Weary

I am weary.

I’m weary of being jerked around like a puppet on a string by politicians practicing medicine.

I’m weary of holding virtual, one-sided debates on Facebook and Messenger with invisible people who post links on my page but won’t state why they put them there. It’s like being hit with a paintball by someone hiding behind a wall. Own it.

I am weary of governors and mayors making threats about enforcing mandates and laws they have no legal right to make. The executive branch does not make laws. Congress does.

I am tired of rioters, domestic terrorists in face mask disguise, destroying people’s lives and property and public property while police are told to stand down. It must make our public service employees want to vomit. Or resign. Which they are doing in droves.

I am tired of having the name of a virus shoved down my throat any time I am in contact with my phone or my television or drive down the freeway my tax dollars built while electronic signs tell me to wash my hands and surrender my intelligence.

I am tired of the brainwashing attempts that have taken over every ad and store window in America.

I am tired of the double and triple speak coming out of the mouths of medical people who even to this date admit that they “just don’t know.”

I am tired of people using the excuse “we just don’t know” to keep people enslaved by medical martial law.

I’m shocked by how little any of us know about the constitutional rights left in trust for us by generations who died to protect them. And how easily we have watched, wringing our hands in vain, while political terrorists rip our rights to shreds in full view of television cameras.

I’m weary of the panic. In God we do not trust. In science we trust if it fits with the narrative we believe. In freedom we no longer believe, or we would not submit to the tyranny of politicians who grow rich off our submission and ignorance.

I’m weary of bad news. Of weak governors and mayors who allow their wonderful cities to be stolen and call it “love” and “free expression.” Who sympathize with the frustrations of bored teens and disillusioned college students who drank the kool-aid.

And yet, in all of my weariness and shock and fatigue and disillusionment and boredom and loneliness I have never once thought the best way to express my frustration over stolen freedoms was to terrorize innocent people, vandalize public property, destroy police departments and vehicles, injure other people, and threaten to bring down America.

I am weary. But I am also awake.

I am informed.

I do trust in God.

I do not trust in science or its various interpreters who do not agree with each other yet are convinced we crawled out of a muddy bog and created ourselves.

I am watching.

I am taking notes.

I am speaking out.

I am connecting despite all oppressive attempts to keep us away from each other.

Most of all, I am talking to the King of the universe who sits in the heavens and laughs while the nations rage and imagine empty schemes, counseling together against the Lord. (Psalm 2)

I suggest you do the same. If you, like me,

Are weary.

One Blood

We hold these truths to be self-evident that ALL men were created equal ~

That they are endowed by their Creator with certain essential (unalienable) rights ~

That among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.


The 244-year-old document that includes these words never once qualified people in its sweeping statement.

All this attention on whose life matters has made me nervous when I’ve never been nervous before. It’s the same anxiety I now feel around strangers and friends ever since a virus turned us against one another. Are you afraid of me? Are you afraid I’m afraid of you? Should I avert my eyes in a grocery store lest you fear I’m a carrier—or a racist?

Doesn’t it seem to you like the real enemy bent on destroying our country, our communities, and our lives uses fear, suspicion, isolation, and division as ammunition? It does to me. And I’m sick of it.

I don’t look at people through a grid of color or size or age. I look at their eyes for sincerity. Their smiles for laughter. I listen to their words for understanding. And when we shake hands or share a hug, our connection makes our differences evaporate.

Once again, color is being used as a weapon against us by people who say they’re speaking for us. They’re not speaking for me. Their words are divisive, not uplifting. Hatred is not a problem of color. It’s a problem of the heart.

Did you know we all trace our beginnings back to the same man and woman? Even evolutionary articles admit that. (https://nypost.com/2018/11/24/turns-out-all-of-humanity-is-related-to-a-single-couple/)

Which means:

We are all one blood.

We are all one race.

We bleed the same color.

We cry the same tears.

We did not evolve from amoeba.

We were created in the image of God.

And this skin thing? Ignorance says color makes us different. But the color wheel we all represent means we’re the same. Our common denominator is melanin—a pigment in our skin. If you have too little of it, like I do, you’re gonna roast in the sun like a pig on a spit. If you have a lot of it, the sun is probably your Facebook friend. And I envy you.

Here’s the truth:

It’s not my fault I was born with a freckled, pale complexion.

It’s also not my fault I have English ancestors.

And Irish ancestors.

And black ancestors.

And Native American ancestors.

All of those.

I could check every box on those medical forms that demand to know what race category they can place me in. I’m pretty familiar with my lineage now and, so far, nobody I can name ever even visited Caucasus. Maybe I should just check “other” and let them wonder since Caucasian doesn’t ring true. I’d bet money the same is true of your ancestry.

