which we were well acquainted, as if we had fallen down a rabbit hole. I’m still amazed when I think of how those bushes held up five feet of snow.

I was enchanted by what seemed to be our own secret fortress. Comforting for the moment was the fact that we were able to dry off some and warm up our extremities. When we grew tired of our subterranean adventure, we pondered how to get out. After several false starts, we found a place where the snow was perpendicular to the ground and began digging our way out.

Fortunately for us, we actually recognized our surroundings when we resurfaced into the winter wonderland. Since we were closer to home than to the trading post, we tromped to my house, where a warm fire was awaiting us.

If this week's weather brings along this kind of winter wonderland, I hope there are kids out there somewhere enjoying the fun!

Breaking News...

Some were wondering if it would ever happen...

Some of us knew it was inevitable...

JESSE HAS A GIRLFRIEND! Her name is Sarah. She goes to U-Prep. She's a junior. I won't tell you how her dad and I know each other. Let's just say there's a genuine connection. :-)

The Common Theme

Overheard at my house recently:

ME: Katie, did you sleep in that (new birthday) dress?

KB: No Mom, it was the first thing I found on my floor.

* * * *

ME: Son, why are you scratching around behind the couch?

JB: It's the last place I saw my Need 2 Speed card!

Reddinge Woman Does NOT Blog: Lives to Tell Story

Okay, okay... So, I've obviously been on hiatus from the blog, but not by design. I have appreciated the phone calls (Chellie, Aunt Mari, Steve) checking to ensure my health and well-being. And I have appreciated the emails (too many to mention by name) with tidbits and queries as to when I was going to post again.

More or less, I have just been so busy living and enjoying things, I haven't had time to write.

It started with the election. While some of the local, regional, and state skirmishes did not turn out as I had hoped, I was beyond elated to see Barack Obama win the election. At the risk of sounding like his wife Michelle, let me say: I am proud of my country. We have not only elected a great and visionary leader, whe have elected a man who is going to encourage, and even expect, us all to live up to our individual and collective responsibilities in this democracy.

I believe we are now on the verge of seeing our nation positively transformed. If you have not checked out the Obama transition website, be sure you do. I have been receiving emails with Obama's weekly 'radio' address. This is an amazing and unprecedented time to be a part of our democracy. I hope you all will find a way to be a part.

Yesterday, I spoke with our travel agent to make some minor changes to our trip to Washington for the inauguration. I am beyond words at the prospect of being in our nation's capitol on such an auspicious and historic day.

Post election, I have been busy with the kids-- Jesse, who turned 16 on November 11th, and Katie, who had her party last night in celebration of her 17th birthday on the 26th.

I can't believe I am the mother of children that old. As my kids would say, "WTF??"

A Beautiful Mess

It's their song. It was the theme of their wedding.

Saturday night, my good friend Sharie married her high school sweetheart, Robert. It only took them a quarter century to finally meet back up and tie the knot. "Yep, I credit Google as our dating service," Sharie joked over supper at The Vintage in downtown Redding, saying that a couple years back, her curiosity got the better of her and she 'googled' Robert on the internet.

The rest is now history.

On Saturday, at a small, intimate affair inside the back room of The Vintage, Robert and Sharie pledged their love to one another, with Doug Patten, Assistant County Clerk presiding over the ceremony, and a few other friends attending: Chuck and Jennifer Layton, Mel Howard, Robin Whitted-Patten, and Jon and myself.

(for those of you mentioned above, know that I am completely sweating the order of the names listed. I blame Sharie for my paranoia!)

While rain fell outside, love reigned inside. It was delightful to be at one with the couple, the ceremony, and the celebration.

Props to Janice, of The Vintage, for making the event special, and memorable, with trademark Vintage entrees, and an amazing selection of wines.

The restaurant is definitely one of the few places in town that gets it right when it comes to creating a pleasing mix of food, fixtures, and ambiance.

Best wishes to the happy couple!

GOOOOOOOOOOBama!

Sleigh Bells Ring... Are You Listenin'?

I've heard the first whispers of the holiday season approaching-- small, discrete retail displays, or the odd reference to holiday plans around the water cooler. In my mind, I've been able to put off dealing with the looming logistics of Christmas, at least until today.

On my way home up I-5, I saw some town's Christmas tree trucking southbound. Today, I submitted a story for a local publication about Christmas activities in downtown Redding.

Kinda hard to remain in denial about the impending season when people are talking about tens of thousands of Christmas lights and the number of entries in the Christmas parade.

Today's Point of Light...

It has been a wearying week.

I've apparently produced much confirmation for certain teenagers, that I am in fact their village's idiot. It seems that in my effort to hold firm to my maternal ground, I have worn myself into a rut. Oy. Is it fair to abandon my secret count of days until the darlings are unleashed on the world, in all their complete wisdom and glory, in favor of counting the days until I get to completely spoil the dickens out of THEIR children???? At least pondering the idea helps me keep my sense of humor on that count.

It's also been a rocky week at work. See for yourselves here, where a city council member has 'suggested' that our city manager position be eliminated. Nevermind that the current city manager has taken this city from a near-deficit budget to one with a healthy reserve. Also keeping people scurrying has been the little "oops" over at the vineyards where a cart before the horse vision brought about houses before the water. This was all set into motion before I arrived at city hall, but it's sure got people hoppin' now.

My retirement fund is somewhere down here with me in this newfound rut. Guess the upside to that is that it's a good thing that I'm at least 20+ years from retiring. Yeah.

