The View from Here

The Blame Game

If there is one outstanding trait of the new administration it is the ability to criticize others and place the blame for anything and everything on someone else. We now have a national role model for the children’s game of “it’s not my fault” and its alternate version “he did it first”. My brothers played out the two pastimes most of their lives. Because there were four of them there was always someone to blame for their actions. And I have to admit that I sometimes played as well. I “went along” with the plans of one or more of my brothers just to avoid conflict. If my complicity resulted in less than desirable consequences I usually told Dad, “Well, it wasn’t my idea!” It seems that most of the nation is now playing the game.

Some members of Congress say that much of what we need and desire can’t be accomplished because someone in the last administration or the one before that or the one that first met “screwed up” and now we can’t undo what they did. Others tell us that changes can’t be made because we don’t have enough money, even though they are quite willing to create more debt when funding their favorite projects. But of course the best excuse for not creating new laws and for not serving as the “voice of the people” in Washington, D.C. is that they simply can’t agree on what should be done or how it should be done or who should do it. And of course the problem is always the “other” political party.

Every recent crisis in our country seems to focus who is to blame. Certainly we need to know who to charge with a crime. We need to hold people accountable for mistakes. We need to know “what went wrong”. However, the purpose of those inquiries should be to learn from the mistakes, and to make changes to prevent them from being repeated. We can’t just punish the person who made the mistakes and then return to the status quo. Ultimately we are all responsible for any tragedy that results from our failure to learn from the tragedies of the past.

The Bible is filled with stories of violence and human failings. Paul speaks in Romans of our inability to align our actions with our intentions. “For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do.” We like to prioritize sin and we prefer to think that our own are not as depraved as the sins of others. But isn’t the taking of one life still murder? Isn’t stealing a dollar the same as stealing a hundred of them? Doesn’t refusing to help our neighbor go against God’s command to treat others as we want to be treated? The essence of sin is the act of saying “no” to what is right and good and expected of us.

Thankfully the word of God is also filled with stories of repentance and redemption. However, we must understand that repentance begins with admitting to our faults and taking responsibility for our actions…not just placing the blame on someone else.  

Bare Feet

I fell in love with Tasha Tudor sometime in the mid 1980s. I don’t remember what magazine I was reading at the time, but I can still clearly recall the photograph of her that made me an instant fan. Although millions of readers have admired her illustrations, stories, and gardens, I admired her feet. One minute I was reading about her flowers and the next moment I turned the page and there she was walking among them with dirty bare feet. Those feet told a story of strength and determination, and a personal connection to the soil, and immediately reminded me of my childhood.

I know that I always had shoes and Mom often made me wear them. But photos of my childhood confirm that much of my childhood was also spent without them. And my memories of injuries due to glass shards, stickers, nails, thorns, barbed wire, stones, and various insects testify to the fact that I must have preferred a life without shoes, even if it was hazardous.

Two of my favorite photos of my mother show her posing without shoes. I’m especially fond of the photo of her with her sisters and a friend. She certainly wasn’t a young child at the time, and yet there she is with bare feet. The yard she grew up in was not carpeted with lush grass. The pastures and woods surrounding their home were certainly filled with perils. So where did she walk and how often did she do it without the protection of leather? I’ve often wished that I had discussed this shared element of our lives, but perhaps it just seemed too ordinary to even talk about.

It’s ironic that Mom became one of those women who loved stylish shoes, even if they were purchased at a yard sale or handed down from another family member. I remember trying on her pretty “high heels” and stumbling across the living room floor many times before I acquired the confidence to wear my own. For years I emulated her and wore shoes whenever I was outside, but I continued to walk in bare feet within our home.

Then Tasha came along and I wondered what it would be like to once again feel the warmth of the soil and the cool dampness of the lawn. I ventured out a few times without shoes, then more and more often, until one tragic day in the early 1990s when the painful bite of a red velvet ant made me once again seek the protection of leather soles. I’ve never ventured out into the garden again without shoes. Either Tasha had much tougher feet, or the insects in New England are much less ferocious than those in Oklahoma.  

