The complaint

Joe (as in GI Joe) put in some really rough years in Viet Nam. Not that he ever gave me any details — he figured that if you were there you already knew; if you weren’t — well, you never could know, and you were blessed.

I met Joe about 20 years ago, when I took a job where he worked. I was in the office; he was in the shop. I didn’t see much of him in the first few years, but what I did see wasn’t very appealing. He would call the janitor “you old coon”, and tell him he saved some of the watermelon from the picnic for him. The janitor laughed it off, and sometimes came back at Joe with comments about the redness of his neck. There was an older man in the shop, born in one of those European countries that ceased to exist after the war, who was another constant recipient of Joe’s jokes and tirades. I have to admit, he was an easy target. He had a short fuse, and never seemed to consider that Joe was pulling his leg. Joe would pick an argument with him, just to see him sputter and get red in the face.

Joe was in my office one day, telling me about participating in Rolling Thunder — a yearly motorcyclists’ tribute to the MIA and KIA Viet Nam vets that is held in DC over the Memorial Day weekend. During the conversation, he used the word “gook”. I swallowed. He used it again, in reference to a new employee. He made the comment that none of ‘em deserved to live in this country. (I did make it clear that Joe is an instigator, right?) I quietly but very firmly told him that this particular word hit home for me. I told him about my grandson, the Asian, (I’ve blogged about him before) and showed Joe his picture. Once Joe was convinced that I was dead serious about not wanting to ever hear that word out of his mouth again, I never did. And we became friends.

Always the macabre joker, when Joe’s mother died out west, he told everybody that he was seeing to it that her ashes were scattered as she wished. The funeral home was shipping them to him by UPS, he said. But he was a little worried, because it had been a week, and he hadn’t received her. Then 10 days. Then three weeks, but they said they were looking.  The story never ended.

Joe had a lot of hair. I swear, he could shave off his beard and within two weeks he looked like Santa Claus again. So much so, in fact, that the boss decided that Joe should don a Santa Claus suit and greet the customers one holiday season. After the requisite amount of grumbling (Joe valued his status as the company curmudgeon) he was out there in the lane in his red suit and natural beard. (he even had the belly for it) A jolly Santa Claus, with one small exception. There was a small pin on his collar, about the size of a flag pin. Only this was a tiny, accurate depiction of a hand grenade.

Joe and I no longer work together. One day in late summer, the owners informed us that the company would soon close. They would try to help us find jobs in the industry, and that worked for some. One by one, my co-workers said goodbye. I retired, but that was not an option for Joe. It took him a while, but with helpful references from one of us who had found a home, he finally landed a job.

The local VFW was his daily hangout, and the Veterans’ Administration provided his health care. which he sorely needed. He talked fondly of teasing his niece, joking with her mother, and visiting them in the country, but those he called family were notblood relatives, but the family of an old army buddy.

One of the duties of Joe’s job was to drive the company van and take customers home or to work. One day he was chatting and joking with a customer in his van, and one word – one fateful word – slipped out. The same word that I had objected to years before was to change everything. His customer said nothing to him, but as soon as she got home she called the president of the company and voiced a strong complaint. She was assured that the issue would be addressed immediately.

Company policy was followed, and Joe was fired.

He accepted full responsibility for his words, but he knew that his apology would not change the outcome. Much as he and his friends tried, in the coming months Joe could not find another job. He sank into a deep depression. He had been living from paycheck to paycheck, and now he had nothing coming in at all. He could no longer afford the co-pay on the medicine that had been keeping him alive, and frankly, he didn’t much care anymore. Within a few months, my friend GI Joe was dead.

*******

I often wonder, if the customer had made her objection to Joe in the moment instead of waiting and calling his boss — if she had given him the opportunity to apologize — would he be alive today?  Did she even give a thought to the possible real-life consequences of her call?

Would it have played out differently if the customer had been a man? Would a man be more likely to handle the situation in the moment? I know it’s difficult for women to confront men, especially relative strangers. But would it not have been the more ethical thing to do?

Or are we women simply more vindictive?

Tags: compassion, consequences, curmudgeon, job loss, meaning of life, Rolling Thunder, vet, veteran, Viet Nam

Ahead of schedule.