My brother was in and out of the hospital again yesterday. It is excruciating to watch him struggle with the severity of his injuries. He wants so badly to be well. So much so, that he tried eating on Saturday. Solid food. Like cheeseburger solid. He's back on liquids now.

I am haunted by the fact that there is someone on the loose who would do such harm to another human being, especially one I love so much. It makes me think about the many violent and grizzly things that have happened this year-- the beating and death of Travis Lee Smith, the suicide of Victoria Sherman-- Shasta County inmate, the several teenagers who have been severely beaten without provocation at Lake Redding/Caldwell park, the double-murder-suicide of Kenneth Allred, Patricia Haggard and Nancy Bosley, all to name a few.

These incidences are NOT OKAY. Not by a longshot. We need to change some things in our community, maybe even change things about ourselves.

The quiet, bright, beautiful thing I've seen occurring over the past two weeks is this small steady stream of people wandering into city hall inquiring about voter registration. People are excited about the opportunity before us this election season. Change is in the air, and people are ready to do something about it. We may not all be able to do big things to make this a better place, but few would argue that we can all do some small thing to bring on the light.

Monday, October 20th is the last day to register to vote in California's general election on November 4th. Voter registration cards can be found at most post offices, the DMV, and the County Clerk/Registrar of Voters, located in the south end of the Downtown Mall in Redding.

It's one small thing. And it's one big deal. It's your voice. It's your choice.

Ahoy Peggy!

This weekend the husband and children traveled to Modesto to visit my mother-in-law, Peggy, and see her perform in a Sweet Adelines performance.

Jon, Katy and Jesse were treated to an evening of great entertainment, food, auction, and even dancing lessons.

Peggy is a role model for all of us. She is 86 years old. She's been retired from the world of work for some 25 years, but by no means has she slowed down. She sings with the Adelines, she works out at the YMCA 2-3 times a week, she attends classes at Modesto Institute for Continued Learning, she edits a newsletter, she is active in her church, and she can be seen donning the infamous red hat for outings with friends.

She writes. Tales of friends, family, personal insights, and some of the great many other things that 86 years of living confers.

She bakes. I'm less than half her age, and I can't remember the last time I pulled a baking sheet out of the cupboard. Almost every time I go to Modesto, Peggy's cookie jar is full of these really awesome oatmeal-rice crispie cookies. And there's always a few extra for the trip home.

She travels. She visits her sister in Pennsylvania, and her brother in Utah, her home state. She takes cruises, and vacations to other continents.

She still does the daily crossword. She took up the ukulele this year, more or less because it seemed like an interesting thing to do.

I am constantly inspired by the things she does for herself and others.

Reports are that she and the Adelines did a bang up job at their concert Saturday.

Brava, Peggy!

Where's My Doggone Mooseburger, Sarah?

Governor Palin-- May I call you Sarah? You winked at me last night, and youbetcha, you looked at me like you want to be my best friend, so I assume we can be on a first name basis. Anyway, Sarah, I just want to give you your props for the debate last night.

Once again, you did a really great job speaking to the camera. You've definitely got that whole macking with the camera thing down.

You did a stellar job managing the massive amount of information you were shoveled from your handlers. You are a regurgitater extraordinaire. And how giddy you seem by the fact that 84% of those watching you thought you did better than expected. But since the bar was set so low for you, I hope you realize the embarrassment those numbers represent.

The degree of hopelessness in our nation is so prevalent, that we've left the bar on the floor. It's as if we cannot even dare to put forth a kernel of expectation that the woman who has been stationed as a prospective leader-in-waiting could actually generate hope for the future of our nation. We collectively left the bar on the floor for you, Sarah. All you had to do was step over it, and yet, it feels like you barely did that.

I was STILL holding out some little tiny inkling of a hope that you would say something that would show that you DO know how to handle yourself in the national arena. I'm going to stop holding my breath on that count.

I've begun to realize that the best way to view your attempts to win my affection is to do so as if you are Sarah Palin-doing-Tina-Fey-doing-Sarah-Palin. It's just less painful to think of you as the parody's parody. Otherwise, I am forced to believe that you really want to win me over using your mean-spirited, sarcastic, and condescending tactics. While I may not be this century's Einstein, neither am I the village idiot. You've now asked me twice to place my faith in the leadership of a McCain-Palin ticket, and yet, you have done absolutely nothing to prove yourself worthy of my vote.

You seem energized since the debate. A little more sure of your steps, and I wonder why. You did a great job of reciting the party line, no doubt. But you were debating someone who has also read the play book, and gosh darn it, has even been on the field, and plays as if he knows that the stakes are serious. Joe Biden was so extremely gracious to you, Sarah. And I don't even think you realize it. He could have cleaned his cleats with you, but he showed you grace and mercy instead.

The greatest thing you could do for your country right now Sarah, would be to admit to yourself and our nation that you're not ready for the race which has been set before you.

Be gracious to our nation, Sarah Palin.

Biden Time...

Thursday night is the debate between Senator Biden and Governor Palin. We are opening up our home for fun, friends, information, and the chance to watch this historic (and perhaps comic) event.

Supporters of either candidate are welcome, as the differing perspectives will make for a fun night. Just be warned, this is very much an Obama-Rama zone!

The fun will start around 5:30 p.m. and last until the debate is over, and we're done chatting about what we saw. Feel free to come early or late...

Call 921-0379 for directions... or just show up if you already know where we live!