Yesterday when I filled the bird feeders I thought about the coming of spring and I wondered what it would be like to stand for just a moment in bare feet and feel the warmth of the soil again. I may do just that, perhaps on June 18^th, the day Tasha died at the age of 92.  

I have questions...

Warning:  My words today will provoke some of you to anger. It is not my intention to start an argument. I am not seeking your agreement, and I respect your disagreement. My only aim is to make sure that whatever your opinions, they are based on facts and deliberation, not half truths and your sense of loyalty to your political party or social media group. So…today I’m presenting a list of questions and random thoughts that have been bouncing around in my brain this week.

Please don’t use my blog platform or my FB page for ranting and raving. If you feel compelled to express your ideas, please do so on your own page. I will be happy to read it. Tweet, make a video, go march somewhere. Write a letter to your congressman, your local school administrator, your newspaper. Make your voice heard where it will make the most difference.

These are dangerous times and we are on the precipice of some major shifts in our laws, our values, and our society.  Those familiar with the concept of the “tipping point” should be very concerned. Please remember that your right to do something does not negate my right to NOT do it. We’re still in this mess together and I think most of us want the same thing: to live a healthy, happy, peaceful life.

The “solution of the day” seems to be arming teachers with concealed weapons, so here are my questions:

1. How will teachers be chosen for this extra duty? High school teachers only? Volunteers? Those with military background? Those with gun experience? Will they be chosen by the principle? A committee of parents and teachers? The school board? The label “teacher” does not mean saint, and many teachers have as many psychological problems as anyone else. And the arming of an elementary teacher leads me to question #7.
2. How will they be trained? Will a local expert train them in how to confront an enraged killer, or simply teach them how to shoot a gun? Shooting a target and killing a person are entirely different actions. Will the school pay for their training? Will the school buy their weapon?
3. Who will pay the “bonus” that Trump has suggested? Most states are struggling to pay their teachers at all. Oklahoma recently rejected increases in pay. Where will the training and “bonus” money come from?
4. Where will a female teacher conceal her gun? A reporter recently interviewed a large, older, male teacher who keeps his gun in a holster in his boot. Guns can’t be safely kept in a desk or closet or locker. For efficiency and safety they must be kept on the body. Obviously for anyone that means some wardrobe adjustments, especially in hot weather. No more shorts for coaches and gym teachers. What about women? No dresses? No capris? No cute shoes? And if you suddenly change your wardrobe in specific ways, isn’t that a clue that YOU are the one with the gun?
5. Would a teacher be capable of killing his/her own student? Trump made the statement that he would rather have someone who “knows the students” protecting them. Since some of these shooters have been angry students or former students, doesn’t that mean an armed teacher might be confronted with someone they know quite well? What if you knew that a student had been abused by his parents, bullied by other students, or was mentally disturbed? Would that not cause you to hesitate for even a moment…a moment that might get you killed?
6. What happens to a teacher who fails to fire? Trump criticized the trained officer who failed to do his duty in the Florida shooting. What will happen to a teacher who panics or simply can’t perform during a crisis? End of career? Ostracized by the community?
7. Who manages the class of a teacher who is “out there” confronting the shooter? A teacher can’t be in two places at once, so that means that the class he/she was teaching will be on their own. Hopefully they will be old enough and mature enough to follow procedure and wait for someone to help them.
8. Will other personnel be considered? After all, on most campuses that first locked door you must enter is staffed by a secretary. Why not arm her? Custodians are all over campus. Cafeteria personnel deal with the largest student groups gathered in one room at any one time.
9. Will armed teachers attend extra-curricular activities? Will they be allowed to carry a gun to ball games, music festivals, academic meets, stock shows? Will the gun rules and procedures be “statewide” so there are no conflicts at other campuses? Or will everyone leave their guns behind and become another “soft target”?
10. Will parents be included in any of this process? Will they be allowed to vote on any aspect of the issue? Will they be told if their child is being taught by an armed teacher? Will they have the right to have their child moved to another classroom? Jehovah’s Witness children do not have to say the pledge, sing patriotic songs, or celebrate holidays. What exceptions might be made for students regarding a gun in the classroom?

