Screaming White Blouse

The 7th grade band and chorus concert/Disneyland trip has a price tag: $200+, a trip to Walgreen's for the carry-on snacks and Rachel's excitement driving us crazy for a whole week prior to the BIG DAY. That was today.

I woke her up at 4:30AM. She arose like an angel, her happy little face barely illuminated by the bathroom light filtering into her still night-darkened room. I wondered who this pleasant creature was. She was fully dressed and fixing her hair probably 8 seconds later. I slipped into her room and stashed a little note into her bag for her to find later. We shared a couple of toaster strudels, licking the icing from our fingers while keeping an eye on the clock. I asked her if she had her concert shoes packed - she said she did. So I told her about my dream last night where she got there and discovered she had forgotten her black shoes, and had to wear her tennis shoes instead. Ha ha.

4:48AM we are standing by the open trunk of the car. I ask her again, "Are you sure you have everything?" She said yes. We left for the school with the windows down. The air was chilly and fresh. I told her about the fun I had going on band trips like this with her two older brothers. I told her I was sorry I wasn't going on this trip with her, but she was going to have a lot of fun.

Three huge tour buses were idling full blast in the back parking lot, their multiple yellow contour lights blazing like a mobile Las Vegas - surly an omen of good things to come! Back-pack bedecked kids were scrambling everywhere, lugging a horn case or greeting friends. Rachel raced to the band room to collect her flute and sheet music. Maybe they wouldn't be waiting for the one kid who didn't wake up on time. Rachel barely held still for me to kiss her good bye. A final "have fun!" was about all I could say and she had bolted into the happy confusion.

What a relief. I was glad I wasn't going. I set the kitchen timer to wake me up about an hour and a half later to get Asia to school, and settled on the couch.

After waking Asia up, I turned to leave the bedroom. There, hanging crisply on the door handle, was a nicely pressed white blouse. In a flash several things exploded in my head: a devastated Rachel face at about 3 o'clock this afternoon, the scene of our 'check-list' last night to make sure she had everything, me flooring the rented red mustang to catch up to a tour bus with a 2 hour head start...

I called the band teacher's cell phone number listed on the itinerary. I just couldn't believe it; I heard myself leaving her a message that this was my mistake because Rachel had put it on the front of the door but I had switched the blouse to the back of the door to close it when they went to bed - it was all my fault. You can't see the blouse very well on the back of the door like that. Rachel doesn't normally forget anything, she was going to be very disappointed - but please point out to her that the top she's wearing now is mostly white and from on stage the little yellow flowers won't show at all and it will be fine...

With all my life experience at this point, all of it; tragedy, intrigue, miracles and pains, the horror I felt that the blouse had been forgotten was excruciating. I literally had to concentrate on breathing slowly, and busy myself with dishes or something to calm down. I tried not to think about Rachel feeling self-conscious at the band concert. I knew she would be fine. I knew it was just a simple mistake.

Nevertheless, I went back in there and grabbed the blouse a little too quickly, and hung it up in their closet. I could feel my teeth gritting together when hanger met rod. Now it was just an anonymous article of clothing among so many others. There was nothing special about it.

I turned my back on it and went away.

Imbalance

Puppy Prozac? Kitty diabetes? Pet psychiatrists who can offer therapy sessions in the comfort of your own home? Canine obesity medication that costs $3 a day (or whatever they said)(!) ...and pet "accessories" like custom birthday cakes with beef pureé between layers instead of cream cheese filling and I'm not even going to mention animal clothing, jewelry and beauty salon style treatments including coloring...did I mention the most provocative trend; pet health insurance?!

Clearly, some people should not have custody of an animal. Even the Dog Whisperer alerts the public that many owners have rendered their dog psychotic because they have failed to recognize and nurture their 'dogness'. Dogs need to sniff and lick inappropriate places to be balanced. They require regular opportunities to roll in something putrid and smelly; preferably both. A dog is not happy in a wedding gown or confined inside a condo with white carpet all day long.

Is your pooch fat? Take him on a walk. For pete's sake, how do people even begin to think like this? There should be some public outrage about insensitivity towards species culture, or a fine for species-confusion abuses.

It is not acceptable that some people consider their pet to be their "child". When people have a child who will never speak or be able to provide for his own needs, they do not dress him in costumes. A child is not a pet, and a cat will never carry on the family name. Why don't these child-hungry people adopt the real thing?

Don't get me wrong, many of my best spiritual experiences have revolved around a relationship with an animal. I really like them. I reject the illogical compulsion to seriously assign human-like qualities to someone who - if given his 'druthers - would always choose to act like an animal. We should celebrate this natural proclivity of "Ginger" to be true to her breed. We should be careful to separate our affection for living creatures from our intimate and larger bond with and responsibility to our own flesh and blood.

Although ~ come to think of it, I have seen many children who resembled pampered, over-indulged or exploited and miserably undisciplined pets...

I guess if two people can ride in a cab from New York to Arizona because they didn't want to insult their 2 cats by stashing them in the cargo hold of a plane, well, I suppose we're doomed to whatever consequences result from our choice of indulgences.

It would be kind of ironic if one of those cats developed an allergy to Sedona, wouldn't it? Or better yet, maybe they will hire a lawyer and submit a petition for emancipation because their input was not considered in the removal from their place of nativity...oh, yeah, this could be good. Let's wait and see.

Que Lástima

I found this cute little blue and white denim tote for $3 at a thrift store. It was a lot of fun finding 50 cent plastic necklaces and 5 cent bracelets for super cheap at S.A.S. - the local warehouse fabric store. If you are up to it, you can have the pleasure of diving into vast, musty piles of yardage, ribbon and whatnot per the dozen or by the pound. They accept only cash. Never enter with children.

