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

The Way We Roll

I was fifteen in 1973. A high school sophomore with no driver’s license, lots of pimples, and like most other teenagers my age, plenty of insecurity. I suspect I must not have paid much attention to politics or world news, either, although I blame that on my tenth-grade history teacher. Not only did he make a subject I once loved as palatable as unsalted grits, but his idea of a good time was making us play a game he called ‘Current Events,’ Jeopardy-style. I never won. Heck, I never even placed. And I got the only “C” of my high school career sleeping through American History.

My whole childhood was a lengthy timeline of unsettling current events. Who wanted to play a game where you could name all of them? I have no memory of any point in my growing up years when the Vietnam War wasn’t raging and the focus of nightly news. (Thank God it was all in black and white.) There was social unrest with teens and college students protesting everything from the war to the Miss America Pageant. Free Love sent divorce statistics skyrocketing while marriage rates plummeted. The Drug Culture exploded, and the Watergate Scandal ruined my entire summer vacation—every single channel covered the Senate hearings, so I never found out how long Audrey’s marriage to Dr. Hobart lasted on General Hospital once she realized she was actually in love with Steve.

It was, to say the least, a challenging time that I don’t remember very well. And no, that’s not because I took part in the drug culture. I was a Baptist—I wasn’t allowed. I suspect it’s because it was all I knew and so it was our version of normal.

Then the shortages hit. An oil embargo in October of ’73 sent gas prices soaring, quadrupling almost overnight. This is one of the things I do remember. Lines and lines of cars—sometimes as much as two miles long—all waiting to fill up at gas pumps that sometimes ran out before it was your turn. You could only fill the tank on odd or even numbered days, depending on the last digit of your license plate number. Kind of hard to cheat on that one.

Early in the year, the stock market fell like a rock in a pond, down 45%, one of the worst declines in history. The oil crisis ignited an energy crisis and by the time Christmas rolled around that year, a weary public was discouraged from putting up holiday lights so we could “save electricity.” It was a huge blow to the Christmas spirit as well as Detroit as the automobile industry scrambled to produce fuel efficient cars for a public weary of waiting in line for a fill up.

In the middle of all that chaos, a little joke made by Johnny Carson on his late-night talk show set off a panic that nobody saw coming. Rob and I caught this little gem last night while we were avoiding the 2020 evening news and searching Roku for something funny to watch instead. Did you know you can still watch an entire episode of The Late Show with Johnny Carson? Me neither.

Making fun of an unsubstantiated rumor in November of 1973 that Japan was experiencing a toilet tissue shortage, Johnny’s offhand remark set off a panic in a year of shortages and stress and fear that emptied grocery store shelves across America of their very own toilet paper supplies. It was four months before people realized there was plenty to go around and they could stop hoarding paper goods.

And I thought we’d come up with a brand-new way to freak out. It seems there really is nothing new under the sun.

The Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 1973. It wasn’t really Johnny’s fault. His headline-inspired joke fed right into the social anxiety of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year. And there wasn’t even a virus to blame it on. Ultimately, consumers were blamed for the shortage, I suppose because they . . . consumed. Too much. Well, that and the way the media handled the rumor. Nothing new under . . . you get it.

I don’t know if this is encouraging to anybody else, but for some reason, maybe because it appears I did lose a few brain cells in my childhood, most likely due to exhaust emissions and the overconsumption of white flour and sugar, it kind of encourages me right now. Yes, we’ve wiped toilet paper off the shelves, at least out here in the desert where I live. No, we didn’t need to. As a lot of people have pointed out, it’s a respiratory virus we’re dealing with, not an intestinal problem.

I guess I feel a little less stupid hearing that forty-seven years ago, when I was fifteen and couldn’t drive and had no money and depended on other people to buy my toilet paper, the generation before me lost the good sense God gave them, too, panicked about something that did nothing to eradicate the problem of Vietnam’s war or the energy crisis, and made their lives more difficult as a result.

It’s the way we roll. No pun intended.  But they survived. They didn’t learn anything and neither did we, but we all survived. Maybe this time I’ll remember and when the next crisis rolls around—pun intended—we’ll all pick up what we need and no more.