I’ve lived in this home for twenty-one springs now. (The longest I’ve ever lived anywhere, by the way) The pink dogwood in front of the house, right outside the kitchen window where I sit at my computer, has bloomed every year on the same date. It didn’t seem to be at all influenced by the azaleas, which bloomed on April 10, or the rhododendron, which bloomed at its feet every April 5, or the eager Japanese cherry tree in my neighbor’s yard which started the blossomy parade on April first, all without fail.

No differences in the severity of the previous winter or the warmth of the current spring would make more than one day’s difference in the blooming of this pink dogwood. It doggedly insisted on blooming on April 15th, every year. April 15, coincidentally, was the day on which we moved in. It was our very first home that we purchased; it was our own; we celebrated being no longer renters, but owners. Yay! We had a mortgage! And the pink dogwood has bloomed on that day ever since.

The husband of many years with whom I bought this house lived in it for eleven years. He got to see twelve April 15 bloomings of the pink dogwood before he died. Then there was that bleak spring when there was no husband in the house, but the pink dogwood faithfully bloomed on schedule. By the next blooming, the Barbarian had become the husband with whom I shared the house, and with whom I shared the pink dogwood.

I really love that dogwood. Its brown branches hold the white snow in winter, the pink blossoms in spring, the green leaves in summer, and the bright red leaves in the fall. I’ve never lived in any one place longer than this, and I’ve never loved any tree more.

For eight more years after I married the Barbarian, April 15 brought the smile of the dogwood’s blooming. But this year — THIS year — this year the buds are popping open on a rainy March 24! That’s three weeks before they ever have before! There are twice as many open flowers now as there were when I started writing this piece two hours ago. (I write slowly)

Like the rhododendron, which is already in full bloom, and the azalea, with its expanding buds, my dogwood is heralding a beautiful, unusual spring. I refuse to see anything but a positive omen therein.

After writing the previous line, which was to have been the end of this piece, I came to a realization about that tree and this home. It was planted just after this home was built, when the first owner (her name was Wolfe) signed a mortgage and moved in. The second owners, a family named Smith, still had a mortgage when they sold it to us. Seven months ago, the Barbarian and I paid off the mortgage ahead of schedule, so that I could retire. This is the first year the tree has bloomed in front of a home that is totally owned by the family who lives here.

This is going to be a beautiful year. Full of growth and serendipitous change.  Some of it, ahead of schedule.

Tags: Barbarian, gardening, nature, pink dogwood

The Mulch wars — they make me crazy

   It’s started again. They’re out there with their wheelbarrows and shovels, fanning out from the big truck with the Witherfields Nursery logo, moving through the entire townhouse condominium. Little men in gray hoodies, hired assassins yelling to each other in Spanish, happily carrying out their mission to smash my perennials, murder my daffodils, bury my crocuses, suffocate my grass…….in Mulch.

   It’s not the men, but the Mulch, that is the enemy. I must remember that. The men are but pawns, hirelings in this deadly game. I must be vigilant. When I was working full-time, my only weapon was to hang a sign from my pink dogwood tree before I left for work: NO MULCH! It was ignored, of course. I would come home to find my lilies of the valley buried in six inches of stinky, rotting, deadly Mulch. Each year, the mulch-covered areas grew wider and the remaining patches of grass grew narrower.

   Year before last, I gave up on having a flower garden in my front yard, under the dogwood tree. After the ubiquitous Mulch killed my wildflower seedlings, I began collecting rocks on my walks. Big rocks, red rocks, striped rocks, granite, quartz, and mystery rocks. Rocks too big for my pockets — backpack-sized rocks. I’d dig them up with anything I had to hand — even if it was only a plastic spoon. (For some reason, the Barbarian stopped going on walks with me around that time.) I “planted” those rocks in my garden — almost like tombstones for my poor, suffocated flowers.

   Last spring, the men in the grey hoodies covered the rocks. They covered the rocks with Mulch! If you could only hear the Snap! as I typed that M, you would understand the force of my contempt.

   There’s a foot-wide strip of concrete on the ground abutting the front wall of my house. I’ve been told its purpose is to keep runoff from getting into my basement. The Mulch-maniacs pile it high, every year, going to great pains to stomp down my rhododendron in order to reach it.

But now, now that I am home all day, I can perch at my kitchen window, like a spider in her web, and pounce whenever those minions of destruction approach. I can keep the back door cracked open also, so I can hear them if they near my patio. I have lemon balm planted there, and it’s vulnerable, just about to come up. I must defend its right to live, to breathe, and to exist in this mulch-crazed world.