I bought one yard of a bright floral polyester and cut it up at home into 4 little scarves. Digging into my costume closet, I selected toddler-sized baseball caps and little girl's frilly hats. A quick pass of needle and thread dressed them up with a cool batman logo or a silk flower. At a Goodwill 50% off everything day, I plucked 3 miniature handbags from a sloppy bin of purses. I found a great Phoenix Suns basketball jersey in a size 4; perfect for quickly "dressing-up" a little boy over his Sunday clothes. I packed everything into the denim bag. Attached to the handle in a smart red ribbon was a laminated tag identifying it as "Our Nursery Dress-up Bag".

If you've ever worked the nearly 2 hour exhausting block of an L.D.S. church nursery catering to x number of little children aged 18 months to 3 years old, you can appreciate what kind of miracle bag o'tricks this could be! I donated it. That was 2 weeks ago.

Today as I entered the church foyer an hour early for choir practice, there on a foyer table was one of my little baseball caps. I felt uneasy in my stomach; what had happened to the Nursery dress-up things? Whenever you donate something, you really don't have the expectation to follow the use of said item or items...but the discarded Batman cap was an ominous beginning to the life of a dress-up bag.

Finally, 2 hours later I was anxiously watching for the nursery leader. The recently cleaned and re-organized nursery was a chaotic mess. Apparently the cabinet had been left un-locked, and the Spanish-speaking ward got into our things. It took a while to excavate the dress-up bag...gutted. All of the plastic jewelry was gone. Every single thing.

Of all the items in the bag, the plastic jewelry was by far the least expensive and represented the least investment of time and preparation. But its theft left me struggling with fluctuating feelings of betrayal and compassion. Of course little hands would gleefully extract those necklaces and consider them a treasured find. I wondered about the mother who would eventually notice a daughter coming home a little more accessorized than when she left - FOR CHURCH. Yeah, that's what was bugging me. It wasn't the first time something had 'disappeared', and others had commented under their breath that it was probably the Spanish ward whodunnit.

I told myself it was ridiculously inconsequential. For $4 or $5 I could replace all the missing jewelry. Most of the other things were still in the bag. It was my gift to give, unsolicited, and I had done so gladly. Tricky business, this - sharing the same worship space and still squaring off in our respective corners of suspicion. I wished I could explain to the Spanish ward how much nicer it is to share things and keep them tidy where they belong so everyone could enjoy them. But then I remembered, the bag was originally tucked away into a cabinet they could not unlock. I am not the nursery leader, and I was only responding to an open donation drive for "the nursery". Honestly, I hadn't really thought about which ward it was supposed to be for.

If I was in the giving mood, maybe I should have made two dress-up bags.

Diluted Demands

Here we go again. It doesn't take long for accusations to fly: against the school, the police response, our violence-saturated society...everyone wants to know why the students and faculty at Virginia Tech weren't protected from a mad man. Well, because he was a mad man.

It is not exactly helpful to focus on how open the campus was or how difficult it was to issue a warning to a student body of more than 20,000 coming and going. And shades of 9-11: WHO would have thought a blood-bath would occur 2 hours after what seemed to be an isolated "domestic" crime at a dorm half a mile away? No one had ever considered a hijacked plane as a flying bomb before. No one thinks of our sacred home territory as a potential killing-zone. If the campus had been surrounded by 12-foot walls topped with razor-wire, or if there had only been one way in or out, where individuals were strip-searched, x-rayed and metal-detected - then and only then might we be able to reasonably anticipate thwarting a psycho with a mission.

Americans, more than any other people demand their freedoms and privileges. We demand our way of life uninterrupted - fast food, frequent entertainment and shorter lines at Wal-mart. We are true to form as we complain when things interfere with our daily routine. Like the water scare recently in Phoenix; remember all the people whining to the camera that they couldn't get their Starbucks morning latte for the few days the city water was suspect?

Even the resurrected gun control debate will not dampen our collective demand for what we love best; an open-society. We love it more than American Idol! America is defined by drive-thru McDonald's, unlocked ice coolers outside 24 hour Circle Ks and public spaces that are exactly what they promise - public.

As heinous and as shocking as the V.T. shooting is, the incident is still an aberration. This is not Tianamen Square or an IRA, al-qaeda or Hamas attack...America is still an incredibly safe and beautiful place. Not because we are 100% safe, but because we expect safety. We expect to go to places thronging with strangers and commerce and exchange and debate. We pack our sports stadiums, exulting elbow to elbow with tens of thousands of strangers all doing the same thing. We demonstrate our grievances, we form pickit lines if we feel like it, fill our court rosters with enormous amounts of litigation and pretty much expect to have "our say" about anything we please.

Occasionally (admittedly more often), we suffer the explosive 'blip' of unanticipated depravity. The vast majority of our people manage to live, work and play together without stuffing our pockets with a couple of semi-automatics and a class schedule.

As Americans, we also choose to come together and offer support and comfort in far-reaching displays of selflessness and spiritual generosity. We may not be as achingly benevolent as the Amish community last October, but they are after all, part of us too.

I hear a lot about second-guessing tactics and policies in an attempt to secure a safer future. I just don't know how that is going to work; do we really want to live in a society where we report every suspicious person to the authorities? And on what do we base our suspicions? If we were suddenly hauled in for an interrogation "in the public interest", would we not feel wholly violated? Who would be demanding what, then?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

May God bless Virginia Tech and all of her families, and God bless America.

Mom da-Bomb

Rachel is never satisfied with her hair. It is gorgeous. She hates it. It is truly her 'crowning glory', the envy of all who glimpse its rich, strawberry-blond thickness falling luxuriously about her 12 year old going on 20 face. She complains bitterly and fusses with it forever in the bathroom. If I offer to help with it, there is something of a mad-dog scene that follows.

