Garbage, Home & The Unsinkable Mrs. Li

THIS is what I'm talkin' about: a truly respectable pile of garbage! (Can you see the little white, patent leather girl's shoe up on top of the block wall? That just appeared out of nowhere weeks ago on top of our mailbox). The Bobcat crew is in the neighborhood. They're early. They mean business. So do I. My junk hidden in the back yard was quickly transferred to accessorize the ju-jubee trimmings like so many cardboard, air-conditioner filter, roof rat doody greasy rag jewels. Not more than 32 minutes later, I hear the car pull up. Yes! A garbage-digger is pawing through our pile!

Check out the London Flog jacket, the nice car, the white older male; none of which support the garbage-digging profile. After a good 5 minutes of rearranging nasty things, he got away with 2 or 3 disposable cartons you use for left-overs in the fridge.

Since I am outside and armed with a camera, follow me. The Indian Corn on the door has been up there since last Halloween. Here is our very beautiful fake spider web. I took 3 pictures of a cute real spider waiting nearby, but none of them came out.

These are a few of the fake spiders.

This is only one example of the precious block wall we murder living plants to protect.

Here is the flowering shrub I told you about. Doesn't it look menacing?

And this is what the purple flower sort of looks like (sorry for the blur)on the luscious vine that USED to trail heavily over the ugly block wall in a generous cascade of these sweet flowers and large, classic leaves. You can see why this thing had to go. Seriously.

Conveniently enough, last night Ms. Li saw our door open as I was greeting our next-door neighbor Stella who stepped in to visit. She came scrambling over to interrupt and issue new orders: "You take out dead oleander in corner. Lady (the property behind us) say it fire hazard. She no want to see dead branches. O.K.?" I said, "As in...?" "You cut, you take down." (The pretty white lattice work is part of the neighbor's yard behind us). "Mrs. Li, that's your responsibility."

I reminded her that half our giant oleander hedge has been dead for almost a year from the blight, a bacteria. Like this section, for example:
I was acutely aware of the neighbor's little boy who speaks mostly Russian and Mrs. Li's grandson rushing Rachel's bedroom in tandem while we adults were distracted. I could hear the rustling sound of candy being pillaged. "I get so much trouble when I pay for help, you know? They always complaining, complaining I pay too less. But you cut please, O.K.? I get man come for rest when can do. You cut, O.K.?" I told her we'd "try".

She left with the rent money in its customary white envelope in hand. "MI-CHAEL!" she screamed while smiling and waving good-bye. Michael ran out with candy in his fists. He said, "HE gave it to me!" when his grandma asked where he got it. Oh! O.K. A few minutes later Stella left pushing her baby in the stroller, her little boy barely able to walk impeded by Rachel's Halloween candy crammed into his pockets. We didn't say anything.

I don't know if Ray felt generous, or if 2 little boys were simply unstoppable. Mrs. Li is unstoppable.

Capital Punishment

The landlady appeared today with 2 grandchildren and 2 Mexicans she hires to do her odd jobs. One speaks no English, the other does pretty well. Mrs. Li speaks Chineseglish, so it makes for an interesting effort. Their communication is very physical with A LOT of gesturing and repeated orders at high volume followed by "O.K.?" at least a million times.

The nasty Ju-jubee trees were finally feeling a machete and chainsaw trim. After knocking on my window 4 separate times (face pressed against the glass peering in calling "Scene-deee!" demanding my attention to one thing after another), her final announcement was that we must cut down all the young trees growing in the yard.

Each of them had spontaneously sprung up over the past 2 years, along with about 8 nice flowering shrubs that - after a snail-paced start, were finally big and blossoming. I told her they were going to be beautiful shade trees...she objected loudly with her hands fluttering in front of my face: "No good! No good! They grow big and ruin wall! Wall fall down!" Facing north, I'm looking at a two-tone, bare, ancient block wall that already has so many gutted and precariously leaning sections it could pass for a temple ruin on Mars hill. Mrs. Li was highly motivated by my unusual exhibition of non-compliance.

"All trees gone! All that by wall!" "But in front of the the little trees are flowering shrubs. Why wouldn't you want those? Besides, all the citrus is dying..." my voice rising above the chainsaw on the dead grapefruit tree stump, "don't you want some shade trees back here?" She agreed we could keep the one by the storage shed, but the ax must fall on everything else.

After they left, I inspected the crime scene along the West wall. Hacked to bits and dragged away was every last inch of each of my carefully protected young trees, a beautiful purple flowering vine and - 2 of my biggest flowered shrubs. They were about 10 feet or more AWAY from any block wall. I had dug little berms around them to water them extra and had mowed the lawn around them quite obviously nurturing their welcome existence. Now in the center of my planting bed is only the exposed trunk. For all she knew I could have planted those shrubs! She didn't even ask.

I felt far more defeated than a grown woman should.

Stolen Victory

The bulk pick-up by the city is coming next week. I am jazzed. This service is probably THE most amazing civic opportunity next to the right to vote! When we moved from the Earll house to this one almost 4 years ago, we out-did ourselves by heaping up the mega pile of all junk piles. It was as long as our property and half as tall as the house. It was a work of art.

Somehow just knowing the little Bobcat tractor with her crew of 2 is coming makes me crazy to dump out drawers, organize closets and sift aggressively through dusty, disgusting stuff we have totally forgotten about in the "outter darkness" of our garage. I am brave - able to sweep roof rat doodies like a man. I am ruthless - tossing aside pitiful arm loads of stuff I was saving for no good reason, and giving the boot to things that are O.K. but never used. I am generous - cramming about a dozen bags and boxes with donations to Deseret Industries; yardage of cute fabric I never did anything with, a collection of perfectly good lace trim, lots of clothes, shoes and books that someone else might enjoy. I am fearless - stuffing the trunk and back seat of the car with linens and games and pillows for the African Immigrants who were burned out of their apartment after arriving in America only a few months ago. I picked some of the nicest quality twin sheet sets that still had their matching pillow cases. I am optimistic - STILL waiting for the "Welcome to America" truck to come and pick up our furniture donations that are waiting on the front porch.

I am in shock - someone in the night took the entire jumbo-sized box full of CRAP. The next night they took the decapitated office chair. Neither item enjoyed a full 24 hours on display at the street. My plans for creating a great pile of rubbish are foiled! How dare these night-grabbers rob me of my glorious pile? Now that I have a blog I was going to take a picture of it, once it had attained its full grandeur and I had pronounced the work "done".

I am strategical: I will horde my garbage in the back yard until the last possible moment, and then rush it out to the street on the day our area begins pick up. I am the Queen of all trash I survey. None shall deny me my pile.

Heated Fears

My home territory is on fire...or at least everything surrounding it. I was born and raised in Northridge, in the San Fernando Valley (home to Burbank, the Encino of 'Encino Man' and Ventura Highyway in that song by America, and lesser known Tarzana from the old black and white Tarzan film days). My Aunt and Uncle live in Van Nuys, and numerous cousins live in Canoga Park and other valley areas, as well as hot-spot Simi Valley just up over the pass towards Magic Mountain.

My Uncle Pat lives in Ramona; up in the hills outside of San Diego. My grandma and Uncle Pat's first wife are buried there. It is - or was - a classically beautiful, idyllic, oak-studded Southern California jewel.