Nah. Who am I kidding? How does that saying go? “Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it.”

I gotta pay more attention to current events.




With thanks to Adam Koford for the use of this great graphic! The original can be viewed at 
https://www.flickr.com/photos/apelad/5623164685/in/photolist-9yUbXg-7tJt19-qdLh-VK7Vf4-acXyhp-7u9jEK-5Dxedr-411W2-Mwf47b-8f4UXD-4rzDYD-5wspHn-5PACyw-dmN6Pz-TzudDQ-X7ADo-eKVLmo-4NSDz-WTetCe-23okvmA-VxrpCJ-JuJrd-2iFQ1X7-QdcN55-a4k4So-CqnLtc-YQBT-2iJJWW8-4iP4KZ-eKVLmb-4TePMn-5KWoCz-FAk2H-2byiNPL-6bnyBB-4iTceY-66SRjc-oK8P8T-24xfcMA-e2tYM-oAqeS-7qo4YD-hy7bQ-8EPV1M-DcS3W-8EbqXr-fCGMJC-E8qx1-BbiHR-283coZC

Losing It

I think even Groupon is getting stir crazy.

“Need Ideas For Your Night In?” the notification read. Curious about their hook as it popped up on my iPhone, I thought, sure. I’ll bite.  What have I got to lose? I can put my TV binge watching on hold while I stare at the ads on my cellphone for a few minutes.

It was amazing. Scrolling through their novel ideas of how to enjoy my unplanned-for staycation, I had to admit—I have no idea how Groupon stays in business.

Here’s a great way to spend the stimulus check President Trump is sending me, especially since all the stores around here are closed and there’s nowhere else to shop but online. I could buy a woman’s t-shirt decorated with a social distancing message on the front—that no one will see because we’re . . . right. See the fail there? Maybe the print is like, really really big, though, so it can be seen from across a parking lot.

Do a 14-day Detox. Boy, that sounds fun. Two weeks on the toilet, alone, flushing all my toxic anxieties away. Actually, I might think about that one. It’s a bargain, too, at $18.99. So, you can flush your money and other stuff all at once.

As if those don’t sound appealing enough, there’s a CBD Box Bundle Mystery Deal for half price. $9.99 for magical hemp in amounts that might be as little as 500mg or much as 5000 mg. That’s where the fun is. Will I get over my gloom about self-isolating or just feel so happy that I won’t care or even notice anything going on around me except for those cute little purple hippos that keep running through the house?

I could pick up a ceramic hair straightener for one-fourth its original value. Make myself beautiful for . . . no one. Rob finds me the most attractive when I refrain from spending money, so this idea is also flushable.

How about 80% off a Golf Group Package for One? Is it really a game, though, if you play by yourself? I mean, I’m not a golfer but I always thought the term ‘foursome’ implied the addition of three other people.

Here’s the one that really appealed to me. For only fifteen dollars I can buy one acre of land on Mars. You’ve got to admit, that one’s a screaming deal. It takes social distancing a little too far, but as long as Nancy Pelosi’s not there, I might consider relocating.

Right now, Uncle Biff’s California Killer Cookies are on sale for $7.99. I’m no marketing expert, but if Uncle Biff doesn’t come up with a better name soon, I predict the death of his cookie line. We’re all on edge right now and the last thing on earth—or Mars—that I want to do is eat something that promises to kill me. Just saying.

Here’s a fun idea. Build-A-Head. For the low, low price of only five smackeroos they’ll send you an oversized cardboard cutout on a stick of anybody’s mug that you want to hide behind. I had to think about that one for a minute and then I realized. Oh, it’s like a flu mask, but for your whole head and a large chunk of your body. It’s multi-purpose, too. With both your hands on the stick as you hold it up for protection, you can guard against touching any surfaces or breathing in bad air. There’s no way any stray germs could infiltrate. Heck, they won’t even recognize you.

How about a pair of WuHouPro Women’s Super Comfy Stretch Denim Bermuda Shorts? There are so many things wrong with this picture I don’t even know where to start. First of all, there’s an obvious marketing problem here again. I don’t want to wear clothing that either a) sounds suspiciously like it was made in or around Wuhan, China, or b) gives the impression of sarcasm. As in, woo hoo, I’m stuck in my house with an overstocked pantry and refrigerator—I might as well buy some super comfy stretchy Bermuda shorts so no one will know how overstocked I’d feel in my old jeans.