Cool Breeze

We are now a scootering family. Jon and I bought a scooter a while back, and now, it is nearly ready to ride after some overhauling and adjustments. Jesse bought a scooter as well. Initially purchased as a means of beating the beating we've been taking at the pumps, I now wonder why I didn't get into this a whole lot sooner.

Motoring in the cool breeze is exhiliarating. Liberating.

One of the more interesting aspects of my new pursuit has been the smells. Last week, I was scootering over to the Enterprise area in the early evening after work, and I was overwhelmed by the potpourri of smells. The pungent odor of cabbage simmering in a Southeast Asian neighborhood, the smell of a slow cooking barbeque, the aroma of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, all had my mouth watering.

Even at 25 miles per hour, the sounds of the neighborhoods were enticing-- people gossiping on front porches, children hopscotching on the sidewalk, someone playing piano in a small duplex. It was a very different journey than the usual hermetically sealed experience I have as I motor to and from work in my car.

The feel of the wind as I speed along is so refreshing. One night last week, I rode with friends through the Churn Creek Bottom and down to Anderson River Park. The occasional pocket of cool air was as refreshing as jumping in a creek.

It's like mediation, but on two wheels, and with an amazing view!

Tasty Surprise at Taj Mahal

All week, I had been curious about the fact that there was an opening act for Taj Mahal at the Cascade Theatre last night. I couldn't picture in my mind an act that could be an honest-to-goodness 'warm up' to the venerable master, Taj Mahal. What a treat to find Naomi and the Courteous Rude Boys providing a slice-of-funk-with-a-squirt-of-jazz-in-your-rhythm-and-blues. This Santa Cruz-based quintet was a refreshing appetizer before the consummate main course. Have a taste here.

Hope for the Masses

Courtesy of my husband, here's a great piece at Salon.com by Anne Lamott to encourage and enspire us to reach the goal of change in the next seven weeks. Even if you can't focus long enough to read the whole encouraging article, at least click on the Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator.

Yours Truly,

Pie Gallon

Where is That Yellow Belly?

Cowardice comes in a lot of forms. I think we all are guilty of taking the easy way out sometimes. Avoiding someone we know to be unpleasant in the market. Rolling over at the umpteenth teenaged request instead of putting down the proverbial foot.

And then, sometimes, there are the more grandiose versions, like the coward that beat my brother nearly to death two weeks ago. Wherever you are pal, there are some things I’d like you to know:

Kris is going to make it. We weren’t so sure there for a while.

Even after the truly life and death scares, our family is still left on a precipice of uncertainty. Like yesterday. I went to visit Kris, and he’d been moved to another room. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what I thought when I went to his old room only to find the bed made up for a new customer, and the room completely vacant of all vestiges of my brother. And then, how deprived of complete relief I was when I finally found his new room and was unable to embrace him like I wanted because he is in so much pain.

I’m sure you’d like to know that Kris only has a few tubes remaining. One of them is a feeding tube. You beat him so badly that he is still unable to keep solid food down. There is something inherently wrong with watching an innately thin, 130-pound man be fed a smelly, ecru-stained fluid through a tube that goes straight into his small intestine. There is an uncharitable part of me that would like to see you hooked up like that, unable to shovel food automatonically into your pie hole.

I’m sure you’d like to know that it takes a nurse, family member, or physical therapist to help Kris into the bathroom. How old are you? Do you know what it’s like to watch my 32 year-old brother struggle as much with his dignity as he does with his body to go take care of those basic needs?

Because you have yet to show your face, there is a part of me that is so repulsed by your cowardice. I have racked and racked my brains to think of some just way to gain closure from what you did to Kris. Unfortunately, the only thing that comes to mind is dealing you the same blows. Part of me feels a sense of justice at the thought of you convulsing in a bloody heap on a sidewalk, virtually unresponsive, writhing in pain, mistaken for drunk for twelve hours while you bleed internally, losing consciousness, ounce by ounce, feeling your life literally drain from your veins.

Let me tell you what keeps me from shouting at the steps of town hall until that justice—or something like it—is exacted.

My step-mother. She can barely look at Kris without breaking down in sobs. She has been in a fog since this happened. She is so grateful he is still alive, and so pained to see him so physically wrecked by your wicked hand. I’m sure you have or had a mother. I would not like to see another mother endure what mine has in this situation.

My sister. She can’t even bring herself to go see Kris. She just cries when we try to tell her that he’s going to be okay. Maybe you have a sibling, too.

My brother. He is stunned by what has happened to him. He only wonders what he could have possibly done to provoke this behavior. He has no memory of the beating, or the several hours leading up to it.

You have shown your machismo. We all get it. You are a big strong bully who can hurt people.

I’m just curious: can you be man enough to stand up and take responsibility for what you’ve done?

Proof

That sometimes great things come into our lives... whether we deserve them or not...Here are rough cuts of senior portraits of my eldest fruit.

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And a picture of my nutty nut...

Ponder this...

Courtesy of family friend, former R-S reporter, and former State Assembly candidate Rob Haswell:

Jesus was an organizer. Pontius Pilate was a governor.

I'm a Cart Watcher

So, while waiting to get out of the Super Center in Anderson, I took up residence in what I mistook for the speedy express. Mindful that I was wearing a shirt with my workplace logo, I did my best to not seem completely impatient. I glanced at the magazines. I computed calories for decadent snacks. I calculated how many days until Obama is President of the United States of America (138).

That being done, I began observing other people’s carts. The gentleman in front of me was wearing a fluorescent yellow road worker-type shirt, well-worn Levi’s, and work boots. He looked about 60, but I suspect he was more like a rode-hard-put-away-wet 50. In his cart: a bouquet of flowers, a jar candle, a case of Busch beer, four sticks of hot beef jerky, a jar of nacho cheese, nose hair clippers, and cheap cologne.

