Runaway Train

1917. A year of firsts, all practically forgotten, buried by time. Maybe we should dust some of them off. 

Houdini is darn near killed performing his Buried Alive stunt. Promises to get it right next time.

Ella Fitzgerald is born but isn’t famous yet.

Bolsheviks storm the Winter Palace and kill the Czar of Russia and his entire family.

April 6, the United States declares war on Germany and enters World War I.

Dallas Love Field opens. The Red Baron is not invited to the ceremony.

Buffalo Bill Cody, 70, dodges bullets and arrows and bad press only to succumb to kidney failure.

Al Capone loses a knife fight and is thereafter referred to as Scarface.

Suffragettes picket the White House for the right to vote and are arrested and beaten. Three years later ratification of the 19^th Amendment finally guarantees them the vote.

John F. Kennedy is born to a life of privilege and destiny.

The Chicago White Sox beat the Giants in New York and win the World Series.

Bisbee, Arizona, makes national news that is completely forgotten by history books. Except in Bisbee, Arizona.


Well, it’s understandable. After all, there was a lot going on at the time. Why would anyone pay attention to a tiny little thing like mass kidnapping by vigilantes in a southern Arizona mining town and the attempted murder of 1,186 men while Houdini was busy faking his own death? Magicians are a lot more entertaining.

It’s an interesting story, though. You’d have thought people would remember the lessons begging to be learned.

In the summer of 1917, Bisbee was not only the largest city between St. Louis and San Francisco with a population of about 20,000, it was one of the most cultured cities in the West. Its heartbeat was the mining industry. The wealth generated there by its rich copper mines led to the opening of Warren Ballpark (as Arizona’s oldest ballfield, it pre-dated the opening of Wrigley Field by five years), the state’s first golf course, and Arizona’s first community library. All three are still in use today.

Phelps Dodge Corporation was also the heartbeat of this picturesque mountain town—the mining company dominated Bisbee as its largest employer. It owned some sizeable real estate there, including the largest hotel in town, its hospital, the only department store, the library, and the town newspaper—the Bisbee Daily Review.

It’s good to be king. Unless absolute power corrupts absolutely. Which it often does.

Enter World War I. Or rather, America’s official participation in the ongoing conflict. With a sudden demand for copper and Arizona’s mines its main suppliers, the ore’s price escalated, and companies and their stockholders were primed to reap enormous profits. Five thousand miners were needed round the clock to keep up the level of production, more than the town could provide. Immigrants from Europe and Mexico were hired to handle the extra workload. Though wages were above average, working conditions were predictably substandard. Inflation caused by the war ate up miners’ paychecks and the stage was set for another conflict.

Unions.

After years of failed attempts to recruit miners, in 1917 all the pieces fell into place, workers unionized, and by the middle of June mining companies were presented with a list of demands for improvements to safety and working conditions, all of them reasonable. Of course, that’s a subjective assessment—not the perspective of Phelps Dodge. Every demand was refused and within days about half the Bisbee miners were on strike.

As you might imagine, tensions ran high with the predictable spread of rumors which ran the gamut from a fear that pro-Germans had infiltrated the union, to panic that weapons and dynamite might be hidden around the town, all of it leading to an overwhelming suspicion about the possibility of sabotage.

Rumors. Not facts. Fear. Not Truth.

Fearful of their neighbors and co-workers, and angry, a group of miners who were loyal to Phelps Dodge and the other mining companies formed the Workman’s Loyalty League and, in concert with an another anti-union group formed in an earlier labor uprising, the Citizen’s Protective League, they held secret meetings and came up with a plan for dealing with the strike.

It’s hard to imagine what happened next. You might even think I’m making this up. But you and I both know truth is stranger than fiction. We’re living it right now.

On July 12, 1917, beginning at 2 a.m., more than two thousand Loyalty and Protective Leaguers began to assemble on Bisbee’s tiny downtown Main Street. By 5 a.m. they were all deputized, each of them wearing white armbands to distinguish themselves. The Western Union telegraph office, as well as Bell Telephone’s operations, were seized by the vigilantes and shut down. No communication in or out of the town was allowed. No federal or state officials were notified of the Leaguers’ plans, perhaps because the vigilantes and the sheriff had no legal authority to do any of this.

Beginning at 6:30, more than two thousand armed deputies, along with the sheriff, spread throughout the town, pulling men from their beds, their private property, and anywhere else in town. When the Bisbee Daily Review came out at 10:00, its headline in giant, bold-faced font, warned, “All Women And Children Stay Off The Streets Today.” Pretty sure the women and children were nowhere close to the streets by then. “Let no shots be fired throughout this day unless in necessary self-defense . . . All arrested persons will be treated humanely . . .” the letter, written by the sheriff and printed on the front page, boldly stated.

