So, it's Valentine's Day, and I'm quietly sad tonight. No, not because my guys are at basketball practice -- they took me to dinner and lavished me with love. I'm grateful for that.
But as Ben gave me a sweet, sweet kiss before scooting off with his dad, I couldn't help but think about another mom here in the Twin Cities who isn't getting a sweet sweet kiss from her 9-year-old son...because he died in her arms earlier this week.
Single mom Melissa Aryal picked up her son Monday night from day care. She relates that Devin was revved, because he had finished his homework at day care and was looking forward to a free night at home. I know how that goes... Ben really really celebrates when he doesn't have homework.
They live in Oakdale, a suburb in the eastern part of the Twin Cities metro. It's relatively quiet, doesn't get a lot of attention in the media, because it's solidly, quietly middle class. A lot like Brooklyn Park, where I live.
She turned onto a main drag and heard an unfamiliar noise, and her arm went numb. She looked down and saw blood and went into a grocery store parking lot to pull over and call 911. She turned to check on Devin -- just like I would in a similar situation -- and saw Devin slumped over.
Devin had been hit several times -- including once in the head. As Melissa screamed for help and scrambled over the seat to get to him, Devin joined the kids of Newtown, the students of Colombine, West Virginia Tech, Christine Taylor Green and a whole host of other children who have died as the result of senseless gun violence.
Devin liked math and science -- like Ben. Devin apparently was well liked by everyone -- like Ben. Devin wanted to be an astronaut. Ben wants a career in science too.
Devin was killed by a 34-year-old man, believed to have been carrying a 9-mm semi-automatic handgun, and was apparently carrying a great many rounds. We do not know much about him, other than his name. His public defender has requested a mental evaluation. DUH.
I am always grateful that I do not know what losing a child is like first hand. But I've had a front-row seat as my sister lost a child to an auto wreck, and I know a family who has suffered the loss of a son due to a hunting accident.
So, I am as familiar as I could possibly be without actually suffering a loss to how Melissa feels tonight. For days, I wept for the parents of Newtown. I still weep for them. But Devin's death has struck a chord for me that goes a great deal further than just mere sympathy.
I could have been Melissa Aryal. I was a single mom for a great many years. I have picked up a cheerful child from day care and headed home without paying too much attention to whoever is around me. I can imagine -- as horrible as it is -- the agony of turning and seeing my sweet boy slumped over and knowing that he will never celebrate a homework-free day again.
Now, depending on your particular viewpoint, you are now suspecting me of preparing to gore your particular ox. Second Amendment defenders are gearing up to bristle about how I'm going to advocate its destruction. Defenders of the First Amendment are watching to see if I'm going lambast our violent media culture. Mental health advocates in the crowd are thinking "oh boy, she's going to paint a wide brush about the mentally ill." The rest of you will shrug your shoulders and say, "well, we don't know what to do."
Truthfully, I'm in the "I don't know what to do" crowd. And, candidly, couldn't care less tonight. Talk to me next week and I may have another perspective. Tonight... tonight... tonight... while I count my blessings, I weep for Melissa, who has lost her beloved child. Maybe if we all stopped in the middle of things -- even the cheerful sentimentality of Valentine's Day -- and let ourselves feel another's pain, solutions might actually present themselves.
You can read about the shooting here.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Laundromat blues
I am dreadfully spoiled. I admit it. I have a washing machine and a dryer, and both are generally in good working order. Well, until this last week....
I had thrown in a load of towels and when I pulled them out of the washing machine, each one was soggy and weighed about twice what they should. Ut oh. I played with the machine for a bit and determined that the spin cycle wasn't functional. <sigh> And of course, it didn't happen AFTER I had all my laundry done, but before, as the towels were my first load. crap crap crap.
We have one of those service contracts that some utility providers offer, and we love it. The only down side is that it usually takes several days to get a repairman out, and this was no exception. Repairman can't make it out until Wednesday of this week.
So, I loaded up the Caliber with my laundry and my essentials, and out the door I went. I'm fortunate in that a laundromat is relatively close -- less than 10 blocks. But I might as well have traveled across a continent in terms of where I was to where I went.
A word of explanation is in order. I live in Brooklyn Park, in a little relatively nice lower middle class to middle class neighborhood. When we first moved in about 15 years ago, it was almost completely white, and everyone owned their home, with the help of a bank. Some homes in our neighborhood have been held by the same owners for all of its 30-year existence. Now, of course, with the economic downturn, we have more rentals, but the split-level homes still are fairly nice -- if small -- and we are more diverse in our population. But, like most neighborhoods these days, it's rare to see a neighbor, and only then we wave to each other as we rush off to our jobs, our kids' activities, or our entertainments.