I could buy lots of bouquets of flowers and send them to friends and family, but how do I know the delivery guy isn’t allergic and didn’t sneeze into them first? Forget that one. There’s an offer for an ice cream gift card that’s good until the end of the crisis or until hell freezes over, as well as warm winter gloves just in case that happens. And the piéce de la resistance. A Universal Adjustable Neck Phone Mount—I assume so we can socially distance from our own phones. This one I like. Ever since I learned the government can listen in on my private conversations, I’ve stopped trusting those clever little devices. I mean, don’t you sometimes catch a fragrance of Chicken Kiev floating through the air and wonder, since you don’t have a Russian restaurant in the neighborhood, is someone name Natasha monitoring your phone call from a cozy little café table in Siberia?

Fine. You caught me. I already picked up the box of CBD Mystery Oils. There might be something wrong with them. Paranoia was listed as a possible side effect on one of the bottles.

Oh, there are so many things to spend my money differently on in these difficult times. And Groupon is right there to help in our times of crisis, with everything from ice cream coupons to super comfy stretchy shorts I can wear to hide the evidence afterwards. Whether I’m spending a night in or eight weeks with the dream of time off for good behavior, there is absolutely no reason for me to feel bored or anxious or suspicious.

I just wish I knew what those little purple hippos are up to.

Washing My Hands

It’s not that I’m having trouble sleeping. It’s that sometimes I have trouble getting back to sleep. It could be menopause, I guess. Or the room is too warm. Or the world is upside down. Something like that.

Unfortunately for women, we don’t have a brain built of boxes like men have. Ever heard that or noticed it before? Men have the amazing ability to compartmentalize everything. Every worry or project or relationship has its own box. They deal with one thing at a time. When it’s time to go to sleep, they slip into the slumber box and even if they wake up in the middle of the night, all the other boxes are closed up tight. Before you know it, they’re back in Dreamland.

Women, on the other hand, have minds made out of spaghetti. Everything in our lives is connected, lit up like a Christmas tree, 24/7. It’s just one big old plate of crisscrossing connections, like a superhighway where one road leads into another one and onramps and offramps interrupt the flow, lanes merging and diverting, and God forbid there’s a slowdown for road work. Is there anything worse than being stuck in the middle of a five mile long interstate parking lot with nothing to do but think about all the people and expectations and responsibilities and worries you were trying to run away from while you took a shortcut to the grocery store?

Some days you’re better off staying home.

Today was one of those days. Last night was one of those nights. I’ve been waking up at 4:00 after five hours of sleep which is three hours too little, and right when I turn over to try to find my onramp to Dreamland, too, I get detoured and find myself in the middle of a traffic jam. It could be an hour or two before I get out of there. It’s not a complete waste of time. I’ve been praying a lot. I’ve probably been praying for you. Eventually, when I run out of worries and anxiety and frustration and loneliness, I fall back asleep only to wake up and discover that all of yesterday’s problems were patiently waiting for me today—completely unwelcome, by the way. Sometimes in forwards on my phone.

You can’t even hide when you stay home.

I picked mine up too soon this morning and checked for messages. A text message from my sister brought a smile. Encouragement there. A message from an old friend waited for me via the messenger app, as well. A friend I used to go to church with but haven’t seen in years, we’ve circled each other’s worlds via Facebook a few times. How nice to hear from her, I thought. She probably has an encouraging word of faith and hope for me. What a great idea to remind people in your circle of friends that God is still on His throne, He’s fighting for us, He’s for us, and this too shall pass.

That wasn’t exactly the message.

I know people mean well. I also know how easily we get addicted to bad news. Bad news sells. It keeps people watching television and checking Facebook and worrying that the world is about to come to an end which, logically, means you must forward warnings to everyone in your friends list so they can sit in terrified isolation, too. That’s why I took Facebook off my phone last week. Which doesn’t mean I don’t check it—it just means it’s not as easy now and I don’t hang out there as long as I usually do. I’m tired of rumors and panic and tunnel vision. And I don’t need to be reminded at every single turn that the planet is frantic about how well people are washing their hands or whether it’s selfish to try to get fresh air when they leave their isolated existence now and then.