Though the deputized men were instructed to avoid violence, there were two fatalities right off the bat—a man who refused to be taken from his own home and the deputy he shot in the standoff. Later, more reports surfaced of beatings, robberies, vandalism and abuse of women. Shocker.

More than two thousand men were rounded up, not all of them miners—basically, one man per deputy. They were marched two miles outside of town—in an Arizona July—to Warren Ballpark where, surrounded by armed Leaguers, they were each given the chance to quit the strike. At eleven a.m., a train pulling livestock cars showed up and nearly twelve hundred unarmed men who refused to cave to intimidation were loaded into boxcars several inches deep in sheep manure, overseen by a machine gun mounted to the top of one of the cars, accompanied by 186 armed guards, and taken across the state’s border to Hermanas, New Mexico. They were left in the desert without food and water until a later train brought provisions, and left abandoned in that spot for two days until U.S. troops arrived on July 14. From there, they were escorted to detention locations in another New Mexico town and held for several months.

Chaos ensued back in the town of Bisbee as guards mounted at every road prevented people from coming or going. I believe that’s called martial law—the suspension of ordinary law. It was months before President Woodrow Wilson sent investigators to get to the bottom of the Bisbee Deportation, but in the end he failed to charge the participants with any crimes since up to that point no federal law existed to prevent the abduction of striking miners.

The young State of Arizona took no action against the copper companies who were behind the deportation. About 300 civil suits were eventually brought against the railroad and copper companies but none of them ever went to trial, most of them settling out of court. There weren’t even any murder charges pursued.

The entire circus was witnessed by the victims’ families and neighbors who watched the spectacle from their front porches, many of them stating how amazed they were by how smoothly the whole thing was executed. It was described as a “peaceful process” as groups of unarmed, sometimes shoeless, men were taken by their armed captors to the ballpark. Some citizens and business owners—presumably not “women and children”—loitered around the plaza downtown, watching as friends and loyal customers were herded off to the sheep trains, charged with committing treason in a time of war.

For not going to work. In the unsafe, low-wage, wealthy copper mines. Don’t you think dropping them off in the desert was just pouring gas on the fire though? It was going to be hard to get to work from way out there in the desert, too.

Oh, I don’t know. I’m probably just reading too much into this. I mean, only two people died. After a few months, things settled down as much as they could during a war people thought would end all wars. Eventually the borders of the town were opened. There were federal investigations which led to a new federal law making it illegal to kidnap miners and transport them to the desert in July. Or something helpful like that. It all worked out in the end, I suppose.

It’s just that it sounds so familiar in a lopsided kind of way. Maybe the common denominator is whatever dictionary is used to define ‘humane treatment’ or ‘treason.’ In 1917, it was an act of treason to stay home from work if your country was at war. Today, it’s an act of treason to go to work when your country is at war. With a virus.

Well, anyway. There it is. A little look backwards in history at an event that changed the lives of at least 1,186 men and their families. Nothing very significant. Normal law was suspended in favor of martial law by a ruling majority for the benefit of stockholders and corporations. Now that I think about it, there’s nothing very remarkable at all about that. I can see why very few people have ever heard of the Bisbee Deportation.

I just wonder why the wrong sheep were herded into those train cars.











With thanks to Jeffrey for the use of the photo pictured above. You can see the original at his site by following this link:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/formatc1/2455108405/in/photolist-4JX5cg-4JX6gg-ivEN6q-dhNVUS-6gpi8v-dhNSV2-B6j1x2-nDKcLa-dQKtYP-andiM4-dQKumD-df1cuS-4K2k3s-dsoeXE-9CYiyK-N3L96-2p1JsF-6cFKqF-6iZfHz-PM84A-ayAQw4-s4x9Yo-sEwxmL-47Vx3j-53yyCQ-936mBB-ovtsn1-dso55g-oxicuw-7tqd9-9HoPGj-B7i9Q6-55UGLf-9FsEEh-dQKtyZ-bEVpdW-mzVJR-6D318W-e9dkyM-4K2jH9-7jiU38-agXcF6-h38X2-6xtA7-GDNvG2-6xNNwh-dQR6oL-27ueTx3-8jAqFt-7NGBB5

When The Fog Lifts

I’m no weatherman. Woman. Whatever. But I’m fascinated by storms. Not everyone feels that way and for good reason, especially if they live where hurricanes are common or tornados frequent. Fortunately, I’ve never been traumatized by weather. I’m not alone in my fascination with lightning and thunderheads, though, and seeing a tornado—way off in the distance where it can’t do any damage—is on my bucket list. I don’t want to watch barns explode or cars fly through the air and I don’t want to feel guilty when I stand in amazement on the side of the road someday, watching a spinning cyclone slide across an open field.