We didn't hear from my Uncle until his wife sent this message:

Subject: re: fires
Date: Tue, 23 Oct 2007
Hi
we are right in the middle of this situation. We may not have a home to go home to and we had no time to get anything out but a few clothes, laptop, dogs and 2 cars. They notified us that there was a complete, forced evacuation of the entire town of Ramona---36,000 people. They turned all lanes of all roads as downhill out-of-town lanes. I understand they are arresting anyone trying to get back in. We went to Heather's and then a fire broke out near there and the smoke was so thick that Pat couldn't breathe, so we left one car there and I managed to get to 78 before they closed it. Then I went a short ways over to the ocean and we got out of the car and sat for a while until Pat felt better. Then I got back on 5 and headed north. I went off the freewway at San Clemente and lucked out getting one of the last rooms available AND they let us take the dogs inside. That night a bunch of fires started not too far from here. This is like being in the twilight z one. T here's nowhere to go and no way to get there if there were. The wind gusts down here right now are enough to take your car off the road. We have no way to know when we can go back to Ramona to find out if our house has burnt tothe grouund along with all our belongings...everything...the truck, all our furniture, our cats...the 100 yr. old oak trees. Supposedly, this all started will a downed power lone...up here, they feel it might be arson. Oh well..."that which does not kill you will only make you stronger: and we are still alive...LaRaine

It's Only Money

It was a discussion on economics; prices are on the rise in the Valley of the Sun. The neighborhood woman being interviewed was explaining how she could tell the cost of living in Phoenix was escalating by her grocery bill. She said, "We have a fairly small family... and our monthly grocery expense is around $1,500-" gasping at the thought and before I could finish wondering what her definition of a 'small' family was, the cat was out of the bag. "My 15 year old son is an only child, but - (ahh, the golden addendum) he's on the swim team and can put away a lot of food! Being an only child, naturally he also has his friends from the team over all the time so it's like having a family of 5 to feed!" http://kjzz.org/news/arizona/archives/200710/hereandnow-costofliving

O.K., ignoring the obvious reference to only children being friend-magnets, I (being only a radio listener) was stunned to think somebody could shop at a "central Phoenix Basha's" and still have that kind of crazy grocery bill. How about Food City? Walmart? Is this woman a food snob? Or is she playing the doting little hostess for a bunch of athletic young swimboys that won't leave? (Now this could be a sensitive supposition, but really, you were thinking that too). Were they serving up prime rib twice a week or what?

What was in her pantry that costs so dang much? Some chips & salsa go a long way, even with non-swimmers. You could throw in a lot of twinkies and chocolate milk on a regular basis and still not begin to approach the $1,500.

This was a stupid story. Correction. This lady was an absurd representation of how average urbanites are coping with the rising cost of living. If I were the reporter, this interview would have concluded in the first 20 seconds by my burst of laughter. ~ Dude!

Collapsing Common Sense

It was terrible news at the Grand Canyon; just before noon yesterday a 4 year old girl fell four hundred feet to her death near Mather's Point. Witnesses said her mother was yelling for her not to move seconds before she slipped over the edge.

Now we hear park officials and media bites urgently reminding us to be careful around the canyon rim, and for parents to keep young children "in sight" or "within arm's reach". ~ Duh.

Accidents happen. I feel sorry for this family vacation come to a tragic end. But seriously, are you kidding? This incident reflects a generalized lack of parental common sense. Anyone who has ever approached the rim of the Grand Canyon can see it is big, it is deep, it is hazardous.

I cringe every time I see young mothers walking 10 feet in front or behind their toddler who is wandering absent-mindedly only inches from 45mph city traffic. People are not holding hands with children at street corners or other public places. One aspect of this problem appears to be cultural - too many young Hispanic mothers are not using a stroller for infants - they carry babes in arms and leave the other little children exposed to trouble en route.

A thrift store umbrella stroller is all of $5.00. A firm hand-hold costs nothing but the forethought to execute it. My mom used to have a tandem harness for my little brothers with a long leash attached! At the very least, parents can teach children to hold onto them if mom's hands are occupied. My kids can remember holding onto my skirt with a killer-grip. They righteously feared consequences if they let go even for a second.

Asia pointed out to me this weekend a happy come-back of the kid leash concept which for 30 years was much too offensive for White, upwardly mobile parents to consider ~ here is one example how to reign in your child while looking cute and fashionable:

While we do not know how many children were with the family in question, I am guessing they did not have more than what they could hold on to (including older siblings assigned to younger ones) especially if one was in a stroller.

We all wish this trip had a happy ending. A little common sense and safety instincts go a very long way.

Call of the Sea

We are feeling the generation gap, big time. Although David and I grew up in two totally different family environments, many things were constants. If our Dad said, "Let's go, kids!" none of us ever asked, "Where? Why? How long will we be gone? Do I HAVE to go?"

In my case, I remember leaving our S. CA home at 3:30AM with heavy canvas water bags tied to the grill of our Chevy Impala station wagon. Still in our pajamas, we kids slept through the pre-dawn trek across the Mojave Desert on our way to a family reunion in Mesa, Arizona. We were bothered by pesky little brothers, battles for what static radio reception could be had, struggles for a turn at a window seat and threatened repeatedly with mortal damage should we continue to kick the driver's seat or actually throw-up inside the car. We also sang with feeling such standards as "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad", "Clementine" or "Home on the Range. It was all enormously fun.

Last week we announced a surprise family road trip to the girls. They were not impressed.

Even the destination (San Diego) did not set them on fire. I wondered what planet they were from as I watched them reluctantly pack their sacred ipods & other relics of non-human interaction.

Here is the kind of view that thrilled my childhood heart; our first glimpse of the ocean (!) after several twists and turns through Topanga Canyon or some other quick route down from San Fernando Valley to Santa Monica, Malibu, or Zuma Beach. Friday evening at Cardiff-by-the-Sea I felt the same emotional rush as I watched the western horizon for that beautiful silver sliver of ocean meeting sky. The cool air was thick with sea and living things.


The freeway landscape is jungle-lush. Brilliant flowering trees and shrubs and plantings spoke to my soul. "LOOK!" I cried too loudly, wiping tears from my eyes pointing to the suddenly revealed ocean, "there it is!" No response. A slight grunt from Asia's corner as she shifted away from the bright sun, and Ray only stared passively from her open window. "I'm hungry," she mumbled.

A very fancy dinner, seated at the edge of a giant glass wall facing the glowing surf after sundown was definitely beginning to work its magic on our reluctant travelers. Finally fed, they were more willing to tolerate sight-seeing. David headed for the light be-jeweled pier at Oceanside.



Asia noticed the multitude of signs regulating parking, loitering, sound ordinances, campfires, dog-walking, life-guard duty times, used fishing line and hooks, recycling and practically every other rule or warning necessary to sustain life without a fine.

She was irritated.









Apparently the large type 'PLEASE' did not soften the regulatory message.
Mom's advice to bring a good sweater proved timely if not brilliant. Hugs help warm night time beachcombers. Asia wanted to play beach volleyball with a group next to the pier.

Check out this biker on our way to the Wild Animal Park; you can see his face reflected in each of his mirrors. Cool!









Here we are comforting some poor, dying deer in the petting area. They could barely lift their heads. We wanted to alert park officials about their appalling condition, but none could be found. Oh well.


Is this classic California, or what?
Growing up here, I never surfed - except for body surfing.

This group of surfer boys definitely interested the girls. I think they heckled several of them. Their little six-pack abs and stylish wet suits under curly, shoulder length manes prompted Asia to sing a couple bars of a Beach Boys tune for us. Although, we realize there are no stereotypes in our society.



This was a little cove surrounded by rust and caramel colored cliffs just south of Del Mar. High Tide was coming in, and we were entertained by several flocks of sea birds feasting on something near the water line. They were so cute with their little stick legs running gracefully back and forth as the water approached or receded. Being curious, I decided to investigate their sandy meal. It was too late in the season for sand crabs ~ GROSS! They were eating juicy white MAGGOTS! Thousands and sickening thousands of them, wriggling up out of the sand with the water and trying to burrow back in again before it left them stranded. Rachel worried they could get up into her skin. Asia told her yes, and one was on its way to her brain in her blood stream at that very moment. After we got home a little web search gave us the official answer to our nature question: Sea Weed Fly maggots. Yum.

Balboa Park is THE Most American spot I think; Garden of Eden landscaping, people, couples and families of all sizes, colors and creeds with their equally diversified doggy companions all coming together for a lovely, glorious experience in totally beautiful weather and stately old museums adorned with intricate sculptured facades. It was breath-taking and heart-warming.
We tipped this student violin/cello duet. They were performing Bach with a flair for the passionless.
This Black Mime was actually a very Angry Black Non-Mime. We would have taken a picture of his artful posing while balancing one legged on top of his suitcase, really, it was beautiful - but he almost assaulted an Asian tourist for taking too many pictures of his performance. He said, "If you take one more picture of me I'll..." none of us caught exactly what he was going to do because it was so shocking to see him launch himself away from a group of little girls waiting for their balloon creation and get in the Japanese guy's face. A large man with a camera seated on a bench next to ours yelled back, "You can't limit picture taking in a public place! It's my profession," raising his own camera and clicking a shot at the threatening Mime. "Thank you, Fat Man -" he yelled back, "looks like your profession should be a DIET!" Asia laughed out loud uncontrollably. The young father in the photo didn't change his expression at all, and all the little children except for his daughter ran away as quickly as possible once he finished their pretty balloon daisy bracelets.

