Shooting from the Hip

Today’s Oregonian reported that in the wake of the violent shootings in Newtown, Connecticut, Vice President Joe Biden’s task force was preparing recommendations that would “lessen the possibility that this kind of thing could happen again.”  But, he said, “We know there is no silver bullet” to solve the problem.  Biden said he hoped to send his recommendations to Obama next week.  “I’m shooting for Tuesday.  I hope I get it done by then,” he said.
 

 I might add that while the Obama administration may be under the gun to take action to curb the violence, they are not the only ones sweating bullets.  The NRA president may have shot himself in the foot by suggesting armed guards in schools, a measure that pundits quickly shot down. 

Video game professionals, leaders of an economic sector that has been going great guns in recent years, worried that the task force was gunning for them, and hope to dodge a bullet by pointing out that actual guns kill people, not video games. 

Second Amendment defenders feel that politicians shooting their mouths off will not change the reality that prescription drug side effects and mental illness contribute to widely reported but relatively rare murderous massacres.  They are sticking to their guns, and daring anyone to violate the U.S. Constitution by infringing on their right to keep and bear arms. 

Sooner or later we may all have to bite the bullet and realize there is no obvious smoking gun here… the situation is complex, and every contributing factor inextricably tied to a constitutionally protected liberty:  freedom of speech, freedom to bear arms, or civil liberties.  This is no time to shoot first and ask questions later.

P.S.  Don't blame me.  Biden started it.

 

A Shout Out to the Blogosphere

I'm Nobody

I'm Nobody!  Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be Somebody!
How public - like a frog -
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

by Emily Dickinson

A Tale of the Old West

I saw the news that a school district in Salinas, California has raised a controversy.  They are considering naming a school after Tiburcio Vasquez.

Tiburcio Vasquez was born in Monterey, California in 1835 to a family of Californios who owned wide swaths of rugged Californian land.  The Bear Flag Revolt by European settlers resulted in California becoming an independent republic in 1846.  Two years later, Mexico signed the Treaty of Hidalgo ceding California to United States.   Tiburcio was thirteen. 

When I was teaching high school Spanish I explained the story to my students like this.  Suppose the president of our country had a disagreement with present-day Russia.  Suppose that in order to come to terms of a resolution, he agreed to hand over the Pacific Northwest to Russia as part of a treaty for peace.  As of the date of the signature, our state would suddenly become Russian territory.  From one day to the next, your language would no longer be the language of the land, your money no longer the currency, your land deed not honored, and most difficult of all, your culture, your way of life, your values suddenly dismissed, ignored, and obsolete.

When this happened to Tiburcio Vasquez, he was a teen from a well-respected and well to do family.  The upheaval's impact on him was that he chose a life of rebellion against the new societal order.  Beginning at age 19, he stole from the new settlers, robbed stage coaches and stores, and hid out in the hills he knew so well, elusive and impossible to catch.  He fraternized with criminal gangs of other dispossessed Californios, and traveled in a secret network of homes of friends and relatives who would shelter him.  Posses were mounted and rewards offered, and Tiburcio outsmarted the (new) Law. 

An aristocrat by birth, he conducted himself in a romantic and gentlemanly manner where the ladies were concerned.  When robbing a stage coach, he would lay his coat in the dust so the ladies aboard could walk over it while exiting the coach he was stealing.  He was a legendary casanova, with many love affairs.  Even when in prison, he was a celebrity, visited by many.  He sold his autograph to raise money for his defense.

In August of 1873, Tiburcio and his gang robbed Snyder's store in the small town of Tres Pinos.  In the course of the crime, they murdered three bystanders.  One of them was Leander Davison, my ancestor.  He was an innkeeper, who, when he heard the commotion of Tiburcio's gang escaping hot pursuit, barred the wooden entry to his establishment.  Tiburcio shot through the door, and the bullet killed Leander Davison.

Eventually, the crime resulted in Tiburcio Vasquez' hanging in 1875.  He was 39 years old.  When asked before his execution if he believed in an afterlife, he replied, "I hope so, for then I shall see all my old sweethearts again."   For many subsequent years, his lovers and admirers paid their respects and left flowers at his grave.

It's been well more than a century.  The famous old west bandit is enjoying a re-branding as an early crusader for social justice and the rights of the oppressed.  It's a complicated and colorful story.  I can understand why memorializing and honoring this particular man by dedicating his name to a school has caused a bit of a ruckus.  Kind of like old Tiburcio did himself.

Kitchen Secrets

"I love you," breathed the wire whisk
Into his swarthy ear.
The garlic press feigned innocence,
Pretended not to hear.
The whisk glanced quickly 'round the room.
"You feel it too!" she hissed.
The garlic press crept closer,
And clumsily, they kissed.

The Wondrous

Nearly every morning I have a song on my heart as I drive the short 10 minutes to work, always a hymn, and sometimes I sing it.  Yesterday it was the lovely When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Last night I Googled it, and discovered the words were written by Isaac Watts in 1707, more than three hundred years ago.  And yet today it still speaks a depth of sentiment that is divine.  This hymn can soften me to tears. 

It brings to mind the quote from C.S. Lewis: “It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.” 

Charles Wesley was born in England the same year Isaac Watts wrote this hymn.  Wesley went on to write more than 6,000 hymns of his own during his lifetime.  He is reported to have said he would give up all his other hymns to have written When I Survey the Wondrous Cross. 

Ah we trip over our folly, we human types.  This devout man lusted after the glory and place of having written a simple hymn;  a hymn that is a beautiful homage to a love that desires not fame or place or glory, but only the perfect Lamb of God.