So, tell me again—how are we different?

No one has the right to look at me and judge my life because of my color, my size, my age, or my sex. No one has the right to judge me even if they know me. They haven’t walked in my shoes. Or yours. It’s nobody’s fault that our genes look like goulash under a microscope.

And maybe that’s the problem—microscopes. Focusing on things that are insignificant instead of admitting how human we all are. Do you think for one minute the Artist Who delights in and splashes color across His landscape prefers one hue above another?

All I know is that I don’t want anyone to come between me and my friends and family by pointing out the obvious and then having the hypocritical nerve to call us racists.

We need each other. We may not understand each other, but we need each other. All the isolation we’ve just endured is evidence enough of that. It’s past time to come out of hiding and stand shoulder to shoulder again.

I don’t care how much melanin you have. I wish I had more of it so I wasn’t afraid to go out in the sun. Most of all, I wish we’d all stop being afraid of each other. Afraid that every person we see will kill us with a virus. Afraid that every skin color represents an enemy.

And afraid that a country paid for with the blood of patriots will soon destroy itself.

If it isn’t self-evident by now that we all are equal, created equal by God Himself, maybe it’s time to put divisive networks and other media on pause and remember the essential rights gifted to us by our Creator.

Your life, your liberty, and the pursuit of happiness by your children's children depends on it.




I am grateful beyond words and moved to tears by the beautiful artwork seen at the top of this piece. Created by the talented artists Siobhan Sullivan and her sister, Cat Sullivan, they showed with perfection the truth of how we are all one blood and can only find freedom when we are united. Thank you, Siobhan and Cat, for bringing my vision to life.

Safety Zone

Out of an abundance of caution, through these challenging times, the new normal has taught us to stay apart—stay together. It’s essential to self-isolate by sheltering at home in quarantine. This is so we can stay safe, stay strong, and stay calm. During these strange times, when the world changed, flattening the curve in order to slow the spread has been essential.

But hey, we’re not cut off while we socially distance. We’re AloneTogether. HomeTogether. Even in our time of crisis it is possible to keep being fearless while staying apart.

We're not keeping our distance because we're afraid of each other. We're doing it to slow the spread.

It’s crazy to think isolation means being alone. That’s what virtual hugs are for—to remind us we can Be Safe, Be Healthy, Be Well. We can stay in touch without touch because we have ZOOM.  With ZOOM we can be anywhere, anytime from the safety of our own homes. And it’s cheaper, too. We can attend virtual weddings, virtual funerals, and give our virtual good-byes to people who must pass on AloneTogether.

It’s true that these are difficult times that call for difficult solutions. But we’ll get through this. And we’ll do it because we’re in this together. As long as we Stay Home.

While we are apart, though, We Are Together. It hasn’t been easy for anyone these days. What a comfort to know in times like these, when it’s unhealthy to be outside, in the sunshine, in fresh air where it’s dangerous to encounter other people, we don’t have to be. We can be HealthyAtHome.

In these difficult times, even vacant schools assure with bold signs at blocked entrances that “We Stand With You.” How grateful I am that I can read during these uncertain times thanks to former days when schools were open and stood with me in person.

And, thanks to non-virtual teachers, I can also read highway signs. For example, ADOT has spent the last three months reminding us with illuminated overpass marquees to Stay Home/StaySafe/FlattenTheCurve, which is ironic since I’d have never known how to stay safe if I stayed home where I couldn’t read ADOT’s message.

We all know there are times it’s essential to drive, though. Not to one of those small stores that are non-essential, of course, but rather to one of the big box stores that were lucky enough to make the A List. You’ll be happy to know if you do need to drive, tires stores are An Essential Business Open To Serve You. I know that because I read their sign on my way to a small business who left a note on their darkened door—“We’re Closed But We’re Here For You.” I felt so valuable. And Essential.

In these unprecedented times, just knowing we’ll get through this together is enough. While businesses and churches are closed and millions are suddenly unemployed, all forms of abuse are on the rise, depression and suicides are soaring, and people turn to alcohol and drugs for comfort, some say the reason we Stay Six Feet Apart is so we won’t be six feet under. Which, as we all know, is far worse than a lockdown that feels like house arrest.

That’s crazy, of course. We’re all just doing our part to love one another when we stay apart so we can stay together. How ridiculous to believe that a house divided against itself cannot stand. President Lincoln must have been deluded when he quoted Jesus Christ. And Aesop’s observation that ‘united we stand, divided we fall’ was simply a fable. The only people who have our best interests at heart can all be found on social media.