Rachel wanted to know if Daddy could beat up that Mime if he needed to. Asia was trying to get him to walk right up to his face and start taking pictures just to see what would happen. We quickly finished our hot dogs and walked away, missing whatever artistic confrontation might have been ours.

Just a day at the park. A good time was had by all.

Colorful Opportunist

The familiar was briefly interrupted yesterday. Driving home with Rachel after picking her up from Melanie's house just before dusk, my brain couldn't register for a split-second what I was seeing in front of me in the road. Toddling towards the middle of 10th Street was a tiny little boy.

Instantly I could see there were no cars in front of us, but the intersection at Maryland could offer an on-coming vehicle any moment. I didn't know if anyone was behind me - I was honking my horn repeatedly hoping to alert his mother. I was pulling over and keeping my eye on the tiny little figure who was out in the street all alone. We didn't see anyone else. I had Rachel jump out while the car was still in motion to run and grab the boy by the hand.

He was so little he couldn't talk yet. I parked abruptly at an odd angle to the corner and hopped out to knock loudly on the first available door. No one answered. Two houses away I saw two young men come out to do something with the car in the driveway. Following behind them was a young woman chatting on the phone. She stepped out onto her front porch unaware of our approach. As we walked toward her with the child in tow, I glanced back at my unlocked car; a young black man in a uniform style work shirt had suddenly appeared and was walking toward my car.

I turned back to the young woman who had finished her phone call and was looking at us. I said, "Hello," she responded, "Hi!" - still seeming not to notice the little boy at Rachel's side - "Is this your little boy?" I asked. Her face was awash in shock. As she answered "No," she was reaching for him. "Do you know where he belongs? He was just out in the middle of the street." She scooped him up, the tears beginning and her answer muffled by the boy's curly black hair close to her face, "He belongs here. Thank you! Oh, thank you so much!"

When I turned away, there was the young black man standing exactly next to our passenger door, his eyes in an expressionless face locking onto mine. I noticed both his hands were in front of him, possibly on the door handle. With only the width of the street between us, I stared right back at him. My purse was on the floor of the passenger side. I had jumped out less than 60 seconds earlier leaving the car unlocked. Now this guy was brazenly staring me down. I was angry. There was no way he couldn't have noticed what we were doing, saving a little boy, yet here he was, being incredibly obvious about what his intentions were and foiled by our quick return.

I quickened my pace. He (much too slowly) finally began to walk away from our car, keeping his eyes on mine the whole time. He slowly put his hands into his pockets as he made sort of a semi-circle around to the back of our car, and then, meandered past our car towards the street. He glanced back at me while I opened my door. I stared right back at him. What a jerk.

I'm not talking racial profiling or bigotry or negative urban stereotypes. This is no noose-referenced Jena conflict or O.J. guilt poll split down racial lines. This is my neighborhood. That was my car. That was not my little boy I was ready to block traffic with my car to save. Of course I recognized race, but I think every woman is very aware of any man in her vicinity. He could have been whatever color staring me down.

There are only two things really bugging me right now; why didn't I just raise my key and click it locked right in his face? - and it was precisely his color that prevented me from doing anything. My very first flash-thought was, "I don't want him to think I'm biased".

I'm such a jerk.

The Enquirer

The Arboretum at Flagstaff is a beautiful spot to learn a thing or two about plants and animals of the Colorado Plateau. We learned quite a bit about Raptors. This is a juvenile Harris Hawk or a Peregrine - I can't remember. I also can't remember all the stats the handlers rattled off to us, impressive as they were. I wish I could. Something about their eyesight being telescopic and 3D - which was illustrated to us by explaining how a hiker might look down from a hilltop on his speck of a campsite far below; while his little falcon friend could tell him what was cooking on the camp stove and how many bugs were on the tent. They can tuck in their wings and dive from so high up we can't even see them to bullet in at 200mph to clock a songbird in flight and eat him for lunch.

The AZ Game & Fish website says that they have 10 times the eyesite we do, but I'm pretty sure the people at the Arboretum put it at some higher much more fantastic number. I know because they also pointed out how the bird's ability to recognize moving images is like 60 + images per second compared to our lousy 20 images per second. (T.V. is at around 22 images per second) This remarkable bird brain feat explains why Accipiters - (those that hunt in the forest rather than an open field) can rocket after prey without smashing into a tree.

Even more amazing, certain birds can actually detect the natural florescence of mouse urine and tell how fresh it is to pin-point Mickey's most recent burrow and hover there until he unwittingly makes his fatal appearance.

Sadly, we also learned that up to 70 - 80% of all raptor juveniles never survive their first year. It seems that honing their multiple survival skills takes more than instinct. I noted the part about how bird parenting is officially terminated in 4 to 6 weeks. Kids have to figure everything out on their own. Osprey (the raptors that hunt fish exclusively) often drown as young birds because they snag a fish too large to wing away, and in their panic they forget how to disengage their talons from the prey.

I figure God had a good reason to give animals so many marvelous physical skills. He might have even told us, but of course, we have forgotten. But that's not what has me musing the issue~ I am much more interested to know how in the heck does anyone figure out that a certain type of falcon's eye can detect florescence? And not just any old florescence, but degrees of specific rodent florescence. Like, who was observing an open field all day and connecting the mouse pee on the ground with the hunting strategy of the bird in the air? I mean, how does one identify what is going on, and what proof can be offered to support their conclusion? How do we know that a bird doesn't occasionally confuse Grizzly pee for mouse pee - and then, doesn't Mr. Red Tail feel foolish! (Although, we were repeatedly assured that animals do not assume human personality traits or responses).

At least the asymmetrical positioning of an owl's ears can logically present the answer of how they can pin-point sounds so precisely; it's like listening in 3D. I assume you can poke around and find the ears and see for yourself how they are positioned on the owl's skull - but how do
you even begin to explore the pee-theory?

There must be an awful lot of information in the world that is problematic to verify with 100% certainty. This is one instance where inquiring minds want to know.

Numbers

I am trying to visualize how many 400,000 is. That's how many Buddhist monks are in Burma. 100,000 of that brotherhood are out marching in protest. They are buttressed daily by tens of thousands of civilians who are linking hands to protect them. In 1988 over 3,000 people were killed during the last uprising against an oppressive regime.

Four days after a government price-hike in fuel (doubled for petrol & diesel, 5 times higher for compressed gas used to power buses), the current protest began on August 19th with 400 people marching on the main city of Rangoon. An already impoverished populace could no longer afford a bus ride home or rice and cooking oil. When some monks were injured in the military response that followed, the religion of 'peace with the universe' got off of its lotus flower and took hostages. They also refused religious services to the military and their families. As their orange-robed social disorder gains a determined momentum, a violent show-down with lurking riot police in armored vehicles is imminent.

I read that Burma's main export is heroine. Like a crack-whore mom, here is a country willing to sacrifice her own children for another fix; specifically close, personal affiliation with the mother of whores and paragon of human rights ~ China. She keeps an elected democratic woman president under house-arrest and rewards anyone who will turn-in a "rebel" neighbor. People disappear, babies starve, the nation suffers. It is hardly a new story. We've heard it before - the ageless lure and corruption of power. The real twist this time is the monks.

Not that religion hasn't inflamed politics - that's a very old story indeed - but Buddhist monks? They are a disciplined lot. "Asceticism" is synonymous with Buddha. So are images of serenely meditating bald men shunning the pollutions of society behind fortress-like monastery walls. Something about this picture doesn't fit, at least at first glance.

I can't think of anything more appropriate than legions of covenanted disciples, who, virtually by their appearance in such astonishing numbers can shout injustice louder than rocks thrown or guns drawn. Hopefully heart-sick Burma will avoid an Armageddon this week; but sacred is more often dismissed for profane, and morality for weakness.

Ode to O.J.

Oh no, O.J.! You're at it again! Hot in the spotlight, you and a friend.
Silly celeb, so full of fun! Can't wait to hear how you explain the gun.
There's no glove, no knife, no white bronco or gutted ex-wife;
looks like you'll have to take this on the chin.
You always were and ever will be a cartoonish "has-been".