Last night she brought me an ancient collection of sponge rollers. No, they were not the same ones her sister Robin used to be subjected to every night so her very delicate, white-blond hair would be curly for school. Robin was a docile little girl who thanked mommy for the exquisite torture of making her sleep in sponge rollers so she could look pretty...Ray Ray is the caboose of five and a different animal entirely. I have not been welcome to partner with her on her various coifs. So it was an unexpected request when she handed me the bag of curlers and said, "Will you help me?"

I explained how we should probably only use the extra large ones, and then only a top layer since her hair was so thick. We agreed we wanted to avoid an afro. But she insisted on using two medium sized rollers to frame her face. I am an old mom. I am a tired mom. I obeyed my 12 year old who has no experience with rollers. At this point in life, the temporary rewards sometimes suffice. My volatile pixie was temporarily pleased with her mother...I'll take it.

In the morning, I made sure to be busy making her school lunch. Eventually, she appeared in the kitchen with the results. It was even worse than I thought it would be. I did not laugh. I had noted in an instant her very carefully applied mascara, the cute little peasant top and matching pink necklace, the new flip-flops on feet with alternating green and pink toe nail polish. Rachel's voice was uncharacteristically weak and faltering as she whimpered, "I look like George Washington..." Yes, she certainly did! I resisted the urge to compare her with a dollar bill.

As tears threatened, we hurried together for some bobby pins. The vigorous curls contributed to a tidy bun with a two-way twist, thanks to the too-tight ones pulled back from her forehead. She was fixed in less than 30 seconds, and I even heard a whispered "Thanks, mom".

That's right. You got it. Uh-huh. That's me.

Saved by the Blog

I am behind the times. I will be 50 this year, and I still don't have a clue how to retrieve messages from my cell phone - they are mostly spam anyway or some Mexicans who get the area code wrong and keep asking for 'Marisol'. I didn't have a prayer of getting my power point done for my Spanish class last semester without the able assistance of my 17 year old daughter. And, I really do thank the pilot after a successful flight; how could anyone get used to crossing time zones and continental divides like it's just a walk in the park?

My family tells people I am easily amused. I prefer to think of myself as exceptionally appreciative. While I fully admire my kid's ability to text message and photo shop and MP3 MySpace Adobe PDF whatever - (I admit I can't watch a DVD by myself because I don't know how to turn it on), they probably wouldn't have coped very well with the way things used to be.

Take the physical effort of manual typewriters, for example. Gotta love that precious carbon paper to make copies - or better yet, hand-cranking the ditto machine to roll out wet, chemically saturated copies that somehow looked like an abstract watercolor after about the 30th sheet. Having some kind of cordless communication device was only for 007 or Maxwell Smart. Power windows were only in Cadillacs, color t.v's were usually only in someone else's house and hauling laundry in from the clothes line a standard family chore. People were afraid of microwave ovens when they first came out; what about the deadly 'microwaves'? Remote control was a little brother, and tape recorders had reels of 1/2" wide tape almost as big as salad plates. We had our Hi-Fi stereo as a basic furniture item, and when we said, "I'll dial the number," - we really meant it.

Even though she has been away from home for 11 years, I rely on my oldest daughter for some of my more critical technical needs. She and other young professionals like herself are communicating across the continent on a daily basis. They are doing things and getting things done. They are sharing ideas and networking their resources for everything from recipe advice to small business marketing. Always, they are posting 'pics' and videos and transposing their world into a 3D conduit of what appears to be very fun, very cosmopolitan lives and life experiences.

We have a beautiful encyclopedia set. We sacrificed to purchase it when a local supermarket offered it at a great price. About 6 months later the iron curtain fell, rendering much of it obsolete in an instant. I still feel more comfortable reaching for a quick, tangible reference search on the printed page than I do 'navigating' the web with its dizzying array of choices. However, if I really need information yesterday, I call Robin.

Recently we had the sad urgency to ask for very specialized help; did she know anyone who spoke Romanian? A little part-member family in our Ward suffered the sudden loss of their dad to a heart attack. He escaped communist Romania when he was 24, somehow dodging barbed wire and armed guards surviving for several weeks on roots and berries. Most of his large, immediate family eventually followed him to freedom in the U.S., settling in the ethnic neighborhoods of Chicago. It was for them we wanted to sing the last verse of "Abide With Me" in their native tongue. With a flick of the electronic wrist, Robin had a 'shout out' to her 'peeps'. Within hours we were communicating with 3 different Romanian speakers who were friends of a friend of a friend. Thanks to the 'hook up', the next day we sang perfect Romanian to a surprised group of mourners.

I appreciate the kind generosity of these young, technically gifted and well-traveled bloggers and e-mailers. It was an impossible request, given the time-line especially, yet total strangers rallied to the cause and gave grief a backseat to a 4 part harmony message of comfort.

Times change. And I am glad they do. Thank goodness for boxed hair color that can be stocked like food storage, reading glasses from Walgreens and those new girdles promoted by Oprah. Being a Grandmother is an incredible joy. These are great times when light and knowledge 'flood the earth' ~ and time, space and culture really can be bridged with the human touch. "Ramai Cu Mine".

waiting

It feels like coming full circle to pull into the parking lot of the Good Samaritan Wound Clinic. 29 years ago it was the o.b. clinic I attended while expecting the arrival of my first child. I was 20 years old. I was breathlessly excited to become a mother. I politely corrected the young, arrogant interns and nurses every time they suggested I had dropped out of school or didn't have a husband. Waiting seemed intolerable; I was uncomfortable, swollen, and annoyed that I had to wait so long every time for my appointment. It seemed like waiting the 9 months was forever...