I love the excitement of crazy weather. It’s just my point of view.

Rob and I have taken several Storm Spotter classes here in Arizona through the National Weather Service. It might sound about as practical as learning to speak French in a state where a lot of people are bilingual in English and Spanish. Yeah, I did that, too. But we get nutty weather here sometimes and, it turns out, amateurs like us are important to the NWS. Even though they have State of the Art Doppler radar, high tech computers, and satellites, they still need us.

They want our perspectives for a reason.

Radar is great for gathering information from thousands of feet in the air where cumulonimbus clouds crackle with lightning, but pretty lousy at detailing what’s happening on the ground where we live.  Mountains get in the way, especially here in the west, and there’s little useful radar coverage even across places like Nevada and Utah due to their miles and miles of rough terrain. The professionals don’t know what’s happening where we live unless they hear it from us.

I know this is starting to sound like a science lesson but stick with me here. I was surprised to learn that radar has its limitations. Even though it collects a lot of information, the experts who analyze the data realize it’s only part of the picture. It can’t detect fog, for example. Fog is a low-lying phenomenon (I just think that’s a fun word) that, at most, rises about twenty to thirty feet off the ground, way below the trajectory of radar. Not important to airplanes at 35,000 feet. Critical to drivers at ten. Fog matters, but radar can’t see it. Or warn you about it.

How I see and experience weather is valuable information to the National Weather Service when the inclement shows up. It gives them a better overall picture of how intense a storm is, even if everyone is affected by it differently. There might be a hailstorm going on thirty miles from here but, if it’s not occurring where I am, I won’t be calling it in. On the other hand, if visibility in my town is less than a block as a ginormous dust storm rolls through, weathermen want to know about it.

Just because I see dust while you see experience hail from the same storm, does that invalidate either point of view? It doesn’t. Your point of view is 100 per cent correct all of the time. I don’t know about you, but that’s not what I grew up believing.

It’s helping me to realize how important our individual perspectives are in life. The way we each experience triumph and tragedy will vary significantly. The way we approach challenges and injustice, threats and success depends a lot on our perspective, and that relies a great deal on what we see and where we’ve been so far. What isn’t helpful is when I feel defensive about my point of view and want you to change yours to align with mine.

It seems like we’re pre-wired somehow to need to be right, but when it comes to someone’s point of view, it isn’t that it’s right, but rather that it’s theirs. Often, though, it’s like we each climb into the boxing ring and try to knock out each other’s point of view. It’s easy to think there’s only one correct way to look at things, but it’s all perspective. And mother tongue. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up speaking French to someone whose first language is Spanish—then no one is listening and everyone loses.

But what if we tried to listen? What would happen if we set aside our own need to be heard for a little while so we could help someone else process their circumstances? What I learned with this little infomercial about weather is that each of our perspectives is important. Together they complete the picture of what’s happening on the ground, where we live and breathe and struggle to survive in any kind of weather or circumstance.

We’ll never completely agree on our perspectives. Does that mean that they’re not valid? That they shouldn’t be stated and heard? Absolutely not. Without your perspective and mine, the picture is incomplete. We don’t have to agree in the end, but it would really be a victory if we were still friends who respected the reality that life positions each of us with a point of view—unique to us, where we stand in our yard watching the storm, waiting for the dust to settle so we can see each other again.

Or the fog. I’m anxious for that sunny day to re-appear. I hope I’ll have become a better listener when it finally does.

With thanks to Kasia for use of the haunting photo above. You can view the original at her photostream. https://www.flickr.com/photos/mysza/

With My Spare Time

Things I’ve learned during the 2020 Pandemic:



How to wash my thumbs.

Amazon is my new favorite grocer.

Handkerchiefs will substitute for Kleenex but they’re still nothing but a giant, wet, snot rag in your pocket.

I use a lot of Kleenex during a pandemic.

I'm not the only one.

Bras are optional. Unless the doorbell rings, and then it’s too late.

Joann Fabrics is going to be richer than Bill Gates when this is over.

I should have bought stock in toilet paper back in 1973.

I should have bought stock in rubbing alcohol, too.

Colored hair is so 2019.

I’m not nearly the introvert I thought I was.

My dog engages in civil disobedience and won’t respect the 'six feet away' guidelines. He’s also terrible at math.

My dog is my hero.

My dog is really good at hugs.