It’s a war, and like all wars, this one is initiated and perpetrated by money. I found out that the Condo Association actually pays for the mulch distribution by the pound. The more mulch Witherfields Nursery spreads, the more money they make. Money is why the dirt-circles around the trees get ever wider each year. Money is why trees that used to have lush green grass tickling their trunks are now engulfed by three-foot high mounds of stinking brown Mulch.

I suspect that some of my gardener friends may not share my fierce anti-mulch sentiments. Some may even try to convince me that mulch is not, by its nature, murderous. Go ahead and try. On some subjects, I have been known to change my mind. I’ve changed my religion, changed my political party affiliation, and even my recipe for Thanksgiving stuffing. But I’m standing firm on this one.

Mulch is evil.

Tags: Barbarian, change, daffodils, evil, gardening, grass, money, mulch, nature, rocks, tongue-in-cheek, war

Bookcases

Our good buddy Paperback Writer came by today. (If that didn’t start a Beatles song running through your head right now, you’re just tooo young.) He had borrowed a truck, and used it to bring us three bookcases. Paperback Writer and his family, Queen D, Shoe Lady, and Princessthewondercat, are getting ready to move into their almost-ready new house, and they are sorting stuff into Move, Give Away, and Throw Out piles. The bookcases were about to go into the Throw Out pile, until I spoke up. “Don’t throw away good bookcases,” I said. “I can use them.”

Now those of you who have been in our townhouse might think that The Barbarian and I already have plenty of bookcases. After all, there are two in the kitchen, one in the dining room, one in the front hall, three in the living room, four in the ritual room, four my library, and — let me go count — twenty-one in the Barbarian’s basement library. The ones he built from scratch had no backs, so that each shelf can hold two rows of books – one facing each way. (The Barbarian’s library is in the basement for safety reasons — I figured that if we put all that weight on the second floor, gravity might prevail and it would wind up in the basement anyway.)

Before leaving the Barbarian’s library, pretty Miss Shoe Lady, in her trademark stilettos, gathered some boxes they could use for packing. So much less for us to take to the recycling station. That worked out well.

In the course of nudging things around in the basement so that two of the new-to-us bookcases could fit, a number of lamps and small appliances that had been stored there because the Barbarian had said “That’s too good to throw away — I can fix that, someday” finally made their way out the front door, into the car, and out to the dumpster. Three bags of trash went with them. Hooray! We added three bookcases to our house, and actually have more room, not less.

Two of the items we left by the dumpster had vanished within an hour. I’m assuming that one or more of my neighbors now has a new-to-them lamp and/or vacuum cleaner. I wonder if someone would want that blue Papa-san chair that I never could find the space for? Maybe I’ll put it out by the dumpster tomorrow, if it doesn’t rain.

I love it when recycling works.

Tags: beatles song, bookcases, books, Moving, my library, Paperback Writer, recycling

Can’t we all just get along?

You may have noticed that I don’t use given names in my blog — I use names that people have given themselves, or nicknames they’ve accepted. Today, I’m going to talk about the actions of someone I know, a person I’ve called my friend for over 15 years, and because I hope to one day again be willing to call her my friend, I’ll use the name Josie.

Josie and I share different religions, but that hasn’t been a problem for us, partially because we each have spent time in the other’s religion, and left it without rancor. Josie doesn’t have a high IQ, and never had the opportunity to finish school,  but she is a clever woman, and she has demonstrated this repeatedly.

Both Josie’s father and her ex-husband were viciously anti-semitic. When she freed herself from these hate-filled men, she began to wonder if their statements about Jews were as wrong as their statements about life in general, and her in particular, had been. So, Baptist-raised Josie found a synagogue, and began attending. She attended regularly for two years, studying, and making friends. She faced one after of her family’s prejudices, and eradicated most of them from her life. I really admire her for that.

Josie has always been poor, so when it came time to divorce her husband, she couldn’t afford a lawyer. She decided to do it herself. But she wasn’t sure how to go about wording the documents so that — let’s call him Percy — wouldn’t take advantage of her. Josie knew a businesswoman who recently had gone through a divorce, and she considered this woman to be a very clever person. So Josie went to the courthouse, obtained a copy of her friend’s divorce agreement (which is public record), and copied several provisions from it. Percy was astonished, and is still paying the price of underestimating Josie.