Sand Reflections

A large truck idled noisily in front of our house early this morning, severely rattling the windows. Ellie bolted to the side gate for obligatory "I'll kill you" barking. I peeked out the window. It was some kind of huge, fancy dump truck, the load covered neatly by a tarp.

Have you ever waited impatiently in traffic as a semi-truck was backing its enormity into an impossibly narrow alley or business driveway? Not me. While everyone else is fidgeting at their steering wheels, I am admiring the amazing skill with which the truck driver can tease all that bulk precisely where it needs to go without any casualties. If only I could say the same for myself driving in reverse... This said, you may conclude I love to watch big trucks and tractors of all sizes at work. But today it is what was in the truck that caused reflection.

The brief and clamorous appearance of the dump truck was unexplained until we left the house to take Rachel to school. Deposited almost in the middle of the street directly at the end of our driveway was a truly wonderful pile of sand and gravel! The topography of it looks kind of like Camelback Mountain in reverse. If I wasn't afraid of the neighbor's wrath and my family's utter mortification, I'd be out there in a flash with a hose, a bucket and some classic kitchen accessories.

Oh, to play in a huge sand pile again ~ and the size of this one so worthy of a day devoted to twig-roofed kingdoms surrounded by rivers ferrying important leaf and bark cargoes far and wide. I could see my plastic horse collection pawing a sandy pasture or cantering riderless toward the shade of the pomegranate tree of my childhood back yard. I could almost feel my hand cup around the dimpled surface of the English walnuts we gathered to either insert into the castle walls, or pile like a munitions stash next to grossly under-sized green army men. Wild asparagus stalks offered perfectly sturdy 'poplar' trees, and dead june bugs sat as faithful wall sentries.

It didn't really matter that we carelessly integrated a "giant" 1960's era G.I. Joe with dwarf-like WWII infantry and pedigreed Appaloosas or Tennessee Walkers together in a 15th century fiefdom of glorious, endless sand. It didn't matter that every cat in the neighborhood was equally glad our Uncle Kenny had dumped literally a ton of sand in our back yard so we could spend an entire childhood in it as fantasy contractors. It was his business, sand and gravel - his big red truck a visual staple to our memory as much as the lovely sand that cascaded thunderously out to our screaming and jumping approval. Everything looks a little bigger and better when you are only 5 or 6 years old.

It makes me kind of sad that whatever the neighbor is doing with his fresh sand and gravel delivery, likely has something to do with his hot tub remodeling and nothing at all to do with little kids getting the surprise of their life.

Unsettling

You know how you can suddenly be aware of a lot of simultaneous things in a flash? Today that happened to me as I was approaching the intersection of 12th Street and Camelback.

Suddenly my attention was drawn to an unsettling movement. I saw a man leave his car in the middle of the left-turn lane and run across busy mid-day traffic with a cell phone to his ear. I saw a delivery truck stopped partly blocking South-bound traffic, and then the blue SUV stopped in front of it. Neither vehicle had a driver. I saw other people across the street looking intently in the direction the running man had been going, and out of the corner of my eye I knew other people were pulling their cars over and getting out.

Then I saw her; a woman with a blonde pony-tail and blue shorts lying in an awkward position on the grass in front of Coulter Cadillac. People were gathering around her, their faces (even shielded by sunglasses) full of alertness you don't usually see in this kind of full-sun heat - but no one was touching her. I saw a big gulp type cup lying about a yard away from her. I remember being annoyed with myself that I also noticed the color of the straw sticking out of the cup - it was red. And thankfully, I saw her arm move before she was past my field of vision.

A couple days ago I had a nightmare. I saw Asia and some other people standing at a corner, waiting for the light to turn. Instantly, I knew she was going to step out into the street and a car was going to hit her. In my dream, I could feel my stomach start to twist. I tried to shout, but no sound came out. Then I saw the car.

It was waiting to pull into traffic from a parallel parking spot much too close to the corner. It didn't make any sense. Asia had the green light now, and as she stepped into the crosswalk with other pedestrians, I lunged into the road yelling a muted "Oh NO!" The car moved forward so insanely slow it was ridiculous. Asia stopped in her tracks as if looking up the street the way people scan the horizon for the bus, totally oblivious to the car grill closing in on her. I watched her body fall wordlessly backward onto the pavement. The car continued forward until the left front tire stopped over the middle of her right thigh. I ran to her screaming the whole way. I tried to lift the car up and off of her leg. Other people tried to help; shouting directions, making sure the driver didn't put it into gear, calling 911 on their phones. All the commotion took on a luridly brilliant, moving color scheme, creating a sort of psychedelic *'Little Black Sambo' effect swirling around and around the accident scene. Panicked, all I could do was pull on the bumper with all my might.

I remember thinking, 'this is my dream, I ought to be able to do whatever I want in my own dream!' - but still I was denied the superhuman strength required.

I awoke with a silent scream in my chest as I jolted upright covered in a terrified sweat. For a horrible second I thought it was real and I needed to run for help - until my mind began to grasp the reality that I was in my own bedroom with the green floral bedspread and the gently clacking vertical blinds at the window. Asia was at her new job. She was not the victim of a gruesome double-jeopardy irony. None of it was real. She was safe. She was safe.

A few minutes after seeing the woman on the grass, I was in the car again on my way to Phoenix College to pick up Asia. To avoid directly retracing my route, I took 7th Avenue. The radio announced traffic conditions across the valley, and last of all posted a warning about an accident at 12th Street and Camelback.

I said another silent prayer.

*"Little Black Sambo" by Scottswoman Helen Bannerman first published in 1899 is about a little (Indian) boy who escapes being eaten by tigers when they chase each other around a palm tree so fast they turn into butter. This was a beloved children's story for decades until controversy about the conflicted racial representation relegated it to banned status around the world. Multiple attempts to re-write it in a more politically correct format include "Little Brown Sanje".
The 1953 edition is the one I grew up adoring because of the beautiful illustrations, especially the crimson-toed crimson-lined shoes he bought at the bazaar. The conclusion of the story ends in a feast of homemade pancakes topped with the miracle tiger-butter that would thrill any kid with half a brain regardless of what color or culture they came from. The controversy continues today as Black, green or White academics alternately laud or demonize this classic.

For a peek at some of the illustrations:
http://cgi.ebay.com/1953-LITTLE-BLACK-SAMBO-Collectible-Childrens-Book_W0QQitemZ140154539426QQihZ004QQcategoryZ279QQcmdZViewItem

For the full text:
http://www.fullbooks.com/The-Story-of-Little-Black-Sambo.html

Indecision is a Bummer

I hate to shop. The competing variations of the same thing cramming grocery isle shelves gives me a headache. The endless array of cute clothes that don't fit, or, if they do, look nothing like what they should in a natural world - sends me home in tears. Even really fun stuff, like choosing which tantalizing dish to add to my chow mein at Panda Express - creates an embarrassing, inward paroxysm of indecision. It doesn't make any difference that I know I will like any of the choices, it's that moment of identifying which one while the plastic-gloved worker named Yolanda waits expectantly that turns an otherwise productive "U.S. American" into a helpless, quivering panic.

It seems someone else (much more mature and accomplished than myself) is experiencing a similar dilemma! I should feel comforted that I am not alone, you know, people have a need to relate with others in a shared experience - but eww, I don't think so!

The last time I was in forbidden territory was for approximately 15 seconds at Lorne Street School when I was 10 years old. Some of the big girls dared me to go into the boys bathroom (it was unoccupied of course) and so I did. It wasn't amazing, it wasn't really worth the agony of the dare actually, but I proved I could do it and the doing of it elevated my 5th grade status just a little bit.

Now, as for the senior senator from Idaho - he can't decide what to do. I guess since Specter dared him to prove his unfortunate potty encounter was a very understandable misunderstanding, he has reconsidered his guilty plea AND his still smelling-sweet and fresh statement of intention to step down from his seat. Huh! How about that?

This is a whole new area of indecision I am quite safely removed from. I don't feel sorry for the cartoon of a man or the limpidly loyal showing from his family that he has to drag around with him for his sad little press statements. What is he trying to prove, anyway? (It almost feels like 5th grade again, doesn't it? I can see Howard Bernstein in his polished penny-loafers covered in heavy swatches of yellow chalk, a fairy dusting of the same making a gentle circle around his feet crying tears of indignation when the teacher won't believe him that he didn't bang the chalk board erasers together...)