Points for the flowers. It’s a toss up as to whether he’ll score.

Share a Mooseburger with Me, Sarah Palin...

… because I’d like to sit down and have a chat with you.

I listened to your speech last night. I was impressed by your speaking skills. Your tone and delivery were what every SPEECH 60 teacher would want from a student-- clearly enunciated words, appropriate pauses, eye contact with multiple facets of the audience. Bravo!

I waited intently to hear something from you that would confirm you as a politically savvy and eloquent speaker who would share ideas and engender hope; something that would, for once in this generation, provide for the people of the United States a choice between the greater of two exceptional candidates, instead of the lesser of two evils. I am still waiting.

As much as I fully support Barack Obama, there was a part of me, Sarah, who wanted to hear you say something-- anything, really-- that would move both sides of this campaign to a place of great ideas and hope for the future. Even though I have every expectation that my candidate will be the next leader of the free world, I expect that it’s going to be a close race. I had hoped that you, as a clearly articulate and intelligent woman, would help raise the bar of expectation for our nation. I had hoped to hear from you the kind of speech that would promote unity for a severely divided nation, regardless of the outcome of this election. What I heard instead was a lot of grade school name calling and sarcasm.

I thought your comment about how a “small-town mayor is sort of like a ‘community organizer,’ except that you have actual responsibilities,” was thoughtless and petty. I just bet that the people in Chicago’s south side who benefitted from Barack Obama’s ability and experience as a community organizer will tell you that he had a great number of responsibilities, and as we well know, his ability to manage those responsibilities led to vast improvement in that community.

Your community organizer comment also smacks of an elitism that is counter productive to what this nation needs in a time of war, a failing economy, and social denigration. One does not need to be in an elected office to assume the responsibilities of effecting change in our communities, and for our nation. We need a team of people in those two highest offices who are ready and willing to inspire and encourage the kind of individual and mutual responsibility that will make leaders out of all of us; whether it’s in elected office, in our homes, or as an agent for change in our communities.

While both deserve honor and respect, let’s try to keep in mind that enduring torture as a prisoner of war, and wearing the cap of a small town mayor are not the only activities that hone leadership abilities in an individual, and are not the sole justifications for high office.

I hope that you might bear these things in mind over the next two months leading up to the election. Win, or lose, you have a lot to offer this campaign, and I’d sure like to see you rise to the occasion. I exhort you, Sarah, to be the woman, who on the day after the election, is ready to be gracious to this nation, whether you are moving to the nation’s capitol, or, most likely, returning home to Alaska. Let this brief time in which you are making history be an enduring legacy of which we all-- male, female, rural, urban, elected official, or community organizer-- can be proud.

What is Just?

Today, I am reminded of this post from Kelly Brewer's blog. I wish I knew how to so craftily use profanity to convey what I'm thinking... http://pinkhollyhock.blogspot.com/search?q=peacenik

Similar to the encounter Kelly's son had, last Friday night, my little brother was beaten nearly to death by some unknown person or persons. Tonight, he is in the hospital, recovering from extensive surgery to stop internal bleeding and manage damage to his pancreas. Later this week, he will be having another round of surgery to put everything back in place.

This person is out there somewhere. Still walking upright, without a dozen tubes and wires sticking out of his body. Without a pain management pump.

I don't even know what I feel would be just in this situation. But watching my brother laboring to breathe, and shirking in pain at the slightest movement is not it.

I do not understand what could have possibly have necessitated beating an unarmed and decent fellow so horribly. Violence of this magnitude is NOT OKAY.

It is NOT OKAY.

From the Alaskan Wilderness...

Just a few interesting thoughts about McCain's pick for VEEP.

http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0808/12997.html

I was able to catch Obama's speech at the Evergreen Lodge, along with about 50 other Obamacans, and one very drunken dissenter. I have been more encouraged about the possibilities for a better America than I have been-- maybe ever. His speech was inspiring, and full of particulars. He has nuts and bolts, folks! Check them out here.... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kv8eiDvrHJ4

They're Not There for Just a Paycheck

I grimmaced this morning when I read the annual "Labor Day" stories about how much local government employees earn. Particularly offensive is the way those quoted in the stories are labeled by their name and salary, such as, "...Shasta County Support Services Director Michelle Schafer, paid $102,970 a year."

It seems to me that such labels are the antithesis of what brings someone to public service. Attorneys, doctors, and administrators can all make more money outside of government agencies.

It occurs to me that for most County employees, the monetary value placed on their jobs is the least of their achievements. Why is it that Michele Schafer was not quoted in the paper as, "Michele Schafer, Support Services Director who manages over two dozen employees, provides recruitment and hiring services for a workforce of 2,000; manages the interface between hiring and payroll services; provides oversight of compensation and classification activities; manages risk management activities through self-administered, self-insured risk management programs; provides oversight for County purchasing activities; manages a fleet program of several hundred vehicles; manages labor activities with nine separate bargaining units; and a host of other activities for which she will never seek or receive credit." Why is that?

Local government employees are by and large professionals who are dedicated to public service. The fact that they are willing to take on large responsibilities for understaffed, underfunded programs and still manage to provide services to the community is laudable, and deserves more than just an article in the local paper sniping about salaries.