In these difficult times, we must protect the most vulnerable. If you won’t wear a mask then everyone knows you just want Grandma to die. You don’t love others. Or maybe you do. We Just Don’t Know. It’s selfish to long for a hug, a personal touch, for things to go back to normal. You can Find Your Together if you stop thinking about yourself.

It’s easy. Stay Home/StayHealthy/StayConnected. There are HomeTogether Essential Movies & TV if you use Roku. Paramount Network offers StayHome Movies, too, which is good because movie theaters are all closed during these social distancing times. There used to be a lot of concern over too much ‘screen time,’ but in these unprecedented times, who cares? We don’t even bother to get dressed below the waist or put on makeup. We’re taking our cues from the news media. Stay Home and virtually connect—what people don’t know won’t hurt them.

We’re all just doing our best during these uncertain times. There’s a lot to do while we stay at home. With all this isolation and time on our hands there are closets to clean, TV shows to binge watch, alcohol to drink, and drugs to take. But as long as we’re safe at home, the virus can’t get us and it’s safe to self-destruct.

Sorry. That sounds so negative when positive energy is all we need to get through these uncertain times. Churches are non-essential. Gyms are non-essential. Why go somewhere to wok-out when you can do a home work-in instead?

It’s not like we’re living under martial law. Or even medical martial law. This is still a free country. We can drive anywhere we want to go that’s not closed, as long as we’re willing to stand outside in the sun, six feet apart, and wear a mask, to wait our turn to go inside and follow the arrows and wait on circles to buy essential toilet paper and rationed meat. This is still the land of the free and the home of the brave. On paper.

Virtually.

Certainly, we can all agree that in these tough times we need to stay together while we stay apart. Because we just don’t know if it’s safe to be around people. In groups of five. Or ten. Or one hundred. Or two hundred fifty. Unless we all wear a mask and socially distance. During these uncertain times.

Thank goodness politicians know. And the media knows. And science and doctors know. Because they’re the authorities we can trust. I sure wouldn’t want to depend on my own common sense or intuition or experience or faith in an invisible God.

Everyone knows those are non-essential.

Last Round Pick

It’s a long and boring read, filled with names I can’t pronounce. Sci-fi sounding places I’ve never been to. Strung together like a necklace of foreign words, this kind of chronology is the reason I fell asleep in Mr. Boyd’s sophomore American History class. Too many cold dates, unrelatable places, and long-dead people.

Just like the Bible.

Which was what I was trying to wade through at the time. But honestly, who cares about Canaanites and Perizzites and all the other bad guy Ites? What difference does it make if I look at a map and point out a town called Kiriath-arba or locate the Nahalol or Akrabbim or the River Kishon—which I can’t. Are these even real places? They sound like something Bilbo Baggins came up with.

Some days it’s all I can do just to speak English.

I dug in anyway. The Book of Judges. Dum dum de dum. Just sounds like a fun day at the zoo, doesn’t it? Well, I was after something that couldn’t be found on Facebook or Twitter or the internet—Truth. And a little shot of courage.

What I like about the Bible, even though all those weird spellings slog me down like hiking through a mud bog—okay, I haven’t ever done that on purpose, but if I did it would definitely feel like slogging. What is surprising about the Bible is its honesty. And authenticity. With the exception of Jesus, there are no superheroes hidden in those pages. Just people like you and me who took a risk. Or not. Like I said, it’s an honest book.

The people whose weird names are written there were really messed up. Failures. Weak and flawed folks who couldn’t keep a promise if it had a winning lottery ticket attached to it. If the Bible was the book of fables some people claim it is, shouldn't it make everybody on God’s team look like a bunch of high school football heroes? Instead, the Bible tells the painful truth about their screwed-up lives, making you wonder if God showed up too late for the first round of the NFL draft.

Well, He is a last-minute God.

I take a lot of comfort from reading about the stupid things Bible people did. Because I do a lot of stupid things, too. One of the dumb things I do sometimes is hide. Or pretend to be someone I’m not. Everybody wants to be accepted, right? Peer pressure is a powerful thing. Something happened in my life years ago that made me run for cover. One day I ran here, to the Winepress, which is an unlikely place to write stories but a pretty safe place to hide.

In my defense, I’m not the first person to do something like that.

There was a guy—in the Bible—a flawed guy who was so afraid of confrontation that he moved  the family wheat business inside an old winery to hide it from a bunch of bread burglers who were terrifying all the local villagers. He did all his production work at night inside that abandoned merlot facility. Which, by the way, wasn’t very effective. There he was, deep in a hole in the ground, beating up innocent wheat stalks while the worthless chaff fell back down on his own head. Really messy.