Nearly 17 years later, I visited the same building again with my 5 children and my husband. It had become a rehabilitation complex after the old hospital adjacent to it had been torn down and replaced with the new one. We were visiting my dad, a recent paraplegic following surgical complications. The rare times he smiled happened when my children sang for him. I felt like I did a lot of waiting there, too. Waiting for him to acknowledge what a good little family I had. Waiting for him to say he was sorry for leaving us in the divorce. Waiting for him to be a participating grandparent...

Now we have returned to this modest 3 story building for another purpose. Rehabilitation still goes on upstairs, but downstairs is the wound clinic. Our magic man is Dr. Marc Gottlieb. He is one of the most expert plastic surgeons in Arizona for difficult wound care. He is as eccentric as he is gifted. He is comfortable in this building, where he has ready access to everything he could desire to treat literally piles of patients who wait with the patience of Job often as long as 4 or more hours every Friday just for the opportunity to be one appointment closer to healing.

We sit and wait also, noting the faces, bandages and stories of our fellow waiters. They are generally a quiet group. Many are obese, their diabetes preventing their wounds from a normal healing process. Many are elderly or just appear so after years of suffering. Too many are missing a limb, a foot or their fingers. They all notice us.

Asia is noteworthy. She is beautiful. She wears trendy little boxer shorts with comic book heros or some other fun print on them to her clinic appointments so she doesn't have to change her clothes. She laughs quickly, and sometimes jumps into the quiet conversations nearby. They are glad she does, and are anxious to speak to this little beauty. There is not much hesitation in this place for strangers to ask, "What happened to you?" Here they feel welcome to share, and they do. An animal bite, an infection, a fall, an accident.

She is only 17. I can see how her youthfulness lightens the faces of those whose days are quietly blurring one into the next, confined to their wheelchairs or their oxygen machines. Their eyes are not sad, though, and they usually want to give her something. They offer some of their valuable life experience, or advice. They smile, and tell her it will be OK someday. She's going to be just fine. Her leg won't slow her down at all, she'll see. And, they remind her, she does have the best doctor in the world.

I think she is finally beginning to believe them. I have been waiting almost 3 years for this.

La Fiesta de Libertad

I am falling in love with a trio of old Arizona mining towns. Their crumbling, sideboard buildings with the occasional second story porch featuring remnants of gingerbread posts are like eye candy to my artist's eye. The rugged, high desert terrain and huge, open sky is the realm of dainty mud swallows, hawks, or regal black ravens and the not so regal vulture. The ever looming mountains of mine tailings are part of a recently initiated "reclamation project"; the stark black tailings now covered by a light colored stone over which new grass is growing.

Claypool seems to be the only town with an appropriate name, the other two have some explaining to do: Globe and Miami. The highway threads slowly around western store fronts and boarded up boom-town motels sadly past their glory. As the mines shut down one by one in the 70's, the families moved out. Squatters and social out-casts with harleys and tattoos moved into the abandoned old rooms. The town council is still working on trying to clean things up.

Mexican Independence Day offered a grand Fiesta in the old town Miami park last Saturday, the 16th of September. We went to join the celebration and gather resources for my Spanish class report on the subject. I attempted to speak the mother tongue to everyone I encountered. However, most of the vendors and participants were Anglo or Indian. The party was laughably small and almost ran out of food. It felt more like a family reunion, and we looked forward to the start of the "World Famous Corrida de Chihuahuas".

I hit pay dirt in a nuevo amigo by the name of Pablo Cruz, a native son of Miami who traveled the world in the U.S. service and returned home to stay. He apologized for his "Spanglish", and happily continued his life story for us. He referred repeatedly to his wife Yolanda with obvious affection. He told me my Spanish was very good. I was thankful for the little white lie.

He also told me the history of Mexico's 2 Independence Days, Cinco de Mayo & the 16th of September. He got his facts backwards - instructing us that the Battle of Puebla was the break from Spain instead of France. He breezily admitted his error and confirmed that no one he knew observed any traditions for "El Dia De Libertad"... in fact, this was their very first time to attend the Fiesta.

After so much heated anticipacion and walking around rat-sized little yapping dogs that had been painted with racing stripes by their equally eccentric owners, we had only a fleeting glimpse of Chihuahua rear ends IF they were coaxed to race at all. Many refused, in spite of the high-pitched pleadings from their biker daddy or roundish earth mother in a mumu and flowered hat- squatting at the finish line squeaking a favorite fluffy toy for little dogs named "Zorro Mata", "Flash Tafoya" or "Pinky" or "Sweetums".

We shook hands with Pablo Cruz (a great band from the 70's)and exchanged our "vaya con Dios". We left with a little sunburn, some Navajo jewelry, digital photos and a kiss on my hand by one of the strolling cantantes.

Viva Miami.

Garden Appeal

There is a hollyhock plant that spontaneously sprang up as if I had carefully planted it right in an ideal spot of our normally emptyish planter earlier this spring. It appeared like a weed when it was first emerging, several times I was tempted to pull it out; but decided to wait and see.

To my great surprise and delight (feeling a little like Jack & the Bean Stalk), the mysterious growth proved to be a glorious, abundantly blooming pink hollyhock almost 6 feet tall. Having no green thumb whatsoever, I felt inner smugness that our front yard finally had a deserving ornamentation; and a truly faithful one at that! My hollyhock enthusiastically produced large, beautiful blooms day after day week after week. I thought she would soon tire of her labors and dreaded the day my garden 'perennial' finally gave up and died.

She certainly had enough reason to retire; the week it hit a stunning 118 degrees being a deadly example. Her position in the direct and western sun most of the day seemed particularly harrowing. Sustained by only a little watering, she thanked me with an ever more astonishing display of her precious blossoms.

Parenting is kind of hap-hazard, I think, like the sudden arrival of the hollyhock. Life-altering injuries sustained in one fateful instant to our beautiful girl have us still gasping for air over 2 years later - her post traumatic stress syndrome is a prickly, tenatious threat to her growth.