I'm Just a Strawberry Girl

At least this week, I am. Once I finish tying up all the loose ends at the office, I will race back to Redding, load up the car, pick up the boys, and we will be on the road, headed to five days of bluegrass and roots bliss in the Yosemite mountains. Camping under a pine canopy, listening to great music, and seeing friends will all be on the agenda. Answering my cell phone, text messages, email, etc., will not.

My only exception to this technology ban will be to sneak over to Evergreen Lodge on Thursday to go listen to Barack Obama's acceptance speech. Don't forget to tune in yourselves. It's history in the making. Thursday is yet another standing stone in the journey toward positive and profound change in our democracy. Really. I know it sounds hyperbolic, but Barack Obama is a leader like none other this country has known.

My OBAMA shirt arrived on Monday. I may wear it all weekend, just because I will be in a place where that kind of moderate behavior is acceptable.

I'll have pictures when I return. Hope you all have a happy and safe weekend!

Last Monday was the last first day of school in the K-12 realm for Katie Girl. At the risk of sounding mushy and sappy, it really and truly does not seem like twelve years have passed since my first-born went trotting off to kindergarten. I remember the day so vividly. She was wearing a denim jumper, and I can remember the way her little bobbed hair-do shone in the early morning sun. I didn’t let her take the bus. I drove her all the way to school.

Katie has always been an independent sort. I knew it even back then. It didn’t surprise me at all when she quickly trotted off to her class without even looking back.

A lot has changed in the past twelve years. My Katie now spells her name Katy. Just because she likes it that way. She’s been to Disneyland, Washington, DC, France and Italy, all without me. She has a job, a career plan and goals. She has a nice boyfriend, and her very own laptop computer that she bought with only money she earned this summer. She is almost 17 and she is almost driving.

And today, I drove her all the way to school. She was wearing denim jeans, a black hooded top, earrings and make-up. It didn’t surprise me when she waved good-bye and then quickly trotted off to class without even looking back.

Apparently, looking back is the Mom’s job.

It's more than just a stop light...

Today is the big unveiling at Buenaventura Boulevard and Canyon Road. The road signs have been up for days, alerting drivers of the coming attraction. I have known for months that this was coming, and mostly, I’ve been filled with chagrin and regret. Is it too much to ask for one stretch of road in town without a stoplight?

I’m a country girl, going way back. Not the Stetson hat and boots kind, but the rural, not many people, not much traffic, lots of good neighbors and great nature kind. I learned to drive on a wide dirt road when I was ten years old. At fourteen, my parents let me drive the back roads all over the place. Everyone’s parents did.

When I finally hit the road as a licensed driver, I could drive almost 40 miles without hitting so much as a stop sign. Traffic “problems” usually involved wildlife, snow, the occasional lost tourist, or the town fire truck that was so old its top emergency speed was about 45 miles per hour.

So, when I heard that the two or so miles on Buenaventura between Placer Road and Railroad Avenue were going to be fettered by yet another traffic light, I cringed. The older I get, the more I think I’m really done with town life.

My girlfriend Kris, ever the optimist, pointed out that one more stoplight was just one more opportunity to multi-task in a distracted driver kind of way. “You can put on another coat of eyeliner on before you hit the highway!”

As if I would ever do something like that.

And then, I read Kelly Brewer’s blog a while back about how excited she is to see the lights go up. One woman’s speedway is another woman’s frogger experience, I suppose. I rarely traverse Canyon Road, so her daily endeavor to deftly defy collision or injury at Canyon and Buenaventura was off my beaten path, as it were.

It occurred to me that it's this kind of broadening of perspective that makes blogs and blogging so appealing to me. It’s an opportunity to learn things I may not have known, or to smell a different scent in the same old grind.

So, be on the lookout for the new stoplight if you’re at Canyon Buenaventura. If you’re lucky, you might even get to see me waiting *patiently* for the light to change, or Kelly smiling as she makes a safe turn onto the boulevard.

It's more than a new day... It's a whole new era.

I was just checking news off my Yahoo home page. As I was reading through a story about the line up of speakers for the Democratic National Convention in Denver week after next, it occurred to me that I haven’t really heard much about the Republican convention, scheduled for the following week.

To see what I could find, I searched the term “Republican National Convention”. Ironically, the results were by and large all articles about the Democratic National Convention with minor quotes as to what some minor Republican or another thought of the DNC activities.

Thinking that perhaps there was some left-leaning bias on the part of the Yahoo search engine, I switched engines. Twice. I tried Mozilla/Firefox, and all I got was quick little news blurbs about the official IT provider for the Republican National Convention, the withdrawal of Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae as sponsors of the Republican event. On Google, the most “newsworthy” article on the topic was a blurb declaring that Vice President Dick Cheney will be speaking one night at the Republican convention.

Regardless of where one’s politics lie, it’s hard not to admit that the Democrats are demonstrating a level of leadership that this country hasn’t seen in recent history. I agree with very little of what House Speaker Nancy Pelosi has to say in the way of politics and social policy, but I am very impressed by the level of leadership she has exhibited in uniting her party in Congress. Speaker Pelosi is speaking on the first night of the Convention, along with Michelle Obama.

Since I can’t find any information online about the RNC line-up, I’ve been racking my brain to think of who the Republicans have in their arsenal who is going to be able to inspire and energize their choir, let alone a politically disenfranchised nation, the way Barack Obama and his supporters are inevitably going to. I can’t think of much of anyone, really.

Help Kids Carry the Load...