His undoing is obvious: none of us would ever in a million years pick up anything off the floor of a public restroom. That's a decision you don't even have to think about.

CONFLICT

Sharp words and bitter exchange, because
the world was arranged either Hawks or Doves.

Vietnam never seemed so far removed,
it was LIVE T.V., new and improved;

an anti-establishment, peace-symbol chic ~
battle-lines drawn between the strong and the weak,

patchwork jeans and bandanna ensigns,
matched against the suits and ties.

Back on the home front, I’ll tell you what ~
real issues revolved around my brother’s haircut.

* It was all-out war: the peace symbol sticker my older brother put on his bedroom window might as well been a call to arms at our house. An unused razor was his weapon of choice. In another year or two he would be almost six feet tall. He would present himself a hippie-classic by sporting wire-rimmed, John Lennonesque eye glasses, bushy, mutton-sideburns and long hair parted down the middle.

Papa rode him mercilessly for his new suede 'fruit boots', but was almost speechless with disgust when Danny purchased his knee-high fringed hippie moccasins. For now, he was longing to make the cross-country trek to something called “Woodstock” . Papa presented 225 lbs of raw, Dighton High line-backer conservative Establishment counter-persuasion. Danny would have to experience the music at home.

The Vietnam War (1945-1975) was destined to be one of our greatest national controversies. Never an officially declared war, America’s commitment to the conflict began in 1954. By 1965, 184,000 American young men were fighting in Vietnam. General Westmoreland requested an additional 200,000 troops in 1968. The peak level of American troops in Vietnam was 543,400.

Public opinion began to turn against American escalation in both moral and material terms. Across college campuses students objected to the war and made a public display of burning draft cards and American flags. Media coverage offered by newsmen in the line of fire equipped with unprecedented technology, entered millions of American living rooms with horrific images of carnage. Death was live and in color for the first time in the history of warfare. Political and moral values were deeply threatened no matter which side you were on. “The War” would not go away, and neither would its influence on our culture and way of life.

WATTS

The striated images on our black & white T.V.
frighten me.
All the Negroes in the world have gone crazy!
They are pushing and screaming and burning cars -
what’s to stop them from getting into our yard?
Maybe I can see them coming before it’s too late,
spilling over the fence and up to our windows
hearing the glass break just before they get inside,
and we all die . . .

* People didn’t really take the time to explain current events to little kids. We were still close on the coat-tails of an era when ‘children should be seen and not heard’, so we weren’t asking many questions, either. The American Civil Rights movement was in full-swing; but Selma was a world removed from our 'Dick and Jane' San Fernando Valley.

The Watts Riots in Los Angeles entered our suburban living room like a ton of bricks. I was only eight years old the day before. I knew all the sidewalks said, “L.A. County”, so I figured Northridge had to be in L.A. I didn’t understand that Watts was at least an hour drive away from our house. I didn’t bother to ask my parents what was happening because anyone could see for themselves right there on T.V. It was war.

Violence is very frightening to children, regardless of who is doing it and for whatever reason. I was absolutely terrified - especially at night after the evening news had ended. This was my cue to run to the arcadia doors in the den and stare at the back fence (just past mama’s clothes line), my heart literally in my throat expectantly watching for the approach of mortal danger.

On August 11, 1965 a White police officer arrested two Blacks for a minor traffic violation in the Watts District of Los Angeles. Believing it was racially motivated; on-lookers threw rocks and bottles at back-up units arriving on the scene. The dispute quickly escalated into a riot with rampant looting and fire-bombing of local businesses.

The National Guard regained control on August 16th. Six days of riots resulted in 34 dead, 1,000 injured, 4,000 arrested and 209 buildings destroyed. Property damage was estimated at 40 million.
~ note: It was the cultural norm to refer to African-Americans as 'Negros'

June Bug

A June bug
is a wonderful thing,
especially
flying in circles
at the end of a string.

*My own children sadly are products of urban limitations. Bugs are something to spray with a can of Raid. They think it was really gross that I used to play with bugs. Just as quickly as they ridicule my primitive past, they are anxious to point out it was bug abuse to tie a string to their legs for our own amusement. We were careful - it wasn’t like we were pulling their wings off or something like that....

What we called June Bugs in Southern California were large, hearty beetles about the size of extra large black olives, except they were a lovely, rich, velvet brown color with a fuzzy darker scruff across their shoulders. Mid-Summer nights were for collecting them by the handful as they flocked to our dining room windows and front door screens. If you petted them just right, they would raise up on their haunches and hiss pretty loud - good times!

The only abusive thing we did was to grab our grey Banty hen Susan and hold her up to the hapless June Bugs clinging to the screens. It was a sadistic joy to watch her gobble those enormous beetles without the benefit of teeth and chewing. Sweet little Susan was chillingly voracious; we lost count of her victims during our shrieks of "Ah, there's another one! Boss!" It’s a wonder we didn’t kill her - her bulging craw would literally be hissing and moving with live June Bugs ~ kind of like Peter and the Wolf, but different.

DRILL

Eyes tightly shut
against the would-be flash,
we dutifully braced
for impact.

Hands clasped behind our necks,
noses inches above the floor -
huddled like that, as we had
a hundred times before
for what seemed like hours,
until the teacher said,

“All clear,”
and we got up again,
sprouting above our desks
like so many flowers.


* Beginning in the 1950’s, “Cold War” era instructional films were shown to American school children to teach the finer points of surviving a nuclear attack from Russia or Red China. These propaganda films also featured basic hygiene procedures to follow after the bomb hit, such as shampooing your hair and sponging your clothes free of unsightly nuclear fall-out particles, etc.

“Duck & Cover” drills were designed to keep citizens safe by assuming the position under a desk or table whether in the classroom, work place or even outdoors on a family picnic. Drills were conducted at schools across the nation with the regularity of a common fire drill.

Now there has been much talk about the ‘paralyzing fear’ cold-war children suffered under the ‘constant threat of a nuclear holocaust’and how it emotionally disfigured us for life . . . well, I have yet to meet anyone who felt so tortured. We performed our bomb survival rituals with the same acceptance as any other hum-drum school routine.

Bomb drills were discontinued with the end of the Cold War in the 70’s, only to eventually be replaced by “Lock-Down” drills during the 90’s in response to the uniquely domestic phenomenon of school shootings.

Apollo 1

It’s rainy season
about the end of January.
Long, cold, soggy mornings enveloped in fog until noon.
We needed a reason to stay home from school!
But then, we heard the news
about NASA’s race for the moon -
it was bad . . .
how all three died on the launch pad
tied to their seats
in their astronaut suits
going nowhere.
The worst part, was knowing there was nothing
anyone could do - we were scared,
who to blame?
While they screamed and screamed
inside the flames.

* Especially after successful deployment of the Russian satellite “Sputnik” in 1957, the American “Race for Space” was in fierce competition with the Soviet Space program. More than a matter of national pride, the glaring lack of technical and possibly military superiority suggested by Sputnik’s orbit deeply alarmed millions of Americans. JFK had himself proclaimed our national quest to place a man on the moon before the end of the decade, and NASA (the National Aeronautics and Space Administration) was dedicated to the task.

Our fascination with the triumph and the glory of Space exploration was as yet untainted by failure. Every school yard seemed a-buzz with little boys who wanted to grow up to be an astronaut, and little girls who wished they could be boys.

On January 27, 1967, during a pre-flight test for what was to be the first manned Apollo mission, a fire claimed the lives of three U.S. astronauts; Gus Grissom, Ed White and Roger Chaffee.

Any American kid was familiar with most of the basics of spaceman stuff; we knew that spacesuits were wired for radio communication, and that NASA technicians monitored everything from a control room. The Apollo 1 tragedy was extremely graphic to our minds-eye, however uninformed we might have been of details (such as they weren’t really on a launch pad, etc.) The concept of burning alive - and someone having to listen to it - was enough to upset our playground talk for weeks.

The fairy tale of space had been altered forever.