Three blocks south of my home is Brooklyn Center, which is has a large number of what is euphemistically called "multi-family housing" -- a/k/a apartment buildings. In the middle of about five or six of these apartment buildings sat my destination -- the laundromat.
I parked my fairly nice new little Caliber near the laundromat and began unloading. I walked into the laundromat and realized right away that I'm not in Brooklyn Park anymore. I expected the place to be busy, and it was. What I didn't expect was that mine was the only white face in the place. Honest. It was wall to wall black people, with a scattering of Asians. And clearly, mine was the first white face to have made an appearance in that laundromat for quite some time, judging from the covert stares being aimed in my direction.
Another word of explanation -- I was not acquainted with a black person until I went to college. Being raised in southern Wyoming on a cattle ranch will do that to a person. I've had a few black friends in my life, but no sustained relationships. I am friendly with a couple of women whose sons are good friends with Ben, but somehow that's never translated into friendships in their own right.
Okay then, I told myself. Just get in, get the work done, and get out. I set myself up with the washing machines and begin working. I kept my demeanor reasonably calm and matter-of-fact, when inside I'm wondering, "what are they THINKING?" I knew my attire was low-key -- jeans, t-shirt and battered sneakers (my usual Saturday attire, if I get dressed at all). No jewelry or makeup (I don't wear any). By any objective measure, other than the color of my skin, I should have blended in. But I did have that white skin and I clearly did not blend in.
I know, I know, it's the 21st century, for crying out loud. But in many ways, judging from the stares and from my own discomfort, we haven't moved forward too terribly much from the days of segregation.
I ignored both the stares and my discomfort and focus on the task at hand. Laundromats are incredibly noisy places, between the rumble of the machines, the laughter of children who came with parents who clearly had no other choice, and the sound of multiple TVs going. (Jungle Book was competing with ESPN). I softly sang along with Bare Necessities as I loaded and unloaded machines, and earned some more strange looks.
But then I caught something on ESPN that caused me to lift my head, drop what I was doing and go around the machines to stare at the TV. As many of you know, a player for the Kansas City Chiefs killed his girlfriend and then himself, leaving an 3-month-old daughter orphaned (For the whole story see here)
I found myself standing in a group of four or five women, who, like me, had abandoned their laundry to stare at the television in open shock and anger. One woman in her early 20s demanded "what are our young men coming to? Why are they doing this?"
I shook my head and said, "I don't know. It's crazy. If he had to kill himself, okay, but he should have left her alone and let her raise their kid."
One woman, who was probably my age, but whose face bore the marks of a million years of sorrow, rumbled, "that's why I won't have me any more men." She and I exchanged a look, and I remembered my own -- long since abandoned -- vow to never tie up with another man again. I think my sympathy and understanding must have showed, because she smiled at me.
In fact, for about five minutes, we all were focused not on our skin color, but on our mutually-shared outrage over the death of an innocent woman and the orphaning of a small baby. (Jovan was not the object of our sorrow) We were all mothers, and we all knew how precious and fragile our babies were, and are, even if they are all grown up and in college (Yes, you Beth.)
We then returned to our various laundry duties, and I'd be lying if I said we all began chattering to each other. (I said the laundromat was loud) But the tension eased considerably, and we all worked companionably side by side. The group disintegrated gradually as tasks were finished and clean clothes were hauled home. I was the last of the group to have arrived, and so I was the last to leave.
It seems that some lessons need to be learned over and over again. The lesson I needed to learn was our outward differences only mask the more significant similarities .... even in the middle of things.
I had thrown in a load of towels and when I pulled them out of the washing machine, each one was soggy and weighed about twice what they should. Ut oh. I played with the machine for a bit and determined that the spin cycle wasn't functional. <sigh> And of course, it didn't happen AFTER I had all my laundry done, but before, as the towels were my first load. crap crap crap.
We have one of those service contracts that some utility providers offer, and we love it. The only down side is that it usually takes several days to get a repairman out, and this was no exception. Repairman can't make it out until Wednesday of this week.
So, I loaded up the Caliber with my laundry and my essentials, and out the door I went. I'm fortunate in that a laundromat is relatively close -- less than 10 blocks. But I might as well have traveled across a continent in terms of where I was to where I went.
A word of explanation is in order. I live in Brooklyn Park, in a little relatively nice lower middle class to middle class neighborhood. When we first moved in about 15 years ago, it was almost completely white, and everyone owned their home, with the help of a bank. Some homes in our neighborhood have been held by the same owners for all of its 30-year existence. Now, of course, with the economic downturn, we have more rentals, but the split-level homes still are fairly nice -- if small -- and we are more diverse in our population. But, like most neighborhoods these days, it's rare to see a neighbor, and only then we wave to each other as we rush off to our jobs, our kids' activities, or our entertainments.
Three blocks south of my home is Brooklyn Center, which is has a large number of what is euphemistically called "multi-family housing" -- a/k/a apartment buildings. In the middle of about five or six of these apartment buildings sat my destination -- the laundromat.