A more direct threat appeared recently in the form of a surprise internet introduction to her Myspace by a stranger who claimed to be a 'friend' of her older brother. With this quasi authenticity, his true motives were not immediately apparent. Our careful monitoring and repeated talks with her about vulnerability just didn't seem to soak in. The issue exploded one morning when I had her trapped in the car with me. I yelled and cried and pounded the steering wheel. Desperate for her to understand our desire to keep her safe, I prayed in my head for something magical to do or say that would break through her resentment.

Two things happened: pulling into a Costco parking spot, the spirit whispered, "Look to the right."
A young mother was tightly holding the hands of her 2 little boys before crossing the street. I jumped on this maternal instinct as an inspired object lesson. I told my daughter if I could go back in time, so she could be a tiny little girl again - who needed me to hold her hand so I knew I could keep her 100% safe, I would do it. Even if it meant that fate dictated one day she would again be seated at a bus stop as a high-speed police chase rocketed toward her - I would do it all again.

Two thick tears slid down her cheeks. My voice was almost gone. I had no feeling in my finger tips. We went into the store.

45 minutes later we pulled into our driveway at home. Greeting us was the valiant but battered hollyhock. Her tall, arching stalk was dry and dead. Her base leaves were wilted and weathered. Yet, perched cheerfully on the very end of a small, previously unnoticed secondary stalk, was a fresh flower.

"See that hollyhock right there?" I said, fresh tears already choking my words. "That plant has endured an entire Phoenix summer - it's nearly dead. But look how it was still willing to focus its waning energy to produce that amazing flower...that is what I wish for you. There can be great beauty in spite of scars, and keeping you safe is my heart's desire."

The deleated Myspace was history, and my daughter did not seem to miss its false appeal. She began to talk to her friends on the phone instead. Her first week of school has been a good one. Last night she kissed me on the forehead, and went to bed.

Tubby

I saw Andrea Yates on court t.v. today. She's gained a lot of weight.

It's unbelievable we live in a society that feels 'compassion' or whatever the liberal it is that we can't just cleanly admit she was caught with her hands in the bath water, so-to-speak. No, we must drag her sad little mental saga through years of costly court dates and mounting legal stuff - I just don't get the debate.

And another thing; why isn't that weasel of a husband charged with something? He knew his wife was mental. He knew she was on the brink of muttering "redrum" and increasingly so after the birth each subsequent child. Why isn't he culpable for the gruesome result of his own denial?

We have a great fascination with CSI shows that deftly reconstruct a murder by the tiniest DNA sample, or the larva 'insitu' which soundly defines guilt. We love the technology and intrigue, and we especially are satisfied with the righteous outcome.

Yet ~ we can't decide the guilt of a woman who admits she did it. We all know she did it. Perhaps our reluctance to condemn a mother who kills her own babies in some distorted way soothes our conscience. We want to "understand". We recognize every mom can get a little blue now and then.

I wonder if her oldest son thought mommy was just "having a bad day" as he fought for his life there in the family bathtub.

Maybe prison food is high calorie or something.

Battle Fatigue

My grown, married, new father son turned away from his duty as a man. He said he was "afraid" of it. So was his wife. When I looked at it, so was I!Without emotion he replied he doesn't do spiders or roaches.

It was huge - and frolicking round and round inside our pantry sink, his prickly feet creating that familiar staccato that sends a chill down my spine. The irrigation had come today, and sewer roaches sometimes follow. We do live in the desert where water is the gift of life. If, however, the life has 6 legs I would prefer it remain outside. This guy looked like he had acclimated to being indoors. Since my son refused his manly duty, I prepared myself.

Years ago we lived in a double-wide mobile home with evaporative cooling, which is just the perfect environment for truly amazing sewer roaches. They were a hybrid species from some post-holacost society that could resist any and all forms of standard poisons and efforts to repel their entry. Daddy worked late. We were home alone. The roaches would begin their assault after the sun went down on humid, hot summer evenings. You could hear them scratching around inside discarded coke cans in the trash. Their scuttling generated real horror in my heart. The can had to be removed from the trash. This simple procedure might take 3 or 4 attempts - none of us wanted the beast to jump out onto our hand. Once the can was safely out on the kitchen floor, the kids and I were armed with brooms and a breathless few moments of waiting. Eventually the long, probing feelers would gently twitch at the flip-top opening of the coke can. The roach then boldly declared himself by rushing lightning quick out of the can and across the floor.

Batting furiously with our brooms we jumped and screamed like banshees. If we were not successful in beating it to death, it might take flight - there's nothing worse than having a sewer roach fly into your neck. Really. Sometimes the advent of the intruder was only announced by a scream somewhere in the house. We could count on each other to rally to the defense; upending furniture or poking underneath the refridgerator with a yardstick until at last the enemy was exposed and dispatched. The fear of the moment was not as motivating as our desire to protect each other and see it through together.

I never thought I'd look back on those experiences with any fondness, but I did today. The children and I were really a team; all for one and one for all. Sometimes when it was all over we'd just stand over the kill sweating and gasping, our throats sore from screaming, the gross-out factor right off the chart...but we got him. That was all that mattered.

I approached the pantry with a can of bug spray and a feeling of abandonment.

Smelly Ellie

We had been meaning to go for months and months. It is called, "Smelly Dog" - a do-it-yourself dog wash business off 7th Ave. The concept was as catchy as its name; no more nasty bathtub at home to clean after giving the dog a bath. Ellie is an outside dog, and she was really over-due for a good bath. After a vigorous brushing in the far corner of the back yard, the girls and I put her in the car and we headed out to 'Smelly Dog'. I was nervous, because Ellie is afraid of new people and sometimes acts aggressively towards other dogs. We didn't know what to expect about the place or how Ellie would react to it.