Excerpt from "Station Wagon Wars"

King-Size Bed
Mama’s KING-SIZE bed is “off-limits”.
Well, it’s supposed to be.
So, we should never go in there and jump on it’s ‘kingness’ . . . but
we do -
That’s an awful lot of surface area to deny a kid -
(so we did).
The springs are like new and the bounce’ll have ya
right up there near the ceiling,
feeling the moonscape
of the gold-glitter acoustic plaster with our finger-tips.
She was always afraid of some disaster;
“Consider this - you’re going to break that bed!”
she said.
She’d threaten, she’d reason, she’d nearly burst ~
but
it was jumping season:
she’d have to catch us first.

* After the house was remodeled in 1962, our unsuspecting parents were slow to realize how convenient their new floor plan was for our clandestine operations. The traffic pattern from the hall to the master bedroom and bath to the hall again and finally to the den was a circle, not unlike a race track. Their brand new bed regularly served as a literal spring board for our indoor activities.

Things forbidden always taste sweeter, and avoiding detection required excellent listening skills while mid-air between jumps on the oh-so accommodating box springs. We listened for mama’s shoelaces on her tennis shoes clicking as she came down the hall. Once we heard that, we knew we were good for only one more jump before flying out to safety into the new master bathroom. From there we listened, breathless, for her footsteps on the pink shag carpet to stop at the edge of the bed where she always stood for a second, eying the disheveled bed spread. Finally we could slip out of the bathroom and plop ourselves innocently in front of the t.v. without even looking winded.
~ By CTanner: The Jellico Project/Memoirs of growing up in the '60's

Chameleon Man

The first generation of the Nazi legacy is dying out. However, what they did and why they did it may be a 'secret combination' that continues on in spite of the grave ignominiously welcoming them.

Former U.N. Secretary Kurt Waldheim (center in photo) died quietly at home with his family at his bedside. That is not the story, most of us would like to go like that. Austrian Vice Chancellor Wilhelm Molterer said, "We have lost a great Austrian,"; I guess that depends on your point of view.

The World Jewish Congress no doubt has a different perspective, as would perhaps 68,000 (including 23,000 children) silent victims of what is known as 'The Mount Kozara Operation' in 1947 Yugoslavia. Waldheim's signature appeared on various documents which verified that his unit killed civilians and partisans. His commander, General Alexander Loehr, was later executed for war crimes. Yet Waldheim went to his grave today denying he did anything more than what was "necessary" to survive the war. He was just following orders. Orders which he wanted others to believe had nothing to do with atrocities; he claimed no knowledge of mass human transport to death camps and the like.

The story is Technicolor Hollywood for sure; intrigue, crimes against humanity and a spectacularly successful effort to hide one's black past to rise to positions of power and prestige. Specifically, chief of the world's only international peace-keeping body, the United Nations. He not only achieved this post, but served admirably from 1972-81. There's a nice photo of him meeting with Golda Meir at her home in Jerusalem.

His Nazi former-life didn't catch up to him until he was exposed during a 1986 run for the Austrian Presidency. Even then, he denied all. Eventually he revised his resume to acknowledge being places in uniform, but never admitted wrongdoing. The United States responded by banning him from ever stepping foot on American soil again.

Did I miss the movie? Where's Clint Eastwood? Did this guy have charisma, or what? How did he do this? How did he get away with murder and preside successfully over something hugely ironic like the U.N.? More importantly, what are the possibilities that a former war criminal actually regretted his participation in evil, and resolved to do everything in his power to not only hide this sin, but attempt restitution? Waldheim was either appallingly arrogant, or desperately determined to be a different man. The Story here is which was which. Glaringly evident against a 'born-again' transformation is one thing: a confession.

He could have simply coasted along as a normal person, or accomplished much good in the past 60 years very quietly, without seeking public office and increasing risk of exposure. Was he just rubbing it in our faces? Or did he really hope to wash the blood from his hands through service to world peace? Maybe he was just forgetful about his nondescript Nazi duties - y'know, many jobs take on the numbing lull of routine after a while...

Healing Green Balloon

Home again briefly for Asia's graduation, Robin wanted to see her Granny and Grandpa before returning to Seattle. The grandparents are both in advanced stages of Alzheimer's and Dementia. They live in a care home that is very nice, one of many beautiful family homes in a Mesa residential area. You would never know that inside one of the high curb-appeal models live 5 or 6 elderly people who cannot care for themselves.

A heaviness lingers in the air when she voices her desire to "stop by" and see the folks. Visits are - well, gloomy. They do not recognize family more often than not. Their vacant stares and withered, shell-like selves are painfully at odds with the active, vibrant lives they used to share. Granny read a lot of murder mysteries as a hobby over the years, and the little she manages to form into words usually sounds like a bizarre, dis-jointed excerpt from one of those cloak and dagger plots. It can be frightening. At Christmas time Asia bent down to give her a kiss and Granny grabbed her hair on both sides of her face and threatened her fiercely, hissing through clenched teeth. It took a few minutes for one of the staff to extract Asia from the older woman's claw-like grasp.

The last time we visited Asia was so shocked by Grandpa's deteriorated condition that she hid in a bathroom for half an hour, sobbing. This time, the girls proposed waiting in the car while Robin went in to see the parents. Instead, we all dutifully abandoned the car and went inside.

They were seated side by side at the kitchen table having just finished a late lunch...or having attempted to eat. They looked at us with blank confusion and even fear. It was like a vacuum of emotion, sucking into their pale, empty eyes. Then her son stepped into view. His mother gasped as a sudden, bright recognition lit her face with an intense brilliance. Raising two quaking little hands she exclaimed, "Oh! There's my little guy!"

Once we were all seated together in the family room, there was nothing to say. Grandpa needed an occasional propping up to keep him from sliding off the leather couch or tipping over on his side. He was non-responsive. Granny seemed happy and attempted to speak to us, but very little was coherent. Asia began to cry again. Our visit was looking pretty doomed, as expected.

Then an ordinary 11" balloon appeared. The staff said the folks really enjoy batting at a balloon. We didn't know what to think of this. It seemed almost insulting. We were reluctant to do anything with the balloon; the folks did not seem to notice it - until it drifted into their range....

Lightening quick Granny's tiny, stick arm shot out and batted the balloon with surgical precision directly into Rachel's face. We were stunned! Another gentle set of the balloon produced an even more bullet spike from our fragile, 80 lb. Granny. She didn't even appear to watch the balloon or anticipate its approach in the slightest; but once it drifted into range she assaulted it with a viper-like strike. Not one of her hits went wild, either, which was not something we could say for ourselves. Grandpa likewise seemed oblivious to the commotion, that is, until the balloon appeared directly in front of him. He did not have the same reaction speed as Granny, but the effort was a full-body response; he did the electric worm trying to bat the balloon, jerking a knee or popping out his chest, and kicking at it with surprising strength. We were amazed. It was hilarious. It was fun. It was finally something we could do to really interact with them. For two little people who are too weak to open an envelope or grasp a spoon, they were absolutely tireless in executing killer shots with that balloon.

It was hard to leave.

Efficiency Has Whiskers

Waking 20 minutes before the alarm is set to go off is definitely an old person thing to do. That surreal 5 or 6 seconds melting from sleep into wakefulness is an oddly supernatural experience. I never know who I am, where I am or what is going on. It would be alarming except for the fact that everything is so fuzzy and numb. This is also about the time Ellie darts from her dog house to the side gate to bark dutifully at neighbors who are walking their dogs.

I don't know what a dog feels like when it is waking up. It is difficult to tell by observation alone if they wake in a momentary mental fog like I do...or if they are instantly in control of their advanced, primal senses - you know, 'fight or flight'.

Recently I read that a certain type of African rat is an expert land-mine detector. They weigh about 6 lbs. (which is creepy because that means cat-sized rat)- but this saves them from tripping the mine. It only takes around 10 minutes to train them to food stimuli, as long as the food reward is a bite of banana. Training them to respond to chemicals inherent to explosives takes a little longer, but is light-years faster than training a dog. They live about 8 or 9 years, so it's a good return on the investment. This was truly thought-provoking to me.

Years ago, Leiland had a pet rat James aptly named 'Cedrick'. I saw him wake up from a deep, happy rat sleep many times. He was obviously totally and wickedly alert in a flash. Leiland fashioned a maze that he could change the route in for a 5th grade science fair experiment. Cedrick performed swimmingly at first, nonplussed by any altered route - he succeeded in reaching the bait at the finish in blinding speed time after time. That is, until he got annoyed. Then he just shot vertically like a bat out of hell straight over the 14" maze wall and hid under the couch for a while.