Josie now lives alone, and age and other infirmities keep her inside much of the time. But she has lots of internet friends. These friends forward her stuff, and she in turn forwards much of it to me. Some of it is fun, some is pretty; much of it is drek. After she sent several forwarded pieces of the chain-mail ilk a few years ago, I remonstrated that I didn’t want to receive any more threats. As I expected, she was appalled that I would think she was threatening me. Then I explained that when someone wrote that if you failed to  (send copies to 29 friends in three hours,  say a prayer to St. Misanthrope, or whatever), then these stated bad things would happen to you, that was, indeed, a threat. Not one I took seriously, but one I thought Josie just might not want to send out under her name. She agreed, said she had never read it that way, and as a result of my comments she became more aware, and became more selective. She thanked me.

But Josie still forwards me stuff, and when I find something I think she’d like, I reciprocate. I steer away from religion and politics, though.

A week or so ago, Josie forwarded me a really nasty, bitter, political statement that was full of invective and, shall I say, inaccuracies? No, let’s be clear. It was full of outright lies, smears, and manufactured “facts.” It wasn’t the first political forward she’d sent, but it was the most hate-filled I’d ever seen.

I replied, pointing out the errors in fact, and the hate speech that it contained. I said that I realized that Josie herself had not been the author of it; this just wasn’t the way she would write. (Tone, phrasing, sentence structure — all were off) Then I gave her some of the reasons why I supported the person and the policies that the email had decried.

The next day, I received an email from Josie saying “Well, you can just POUND SAND.” (emphasis hers) This was so very different from the Josie I knew, that I could not bring myself to reply.

For good or ill, that’s my style.  I will walk away from an angry,  belligerent person; I will not continue to interact for long after voices are raised.  I’ve never yet seen nastiness or shouting change minds.  (People who knew me in my twenties might not recognize this self-description.  The years have changed me, I’ve worked hard at it, and it has been intentional.)

In the succeeding days, Josie  forwarded me jokes, etc., as though nothing had happened. If the subject line sounded political or religious, I deleted it unread.  My mental real estate, like my time,  is limited; it doesn’t benefit me to fill it with anger.

This whole thing makes me very sad, on so many levels. It reminds me of the state of our congress, and the current state of political conversation in our nation as a whole.

And I no longer want to open an email from Josie. I anticipate that, after a few weeks, she will invite me to go to lunch, as we used to. I will not want to go.

I have other friends and family members whose politics differ greatly from mine. We discuss the issues;  we may disagree, but we do so civilly.  For forty years, my  beloved late husband and I would go to the polls together every election, and almost always vote for opposing candidates.  We had lots better things to fight about than politics.

I’m sad for Josie, I’m sad for me, but most of all, I’m sad for my country. So much hate, so many lies, so much ill will.

Can’t we all just get along?

Tags: clever woman, current-events, old friends, politics

A little love

I’ve always liked George Burns. I especially liked his on-stage, openly loving relationship with his flibbertigibbet wife, Gracie. He doted on her, and her eyes sparkled when she looked at him. Today I came across a line of his that, while funny, set me to thinking:

George said, “Do you know what it means to come home at night to a woman who’ll give you a little love, a little affection, a little tenderness? It means you’re in the wrong house.”

Right, George – you’re in the wrong house.  If you were in the right house, you’d be getting a LOT of love, a LOT of affection, a LOT of tenderness.

Because that’s what you’d be giving.

You make the home you inhabit.  Just look at that last word. In-habit.   Is it your habit to hold your partner tight and exchange a meaningful  kiss when you arrive or depart? (Do you both consider it meaningful? You guess so? Ask.)  Is it your habit to converse with each other about the people you’ve dealt with, the books you’re reading, the TV shows you watch, what’s on the news today?  Is it your habit to make love with each other in ways that satisfy both of you?

Are you settling for “a little love”, and still expecting both of you to be happy?  Fool.  There’s so much more love available.  Right there in the home you in-habit.

Tags: george burns, love, personal philosophy

My personal politics

My personal politics

If it’s possible to define such an elusive thing as my personal political stance, it would be this: I’m a fiscal conservative, and a social liberal. And I become more fiscally conservative, and more socially liberal the more I experience of life.