Below is a message I received from Maegan Lotkeff at Shasta Women’s Refuge…

Hi Everyone! Sorry to bother all of you but we are in desperate need of new or verygently used kids backpacks! For the first time since I have been with the Women's Refuge we have completely depleted our store
of backpacks. Backpacksare a huge thing for the kids coming into our emergency shelter. Often backpacks are left behind when a family leaves a dangerous place or a childnever had one to begin with. They provide each child something that is completely their own and helps them keep together their personal belongings and school supplies during this tough time of transition. In addition, we also give
out backpacks with blankets, toys and snacks to children who are being forced to travel out of the area for their families safety. If you can help us out it would be great! Just deliver backpacks to our main office between 8:30 and 4:30 Monday - Friday or call us and we will come pick themup. (530) 244-0117.

Additionally, I am taking Katie and Jesse school shopping on Friday, and plan to pick up extra backpacks and school supplies to drop off at Women’s Refuge. If you are interested in helping with this little project, let me know. I would be happy to buy extra supplies and backpacks if you’re interested in pitching in. Feel free to call me at 921-0379.

No really, thank YOU, Kenny...

So, now the cute little diddy I wrote about Kenny Loggins' show has managed to find itself on the Kenny Loggins site... check it out. http://www.kennyloggins.com/

Monikers, Monikers

Goofball
Smartypants
LoverMother
Scmexy
Mistress of the Frigo

Sometimes name calling is fun, and even flattering.

For those of you responsible for the above labels today... Just know that you made my day!

Only in Never, Never Land

So, there’s this woman—let’s call her “Wendy”—who works for a local public agency. Her days are filled with the usual public servant kind of activities—finding the delicate balance between meeting public needs and objectively managing limited government resources.

Her days are also filled with the goings on of co-workers around her. One cohort in particular comes to work every day dressed in an amazing array of office inappropriate attire—clunking eight-inch heels, backless halter tops, excessive sparkling make up, juvenile hairstyles which are entirely incongruous to her nearly five-decade tenure on planet earth.

Despite the multiple ‘discussions’ management has had with this employee, still she comes to the office as if she were readying herself for a Broadway debut. Many have even taken to referring to her as Tinkerbell. Today, a gentleman came to the office to conduct business with the agency, and he politely asked the woman, “What are you dressed up for?”

The answer, “Ohhhh… nothing much.”

Once, Wendy even had the misfortune of seeing the woman’s bare breast, so revealing was her attire. And we’re not talking just a little too much cleavage. We’re talking the whole enchilada… When poor Wendy reported the incident to a superior, Wendy wound up getting lectured for the incident. Her rebuttal, “I am unclear on why I’m being admonished for reporting what is clearly uncomfortable to male and female office workers alike,” was met with consternation.

It makes one wonder….

I don't know how this happened...

But I couldn’t be more pleased that it did. It honestly doesn’t seem that long ago that a doctor at Mercy Hospital cut me open and introduced me to my son Jesse, slightly less than eight pounds of screaming, wriggling flesh. I’ve fed him, bathed him, changed him, played with him, and done everything else a mother must do to raise a young boy.

Now, Jesse is 15 years old, rambunctious, always hungry, and always looking for something to do to entertain himself. This past weekend, he and I traveled with a mother/daughter duo of friends to Monterey for a music festival at Laguna Seca raceway.

It was the first time in a good long while that Jesse and I have found ourselves outside of the constant grind of things to do, behaviors to change, places to be, and distractions to be endured, which constitute our lovely, chaotic life. Against the backdrop of the Monterey Peninsula, the boy and I had time to really connect; unfettered and footloose.

At one point, both of us, burned out by too much sun, too much grit, too much screeching guitar, and too much proselytizing, snuck off to the beach. While combing the streets of Carmel for a parking space, my son opened himself up, like this wonderful, beautiful, unexpected gift.

I learned some interesting things about his views on theology. I experienced his truly deep humor. The kid is funny. I mean really, really funny.

At the beach, I watched with longing as he trounced out into the ocean waves. I longed to be with him, but I was held back by my job as sentry over the family jewels-- camera, money, car keys, etc. I watched in awe as I realized that he has become an impressive swimmer, far from the little boy once frightened by even the sea foam that languishes on the beach.

I took a picture of him when he first got into the water. He is no longer the little Campbell’s Soup baby I once held in my arms, his cherubic cheek next to mine. At almost six feet tall, everything about him has grown outside of my already high expectations of him. His attire, the crocheted cap the colors of the Jamaican flag, the orange aviator glasses, and the “Pornography is for Posers” T-Shirt, all speak to someone who is determined to find their own road, and enjoy it every step of the way.

Later in the evening, we had this strange role reversal. After fifteen years of always being the beacon, the protector, the planner, and the leader, Jesse instead led me through the tangled mass of 5,000 bodies jumping and moshing to the sounds of The News Boys. We danced and screamed until the end of the show. It was more fun than I can remember having in a very long time.

I watched curiously as he patiently and succinctly explained to people what his Pornography is for Posers T-shirt means. I watched as he chatted with strangers about insignificant things. He used to be so shy. Now, there is not one shy bone in his body.

It is truly awesome to find such an amazing creature in my midst.

My Amazing Dad...

... is going back to school. At 59 years old. And legally blind. I am so proud of him.

Encouraged by my nephew's pre-school class, my dad has found his true calling-- pre-school teacher's aide.

Had anyone told me 15 years ago that my dad would be "Papa Allen" to 20 three to five year-olds, I would have looked at them like they were straight up nuts. But the most incredible thing has happened in the past 15 years.

