I hope you voted, too. Sadly, we cannot vote out crazed shooters, bullying and death. All separate topics.
We are reduced to railing against shooters. Literally, screaming in the wind and flailing arms. There is no solution. It’s all old news.
Bullies are closer to home. My granddaughter’s struggle against bullies began sixteen years ago, when she became the displacement baby. It reduced her to the status of everyone’s punching bag. By her own will she has stood up, come back, been heard, become a real person.
Yesterday afternoon she had an Instagram message: “You’re being targeted.” Are you sick? I am. It’s in the hands of the police. If there is a connection, this blog will be wiped clean.
I have a gentleman friend I may have mentioned. He used to sell road equipment, before he retired few years ago. He called on the road guys, who were out to lunch one day, so we went out, instead. He was a pretty new widower.
We’ve met for lunch once a month or so, ever since. He could solve any problem. Tires low? “You unscrew the caps; I’ll inflate them;” with his electric tire pump. We solved world problems over apple dumplings (me) and the special of the day (him).
I realized I hadn’t heard in a bit. I called. No answer, voice mail full. I texted. No reply, until last weekend. A shaky teenaged voice fished about a bit to verify my name, then blurted “Grandpa told me to call you. He was sick and he died.”
There's more; that's enough.