Inside we were enthusiastically greeted by half a dozen fluffy, happy dogs of all different sizes, shapes and colors. 3 or 4 human faces looked up and smiled as well. I swear they greeted our dog first. Lovely doggie treats were displayed everywhere in large, open bins and plastic containers. (I felt personally tempted by the ones that looked just like chocolate cookies with rainbow dee-dees on top). Two handsome young gay guys ran the place. One of them was lathering a big hairy dog, and the other squatted in front of the now cowering Ellie who had plastered herself flat against the tile floor. He put out the back of his hand to her nose, and spoke directly to her. "We're a little scared, are we?" he stroked behind her ear. Asia was explaining how Ellie isn't around other people or dogs very often, and that she was especially afraid of men, but none of that didn't seem to bother this guy one bit. The young man directed us to stall #3.

To our surprise, they supplied everything we could need, and more than I knew even existed for a dog bath. We each put on plastic aprons, and watched as our host deftly removed Ellie's collar for one that attatched to the front of the elevated tub. She submitted to the warm water wand, the 'no tears' shampoo (lots of it), the conditioner and the doggie spray-cologne that smelled like flowers. All the hairs fell into a little bucket under the drain. We toweled her and blew her with a hair dryer that was a long vacuum-like tube from a little plastic red dog house. We combed and brushed her blonde fur, and dabbed the inside of her ears with a cotton ball dipped in 'ear-refresher'. It was funny to be part of 6 arms and hands busily working over one dog.

The end result was a beautifully scented fluffy Ellie with freshly clipped toenails at no extra charge. She seemed to enjoy the whole thing, in a reserved way - it was actually kind of hard to tell because she still cowered and cringed with ridiculously sad eyes. She tentatively touched noses with some of the other furiously wagging dogs without incident. They made a little index card for our return visits, and filed it under Ellie Tanner. Our 6th visit would be free. Outside, we praised her for her good behavior. She looked like a different person entirely. We were damp and spitting out hairs while our dog looked like a canine queen. At home, I worried about the dusty back porch getting her dirty. I swept it and hosed it and spent half an hour making it spic and span. We kept her inside until the 111 degree heat outside dried the porch completely, and when I let her out, I ruffled the silky scruff of her neck and took extra time petting her again and telling her how much we admired her new look.

As soon as I was in the house and shut the door, I could see her through the window watching my retreat. After 5 immobile seconds, she ran to the middle of the yard and skidded her entire right side violently across the ground. She clawed like a mad badger as she plowed her body forward, making grass, dirt and pebbles fly. I yelled at her through the glass, but it was too late. She only paused long enough to switch directions and repeat the violation to the opposite side. Tongue lolling stupidly from her grinning mouth, bits of lawn and leaves delicately settling on the tips of still fluffed fur, I realized that now I was looking at a truly happy dog.

Rejected

I know they find me puzzling...a Mormon who agrees with most of their basic message, and who thanks them for their time.

The two women are always impeccably dressed, their cheerfulness and sincerity are truly admirable in the late afternoon heat of a Phoenix dog-day. Their visits follow a pattern. After a little chat, one will offer to share a scripture. It is intended to present something new and tantalizing. However, while it may seem foreign to mainstream Christians, it is not unfamiliar to LDS doctrine. This surprises them. A lot. The topic today was that the Lord promised to extend the life of this earth forever. "Yes," I say, "we are really looking forward to when the earth is restored to it's paradisciacal glory." (Articles of Faith, #10 Joseph Smith, Jr.)

Predictably at this point, they lose their cool slightly and both of them trip over each other trying to ask me a question they presume will stump me...letting me know that at one time one of them lived in Payson where there seemed to be a lot of "us".

The one in the background steps forward and fires away: "How do you feel about all the negative publicity your church has been getting lately?" She is openly smug behind her broad smile and arched eyebrows. "What negative publicity?" This is going to be good. I continue, "In fact, we are enjoying greater respect and influence from the media than at any previous time in history." During their stunned silence, I give a brief over-view of the world-wide humanitarian effort and the universiality of our support to it and our fellow men.

Oh, the 'fundamentalists' - now they're on track again. "They're not and we don't call them that, either." Now the first sister pipes up, "So you believe they are apostates?" I do not ignore the key word 'believe'. I explain that they have been for over a 100 years. I wonder why they don't notice my modern rhinestone-studded jeans and tailored blouse as they are speaking to me about a whack-o cult who prefers calico, braids and 13 year old brides.

I say goodbye because they are backing away and making a friendly exit. As I close the door, I wanted to hear what they were going to say to each other. I wished I was my oldest daughter, who is a brilliant missionary and disarmingly young and beautiful and articulate. They would have had something to talk about had she been the one at the door instead of me.

I wonder what motivates them to beat the sticky pavement like they do, making repeated return visits to someone like me who will not yield. It makes me wish I had something profound to say, so what faith I had to offer would be the new and tantalizing thing.

Running On Empty

I was feeling very educated to listen to "Founding Brothers", a New York Times best-seller book on CD - all 11 of them as a matter of fact,including a final CD number 12 which featured a fascinating phone interview with the author.

Listening while finishing two sewing projects and a big art project satisfied my desire to accomplish some things that needed to get done, and a craving to learn more about something - anything - almost.

Returning the CD set, I recognized a title as a famous book, although I couldn't recall any specifics about the story or the author. It appealed to me nevertheless and I happily checked it out. This morning I put the first of 7 discs into my daughter's portable CD player and programmed the eliptical machine at the school gym. I was smug to know I was once again being so incredibly productive with my time.

