Wednesday, December 10, 2014 i ended up in the back of a police car

I thought better of taking a picture inside the police car. 
This is the drive home from Home Depot later that week,
the last decorated tree in my lap. Cars figure heavily 
in my 2011 Christmas memories. 

The day started innocently enough. Bill was working up in Ukiah so I sent him a selfie from D-Dock. The bright sun effectively removed all my wrinkles. Just so you know, the brown fringe is my hair and the fuzzy black and pink frizz is a hat knitted by a friend. The overall effect is a punk haircut with a rad color job. But I digress.

After checking on the boat, I decided to walk the three blocks to CVS for a few essentials: toothpaste, lipstick, Christmas-y nail polish, and Dove hairspray. First I strolled through the town home community next to us to see the decorations, made a right on Regatta Boulevard, stopped, took off my jacket, and tied it around my waist...a happy woman. Then the day began to unravel at the next intersection.

One minute I was crossing the street, the next I was flying through the air after tripping over the curb. A hard crash ended my space exploration. After a significant pause, my breath returned but the thought of broken bones grinding against each other dampened my desire to move. About this time, a car pulled up next to the curb and stopped.

The first thing I saw was a pair of steel-toe lace-up boots covered in either a Jackson Pollack painting or slaughterhouse residue. As I started to rise,  a hand reached toward me. Then I saw four more boots that looked just like the first two.  When I gingerly rolled to one side before testing my weight, the car came into focus. Two dinged doors - each a different color - contrasted strongly with the body paint...all equally coated in muck.

Now, I'd heard stories of inner Richmond but I was nowhere near there. Evidently it had come to me. For better or for worse, I determined to meet it on my own two feet. With as much dignity as I could muster, I unfolded upward, then watched as pieces of my bracelet fell to the ground. The trio introduced themselves: Jesus, Howard, and Jamil. We were a rather ecumenical group. As Jesus retrieved the bits of my bracelet, Howard inquired if I was okay. I assured him that, other than a few scrapes and bruises, I was okay. Jamil thought they should take me to the hospital, an offer I politely but quickly declined.

Howard checked my arm which was bleeding through my good pink turtleneck. Jesus pointed out my ripped pants' knee and Jamil offered a ride to the ER again. Grace had ridden up, not on camels or horseback, but in a tatty old Dodge. They waited for a few minutes until they were assured that I was only a little worse for wear. I shook each of their hands and said, "I can't tell you how grateful I am for your kindness. What fine gentlemen you are." Each of them stood a little taller and grinned, then Jesus said, "You're not from around here, are you?" I told them that I am now and they welcomed me to California.

Hands waved out the car windows as they drove away and I gave them a thumbs up, then began the trek to the drugstore. Another car pulled up beside me, this time a black and white with a Richmond police officer inside.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?"

"Yes." I said that I'd fallen and was headed to CVS for a few things. My list had now morphed to bandages and Advil.

"Well, get in and I'll drive you."

"Oh, no. The walk will probably help me work out the stiffness."

"Nonsense. But you'll have to sit behind me."

As I closed the back door, my cellphone rang...Bill calling between patients. "Hey!" he said. "Had a minute and wanted to see what you're up to this morning!"

"Well, sweetheart, at the moment, I'm in a police car."

After a hurried explanation from me, Dr. Bill the PT explained how my neck issues and nerve damage had caused foot drop which in turn led to my fall. Post-diagnosis Bill reverted to my husband and VBFF, promised to call back in an hour,  said me he loved me and would be home by seven. I then became acquainted with Officer Chris. She was a delight. Told me about her upcoming class reunion and I discovered we had quite a lot in common. After a rather exciting roundabout route to avoid a long train, we arrived at the drugstore. She gave me contact info and once more inquired if I needed to go to the hospital. Both of us were laughing when I climbed out. I saw a man on the curb across the street, staring intently. But he wasn't nearly as interested as the woman who walked outside as I exited the patrol car.

Inside, the checker, Catherine, noticed my rips and scrapes. Another assurance was forthcoming. That morning Catherine, the widowed black mother of two, became my first regular "neighbor" in Marina Bay. Next time she saw me she told me she'd been praying for me. Until she transferred earlier this year, every trip to CVS was a hugfest.

Remember the gentleman seated on the curb? Well, when I walked out with my first-aid supplies, he called out, "You must rate. Pick up and delivery!" I waved again and limped home.

And that is how I ended up in the backseat of a Richmond police car and met my very own Kris Kringle, Officer Chris, and the Three Wise Guys.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

le temp perdu - leaving tracks

He sleeps by the railroad track where trains no longer run. Today I saw him at a distance while I waited for the light to change. He folded his sleeping bag, gathered his belongings, stooped to pet his dog. Then the two set out for a day of whatever it is a homeless man and his dog do.