He lived like that for a while. Until God, King of the last round picks, showed up one night and told our little baker, Gideon, that he was a hero and a warrior and a courageous victor. It wasn’t how Gideon saw himself, though. The small, frightened man with so little chutzpah it could only be seen under a microscope. That’s when the supernatural kicked in. Because God doesn’t call the equipped. He equips the called. To Gideon’s credit, he believed God, emerged from that hole-in-the-ground winepress, kicked a LOT of butt, and obliterated the enemies of his people so thoroughly even Bible scholars don’t know how to spell their names anymore.

True story.

So, I read Gideon’s comeback kid tale. And then I decided to come out of my own Winepress. Inspired by a couple of women in the back stories leading up to Gideon’s emancipation, I started a second blog site (listed at the end of this page) where I take a few more risks when I write. Practice a little more transparency. Exhale a bit more honesty. That initial problem which sent me running for cover has been confronted, and now I am ready for new scenery. You and I are the only versions of us that exist. We are needed. Or, as my granddaughter likes to say, “You be you, Boo.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

I’ll still be posting here in the Winepress. I love writing humorous stories and this is the right place for them. My heart is here, too. But freedom calls. It’s time to take off the mask I’ve been hiding behind. To be the woman God knows I am. I’d like to meet that woman face to face.

And see that God gives strength to men and women alike, even crediting the winning touchdown sometimes to the hand of a woman. Meet you at the end zone.

InTheHandOfAWoman.blogspot.com








With thanks to Mike Hoff for the inspiring photo seen above. The original photo can be viewed on Mike's page by following this link:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/crashmaster/2892956241/in/photolist-5pDa6T-5CFgGy-oYcXe4-2Z8Q7N-2Z8Kxs-2Z4gCp-5CwM2d-346N9S-2Z9w31-fT2bi6-5uYXEE-5rA1wn-39svdM-39syS9-2Z9BWA-5rq8XX-7Htx4S-8BkoQ5-8Bko8y-8BkpiE-29ym6oL-nEMvL2-nEMrzM-8BkmUh-8Bkor1-29ym6js-8BhdVr-NyFCSg-5CHjj5-5rEnmC-g3Gjhd-5ruiJQ-fT3eLQ-Mcgott-fT28M4-gHVGpw-4cMsH5-5AcbYg-g3GeSH-5pDa3H-fHoTna-5CFZnS-gNgyNW-2Z9xPy-gPDgyT-fFWnuL-fT39iB-29ym64s-g3GP2r-5pHsKm

Staring At The Post

My daughter, Katy Brady, my first guest blogger here at the Winepress, shares a remarkable and wise lesson that could change your life. It has already changed mine.

“I’m staring at the post.”

This has become a reminding phrase between my husband and I. It started on the day we took our first family bike ride down the nearby wash trail once our youngest son, Will, was ready to be on his own. It was an exciting day! After several years of waiting and teaching the kids one-by-one to master their bikes, they were ready. Now for the next milestone . . . solo trail rides!

As we headed to our favorite spot, fondly called “The Enchanted Forest,” full of huge, overgrown desert trees for climbing and where imaginations can run wild, we hit the last spot of our ride. This slightly steep, downhill section of trail bottoms out in a sandy area right next to the Enchanted Forest.

The older girls were already experts at controlling their speed and gliding gently into the sand to park their bikes for a rest and a brief adventure in the hidden suburban woods. As Will crested the hill, we warned him to slow his speed gently and stay in the center of the trail. Dan and I went ahead of him to show him the way and waited at the bottom for his first descent.

What Will must have heard was, “There’s a sign post at the bottom of the trail. Watch out for the post.” In fact, at the very bottom and just to the left of the trail is a sign warning that this is a flash flood area. The post is in the sand, off the trail, and on either side of it there are at least 20 yards of soft sand to get stuck in.

Out of 40 yards of clear space, this four-inch post captured my newly riding son’s focus. He could not look away.

“Will! Don’t look at the post! Look at your path!” My husband and I watched in agony as Will careened straight at the singular post just off the path. It was a direct hit. Fortunately for all involved, he was wearing his helmet, his tire hit the post, and he did not fly off of his bike. There was no injury beyond his pride, and he played in the forest and rode the rest of the way home without further event. But the memory of this occasion has struck us.

You will end up exactly where you focus all of your attention.

Will had endless sand and a paved trail directly in front of him. He could have landed safely in any other direction than this one signpost. But he had completely zeroed in on that cold reality and that became his ultimate destination.