I could easily visualize whatever this African rat must be like, with little collar and leash (presumably a very generous leash) out in front of his handler in the trademark staccato-snuffling peculiar to rodents. The article said they are 100% business-like in their search, quickly alerting to the deadly site by scratching furiously on the spot and then bolting back for a bite of banana. The rat quickly returns to his search without prodding and appears to have a 70 - 80% accuracy.

Is this not hugely ironic to anyone else? In a world of extreme complexities and magical technology, there really IS a "Mighty Mouse" to save the day! The same creature we associate with all kinds of negativity ~ oh, let's say the sweeping annihilation of black plague in the 1300's and characteristics like "dirty" and "conniving" is now possibly the fastest and most efficient method by which we can safely eradicate the great world tragedy that is abandoned land-mines.

If only applying a rat and a banana to other issues could also do the trick. Always waking up fully alert probably has its draw-backs, anyway.

Stumped

The landlady hired a crew to tear-down our leaks-like-a-sieve-thoroughly-rotting -and-going-to-fall-on-your-head-and-crush-you-like-a-worm porch. Apparently part of her contract with the workers was that they would also chop down a dead grapefruit tree in the back yard.

The target corpse was obvious; one of what was probably 8 trees left around the original house when it was carved out of a citrus grove in 1944. It is literally nothing but a stump about 6 feet tall riddled with carpenter bee holes, it's bark sloughed-off exposing the dry, white dead wood.

We've been fairly involved with the process from the beginning since our landlady is Chinese and cannot communicate with the Spanish-speaking crew. I was happy to deliver one-liner Spanish phrases to serve cold drinks or in asking them to please be careful working around my hollyhock plant. David acted as the unofficial site manager and helped translate so the workers could present Mrs. Li with a bill of services. We will be pleased to test the new porch just in time for the summer monsoon season...after sweeping ankle-deep water off the back porch whenever it rains, sitting and observing the weather rather than participating in it will be kind of luxurious.

Imagine our surprise when we discovered the tree they removed was not the afore-mentioned stumpie, but the only half-dead specimen that shaded our bedroom window! It wasn't a mistake, Mrs. Li arrived on cue to make sure they got the one she indicated - but what about the eye-sore standing-firewood stump? I don't know what this means, exactly, except that our life-view of what significance a tree can have differs considerably from the owner's view.

Do you know what a Ju-Jubi tree is? It is on the U.S. import list as deadly contra-band, I am sure. Mr. Li smuggled them over from China and planted them years ago. They are obnoxiously aggressive at sending out vicious shooters many yards away from the mother witch and springing a whole forest of new ju-jubis virtually over-night. They have wicked, wicked little thorns everywhere, even on the leaves, the trunk and the roots! They are THE most objectionable tree I have ever seen. Our neighbors hate them for invading their yards and give us dirty looks. Mrs. Li harvests the ju-jubi fruit (that resembles a miniature pear, sort of, more like a giant jelly bean)that over-whelm the trees every August. She dries them in her yard and sells them at the Chinese market. Every year I worry we will find her dead at the bottom of one of her dilapidated ladders in our back yard.

I just read in the paper that there is a bacteria killing the oleanders in central Phoenix. That's a shock. Oleanders cannot be killed even when you try to destroy them. The ju-jubis are looking extremely vigorous while our faithful old citrus trees are giving up the ghost. Now if something as classic as oleanders are on their way out, too, this only creates more opportunity for the inter-lopers.

We are leafy proof we need better border control.

Smarts

My whole life I have assumed other people knew a lot more than I did. I accepted my youth, inexperience and lack of a university degree as good reasons to defer to others who were older, wiser and more educated. More and more in recent years I have reason to feel smarter and smarter...

Take the Phoenix Suns 2 games ago when that Spurs dirty-player trashed our star franchise MVP Steve Nash into the media table. During the post-game re-hash between a moderator, Shaq & former Suns Charles Barkley, it was painfully obvious how even a utilitarian vocabulary would have saved Barkley from his doltish stumbling to simply express himself. We don't expect our professional athletes to be cerebral giants, we pay them to play - but it was embarrassing to watch a grown man frustrate himself searching desperately for words that never came. When he finally seized upon what he assumed to be appropriate logic, comparing the flagrant foul to murder - but not murder - homicide - (?!) yeah, well, it was just sad. I heard his book a couple years ago did well. He had a ghost-writer, though.

Some issues are more complicated than a championship basketball tournament, like immigration. A classmate in my Spanish class at Phoenix College last year was spitting passionate about the abuses of the United States against the hard-working Mexican immigrant. Her grandfather crossed the border illegally and the second generation had done very well, evidenced by her single parent status living at home, wearing designer duds, driving her own car, deftly texting on her camera phone with expensive salon fingernails and attending higher education. She bought only brand new, trendy baby accessories for her little boy that her mother mostly cared for. In every respect, including the fact that she was in a class to learn the language of her heritage - she was a pampered American girl.

As the day appointed for the September immigration march approached, she began a daily, angry posturing about the injustice and bigotry against her family here in America. The mother figure in class (the ONLY student over 19), I innocently asked her to explain. She meant her illiterate grandfather - not knowing the language and keeping a low profile in menial agricultural jobs - experienced difficult times in the foreign country and culture he had voluntarily determined to make his life-long home. She had no ability to recognize the success of his labors in giving her father the elevated status that she herself now profited from as a 2nd generation citizen.

When I pointed out to her that immigration of necessity referred to much more than Mexican interests, y'know, every country in the world has the right and the obligation to protect its borders especially in a post-911 world; not only to prevent hostile entry but also the spread of contagious disease like TB, polio & Diphtheria (all on the rise because of 3rd world country introductions) - I didn't have a chance to include human trafficking aka 'slavery' (especially from former Soviet Block countries, North Africa & Indonesia) because this once charming, cute little study companion who thought MY Spanish was expert had turned into an ugly, yelling puppet. She accused me of being a racist.

It was an all too convenient scenario. I reminded her my great grandfather was a "wet back" having stowed-away on a sailing ship from the Azore Island of Pico. He changed his last name to avoid 'La Migra' and spoke nothing but Portuguese until the day he died. All of us if we go back far enough in our family lines will find someone who came here from somewhere else ~ and we have adapted to the results; good and bad. We also have a history of the mistakes that were made in the process. While regrettable, they were not inconsistent with the times in which they took place. The issue was not about if Mexicans were nice people. She didn't have a clue about any logical border concerns or our government's responsibility to screen who and what is coming in. Loud immigrant "rights" protesters inexplicably ignore the modern world/global climate in which we live; which is considerably different than the day when we were still scooping up poop behind a horse and buggy...

I have Hispanic friends who are not 19 and should be more cognizant of life-experience at this point than they are when it comes to this issue, yet they voice the same level of ignorance and flash-like anger that my young classmate did. They do not attempt to acknowledge anything except the all-powerful entitlement of ALL Mexican immigrants. Congress struggles today with proposing a remedy that will both provide reasonable hope for citizenship and implement a workable standard that addresses necessary funding, security, work status, language competency and everything else. Good luck.

My growing sense of smarts is quickly nullified when I think about what my own children have witnessed first-hand while living in Southern Mexico. Robin was an employee of the Mexican government in a wonderfully conceived adult literacy program. However, finding willing students was impossible when the campesinos worked from sun up to sun down in the corn fields. Education was not a tradition nor a viable standard with which they could relate. Leiland especially (and most recently), being 'embedded' in the state of Chiapas for 90% of his 2 year mission there, and Chiapas being the poorest state in Mexico with the highest indigenous population, infant mortality, illiteracy, jungle protected drug cartels, etc., the situation is desperate. He saw entire villages where most of the adults were absent - for years if not forever, from the lives of their young, starving children they left behind to go "al norte", to the U. S. The system of family and decency is ruptured and bleeding to death.

