Judgment passed

Years and years ago I learned the meaning of phrases like “There but for the grace of God go I.” So today a story about a Trailer Park, and I live here. There probably is no finer place in the world for meeting America. Every skin color you can imagine. LGB and T (“Oh my God, don’t tell anyone I told you I’m trans!” Still fear attached to T). Every degree of poorness to poverty.

The children are wonderful. They have no idea they’re poor, up to age two or three anyway. They play their games in the street, ride their bikes faster than we drive our cars through. Mom’s come home from work and herd a child or two or three into their home. Dad’s come home from work and come back out and fire up the grill and the neighborhood smells wonderful from dinner cooking.

Then, a mom who threw out a cat that Cathy and I re-homed. She may as well throw out the three kids as well, for all the good that roof does the three of them. Cathy started out watching just the three year old while mom cleans houses, through a service. It’s morphed into feeding all three breakfast, taking the boys to the bus stop, bringing the boys in at night until mom gets home. All for the same twenty dollars a day. If mom manages to get to work.

They boys do homework in the morning because mom wouldn’t let them in until dark. The boys get physically sick at school, and Cathy goes for them. Maybe because breakfast at Cathy’s was their first meal since lunch yesterday. Maybe because they like Cathy.

I’ve drilled Cathy in “No.” “No, I won’t take you to the gas station for cigarettes." We haven’t figured out “No, I won’t watch your kids while your drug dealer is here.”

Mama smokes, cigarettes and weed. She drinks with her boyfriends. She has new fingernails every week. I am such a cat, aren’t I? I cannot bear the thought of involving children’s services—yet. The police aren’t interested in marijuana—it’s penny ante.

The other day I found Cathy crying, holding a pair of flip flops that belong to one of the kids. Cathy has taught the little girl her colors, how to count. She takes her on the fall hiking spree in the metro parks, every day. “Look at what the child has to walk in,” she yelled at me, waving the flip flops. After supper Laura and I went to the shoe store.

Cathy was happy, and upset. “How can I explain these. They know I can’t afford them!”

“Say they came from Good Neighbors”; (a locally known charitable organization).

We’ll keep an eye on the kids this winter. Their grandma got shoes for the boys. We’ll see what we can do with her. And, I am calling the health department. The mom needs to quit smoking indoors. Other than that, I really don’t know what to do.

You guys!

No one will be offended by this analogy, I’m sure. 

Last spring (though I have lost track of so much of this year), when the gop put out the first ACA repeal attempt, it seemed the entire list of gop-ers we were calling turned off their phones, their faxes, their email addresses. On Facebook came a share, to this effect: “Ok, Paul Ryon has gone radio silent. Here is his home address. Everyone send him a post card timed to arrive on Monday. Let’s have a hundred thousand post cards dumped on the end of his driveway.”

Mine was included.

I have struggled through a personal problem this summer, and I was as transparent as, well, a sheet of glass. There is a universe, though, and this week it has been sending really good stuff my way. Did you all get together and arrange a world-wide mail date? Thank you. We are burning up the return postal system with all Laura’s left over little round international thank you stamps. Back from her attempted international pen pal days. Thank you, thank you, and thank you.

The problem is coming to resolution. For the last two years more than a couple of friends have said, “This is none of my business, and tell me to shut up if I’m out of line, but, have you made plans for Laura?” Past changing a toxic environment and following her path to recovery, no, I haven’t.

The Red Bus business scared the bejammers out of me, when I was collected enough to think it through. There was dead and more to consider. Then, an incident this summer, in which the three family members on whom I might rely told me they would not have her. And half the time I couldn’t think clearly, on top of it.

I thought about her art teacher, Mrs. P. But Mrs. P. is moving house and starting her last one in college and all that stuff, and Laura only has two high school years left and I’ll be here and etcetcetc. My best friends are states away. Ann and I talked and Carol and I talked, and really had nothing more to say on the subject except we hoped I’d figure it out.

Then Laura smashed the car and Kay lent me one for two weeks. I helped Kay switch around her plethora of cars, and told her my dilemma on one of our rides. When I finally paid attention, I realized Kay was saying, over and over, “I’ll take her.” Laura, of course, was in complete agreement with that, and I called my daughter to tell her what I was planning, too.

Well, that backfired. I listened patiently, but ended the call when I was informed I was the villain who cut off Laura from all contact with the family. That was pretty much the last straw, and definitely the end of the conversation, toward the end of last week.

So, my sister bought a new house, which I knew. Saturday night I took a last look at Facebook, and read my sister thanking, by name, everyone of the family who helped her and Tom move in Saturday. My daughter, Laura’s mother. Bekka, Hamilton, Emily, Laura’s siblings, two of whom were my wards their high school years. I had no idea Saturday was moving day. No one called and asked if Laura could join the moving party. I stared at the screen a long time, and turned it off.