This condition makes it certain that I will very carefully watch all elections that affect me. Life would be much simpler if I, like my father, could just blindly vote for “The” party. But no, I am forced by my personal convictions to really listen to and research what the candidates say, balance this against their past performance (the two never seem to coincide), and cast my vote for the one who tramples least on the principles of good governance. And I always vote.

I believe in the Constitution — all of it — and the Rule of Law (especially including equal protection under the Law). I believe that people can and should work out their problems in a peaceable, respectful manner. I believe that our representatives should represent all of the people in the jurisdiction that elected them, and that the previous sentence applies to those representatives, in spades.

I believe that one of the main reasons why we need, and have established, a democratic form of government is to protect the weak from the strong. Obviously, this means we have police and military, but beyond that, it means that we have child labor laws, that every adult citizen gets a vote, that the government decides on and enforces weights and measures, that the worker’s health and safety is protected by DoL and OSHA, that individual investors and corporations are protected by the SEC, that the courts can overturn laws that oppress the weak (see Loving vs. Virginia), that our food, our water and our medicine supply is safe, and, and, and…..

Another central function of government is so that we can accomplish collectively that which we cannot do (or won’t do, or don’t do well) individually. Negotiate with other countries, be it treaties, laws, or commerce. Establish and regulate transportation systems – roads, airways, waterways. Care for the homeless, the destitute, and the sick. Ensure adequate education, housing, medical care for all our citizens, even those that some of us might think are “inferior”. Like women, or old folks, for instance.

Through all this, let us remember that “the government” is not some faceless, overarching, untouchable entity: we do not live under a dictatorship, a monarchy, an oligarchy, or (at least not yet) a theocracy or corporatocracy.

We have met the Government, and it is US.

Especially in the DC area, and in my own family, this is literally true. My late husband worked in a civilian capacity for the Dept of Defense, The Barbarian (and his first wife) worked for the Dept. of Labor, my niece works for the State police, one daughter works for the U S Marshals Service, my grandson, like his father and both of his grandfathers, was in the military. I have friends and acquaintances scattered throughout the Government — Dept of Veterans Affairs, Dept of Defense, Labor, Commerce, Justice, as well as in local and state governments. They work hard, and take pride in doing a good job, just like you do. Four that I know of (and probably more that I don’t) have come up with and implemented procedures that save the taxpayers’ money. Not just talked about it, did it.

Personally, I’ve never worked for the government. Except that, as I said, I always vote. And, I always pay my taxes.

One Republican candidate for President declared that he would eliminate three of the Federal Departments that protect the weak from the strong, because, he said, they hinder business. Think about that. ‘Scuse me, but that’s just exactly why we need them! We need these dedicated government workers that prevent corporations from riding roughshod over their employees, over small businesses, over the water we drink, over the rights of landowners, and the health and safety of the entire nation. We need our government on our side, to put limits on the modern-day robber barons.

And while I’m at it, let’s talk about who exactly it is that generates jobs in this country. It’s not the large corporations, it’s not the wealthy, and it certainly is not the blustering politicians. Most of the new jobs that have been generated in the past decade came from small business — some of which, happily, are becoming large businesses. And just how did these small businesses grow? They grew, and added jobs to the economy, because the great majority of American people — the middle class — bought their goods and services. The Middle Class, with their middle-class incomes, bought the goods that generated the jobs in both small and large businesses. So why do the wealthy deserve tax breaks? More money in their hands does not generate more jobs. Give the tax breaks to the cohort that is truly supporting and growing the US economy — the Middle Class.

But that’s not going to happen, because too many of the politicians are in thrall to their corporate sponsors. The 1% are pulling the strings on their bought-and-paid-for puppets. (Campaign finance reform, anyone?)

Where are the statesmen? The leaders who cared first about the nation, and all its people? The honest men and women who ran for office because they had a dedication to the greater good of the people — not limited to the good of their corporate sponsors, or their particular religion, or their party, or of one state over another.

Well, this has gone in an entirely different direction than I expected. I guess the point I wound up making is that all politics are personal. Each of us has a stake in this — a big one. And this country will be what we make of it, for good or evil.

Think mostly with your brains, folks. And when you do think with your emotions, let those emotions be compassion, caring, and a pride in the integrity that binds good people together, no matter what their personal politics.

Tags: government, jobs, personal philosophy, personal politics, principles of good governance