My dad and I were never too close when I was growing up. Honestly, things were downright frigid between us at times. When he married my mom, my dad also inherited a very smart-alecky six year-old. I was stubborn and wary. He was sort of overwhelmed and unsure how to fix the situation.

When my daughter was born, my dad was transformed. Once a stern disciplinarian, my dad absolutely melted when he first held the tiny creature he christened his "Little Katy Doodle." A year later, when my son was born, it seemed that not a hard spot to his countenance remained. He couldn't get enough of his grandbabies. He and I also realized that we couldn't afford to remain at arm's length from one another.

Five-and-a-half years ago, when my nephew Elijah was born, my dad's evolution was complete. He was fully and officially "Papa Pushover." While my sister worked, Elijah and Papa spent most all their days together. I used to get a chuckle when I would try to make plans with my dad, only to be told something like, "I can't have you come over and visit at 2:00 on Saturday. Elijah will be napping."

When I suggested that we could be quiet enough that we wouldn't wake the baby, my dad said, "Well, the problem is that the baby naps on my chest..."

Last year, when Elijah started pre-school, my dad's job was to get Elijah to school. Because my dad is both color blind and legally blind due to macular degeneration, he no longer drives. The only option was to walk Elijah the half-mile or so to his pre-school class.

Soon enough, the teacher was asking my dad if he would be interested in just staying for the three-hour class once in a while. The occasional visit turned into multiple times a week. The children grew to love him. The class made him Christmas gifts, and presented Papa Allen with a trophy at the pre-school graduation this past June.

My dad has had a life that's been pretty tough at times-- some of it by circumstance, some of it by choice. Because of financial and other family issues, he never finished high school. He was well into his thirties before he got his GED and a degree in the construction trades. His diminishing eye sight soon made plying that trade difficult, and even dangerous.

Outside of football and 70's rock and roll, I've never seen my dad passionate about much. That is, until I called him today to ask him if he would be coming with us to a music festival over the Labor Day weekend.

He asked me to remind him when the dates were, and when I did, he said, "Oh, I can't do that. I'll miss school."

"School?"

"Yeah, school. I am going to school to work on some early childhood classes so that I can be a teacher's aide."

I am so excited for him. I have been living in a season for the past two years where I keep watching with great enthusiasm, and some envy, as people I know are resurrecting themselves, or jumping off corporate carousels, or otherwise finding ways to find vibrance in their lives.

Watching my dad pursue with earnest something he's so passionate about makes me want to take the same kind of flying leap. If he can do it in the September of his life, and nearly blind, it seems that I should be able to do it too...

Flip Over Here and Check This Out...

My over-personalized review of last night's Kenny Loggins concert at ttp://www.donigreenberg.com/. Be sure to stay a while and peruse the many wonderful things on the site. It's local, it's thoughtful, it's provocative, and it's filled with great writers of heroic proportions.

Aaahhhhh... Love

So, last night I was at the wedding of Brandy George and Andy Isola. It was a large, lovely affair. The bride was beautiful. The groom, handsome by any standard. Love was definitely in the air...

And then there was our table. I had trouble determining if we had all been seated at the same table-- at the rear of the room-- because we all knew one another, or because the bride and groom were seeking containment. Hmmm... After all the lovely banter and antics, I lean toward the latter.

It was funny the way half the table was trying to take personal credit for the love match between the bride and groom. The priest said, "[my former boss] is the one who told Brandy to go to Carnegie's that night!"

I countered, "I was THERE at Carnegie's and when I left early, before Andy's arrival, I had already been thinking I should arrange for the two of them to meet."

My husband offered up, "Well, I was the one who ACTUALLY introduced them!"

Then there was the tapping of the glasses. Apparently it's some custom for the bride and groom to kiss whenever someone taps a glass with silverware. What made this funny to us-- and most assuredly annoying to the bride-- is that she's a shy, reserved woman. I would sincerely doubt that Brandy and Andy have shown as much PDA in the entire rest of their relationship as they did last night.

At the point where I advised my table mates that maybe we should let them off the hook, a friend of mine, who has been married more than 20 years, said, "Oh, we're not really being assholes, we're just teaching the bride and groom how to be flexible in marriage!"

Hmmm... interesting take.

Some of You Knew This Was Coming...

It was inevitable. If I’m going to have a blog, certainly I would use it to promote him, right? Yep. So, let’s just get this out in the open-- I support Barack Obama for president. I think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. Maybe even since the invention of democracy.

Okay, so that’s a bit hyperbolic, but seriously, this guy is going to be great for the nation.

What brings me to make such pronouncements, you ask? Well, let’s start with a little about my history, politically speaking.

The first “real” campaign I ever worked on was back in 1986. Steve Swendiman ran against Wally Herger for the local congressional seat. I got involved in Swendiman’s campaign because his wife was my high school counselor. I found politics fascinating. After the first day of door knocking, I was hooked. I realized that encouraging others to vote, and inspiring others to find their voice was what democracy was all about.

In the early 1990’s, I began working as a community advocate and organizer, fueled by the environmental issues which were closing down mills all over northern California. It was timber country. I found myself evolving into a Good Young Republican. I was a dragon slayer of various sorts-- wacko environmentalists, inept land management agencies, public apathy. It wasn’t that I really enjoyed working in divided communities, it’s just that there was really no other choice at the time.

That was until I became a part of a community collaborative in Quincy, California, that later became a model for consensus building and community-based solutions. What I learned then was a painful lesson. As I went to all my entrenched Republican friends and proclaimed the power and goodness of working with the “enemy”, I was ridiculed. Thus, I became a Disenfranchised Republican. That was fine by me, though, because what I had learned while working across socio/political/economic boundaries was that the best solutions are those that are crafted by those who will be impacted by the outcomes. It gives a sense of ownership, and a stake in the process.