Home is a respite and a haven. It’s far more than a shelter. But “sheltering in place” is turning it into a prison.

So, I don’t live on Facebook. I don’t want to watch the news repeatedly. We don’t even have it on much in our house. The media, social or otherwise, isn’t just destroying the mental health of teenagers. It’s wrecking the peace of mind of adults, too. I’ve lived through a lot of crises, personal and corporate, and I’ve learned this—they always “come to pass,” they don’t come to stay. This one will pass, too. I believe God loves us and is working on our behalf. We are not living in judgment from heaven. We are not being punished. There is every reason to hope and look to better days. But I don’t want the peace that I cherish and fight for to be stolen by forwards and memes and good intentions that leave God out of the picture.

This is a time to build each other up. To encourage each other. See that word hidden in there, inside encourage? Give courage to one another. Honestly, I am more concerned about the fear that’s going viral than the virus behind it. We may be better than a heart surgeon at scrubbing our hands of germs right now, but we’re not doing ourselves any favors by forgetting to keep our minds free from attacks while we’re doing it.

Stay home? I do it all the time. But it’s not enough. Each of us has the responsibility to guard our minds and hearts and protect the peace that makes our homes havens of rest, too. That might just mean washing your hands of Facebook and the news channels for a while. It might mean asking your friends not to copy you on ‘good intentions’. And if you find yourself awake at four a.m. with no one to talk to after a long day of no one to hang out with, remember this.

You’re not alone. I’m awake, too. And I’m praying for you. Lots of people are praying. And God is fighting for us. He made us that promise, you know. “It came to pass.”

It didn’t come to stay.







With thanks to Joshua Pitcock for the impressive photo above. The original can be viewed at the following link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/captscurvy/2343799249/in/photolist-4z7zRT-jL9Xs-kTAX6-26giKE-L2CumV-4odL7x-6hQZKN-9fbTiM-4f9UhX-UQ81jv-nubvqT-5mxb7u-4f9S5B-4ffzy7-aCpKpC-4f9QEP-4fdQiL-4fdN3Q-4fdN37-4fdQAm-4fdP83-4f9RY2-4f9QFv-7zfYjF-djiHxQ-qjA2r5-mtTCfB-ReQHw-abAe4-GvgjN-5Q2tqn-G47du-4AuVW2-5q2UUe-EMUk9-23Q2L8z-vFDhU-4e6RV3-666tLi-CDAu-6VWVbb-dYy3Hv-3rwFZP-dAwUw3-55AsWm-2huFmEG-7neqKh-8suMQw-4f9PzT-vM4eC

Hero

My dog is my hero. It’s cold and damp and rainy outside, but is he afraid of getting wet? Nope. He’s seventy pounds of enthusiasm, leaping through the air in our backyard like one of those giant white bunnies you could win at the State Fair. Seriously leaping into the air. He does it all the time, not just when it’s breezy outside. He’s hilarious.

It’s obvious he doesn’t listen to the news. Doesn’t have his own page on Facebook. He’s completely unaware that the world beyond his backyard is in a state of panic. He’s just playing tag with the grackle who likes to taunt him from the tops of our oak trees. Just now his arch nemesis tricked him, landing in the neighbor’s lemon tree eight feet in the air behind the wall where my puzzled puppy sat facing me. Brody could hear the giant, black bird but couldn’t see him because he was facing the wrong way. I, on the other hand, had a front row view of the whole drama, the bird squawking, my dog’s head checking side to side, never thinking to turn around and look behind him. Guarding his yard, he’s at his happiest when he’s chasing away trespassers, following his own instincts, thinking his own thoughts.

Sometimes he stalks the wild lizards who hold poses on that wall like frescoes in relief. They’re the same color as the paint we selected there, but Brody, with his Superdog vision, can pretty much spot them from anywhere. Long, furry white tail held stiffly at parade rest, he lowers his head and sloooowly, inches at a time, like the stealth commando he is, creeps toward the cement wall in full view of his prey. In a nanosecond, at the very last stroke of the clock, the gecko slides sideways inside the safety of the block wall and Brody saunters proudly back to me, ready for praise and head rubs. He never even meant to catch the slithery thing. He just meant to scare it into submission.