When a major hurricane hit and the city he lived in on the Guatemalan border was flooded, he was horrified not only to see death all around him, but the cowardly spectacle of men hauling buckets of beer or a television to safety while their wives attempted to lead little children and babes in arms to higher ground. Many of them did not succeed, and some made the agonizing choice to abandon their little ones so they themselves could escape. The people in the aftermath of this catastrophe were left without help or services to the extent that would make Katrina and New Orleans seem like a debutante ball. The corruption in the Mexican government is more than a swashbuckling legend of Zorro, it's a cruel and bloody reality.

For all my feelings of smarterness, there are also far more things that appear to have no clear answer. I don't know how the Mexican government can wean herself from demanding the U.S. support her incompetency. I don't know what will motivate her to acquire the funding, to say nothing of assuring loyalty and integrity throughout it's various arms of influence, to really lift her own people out of the tragic circumstances that compel them to leave everything that is human nature to stay and protect and nourish. It's too big. It's just too big.

As an American in Mexico in a border state, Leiland was also detained a few times and witnessed many times how the Federales treat illegals from Guatemala and Central America. They were brutalized at the butt of a rifle or machine gun, robbed, kicked and tossed into army transport vehicles or trains back to the border. Women "immigrants" fared much worse, although thankfully he had to take that based on 2nd hand information and never witnessed it himself.

I don't know how to fix that, either. Apparently being a Federale is much like being a professional athlete. Thinking about what you're doing and finding the vocabulary to express it are probably not required.

Wings of Promise

Do you ever notice how when you come upon a dying bee on the sidewalk, you have to stop and examine it - or, is this just me? It strikes me as weird that out of all the places a retiring bee could drop from the sky - how do they happen to land out in the open like that? It's almost like an exhibit: Come and look at me! And, I guess I do.

They are beautiful. Their wings are so delicate and their little black faces seem kind of earnest and business-like. Perhaps this is because of all the positive associations mankind has given them like "hard-working", "industrious" and "busy as..." We admire their cooperative spirit, too, all that fanning the inside the hive to monitor the internal temperature, the division of duties - nurse, guard, drone, worker, queen - and the little communication dance when one of the group has discovered a ripe source of pollen. This is all PBS stuff, of course, I have never voluntarily approached a busy bee on purpose in my whole life. This appears to have been a fine strategy, too, since I have never been stung.

One time, I was in Durango, Colorado and visited a honey shop. There was a clear, plastic tube running from the outside of the building all through the store to a central acrylic case right in the middle of the place. It housed a bunch of wonderfully over-flowing honey combs tended faithfully by scads of very busy, buzzing bees who crawled in and out all day long in that tube. It was amazing!

Currently there is a strange plague, or series of them, that are threatening honeybee populations across the world. It's more than just pondering the random dead bee, keepers are discovering entire hives that have vanished in a day. The fact that they didn't even make it home before they disappeared is alarming...because left alone in the hive, is the queen. Expired, I presume, in company with the whole nursery of baby bees. This is something that could be disastrous to our nation's agriculture for starters, since the lowly bee is nature's pollinator.

Sadly, bees and bee doings are mostly unappreciated, I imagine. Parents are like bees. It's a good thing when there are 2 of them; they can take turns with the division of duties, but there really is not much room for the traditional queen role. I'm certainly in no mood to sit around 12 times my original size and lay eggs by the millions. However, being hand-fed once in a while might be appealing.

Bending over to get a better view of the poor, dying bee kind of makes me wonder; he's just one. He did his part, he accepted his lot and gave it everything he had. In the process, he gave life to his world in an incredibly expanding spiral of influence that goes way beyond the nodding blossoms in his wake.

I got a mother's day card from my Beedee (Robin). She had warned me it was coming late, but I forgot. Monday, the day after Mother's Day - I was happily surprised by her beautiful homemade greeting. Inside she had written partly, "...I'm grateful for all you taught me."

She is only ONE. So each are the other four, only one at a time ~ part of me, of US and our life here, out in the world, busy with their new lives, doing their part. Oh! And now there's also Jack! The grandbaby bee - the one & only! Now our parental sphere is expanded to a whole new level.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be a queen.

Subliminal

I have been feeling itchy ever since we saw the little kid on t.v. who had 2 spiders flushed out of his ear. This is probably a great statement of how media achieves an influence over the minds of the people. I don't care...I'm just really glad we have a lot of q-tips.

Another thing nagging at the back of my mind is something that happens every single time I do yard work. I like to mow the lawn. I like to dig, to clip, to rake, all of it. I like the sensation of being really hot and sweaty and asking the kids to bring me a cup of ice water before I pass-out - not that our yard is a garden showpiece or anything; it's not. The only thing I can't handle is the weed-whacker. It's too heavy and I feel like I'm going to slice a leg off.

Anyway, whilst I am enjoying my little ritual of hard, manly labor in the great outdoors, I think of my dad every single time. This bothers me, because I am still pretty angry with my dead father.

The second oldest of 4 and the only girl, I was NOT the little princess. I had to compete with 3 brothers and a neighborhood crawling with boys. I had no use for dolls or fancy dresses. It was the late 60's. It was more than a perk to be really good throwing a baseball or a dirt clod, or wielding an air bazooka - it was a necessity. It was also sweet justice to be the only girl who wasn't afraid to hold a ribbon snake (our babysitter dropped it when it's tongue flicked out and it died the next day); the boys thought that was mighty boss of me. But very few things about me seemed to impress my dad.

My older brother was expected to help with the yard work on Saturdays. And he did, for a while. But he would exit the scene way before we were finished, and I counted on Danny going a-wol because then I would have dad all to myself. I admired his Herculean strength and the way the sweat dripped off the edge of his nose. He said it did that because he was a "Portugee". It was a truly delicious effort, working furiously to keep pace with a big guy like that and hoping he would notice. He was more cheerful out in the yard than in any other setting.

So now, 40 years later (and almost 4 years that he's been gone), why should I automatically think of following him around our acre lot on Jellico Avenue - the panting, puppy-like invisible slave of Saturday chores? It's pathetic. It's not some kind of weird, spiritual communication, is it? I don't ever remember him saying, "Good job!" or "Thanks for helping me!"

But today, as I mowed the front lawn and trimmed the oleanders, I couldn't shake the image of his younger self bustling full gear around that extensive yard with it's 30+ trees, the rose garden, and hedges, the riding mower circling the lawn cranked all the way to "4" on the speed option. The sensation of me as a little girl following in his powerful shadow was sharp and insistent.

I think he was thinking I did do a good job, but had missed trimming the driveway.

My Carbon What - ?

So Queen Elizabeth is visiting the former colony of Jamestown today. To demonstrate her environmental acuity, she opted to compensate for her "carbon foot-print" ~ the energy usage/pollution represented by her trans-Atlantic flight yesterday ~ to the tune of $20,000.

Well, cheerio! I can just picture her sitting in Buckingham Palace surrounded by Louis XIV furniture and servants offering tea and crumpets whilst she studied the theoretical concerns of green house gases. Prince Phillip, I imagine, "fresh" from a morning romp on the polo field might have contributed to the discussion; at least as far as it related to pesky pony doody and the accompanying methane risk...

The $20,000 we are told, is going to "various agencies that deal with environmental issues" such as efforts to save the rain forest and the like. The wording in the news report was characteristically nebulous.

You'd think it would have been a much more productive P.R. move on 'Lizzie's part to present a homeless shelter or a children's aids clinic with her royal generosity once she arrived in the States after so many years of ignoring us. On the other hand, she might explain what she's doing with the treasury; is that really her money to feel environmentally guilty about? What in the heck are Brits thinking to be so incredibly indulgent of a defunct monarchy? I'll bet the "carbon foot print" for the pampered royal set is a whopper...seems like there should be genuine and vigorous outrage over that.

What about real issues that effect every day life - no theory, but fact: where's the public outrage for $3+ per gallon gas? Illiteracy? Five hour waits in filthy emergency rooms? Meth addiction and horrific birth-defects? Banishment of play-ground games because they might injure a child's self-esteem? Diamond-studded cat collars?

We have become a society of the ridiculous. Let's put a carbon price tag on STUPID; like our breathless anticipation for the latest celebrity sighting, inane political statement or celebrity 3rd world country adoption. For starters, something like $150,000 per each rehab exit photo, and maybe $250,000 for a shaved head. We could have a rotating duty on a volunteer people's committee allocate the resulting funds flooding in to real causes...

Now we're talkin' relevant carbon.