Paleo Faux Pas

I've recently spent some time looking into the Paleolithic diet.  The Nom Nom Paleo Blog, with its show-stopping photos, could make a believer out of anyone.   The diet's starch-free regimen could offer some relief for my autoimmune bedevilments.  Aw shucks, I decided to give it a go.

I found out that it's easier to get excited about recipes, and even to shop for the ingredients, than it is to cook them all up.  But even so, I've made headway.  I made the much adored Braised Cabbage the other night.  I didn't have lard so I used ghee.  I really liked the outcome but hubby wanted a saltier flavor.  Should have used that lard.

Today I was at Trader Joe's with my shopping list.  Seeing no evidence of lard on the shelf, asked the stocker, "Do you carry lard?" 

The look on his face was priceless.  I may as well have asked him if they carry ax murderers or pedophiles. 

"No," he managed to huff. 

I guess this is one Portland hipster who is not up to date.  Meat-heavy Paleo eating, along with full fat cheese and lard, is the new vegan.  Get with it, dude.

Ode to Git ‘er Done Guys

Driving by a drive thru coffee kiosk

I saw him

Bending over with his tape measure

And tool belt

Working on a deck remodel.




And I thought

I love guys that can fix things

Build things

Line things up

And make them better.




What would we do without them?

Live with broken down parts?

Make do?

Fall apart?

Just buy new stuff?




The quintessential American male.

The kind who won the west

Homesteaded the prairies

Cut roads out of the forest

And tamed the wilderness.




And then I amended my thought.

This kind of man

Comes in many varieties.

Mexican, Serbian, Vietnamese,

Italian, Australian, and American.




But there is something about a country

Founded on liberty

And opportunity

Burnished by rugged individualism

A country of wide frontiers




That attracts these types.

Brings out the latent energy in all of us

And allows such an ethos to flourish.

Even when, the west already won,

It means adding an outdoor terrace to a coffee cart.

The Experiment

Idyllic day today.  Writing, reading, cooking, spending time with the boys.  At 8:30 p.m. I decided to go to the store for cold medicine for the kid.  

I always go to supermarket B, but supermarket A is probably closer to home.  And I like it as well as B.  Supermarket A is a bit spendy.  Upscale. The produce is fresh, aisles orderly, and they carry the occasional specialty item.  I turned right to go up the hill to A.

I brought my list and patted myself on the back for doing the shopping at the odd hour - so much quieter and less crowded.  Supermarket A was just as expected:   tranquil, well stocked, and had everything I needed.

I pulled my cart to the checkout and saw that my two choices were the cashier at a 15 items or less (should say fewer) station, or self service cash out.  I manuevered to the self service with my oh, about 30 items. 

Self service is designed to help all of us appreciate the underappreciated job of a supermarket checker.  I never choose it, because I don't have the patience.  So when I do end up there, it's a trial.  No, I could not figure out how to get the scanner to read the bar code on my organic Fuji apples.  The harried cashier came with her prowess and showed me the trick. 

Presently, the bagging area to the right  of the scanner  was full but I still had half a cart of items to check.  I tried moving a gallon jug of milk from the bagging area to the cart and the machine reprimanded me. 

Eventually, after stuffing boxes of sandwich bags and packets of crackers into every corner of the bagging area, I noticed the "place item in my cart" button.  I started placing scanned items in my cart.  Then the machine beeped at me and stopped. 

Harried redhead checker came by after a 5 minute wait, and mumbled something about the computer only allowing four items to be placed in the cart.  Of course it jammed up again after the next four items.  And redhead was stuck in the customer service counter with a long drawn out return.

A young girl behind me was struggling with a carton of eggs at another self service station.  "Excuse me" she said.  No one seemed to hear but me, although she looked hopefully in the direction of two busy checkers.  "Good luck," I said.

I considered just paying and leaving the last of the groceries, but the computer was stuck and would not even let me pay and go.  I stood there holding a package of plastic storage containers mid-air, and tried to find my zen.

Redhead eventually sailed by with her magic wand and released my machine to work again.  She mentioned that I should not have been waiting because after all she had fixed my machine remotely "ages ago".  So, oh!  I got to feel stupid as well as annoyed. 

I brought up the futile subject of having followed the rules.  "Your check out stand says 15 items or less (should say fewer), and since I had more than 15 I had to come here, but the station does not allow me to bag this many items anyway.  Clearly there is no where to go in order to pay if you are buying more than 15 items this time of night."  "Oh, you should have just come to my checkout...."  "I should have not followed the rules," said, I, stuck as always on the letter of the law.  I was conversational, trying not to be the angry lady.  But really?

As a sort of last insult (one for the road), my final item was a bag of white onions, unmarred by a bar code sticker.  Too proud to flag the flying checker, I studied the laminated produce code cheat sheet.  Yellow onions, red onions..... no white.  Finally she hurried by, and I told her the onions did not have a code.  Yeah, she rescued me again.  And I paid my $78 without further incident.

20 minutes to check out and pay.   I hate Supermarket A. 

New Day

Twenty thirteen.  Unlucky thirteen?  Or extra-lucky thirteen?  

We are all weary of this tired, raggedy, endless economic gloom.  It's been like a  pea-soup fog obscuring the sun for, oh, too many years now.  Cut-backs, layoffs, homes lost, dreams deferred or forgotten.  Everyone knows someone touched by ill fortune.  Sure, it won't change with New Year's resolutions, but maybe the fiscal winter's drip-slow thaw will pick up a little speed. 

Yet.....I cannot help it.  New years, new mornings, new blank pages to write, new outlooks.  They bring out the optimist in me.  It's 2013 and today the sun broke through in Portland.  Brilliant on the bare glistening forest.  Harbinger of things to come?