Many Vietnam vets who arrived in California after discharge migrated north and stayed. Broken in body and in spirit, they were drawn by the beauty, the solitude of the giant redwood forests and the aptly-named Lost Coast. Drugs, you say? Their answer: 
Yes, please

Daily the social media is filled with memes that exhort the reader to honor and support our veterans. In the photographs some are physically whole, others aren't. Some admit to struggles with depression, with PTSD, drugs and alcohol. But I can't recall a photo of these broken wanderers. The sight is troubling. Hard to raise support when the needy appear so NEEDY. Ungroomed. A little scary. Homeless in America is a four-letter word: S.C.U.M. 

Shelters and support groups exist. But these broken ones have a trust problem: they have none. By all accounts, Vietnam was a debacle. No less than arch conservative George Will, in his August 6, 2014 Washington Post column, confirmed that Richard Nixon sabotoged the peace talks, promising the South Vietnamese that he would win the American presidency in 1968. South Vietnamese president, drug dealer and gun runner, General Theiu, boycotted the Paris peace talks. Greek tragedians and Shakespeare would have been hard-pressed to write a more convoluted tale of deceit...and worse. Hold that "worse" thought. Start with this list: 
Johnson's adviser, Henry Kissinger, alerted Nixon to the truce talks.

When Johnson called Republican Senate Minority Leader Everett Dirksen to say that this action was treasonous, Dirksen meekly responded, "I know." Nixon's actions violated the Logan Act (1797, Pres. John Adams) which bans "private citizens from intruding into official government negotiations with a foreign nation."

Johnson confronted Nixon who lied and claimed to be shocked.

Nixon defeated Hubert Humphrey by a narrow margin and named Henry Kissinger his National Security Advisor.

Now for "the worse":
Johnson wanted to go public with Nixon's treason but Washington insider and CIA-architect Clark Clifford counseled against this. In a taped conversation he said, "some elements of the story are so shocking in their nature that I'm wondering whether it would be good for the country to disclose the story and than possibly have [Nixon] elected. It could cast his whole administration under such doubt that I think it would be inimical to our country's best interest." Harvey Wasserman wrote, "In other words, Clifford told LBJ that the country couldn't handle the reality that its president was a certifiable traitor, eligible for legal execution."

Of this cast of characters, Clark Clifford was later disgraced by his involvement with the Bank of Credit and Commerce which financed Al-Qaeda and damaged the CIA, an agency he helped found. Johnson lived a tortured existence for four years after he left office and died a broken man. Nixon won...then became the first president to resign. Henry Kissinger was given the Nobel Peace prize in 1973 for "negotiating the same settlement he helped sabotage in 1968" and is still making the rounds of talk shows.

"The worst" stands alone. In just those four years between betrayal and peace...
     20,000+    US troops died in Vietnam. 
   100,000+    were wounded. 
1,000,000+    Vietnamese were killed.
In addition to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC, I propose another commemoration, just outside the grounds of the Nixon Library: the names of those killed in the four lost years listed for all the world to see. I can think of no better way to remember our 37th president.

In the meantime, by railroad tracks and in deep woods, the countless unnamed can yet be found - some days, most nights - while I go home to clean sheets, good food, and a bath. Ain't it a crying shame.


Total U.S. troops killed:        58,220
Total U.S. troups wounded: 303,644

If you are interested, more about veterans memorialized on the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, DC can be found here:


Saturday, October 18, 2014

...degrees of separation

The Back Porch
I awoke early this morning. As much I have enjoyed my peaceful pre-dawn hour of candlelight and meditation, I am equally certain that a nap will overtake me at some inconvenient moment later today. For now, however, the quiet is deep, not even the gulls have awakened. If anything is happening outside, I don’t know and the little statue of St. Francis on the porch isn’t talking.

Peace is truly beyond understanding...a peripatetic state of being, absent in mundane moments, then then present in heaping helpings during a crisis. I like that word, peripatetic. Once applied it to an art history professor at UGA who strode back and forth across the auditorium’s lecture stage with an energy that brought his subject to life. His contagious enthusiasm, however, quickly morphed into cynical, mean-spirited tirades, fueled, we were to discover, by his liberal pre-class infusion of crack cocaine. 

But I digress. After an hour of quiet, I began to read the morning news. Ebola. More Ebola. And a third helping of - you guessed it - Ebola. My son has two inter-woven theories about the decline of modern civilization. According to Patrick, air conditioning and the twenty-four hour news cycle are the culprits. Before AC, people sat on porches in the evening. Families talked. In town, neighbors called out to each other and children played hide and seek across the span of several yards. In the country where my grandparents lived, the Milky Way sparkled against the dark velvet night sky. I learned about Orion and the Dippers while curled up next to Papa in the porch swing. Echo, the steel balloon passive communications satellite, periodically passed overhead and the mystery of the cosmos draped over us. Now, cut to the news. Enter Ted Turner, stage right. The problem, Patrick says, with twenty-four hour news is that the network has to fill twenty-four hours. Slow news days are unbearably repetitive. Fast news days are insidious. Vetted, in-depth reports? Who has time for these, except maybe Bill Moyers and PBS? Wait. Moyers has announced his retirement and the Kochs are investing heavily into PBS.