I can stay off of social media and network TV and the radio and internet news sites, and still virus updates will invade both my peace and my space.

If anyone should respect the limit of staying six feet away, it’s the media.

I know how to make a face mask out of paper towels and hair scrunchies.

I hate Walmart. (I already knew that.)

The mail lady is a hero.

The honey guy is a hero.

The Pork Shop is a hero.

Chocolate is a hero.

The Amazon guy is a hero.

My dog needs to stop scaring the Amazon grocery hero guy.

Starbucks is a hero.

My husband has always been my hero.

Slowing down is an important life skill.

Phone calls are catching on again.

Living in the country is a gift of peace.

I still love the smell of fresh-cut alfalfa.

My family is a gift.

My neighbors are a gift.

Writing is my salvation.

I can think for myself.

My suffering is unique and so is yours.

It’s worth putting up with allergies to enjoy the cool, fresh air outside.

It’s hard to watch Hallmark movies where people gather and share meals and shop.

Stores run out of weird things in a crisis—who knew flour is as important as toilet paper?

Raw sauerkraut could save the world from viruses but then there’d be a run on cabbage.

Depression recipes are all over Pinterest, but just because I’m bored doesn’t mean I should try them all.

Water Pie is disgusting.








With thanks to John Davey and this daydreamy portrait of a clock. The original can be viewed at:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/27927484@N00/7198147252/in/photolist-bY5op7-sk25ji-7sVpfA-7UTmVK-cGBg1m-sHbESP-zxXu7m-fNz6UJ-3RKQv-f2KWB9-jhFiN-SaszJD-q6ynp7-qkQ4zE-nfKMdE-ehxK5D-7RMQHa-r9NE2K-9bDRxY-5gL1D6-4pG464-HseDbJ-6Re8C-btVRWn-29nV92M-nfL42y-zQzqB2-ihKE2-6HEAbh-7sJdc9-rKY4sR-71Ewgy-gp8aeA-vaNTH-dJGHWv-nfKJUG-6zHnrs-4GSQv9-br7Uwj-nhNroT-ec8YK-bngdJo-8Uf8F9-jKWgLc-bP4mC6-nfKYdL-7RRdGW-fmLcfh-nfKqQ5-a7FD3n

Dear Mr. President

Dear Mr. President,

First, I want to thank you for your leadership during the current pandemic. I know you’re making the best decisions you can based on the advice you’re receiving. But as I listen to the experiences of friends and neighbors, I see a problem in the government’s advice to isolate as a solution to the threat of COVID-19. If a cord of three strands is not quickly broken, it’s unbelievable to me that the only solution we’ve been given in this crisis is the one that leads to unraveling.

Ironically, while the impact of sheltering at home affects us in diverse ways, there is a common thread which ties all our experiences together—the void that isolation generates. Since it’s difficult to interact or physically support one another, the best we can do is offer consolation from a distance, watching helplessly while we all try to navigate these uncharted waters. First responders and medical personnel pay a particularly huge price in fatigue as those on the front lines of potential contagion as well as the fear of bringing a virus home to their families. In the case of parents who’ve been handed the surprising responsibility to complete their children’s education this year, as well as homeschooling families deprived now of one another's support, every parent of a school-aged child has been left adrift in a sea of uncertainty, unsure of the once reliable location of true north. Our compasses have been shattered and we are left alone to pick up the pieces.

I do not blame the virus for this consequence—I blame the forced lockdowns. I’m frustrated by the way we are being forced to protect ourselves, advice that amounts to nothing more than crawling into a hole. By ourselves. Indefinitely. The fear foisted on us by an eager press is more lethal than the virus itself.

The domino effect of these things and the shutdowns forced on our country is enormous. Churches have closed, small businesses are going under due to no fault of their own, families left unemployed face bankruptcy, and anxiety threatens the mental health of many as we are separated from the very loved ones who are normally there to buoy us up in times of crisis. All the gathering places where people find strength in unity, comfort in a handshake or hug, solace in a smile—every single one of these things is now in the crosshairs while we are “reassured” by media and personalities that we are “in this together.”

Please tell me how we are in this together when we are pressured to stay away from each other?

Sheltering in place—a poor synonym for the sobering reality of isolation—is the last thing people need. In the history of our country there has never been a time when we have been “encouraged” to separate ourselves in order to save ourselves. Not during the Spanish Flu epidemic, not at war time, not in any other pandemic. It goes against all that makes us human to “self-isolate,” a phrase I hope I never have to hear again in my lifetime. I am especially sorry for those in our communities who live alone right now.