A couple of weeks ago, he actually did snatch one, though. The thing he’d been chasing away like a nightmare in the dark. I don’t know why this one didn’t escape. Maybe it thought it was enforcing its boundaries, too. For a few tense moments there, it was like high noon at the OK Corral. Eye to eye, the two enemies stared each other down, ready to draw on their self-protection. But Brody, who can leap fairly tall bushes in a single bound, made the first move and, before El Gecko knew what happened, he was held tight in a canine clench.

I don’t know who was more surprised, Brody or his lunch, but he discovered he didn’t really like the taste of lizard and spit it out on the ground. The lizard, no worse for the wear, tucked his tail between his legs and made a beeline for the crack in the wall. I think they both learned a lesson that day. Big, white dogs mean business and tiny, little lizards taste terrible. It was a win-win from my point of view.

He’s not simply the terror of the lizard world. Any uninvited visitors get the same treatment. Like a lion in the African brush now, he glides across the grass and leaps up onto the wall, frightening away the dangerous monarch butterfly. On sunny days, he walks circles across the bright, sunlit pavers leading away from our back patio, where he tracks the movements of the deadly common housefly, victoriously stomping out their shadows while missing the essence of the insect. He’s ferocious, but a little misled.

He’s not fond of the hummingbirds we freely feed in the backyard, either. It’s not that he’s jealous of their sugary, fake red water where we leave it suspended from tall, metal hooks under the shade of our oak trees. He simply resents being divebombed by the frantic little interlopers. Either that or he sucks at tag. It’s probably a little of both. Hummingbirds are fascinating and beautiful, but pretty obnoxious sometimes. My grandmother stopped feeding hers when I was a kid once because of the possessive way they guarded the public feeders she provided, hoarding the sugary syrup, and attacking any other hungry or thirsty fowl—even their own kin.

“If they can’t behave themselves, then I’m not feeding them anymore,” Grandma declared, her Irish feistiness giving a red glow to her salt and pepper hair. It made me laugh. “That’s how hummingbirds are,” I told her. “Not in my yard,” she snapped.

Not in my yard. That’s Brody’s mantra right now. He believes in boundaries. He guards the gate to his yard. Nothing comes in or goes out without his approval or complete rejection. It’s only natural, now that I think about it. It’s his responsibility, and ours, to guard our hearts and minds. To preserve our peace and tranquility, no matter what’s going on over the back wall. Let the the grackle have its tree. The hummingbirds can chirp and fight each other for their sugar fix but they won’t get away with divebombing my dog. Even the lizards and the bugs are free game if they threaten Brody’s peace of mind. It’s his yard. His rules. His freedom to protect.

I don’t know about you, but right now I could really use a hero who thinks his own thoughts, follows his own instincts, and protects his yard from predators. Maybe I’m learning to be my own hero while I admire what comes naturally to my dog. Watching him is better than watching the drama going on around me any day of the week.

Better for my peace of mind. My health. And my soul.

We all need a real hero.

Ahead Of My Time

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” the gray headed lady asked.

“I want to be President so I can stop the war in Vietnam."

“Oh, honey, that’ll never happen,” she laughed.

Grownups always ask questions like that, as if a five-year-old could possibly narrow it down. The truth was, I wanted to be a nurse. And then a scientist. And an archaeologist. And a teacher if I had time. But mostly, I thought I’d be an inventor. Whatever nurses couldn’t fix or scientists couldn’t explain and archaeologists hadn’t discovered for teachers to teach, an inventor could take care of in about an afternoon. With time leftover to hang from the monkey bars.

It was a typical boring Sunday when I first got in touch with my creative side. We’d already been to church that morning with the other six people in our tiny congregation, but Baptists believed Sundays were for sermons and it always took at least two attempts for the preacher to get it right. That’s why I never saw even one episode of The Magical World of Disney or any of its Sunday night cartoons. By the time we got home, it was too late for Tinkerbell twinkles. Not even Professor Ludwig Von Drake or Mathmagic Land were part of my childhood. Sunday nights were for church, not fun.