Back to Ebola. This virus endemic to the forests of equatorial Africa has the potential to strike, go into hiding and, when stirred by humans, return. There are more of these beasts out there than we like to consider. If you are a glutton for punishment and want to stay up nights, consider this from a National Geographic article*: “Our safety against the menace of killer viruses can never be an absolute safety. There are too many of them, lurking within reservoir hosts amid distant forests or closer to home...viruses such as Nipah in Bangladesh, Marburg in Uganda, Lassa in West Africa, Sin Nombre virus in the American West, all the new influenzas coming out of southeastern Asia, plus many others that haven’t yet been identified and named.”

Even more disturbing than the news reports are reader comments. My personal choice for the Crying Fire in a Crowded Theater Award belongs to the hordes of conspiracy theorists whose accusations and posts replicate faster than multi-resistant staph.  Next up are the more innocent but no less troublesome Chinese Menu Posts. These are the outgrowth of Googling...pick one from column A and one from column B. These random factoids pulled from the ether, posted out of context, are misleading at best and dangerous at worst.

For a bit of perspective, however, consider this:

In 1918 between forty and fifty million people died during the Spanish Flu pandemic. My grandparents survived horrendous bouts as their infant son crawled around a small barricaded space where they could see him. The black couple who lived on the next farm cooked cornbread and chicken soup and left it on the front porch. My grandfather crawled to retrieve it after they were a safe distance away. Later the neighbors caught the flu from a visiting relative. My grandmother, now recovered, baked the cornbread and made the soup and my grandfather delivered it. Of these four, all survived but other friends weren’t so lucky.

In 1957 over a million people died of Asian flu and the number of deaths from the1968 Hong Kong flu ranges from one to three million...impossible to attribute the exact number because of reporting difficulties from remote areas. More recently in 2009, The H1N1 Flue pandemic killed thousands in the U.S., up to 200,000+ world wide.

Disease kills. Before Obama and after Obama. An immutable fact. Yet, this latest virus has become a hateful tool in the war against an administration. Put aside the crazy conspiracy nuts. Seemingly normal, over-degreed people I’ve known since childhood are convinced that this President is engaging in germ warfare against his own citizens in order to establish martial law and call off the 2016 election. Want to wander in What-If Land? How about threats of a far-right-fueled military coup? It's all out there.

So you know what really disturbs me? The things we can do something about...for starters, problems such as Ebola that start elsewhere and kill strangers. We humans have a common proclivity for avoidance. Until a sneezy, wheezy, vomiting person sits next to me on the plane, it’s not my problem. Until my child is shot by an open-carry nut. Until the Twin Towers fall down. Until. Until.  If we’re not careful, we are all going to be “untilled” to death. The U.S. military is better equipped than any force on earth to deploy quickly and do good. Check out their record in Haiti, for instance, and countless other places. Instead of a rush to send hordes of our youngest and best to wars that will serve to create more wars, we could use these resources for the greater good in countless scenarios. Proactively. Offshore even. Send money. Do good for the sake of doing the next right thing. (Oh, there I go, being liberal.)

And how about those hunger statistics that are numbing? You know the ones, those numbers (21,000 deaths daily, one death every four seconds) that experts quibble over, parsing the difference between starvation and the long-term effects of severe malnutrition while people are dying in droves? Well, consider this, deaths from world hunger were dropping regularly UNTIL 2001. The UN reports that, from 2001 until 2010, deaths related to malnutrition and starvation rose. Let’s see now. What happened during this period? 

Back to hunger. The numbers stagger. A recent U.N. report states that 805 million people continue to struggle with hunger every day. 1.2 billion people still live in extreme poverty on less than $1.25 per day. (Stop now and look at a picture of a child - yours or someone else’s - then read on.) Each year, 2.6 million children die as a result of hunger-related causes.

Leave out the “shiftless/lazy/no-good/pick a judgmental adjective” adults. Stare at  this statistic: 2.6 million children. That’s what keeps me up. That’s what makes me passionate about the potential we have to do good.

2.6 million children. THAT’s sin. So is denying citizens the right to vote. Scrapping law that undergirds the greater good so that a few can live in luxurious denial. The list is long. Add your own to the mix.

If I’ve learned nothing else in my lifetime, I know that reason trumps sensationalism and allows truth to surface....and truth, even when ugly, sets me free. In my finite days on this earth, I hope that I will always be disturbed by those 2.6 million children. If that number drops by half, I hope that 1.3 million will disturb me. A little perturbation is a good thing when it leads to less selfish choices.

This poem of John Donne's that I memorized in high school keeps returning. In September 2002, the front of my home collapsed in a storm. As I stared at the gaping hole in my yard, Donne's words washed over me.

No man is an island entire of itself. [Each of us] is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thy friend's or of THINE OWN were: any man's death diminishes me for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.

Forgive me if I seem cavalier about Ebola. I'm not. Not my family, please. Not Bill, please. Not my friends, please. But since "thine own" took root, I know I don't have the luxury of six degrees of separation. Here or there, every death diminishes me. And until the "least of these" is counted, statistics lie.