After about 40 minutes on the eliptical, 15 min. on the stationary bike and maybe half-way through the 4th chapter of the book, I could hear my conscience literally yelling at me to do the right thing; I turned off the CD.

A clever title like "Running With Scissors" should have been so much better than this. It was disappointing that skillfully crafted narrative would yield to the 'honesty' of being really gross.

Millons of people much more educated than myself had clamored to praise this book. It was a waste of a really great title. Then I remembered I had forgotten my glasses when I was at the library, and could not read the fine print on the CD jacket. Imagine my shock and surprise to read later that this was a non-fiction memoir.

Now I have a new question; who - having apparantly survived the mother of all dysfunctional childhoods - would want to tell everyone all about it? Some things really are best left alone.

Heard That

There was nothing there for me, or I should say - my term paper project. Only scant few pots and baskets from the correct time period, pre-history.

The Heard Museum in downtown Phoenix is the crown jewel of the city, and oozes influence and generosity: donated benches, lovely tiled plazas, state of the art exhibit rooms, and treasured items for display - every brass plaque polished and anxious to promote the name of each benefactor - duly noted. However, the names were all Anglo.

Not one room or hallway or stairwell dedicated to Yazzie, Tetsosie, Nez or Yellowknife. All the docents and tour guides were also White. The patrons lunching on the cafe patio were White, in fact, the only non-Whites I observed were a school bus driver and a woman with a dust mop and a uniform.

The exhibits were pretty predictable, sterile and nauseatingly tourist-oriented. It was a huge disappointment until I finally located an exhibit way off the main beat. It portrayed the boarding school era wherein the Federal Government detirmined to "civilize" the "savage". A topic I have studied, I was relieved to see a fair representation as one progressed deeper into the well designed exhibit areas. It is not politically correct to discuss Indians who actually loved the opportunity to learn and experience "outside" life, and even excell as many did in the 100 year history of the boarding school evolution.

I think the mark of real progress will be the day that one of their names will be featured prominately on a marble column or new elevator shaft...just kidding. They don't need a plaque. But apparently some White people do.

Popular

Driving home today, a good friend was out in her front yard. We slowed to a stop to greet Lucy. Then we invited her over for a play-date with Ellie. She looked like she really wanted to, and we were told she would be right over. Not more than 10 seconds after parking in our driveway, Lucy magically appeared smiling from ear to ear. We all ajourned to the back yard to sit in lawn chairs, sip cherry limeaide and watch our girls play with such reckless abandon it made us laugh out loud. When Ellie offered a fresh-picked grapefruit as a suitable toy, Lucy was not impressed. She obviously was more inclined to the old pork roast bone under the grapefruit tree - and settled down for a serious gnaw.

That pretty much was the end of play time. Ellie did a couple of half-hearted runs for us when I threw the rapidly deteriorating grapefruit for her to chase, and ultimately gave up and layed down in the grass next to her friend. I had to bring out more water for the water dish as they had both drained it completely.

When Lucy's Bill said the word "squirrel", she perked up and anxiously scanned the yard, ears shifting and her nose twitching. It was really cute. "Awh, she really loves to chase the squirrels up at the cabin," Bill said, finishing his drink. "Thanks for inviting Lucy over. She really had fun." He gave Ellie a parting scratch behind her ear as she wagged her tail. As he was leaving, he told us that after we drove away, all he had to do was tell Lucy, "Ellie!" and she took off down the street in a doggy bee-line for our house.

I was happy he mentioned that. There is something way too satisfying about learning you are so popular, or actually, that your dog is best friends with the neighbor's dog, and that she knew right where to find us from the single word cue, "Ellie".

Side-lining the BIG MARCH

My eye was drawn to the man running across the intersection at Camelback and 7th Avenue during rush hour this morning. He had the green light, but the fact that he was running in full neon orange vest and yellow helmet construction crew gear was kind of hard to miss. He was looking very intently at something ahead of him and to his left. I never even noticed the man who was out of his motorized wheelchair right next to me off the sidewalk until I followed running construction man's urgent line of vision as he crossed the street. The wheelchair was stuck in thick landscaping gravel, and the man's shriveled, twisted legs could barely hold him up as he tried to push his chair out. In my rear-view mirror, I could see the construction man reach the disabled guy and put a gloved hand gently on his shoulder as he probably began to say something like, "Hey, buddy, let me give you a hand..."

It was one of those things that you say to yourself, "Man! I'm glad I saw that!" I marveled at how a stuck wheelchair could have come to anyone's attention in a dusty light-rail construction site on the other side of four lanes of crazy Phoenix traffic. And, once the predicament was sighted, that a person would be prompted to physically respond and hurry to give assistance.

Yesterday, after the National Day of Action immigration march that drew an estimated 100,000 to down-town Phoenix, Alfredo Gutierrez - a former Arizona state senator, issued a short and hostile editorial in the Arizona Republic which threatend that his people would "take up arms" should current legislation "humiliate" them and "trample" their "rights". There is a good deal of political and social action brewing in town right now that did not get the same air-time as the emotional march Monday. Eventually we will hear more from those who resent the arrogance and gross intitlement exhibited by those who feel they are above the law and deserve all the priveleges of citizenship without the effort to earn it. Sentiments expressed at the all-day rally were loud, angry and bi-lingual.

In those 4 or 5 seconds in the far West South-bound lane of 7th Avenue as I passed the wheelchair scene at 40 mph, I noticed one more thing: the good samaritan was hispanic, and the other man was white.

I'm glad I saw that.

árboles

Launching into the much easier imperfect tense after a devestating attempt on the preterite the month before, my Spanish 102 class laughed out loud when I answered the professor's question, "¿Qué cosas te gustaban hacer en tu joventud? ("What things did you like to do in your childhood?") I quickly responded (in Spanish) that I used to climb trees.