Our phobic panic has led us to fear even our neighbors, our closest friends, and our families. Some suggest we fear for one another, but I don’t think that’s what’s really driving the isolation or lockdown or shelter-in-place or whatever else anyone wants to call it. Pressured to remain hidden behind closed doors, perpetually washing hands that never touch anything or anyone outside our immediate environment, loneliness is a bigger threat to our well-being than a virus could ever be.

A distance of six feet may as well be sixty miles, and the face masks we are now told to wear a reminder that we each appear dangerous to each other. Even deadly. Let’s be honest for a change. What we’re really telling one another is to “Just Stay Away.” When we are finally rescued from our remote desert islands, I hope none of us returns with the shirt we bought as easily as the lie that made us wear it.

There are risks to incessant isolation. I’m sure you’re aware that cities are reporting an increase in suicide attempts and deaths. Marriages are in crisis. Stress is its own killer across the board, and all the anxiety which naturally accompanies the information overload and social distancing we are experiencing does nothing but promote that. None of these things are contagious in grocery store lines, but they are the backlash of either good intentions gone haywire or, as many worry, something worse.

We are being told to rely on “science” as the CDC does, but science changes its mind everyday and the CDC follows suit. I’ve read articles written as recently as a month ago telling us that face masks are considered ineffective by the CDC and, in some cases, may even perpetuate the virus itself. Once again, science and the CDC changed their minds and now “suggest” all Americans wear a face mask in public though their own webpage states that they do nothing to protect people against COVID-19.  They base their new suggestions on information they supposedly didn’t have when the virus first broke out—namely, that people can infect others with a virus days before they are symptomatic.

That’s not even close to the truth. As a mother of two children, I’ve known firsthand for at least thirty-five years that germs and viruses spread well in advance of anyone’s knowledge that there’s a bug on the loose. And science and the CDC know that, too—they’ve written about it in recent years.

We’re told to make masks, not buy them, but I have yet to hear the recommendation that cloth masks should be washed after every wear. If they indeed capture vagrant virus germs so we don’t inhale them, we shouldn’t handle them until they’ve been laundered. Frankly, if you haven't been fit-tested for a mask, it can give a false sense of security by allowing viruses to get past the barrier. This is the training professionals receive regarding protective equipment. Gloves should be removed inside out and thrown away, never re-worn, and never used to touch more than one item. Where is that advice in newscasts? Like any other form of protection, I can buy a shield, but if I don’t know how to use it, will it really keep me safe?

I can’t help but feel like we are at the mercy of puppeteers who daily pull new strings to see if we will dance.

I admit I have no idea what kind of pressure you are under as the leader of this remarkable country, Mr. President. I can only give you my perspective where I sit alone on my back patio for the fourth straight week under government-advised house arrest. Isolation and loneliness are deadly. We are meant for contact with other human beings, even though, as always, it carries with it risk. Right now, though we are a free country, we are held hostage by paranoia, an abundance of contradictory information from equivocal government agencies, and a paralyzing fear of the unknown.

Mr. President, people need to get back to work to support their families and to find purpose again. Our economy needs it. Our country needs it. Shutting down an entire nation out of the fear that we don't have enough common sense to know how to wash our hands and avoid touching our faces is not only short-sighted, it's insulting.

The greatest threat to America right now is the loss of trust and security generated by prescribed self-isolation. The fallout from months spent fearing a virus that will go the way of all its predecessors may prove greater than the sum of its parts. I am weary of the suspicion I see and even, to my shame, feel myself whenever any of us dares to get too close to another human being, whatever that may mean. The benefits of a hug from a friend or loved one exceeds and even protects against the dangers of isolation.

It’s been said that to take the road less traveled makes all the difference. I’m praying that you—and we—will.

Soon.







With thanks to Tom Bech for the use of the photo above. The original can be viewed by following the link below:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/viatorius/5610477551/in/photolist-9xMavz-AHCbpk-pEDbEm-mqJhv-dths1d-bAQosE-dugcss-dthiE2-y8bkpY-2ehya2z-5rQ313-4Dqjo2-8JDueE-aURRp4-7EHStU-7SQaFN-2pSgZz-7Ysf1-6NVPio-8nUt6e-8f6etd-eqGGk-9u6wgx-dthtvX-6NWd32-duNvZ6-dugcMs-azbdHa-oGPGuX-3adyAF-bsexcT-aRpG1i-dNpXFG-25Qqein-QpZLmg-aRpGaM-4E5tXw-8rurbu-o5L1Wg-EagMd-62USZG-fMHa4q-62YZz2-ot51xR-fMpFT4-4KU1Ek-qkTLj-23vh7E-9iy3Qs-4vFUqw