I stopped for a chat with my neighbor. She keeps the TV on mute all day, to keep an eye on Trump. If mine is on, I keep the TV on Home and Garden. I can’t control Trump, or run from him. I feel like a personal Guam.
Every day I read all the news I can. Perhaps I’m as much a junkie as my neighbor. Yesterday we had the first news of white supremists in Charlottesville, VA. Why Charlottesville? It’s only a pretty little town in Virginia. Near Montpelier. I intended to drive through the town and show it to my granddaughters, as unimpressed as they probably would be with a little college town. Well, the accident intervened, in any event.
My point is, it’s little, it’s pretty, and its citizens keep it that way. Pride. As the troublemakers began gathering last night, citizens held hand and sang “This Little Light of Mine.” Their defense against bigoted hate mongers who, today, have hurt people. Cars run into people. What is wrong? They cannot change national identity with violence.
I was in the middle of the Cleveland race riots in 1965. Not voluntarily. The Ohio National Guard camped in the vacant lot beside my apartment building, under my bedroom window. Every morning I picked up my baby, walked out the front door, past guardsmen, around the corner to my babysitter and on to my job at Freiberger Library. I took the opposite route at five pm. I was never afraid; it was my job to walk straight through and not be afraid.
My sister brought me Ashtabula peaches yesterday. “I have Ashtabula August peaches. Can I give you some. I’ll be there in five minutes.” And she was. This is my real life. Sun warm peaches from the orchards along Lake Erie, Ashtabula County, Ohio, America, The World.
The National Guard is handling white supremists in Patriot Park in Charlottesville, Virginia. I hope every other one of us remembers our job is this election, in November.