And here are some random thoughts:

The year before I got a teaching job I worked as a substitute: 100 days, at six local campuses. Not ONCE was I instructed in lock-down or emergency procedures, nor was I ever given a key to a classroom. I would guess that on any given day most large schools would have at least one sub, especially in the winter months.

Many school campuses are NOT fenced and anyone with any knowledge of the campus knows which doors are routinely opened for schedule changes. Stand by the locked door and wait for the bell to ring.

Many “disturbed” students with anger issues and violent behaviors are recognized as early as kindergarten. You might want to read the law regarding “least restrictive environment” and find out how your school deals with serious behavior issues before assuming that the danger to your child will come from “out there” somewhere.

I’ve been in only one lock-down situation that was truly frightening. The potential “danger” was one of my non-custodial parents.

Many speakers have pointed out this week that banks and jewelry stores are protected by guards. I might add that they are still frequently and successfully robbed.

In conclusion…there isn’t ONE solution for this problem and there never will be. We must continue to discuss ideas, be willing to compromise, and try to prevent as much violence as possible, not just react to it.

Ice

This is the view today! And we spent nearly 24 hours without power. More later...

Blessed Today

Happy Birthday to me!

I am alive and well.

It has rained all day.

The birds have entertained me in spite of their wet feathers. 

A blessed day. 

Birthday Memories

Tomorrow is my birthday, but because of our schedule and the weather, Gary and I will celebrate it today. We’ll be in Sherman for his morning doctor’s appointment, so we will do a little shopping and then have lunch and pick up some ice cream at Braum’s on the way home. We may or may not get wet today, but the weatherman says it will definitely rain tomorrow.

My birthday has been on my mind for a week now. This will be my first since my “birthday present” died, so I’ve had mixed emotions about it. Yes, it is certainly a day to celebrate and I want to celebrate about twenty or thirty more. But since my brother David arrived the day after my birthday in 1954 it has always been a shared celebration…until now.

It’s ironic that the only picture I have of one of the elaborate cakes our grandmother made is this one. David and I not only shared our birthday celebrations with each other, but with our Uncle Alton. He was a foster son who lived with my grandparents. His birthday was the 22^nd. Grandmother made us one cake that year. Some years she made separate cakes; one year she created a pirate ship for David and a princess cake for me.

Ah…the princess cake. One of my not-so-wonderful birthday memories and one that I’ve shared with you before. Birthday cakes with dolls in them were popular that year. One made a Bundt cake, stood a Barbie up in the hole, put some frosting on her body and decorated the cake like her elaborate skirt. The one that Gran created for me was beautiful! And of course I had to take the doll to school to show my friends. On the way back home a local bully took the doll and threw it under a house. He was later punished, but the doll was never returned.

Some of my birthdays were epic, like the year John Glenn orbited the earth just for me. Others were sad, like the year my grandfather was buried on my birthday. But most were just brief acknowledgements that I was getting closer and closer to adulthood, like the year I wrote in my diary “My birthday wasn’t anything special, except now I’m 14.”

I remember thinking when I was in high school that forty would be the perfect age to attain. Old enough to be the boss of my own life, but young enough to enjoy it. I envisioned having a handsome husband, a good job, a happy family, a comfortable home, and a dozen children. Well…a lot of things can happen by the time you are forty.

I’ll be 68 tomorrow. My mother only lived to be 67. Other women in our family have lived to 90+. My hope is that I’ll be one of the latter, but I’ll leave that up to God’s wisdom. For today, and perhaps tomorrow, I’ll celebrate making it this far.

All Too Familiar

As I sit here this morning I can hear the news reporters on our television talking about the shooting in Florida. Unfortunately their concerns about school safety, guns, and mental health are all too familiar. Their questions of “how?” and “why?” have been asked before. The interviews with classmates, teachers, neighbors, and relatives are so similar to previous ones that they could be scripts.