These are the things that I see in Obama. He’s worked at the community level. He knows what’s at stake. He knows how to achieve the outcomes in a way that gives the broadest possible ownership in the solution and its outcome.

I hear some say that Obama is inexperienced. I argue that the very constitution of his campaign says otherwise. He has the broadest support of “every man” that any presidential contender has ever held. He is going to change the landscape. He doesn’t need “public financing” of his campaign as defined by the federal government. He already owns it as the product of 1.8 million supporters who believe in what he is doing.

I am excited at the prospect of his leadership. What he knows better than any leader in recent time is that America is a great place, and that its potential is only hindered by our ability to believe in ourselves and act upon those beliefs for the common good.

I’ll be writing more about Barack Obama as time goes on. Jon, the kids and I are making preparations to see Obama inaugurated. We will be spending about a week in Washington, DC, taking in the sights and witnessing history first-hand at the swearing in of the greatest leader of my generation.

Gratitude...

As I was driving back from dropping off Jesse and his friend, Hannah, at Brandy Creek for a Planned Parenthood outing, I was struck by all of the handmade signs along the roadway thanking the firefighters for their efforts. It was encouraging to see the gratitude for the wieldy, enormous task that is wildland fire management.

For the past few weeks, I have driven to work down Highway 273, passing fire trucks and crews switching shifts at the command center set up at the fairgrounds. I have met fire fighters from all over the western US-- Idaho, Montana, Oregon and elsewhere. I have thanked them all, and shared my awe of the sacrifices they make to help an entire region of strangers. They sleep on the ground, away from their families, their homes, the things that make them comfortable in their everyday life. They get dirty, sweaty, burned, and otherwise injured.

They do their jobs like lives depend upon it.

Then I wondered to myself: why it is that we only see this kind of outpouring of compassion and gratitude after the fire bells ring? What if we were this considerate of one another even after the dangerous flames were extinguished? What if, every day, more people made an effort to extend kindness to others, as if their lives depended upon it? Because, maybe it does.

I am the first to admit that I’m not always as courteous or kind as I should be. Heel that I am, I often forget to remind my family how much I appreciate it when they do something right, or kind, or extraordinary. I wonder if life would be better if I hung out a huge banner in the driveway that said, “Katie, good job getting home on time!” or, “Jesse, thanks for doing the dishes without being asked!” or, “Honey, thanks for ditching golf last night!” ?

Curly

On this particular day, it was his obvious impatience with the pace of the line was what first drew my attention to the old man in front of me at Wal-Mart. His leathered and wrinkled skin put him at about 80 years old, by my humble estimation. I began to smile as I watched him bob and weave back and forth around the small soda case between checkout stands, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to take up residence in the neighboring line. It was amusing to watch him act out the very conversation I was having with myself: the line I was in was four deep, with each would-be consumer carrying at least 20 items in their cart, the other line only had two customers. What kept me planted firmly in place was the fact that the cashier in our line was much faster than the one in the shorter line. It seemed that the old man thought so too.

As he settled in to wait out the customers in front of him, he turned slightly to size me up. His eyes were a blue-tinted gray, like the shallow still water of an ebb in a mountain creek. I smiled at his smartly checkered shirt and wrangler jeans. His pants hung on him. I imagined that he likely had been a size or two larger some twenty years ago, but something told me that he was never going to stop buying his jeans in that too-large size, no matter how slender he was now. So engrained was his attire that I couldn’t even picture him without the well-worn boots on his feet, and the Stetson on his head.

I smiled at him, and he turned away, startled that I’d noticed him looking me over. I had a hard time suppressing a giggle as I looked down at his handcrafted belt, the name “Curly” tooled into its hide. I tried to recall the old joke about cowboys and their names on their belts, but I couldn’t remember the punch line. As my eyes wandered back up to the old man’s head, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. His coarse gray hair was stock straight, nary a curl in sight.

The curiosity and the questions began to mount as I spied the few items in Curly’s cart. A jar of strawberry jam, toothpaste, a room deodorizer, fruit rolls, a block of gouda cheese, crackers, and three vanilla candles in glass jars lay neatly along the bottom of the cart. Curly wore no wedding ring, and had the picture of a six year-old princess in pink taffeta prominently gracing the front of his wallet.

Why is your name Curly?

I thought of speaking the words, but was stopped short by his hard jawline, and the fact that before I could utter them, Curly was swaggering out of the store with his odd assortment of items.

As I finally gathered my purchases and headed out the door, I was twice startled; first to realize that I had exited the store from the door opposite to where I had parked, and second, to see Curly pushing his shopping cart down an aisle of the parking lot, searching ardently over the top of the row of cars, presumably for his own ride.

I strode over to Curly, who looked at me and said nothing as he switched off a ringing cell phone in his pocket. I quipped, “Maybe Wal-Mart should offer GPS in the parking lot.”

A thin smile drew across Curly’s face as he said, “Back in my day, I could just call my ride, and he’d a-come a-trottin’.”

I smiled back at him as I wondered whether he had been roping with Jesus or Moses in his day.

Two rows later, we finally found his 90’s model Ford F-250. “Thank you for your assistance, young lady.”

I smiled as I assured him it was my pleasure, and laughed to myself as it occurred to me how relative age is. Many days I feel old. But heck, up against an 80 year-old, I guess I am still just wet behind the ears.