It is what it is. And, the postman filled my mail box this week with cards and letters and little presents. You guys are wonderful!

And, P.S., I saw Mrs. P. downtown today, and told her my solution.

“You know I would have Laura in a minute!”

“And, you’re my first back-up. But, I’ll still be here.”

Venture Crew

We ventured into Garfield Heights last night, in the dark. It’s one of the conglomerate of southwestern Cleveland, post world war two, suburbs. The roads tangle, lanes end with reflective barriers. Poor roads, inadequate signage, unmarked alleys, three of which comprised the drive way into the community center. It’s not threatening or dangerous, it’s confusing and frustrating. We were in search of the Garfield Heights community center and our first meeting of Venture Crew 2309.  

They say Crew 2309 for short. They are Venture Crew to me. We walked into a room of teen age voices. Laura was a new face and adsorbed on contact into a mass of teenagers she knew not. I located the Scout leader I have met on and off for the last thirty years, was introduced to the mother of an eighteen year old Eagle Scout, who was pointed out to me, on the other side of the room.

I sank into a sofa next to the Eagle Scout mom, who also is a veterinarian and a Crew volunteer. For an hour my head swam in a wave of noise. The treasurer finished signing us up (and collecting dues). The scout leader next to me, and the one in front of me (whose sister I’ve also known for thirty years), and the veterinarian beside me told me of past adventures and what they hoped the Venture Crew might plan for this year.

In an hour’s time I arranged to never drive Laura to or from a meeting in Garfield Heights, and heard in minute detail last summer’s hike for two weeks in some mountain range in New Mexico (and the two month’s preparation (it involves red blood corpuscles, I’ve been told)). The other bimonthly meeting is at the Methodist Church, the home of card playing every Monday afternoon. I can certainly car pool there.

The meeting ended. Two things happened. I could not ascend from the depths of the sofa. The veterinarian whistled between her teeth. Her son appeared. “He’s trained to do this,” she said. “Can he pick you up?” Woosh, I was upright again.

Then, because they had not “appropriately” opened the meeting by pledging allegiance to the flag, they concluded with the recitation to a flag on the board, honoring veterans, and made of half a dozen twisted strips of red crepe paper over many, many stars and the black board, filmed by years and years of chalk dust. All as obscure as much of this country’s current moral sense, unless, of course, those young pledgers cared more about each other than our abused little pledge. Kept that to myself.

“So what did you and those three young women find to chat up so animatedly?”

“Band! They are in Woodridge band. We talked about what they do and what we do.”

Chicoma Mountain, New Mexico

Deja vue

It’s like November 9, 2016, isn’t it. Ground Hog day, all over again. I think tomorrow I’ll cash in my forever postcards and a small stack of uncashed checks accumulating in the junk corner and go back to the task of dialing the gop. And make another donation to Senator Brown.

Laura absolutely cringes when I launch into my best Janis Joplin: “Oh lord, won’t you buy me a color TV; dialing for gop-ers is waiting for me.” I live in a little blue pocket of Ohio, and have two blue members of Congress, though Josh Mandel seems to be mounting a strong challenge to Sherrod Brown. Portman, my other senator, needs to hear the president must be rebuked for bullying Ms. Cruz.

“I would like Senator Portman to make a public statement condemning the president’s words and expressing support for our fellow citizens in Puerto Rico.” I’ve learned from a friend of mine, it’s good to have them write it down, as often a necessary, until they can read it back. It could be a pleasant change from all the gun legislation calls they may be receiving.

Ann called me today, and made a reference to retiring. I reminded her, a trifle bitterly, I did not retire from my last job. Oh, she meant weaving, my last full time job. She just doesn’t understand how we “old ladies” cannot become accustomed to having nothing to do all day. She may be down in two weeks, to discuss this.

My only job tomorrow is to take Laura to a Crewmembers Venturing meeting. Venturing is a BSA off shoot for boys and girls. We missed the first meeting due to the car brouhaha, and the driv-ee is anxious not to miss sign up for Cedar Point Halloween. Laura has not accepted the driving anywhere since I got back the car. It will be dusk, driving to Garfield Heights tomorrow, but not six p.m. Wednesday, to band practice.

Quite the agenda, eh?

The Methodist chicken, refurbished for election day. Remember to vote in your own precinct, in November.

Past the law of averages

Gun violence will personally touch everyone in this country. Personally. Person. Son, daughter, mother, father, friend or neighbor.

I have a dream, sometimes lucid, of going round the corner to a phone and calling my mother. Now, what can I say?

The president thinks the response to suffering in Puerto Rico is outstanding.

They are so young, happy, and murdered in Las Vegas.

I can do so little. I’m going to another room to cry.