The anger and violence of this young man is abhorrent and unfathomable.  

The deaths of another group of students is heartbreaking.

The wounds, physical and emotional, will change the lives of hundreds of people.

But perhaps the real tragedy of this event is that it is simply all too familiar.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Ownership...

I have been haunted this week by a statement made to the Dawes Commission in 1902 by Monroe Butler, a Choctaw freedman. The Dawes Commission was named for Henry L. Dawes, appointed by President Grover Cleveland in 1893 to oversee the enrollment of individual Native Americans and divide tribal lands into allotments. It was thought at the time that eliminating the practice of communally held property and allocating individual farms would help tribal members assimilate into white culture and become more “civilized”. What it actually did, and why, is a topic for another day. What pertains to Mr. Butler is the fact that he was a former slave. And although he was probably of mixed ancestry, the Dawes Commission did not allow enrollment in more than one tribe, and as a further division, did not allow “freedmen”, slaves freed after the Civil War, to enroll with tribal members. They were enrolled on separate lists, if at all.

There were dozens of other rules and regulations and provisions pertaining to parentage, residence, marriage, etc. And in order to establish the authenticity of someone’s status, testimonies were taken from enrollees, family members, neighbors, and friends. Here is Mr. Butler’s statement:

“I am 49. I belonged to Tom Pitchlynn. My wife is dead. She was Easter and belonged to the LeFlores. My children are Henrietta, 15, George, 13, Mary, 20, and Joshua, 19.”

I belonged to…

Although I have read it a dozen times before, that phrase had a profound impact on me this week.

I have lived with rules and restrictions all of my life. So have you. We know what it’s like to “follow the rules” and “obey the law”. We have our own experiences with the consequences of disobedience. But being owned by someone is a very different concept. Ownership implies the right to control and dispose of the property that is owned. Ownership gives the owner all the power and the “owned” no choices at all. For slaves the consequence of disobedience was usually death or resale. Last year I read an interview with a woman who was sold three times. She was treated well as a “house slave”, but was not allowed to read or write, live in a place of her own choosing, or marry as she wished. And her brother, a field slave, was frequently beaten.

We’ve all read similar “slave stories” and seen them on the big and small screens. We are sorry “those things happened” and we accept that they were a part of our past that we now find abhorrent. However, if you are like I was a few years ago, you probably equate slavery with the Deep South, cotton plantations, and the Civil War. That’s what we learned in school. It wasn’t until I returned to Oklahoma and became involved in history and genealogy research that I realized how many “slave stories” originated right here in our own county in the not-so-distant past. My early ancestors owned slaves; later ones were friends of former slaves or went to school with the children of freedmen. The impact of slavery still affects descendents of freedmen who were denied tribal rights. Slavery wasn’t just “those people, over there, back then”. It was us…

I’m not sure where all of this knowledge and rambling leads to…except perhaps to a profound gratitude for the advantages of freedom. I pray that “I belonged to…” is a phrase never uttered again by any living person.

BTW, shortly after appearing before the Dawes Commission, Monroe Butler was shot and killed while plowing his field. It is believed that he was killed by some men that he had accused of stealing.

5:00

Each day five o’clock appears on my computer screen and I wonder where the day went. What did I accomplish? Did I make the best use of my time? Did I help someone? Did I work on at least one of my ongoing projects? The evening news has begun and I have one hour before my self-imposed deadline to turn off my computer, cook dinner, and enjoy the evening with my husband. So I take care of a few details (like my blog post), write any notes or lists I need for tomorrow, answer emails, and of course…check Facebook. I’ll start over at 4am. A workaholic can’t just retire and read a good book…

However, there is great freedom in setting my own schedule, choosing my own projects, and staying home if the weather is disagreeable. I am blessed to be retired and I know it. I thank God each day for the years of hard work that made this possible.

I just wanted you to know that if I don’t write here each day it’s because I’m busy, happy, and at the moment healthy. I’ll be back soon…