Now, this doesn’t mean that the obstacle wasn’t there. It was a true and real danger. And it doesn’t even mean that we should necessarily ignore the obstacles. The signpost was fairly obvious, but there was so much space surrounding it. We told him how to safely navigate himself to his destination, but he was the only one capable of steering his own course.

When we “fix our eyes” on the obstacle, we will usually run directly into it. See the cold, hard signpost, but don’t keep staring at it.

And so, when I find myself staring at my current obstacles and all of my energy and attention seems fixated on it, I try to remind myself gently: I’m staring at the post. Look at the path. Re-route your course as necessary.

And above all, as Will taught me, for the times when you do crash into the post, get back up and enjoy the Enchanted Forest.










With thanks to Hege for the use of the artistic photo above. The original can be viewed at: 
https://www.flickr.com/photos/104815519@N08/

Non-Essentials

We went to church last Sunday. We were the only ones there, Rob and me. We got there on time for a change, too, but things have . . . changed. Churches made the Top One Hundred List that no one ever wanted to be a part of.

The Non-Essential List.

For the first time since pilgrims took their lives back and boarded ships in search of religious freedom, church gatherings are now non-essential in the United States.

No one wants to pick up a virus and carry it back to Grandma.  Grandparents are essential, as it turns out. Just as long as they keep their distance, preferably on Zoom. This is for their safety, everyone believes. Force them into quarantine so they can keep living. There are so many arguments on both sides. I just don’t think anybody asked Grandma.

Common sense and courtesy also made the Non-Essential List.

So, Rob and I stood in the empty parking lots of several churches Sunday morning and did the most powerful thing we knew to do. The only thing we have any control over. The only thing that can possibly make a difference anymore.

We prayed for the congregations of those churches, those frightened members who are forbidden to congregate in person. Who risk citations and arrest and fines and even jail if they show up to be together and offer encouragement during a very dark time in this country and the world. We prayed that the virus would die and people wouldn’t. We prayed that these congregations would be able to come together again soon because they have an inalienable right to gather in America.

Words like “inalienable” are now on the Non-Essential List. Along with “life.” And “liberty.” And “the pursuit of happiness.”

It’s quite a long list, now that I think about it.

Last night I talked with my sister who lives in Texas where a salon owner who has hungry children and bills did the unthinkable and went to work. A judge sitting high above the courtroom, many times more than a safe distance of six feet away from the hairdresser defendant, told her through his mask that she could either close up shop or go to jail. She chose her children over the judge.

“How’s it going a way out there in Texas?” I asked my sister.

“Oh, you know. Lines and fear and isolation and panic. The new norm.”

We talked for a long time on the phone instead of in person because she lives a safe distance of 900 miles away from me. So far there is no evidence that the virus can be transmitted through cell phones. There is also no evidence that a healthy adult can transmit the coronavirus to an elderly person without the normal connection of being sick himself. I’ve checked. But I digress.

We had a lot to talk about. We talked about how we both feel abandoned right now. My sister also drove to an empty church parking lot to pray that God’s people would soon gather in person again. Before He parts the Red Sea. And makes it clear as mud that He is the One Who is in control of winds and storms and all other dangerous things. She sat in her car while she prayed. A danger to no one and safe from hugs and other risks to her personal well-being, even though the parking lot was empty. And she cried her eyes out, just like I did.

Tears so far have not made the Non-Essential List.

After two hours of sharing notes, it was time to hang up. Conversation lulled. Emotions settled. Hope hung in the balance.

“Is this still America?” I asked her quietly.

There was silence on the other end.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered.

Maybe it was a Non-Essential question.






With thanks to Robert Huffstutter for the use of this non-essential document's photo. The original can be viewed by following the link below:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/huffstutterrobertl/3431670016/in/photolist-6efcWq-p6o7JN-BbFfnv-B9tSUL-B8n2a7-B8o9Yb-B9u6R7-AdCEq5-AdMTXr-BaFqzz-AdMvbV-BaFkk6-Az1wMa-B9tmm1-BbEuwK-AwGHFk-BaEGyR-AwGabw-BaFJMX-AdMUCp-AdMCT8-AwHaQK-B8nCCG-pKQsa7-BaFj6T-BaEQRn-B8ntS5-BbEeza-pKMeYC-B9t8FG-B8ngis-BbEj8i-B9sYr9-p6o9n7-AdMwsH-BbEzza-2hGvG7Q-eSjy1-AdMkjv-q312k2-pKNAkM-p6o9GA-pKNCCn-q15bwC-pKNEjP-pKQrqG-q157k1-q159fd-q157Yq-p6qS9i

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