“If I was a grown up, I’d invent a box that would make the World of Disney start playing after we get home from church,” I declared in a wistful voice.

“That’ll never happen,” my parents said. In 1964. Fifteen years before the first VCR hit the American market. We could have been so rich if they just hadn’t made me go to church every Sunday night. I knew it was a great idea. I was just ahead of my time.

When I was a kid, you only knew what time it was if there was a grownup around to ask. Owning your own wristwatch was a rite of passage. You had to earn the right to sport an analog timekeeper by knowing how to read one—digitals hadn’t been invented yet. There were a lot of styles back then, from pendant necklaces to pocket watches. But nobody ever wore one on their fingers. I wondered why.

“When I grow up, I’m going to invent a ringwatch,” I announced.

“That’ll never happen,” they said. Five years later we were in a jewelry store where, on display, I saw a selection of tiny little watches mounted onto rings. We could have been so rich. But I was ahead of my time.

Soon I grew up and gave up on inventions. I became a nurse to my children, a scientist in my kitchen, an archeologist in our garage, and a homeschool teacher. Technology was changing so fast, there were no new ideas left for me to invent just so other people could make money on them.

Then came Superbowl LIV—or 54, if you’re not familiar with the numerals invented by ancient Romans. February 2, 2020, Miami, Florida, and all the amazing commercials that are the real reason football fans support teams throughout years devoid of coronaviruses—so they can eat hot wings with friends and laugh at the genius ads created by Budweiser and FritoLay.

Not this year. This year the big winner was Hyundai and its new Smaht Pahk Sonata. A car that parks itself while you watch from the safety of the sidewalk to the amazement and gratitude of all your friends. No more DMV road tests with parallel parking skills. Just you and your instructor standing in front of a pizza parlor watching a driverless car do what most of America cannot.

I was thinking about this while my friend, Pam, and I were shopping recently. It was raining outside, and while I checked out, she got her car and picked up my soggy purchases and me at the front door.

“You’re an officer and a gentleman,” I told her as I ducked inside and buckled up. “You know what would be really great?”

“If you tipped me?” she asked, shaking the water from her hair.

“Exactly! Who cares if a car can show off and parallel park itself right in front of you? What we need is a sedan with its own valet feature. A car that will drop you off in front of Hobby Lobby, go park itself wherever shade can be found even if it’s a mile away, and then pick you up at the front door again when you whistle for it, all cooled off and ready to go. Now that would be smaht.”

She was silent while she considered my genius idea. “That’ll never happen,” she finally said.

“Why not?”

“You’re ahead of your time.”

Story of my life. It’s okay. I’m on to something new. An improvement on our overheating Tempurpedic mattress. Cooling vents that kick in during hot flashes, but just on the woman’s side of the bed so her husband won’t complain about freezing all night.

Just to be sure I wasn’t ahead of my time, I googled it, and you know what I found out? It’s already on the market. You know, either there are spies everywhere or else there are no good ideas left to invent. But I was determined to try.

What about a hamster cage that powers a paper shredder? While the furry little guy gets his exercise, the wheel generates enough energy to pulverize my junk mail.

Or an egg cuber, a space saving gadget that could make a round egg fit into a square hole. 

Maybe you're like me and multi-tasking is your thing. Wouldn't it be great if you could have your hands free to make dinner and still scroll through Facebook? The answer is a nose stylus! Sure, you'd look a bit like Pinocchio, but you'd be efficient.

I don't know how I come up with this stuff. The internet, of course. Every one of these ideas has already been invented. See what I mean? There’s nothing new under the sun. I’m too late to cash in on any other time saving contraptions. 

I’ve thought about it long and hard and all that’s left is the one idea no one laughed at when I was a kid. With all that time I'm saving, I could re-discover my inner five-year-old, head off to the nearest playground, and hang from some monkey bars.

There’s just one problem. Now that I’m past my prime, I’m no longer ahead of my time.

It’ll never happen.










My thanks to TopTenAlternatives.co for the use of the fun photo above. The original can be viewed at https://toptenalternatives.co/