Now, the composition of our intimate class of 7 is this: everyone else is 20 yrs old (Oh, I forgot the 17 yr old) and I am not. They could all be my children. They like to appear very savey and sophisticated. They all had big plans for Spring Break and alcohol, and frequently go to Las Vegas with boyfriends - rolling their eyes that their parents are not happy about that - yet they fully belly-laughed when I said I liked to climb trees as a kid.

There's a lot to be said for gaining the perspective of a handy branch. I could see into Mrs. Leonard's backyard, and if I was especially daring, I could see Butch's house from my English Walnut perch. It was important to mentally size-up a tree where ever you were, as it could offer a potential day's climbing.

Seeing what was on top of our own roof was really cool, for some reason. The tennis balls and frisbees that were stranded up there stayed bleaching in the sun until the fall clean-up day when we could go on the roof with Papa and rake all the leaves off into a huge pile next to the garage. One by one he threw us off onto a trampoline. It was deliciously dangerous and the reckless bounce was so worth it. Even the kid next door - jealously watching us - was invited up and given a rake and an e-ticket dismount.

Being in squirrel and crow territory also had its merits. We were kin with the wild things. Imbedded in a leavy canopy we could spy on mom as she hung clothes on the line or supress laughter until we were dizzy from oxygen deprivation when she called for us and we didn't answer, or better yet, toss green walnuts down onto our little brothers and make them cry. It was a great irony when my older brother broke his arm, it wasn't during one of our aggressive tree-climbing expeditions, but while showing off for my mom & me on the swing set!

My class just thinks of me as the funny old lady. I think they must have suffered a very shallow childhood. Each one of them said they only played nintendo when they were little, and certainly never helped their dad with the yard work. Too bad.

Just Because China

It was just a passing thought, I think it hit me while I was vacuuming. I asked my husband, "Do you think they will have my everyday china on the internet?" He responded a little under his breath that he thought we could easily find out.

A few minutes later on the computer screen was a photograph of my everyday china dinner plate that I had selected for my bridal registry at "Diamond's" over 30 years ago! The pattern is called 'Berries 'n Such' by Noritake. I don't know why I was so surprised it was so beautiful - because I have been looking at it almost everyday for 30 years.

As a young newlywed I had taken a little cake over to my brother's house on one of those plates. It was a silly token for a married couple's get-together, it wasn't even a legitimate cake, it was something new called "Stir 'n Frost". It was so tiny in its own little disposable paper baking pan it could have qualified as the Easy-Bake graduate model. But I was a grown-up married lady and I wanted it to look nice, so I took it out of the little paper pan and placed it carefully on my lovely china plate.

The evening didn't go so well...my sister-in-law can't play a game without cheating and she didn't even offer us a slice of the cake we had provided! Too embarrassed to mention it, we left without a taste and without my plate. Later, when I asked for my plate, she violently denied any knowledge of it. My pretty service for 8 was forever infamously reduced by 1.

When you have things because they were wedding gifts, you remember what happens to them and who gave them to you. The matching serving dishes given to me by Dr. Gibbons and his wife eventually were tragically chipped early. Four cereal bowls exited the scene one by one - utilized by anxious childish hands as water dishes for chickens in the back yard or some other equally china-at-risk endeavor. I lost 7 of my little cups all in one dramatic night - it's a dark memory. The 2 missing salad plates are mysteriously unaccounted for.

Today 2 large boxes arrived. Styrofoam static-charged 'peanuts' were never so appreciated! I slowly unpacked each of my replacement china pieces. They were beautiful. It was very emotional, this china. After 30 years you never know what will represent a marriage, a home, dreams and disappointments, a family gathered around the table.

For people who don't drink coffee, the little sugar and creamer were entirely impractical ~ but totally adorable. They, above all the other items, shouted "just because". I had actually purchased something I didn't really need just because I liked it. I should have had them all along.

Not Guilty

It is difficult to feel a sense of community in this one class. On the second day of class we were asked to sit in designated seats with arbitrarily assigned group-mates. Feeling manipulated, after a shocked silence and with continued coaxing from the professor, we reluctantly dragged our backpacks and personal accessories with us to our new areas.

Not forty minutes later our total fragmentation was illustrated by the hate rhetoric issuing passionately out of the mouths of my classmates, prompted by the very gentle voice of the professor who spelled out hate with the softest of voices I had ever heard from a man. The more flamboyant and reckless a student comment was, the more it was validated by the little voice at the front of the room. Our racial composition quickly presented a problem. Skin color identified us with the conquering horde or with those who were subjugated and defiled.

Logical thought, a minimal knowledge of world history, varying cultural perspectives, current events or even a cursory awareness of the nature of human behavior were not welcome as part of the "open" discussion. My interjections suggesting accountability with the kinds of myopic and chillingly angry opinions expressed were all rejected as 'insensitive'.

Yesterday, two days after my 16 year old daughter's 10^th surgery since her injury almost two years previous, class discussion suddenly broke new ground; the American judicial system and the criminal sentencing process. When they began to propose there ought to be a separate court system for indigenous people in America – because anything else denies them their spiritual and cultural identity – I spoke up again, and boldly.

The perpetrator who maimed my little girl for life was a Mexican. I asked my classmates if I should be satisfied for the Mexican Consulate to step in and adjudicate for my daughter's best interests – since that would be culturally appropriate for the defendant. This viewpoint was side-stepped by reference to our chapter study guide that day (prepared by group 2) which included an all important question: did we feel guilty for what happened to the American Indian, and if not, why not? Somehow we concluded the discussion by allowing that a good American is a guilty American.

For an ideology that reverences 'balance' and 'harmony' and living 'the beauty way', the still, small voice in this case is anything but the voice of peace. It was the last thing I expected from an American Indian Religions class at the local community college.