I parked my fairly nice new little Caliber near the laundromat and began unloading. I walked into the laundromat and realized right away that I'm not in Brooklyn Park anymore. I expected the place to be busy, and it was. What I didn't expect was that mine was the only white face in the place. Honest. It was wall to wall black people, with a scattering of Asians. And clearly, mine was the first white face to have made an appearance in that laundromat for quite some time, judging from the covert stares being aimed in my direction.
Another word of explanation -- I was not acquainted with a black person until I went to college. Being raised in southern Wyoming on a cattle ranch will do that to a person. I've had a few black friends in my life, but no sustained relationships. I am friendly with a couple of women whose sons are good friends with Ben, but somehow that's never translated into friendships in their own right.
Okay then, I told myself. Just get in, get the work done, and get out. I set myself up with the washing machines and begin working. I kept my demeanor reasonably calm and matter-of-fact, when inside I'm wondering, "what are they THINKING?" I knew my attire was low-key -- jeans, t-shirt and battered sneakers (my usual Saturday attire, if I get dressed at all). No jewelry or makeup (I don't wear any). By any objective measure, other than the color of my skin, I should have blended in. But I did have that white skin and I clearly did not blend in.
I know, I know, it's the 21st century, for crying out loud. But in many ways, judging from the stares and from my own discomfort, we haven't moved forward too terribly much from the days of segregation.
I ignored both the stares and my discomfort and focus on the task at hand. Laundromats are incredibly noisy places, between the rumble of the machines, the laughter of children who came with parents who clearly had no other choice, and the sound of multiple TVs going. (Jungle Book was competing with ESPN). I softly sang along with Bare Necessities as I loaded and unloaded machines, and earned some more strange looks.
But then I caught something on ESPN that caused me to lift my head, drop what I was doing and go around the machines to stare at the TV. As many of you know, a player for the Kansas City Chiefs killed his girlfriend and then himself, leaving an 3-month-old daughter orphaned (For the whole story see here)
I found myself standing in a group of four or five women, who, like me, had abandoned their laundry to stare at the television in open shock and anger. One woman in her early 20s demanded "what are our young men coming to? Why are they doing this?"
I shook my head and said, "I don't know. It's crazy. If he had to kill himself, okay, but he should have left her alone and let her raise their kid."
One woman, who was probably my age, but whose face bore the marks of a million years of sorrow, rumbled, "that's why I won't have me any more men." She and I exchanged a look, and I remembered my own -- long since abandoned -- vow to never tie up with another man again. I think my sympathy and understanding must have showed, because she smiled at me.
In fact, for about five minutes, we all were focused not on our skin color, but on our mutually-shared outrage over the death of an innocent woman and the orphaning of a small baby. (Jovan was not the object of our sorrow) We were all mothers, and we all knew how precious and fragile our babies were, and are, even if they are all grown up and in college (Yes, you Beth.)
We then returned to our various laundry duties, and I'd be lying if I said we all began chattering to each other. (I said the laundromat was loud) But the tension eased considerably, and we all worked companionably side by side. The group disintegrated gradually as tasks were finished and clean clothes were hauled home. I was the last of the group to have arrived, and so I was the last to leave.
It seems that some lessons need to be learned over and over again. The lesson I needed to learn was our outward differences only mask the more significant similarities .... even in the middle of things.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Get away from the chatter
I think it helps to be away from lots of chatter no matter where it may
be -- whether it's Los Angeles or New York, you name it. I don't want to
hear what a lot of other people think. I just want a lot of facts. I
want to sit there unaffected by whether it's sunny or cloudy outside or
anything of the sort and certainly unaffected by whether the people
around me are feeling great or feeling terrible. I just want to look at
the facts and see where they lead me..
-- Warren Buffett
I heard this quote on "Marketplace Morning Report" this morning as I zipped down to work. The Oracle of Omaha was talking about why he stays in Nebraska, rather than being located cheek to jowl next to all of the other investors who make their homes in the Northeast, and how he makes his investment decisions.
It struck me as I was trying to work my way down to Golden Valley that Warren's method of making investment decisions has a more universal application for me and (dare I suggest it) all of us as we try to make decisions large and small.
First, and foremost, I truly believe that getting away from the chatter is essential. I can't count the number of times I've allowed "chatter" of friends and family, allies and rivals, church and state, even my own doubts and fears influence my decision-making. In retrospect, it might have been a lot simpler if I had simply tuned out the chatter, looked at the facts and see where they led me.
I know, I know, tuning out the chatter isn't that easy -- especially when it's the chatter of one's own mind gets in the way of looking at the facts and the direction they are leading. In fact, my Buddhist friends have developed entire meditation programs designed to shut off the chatter of one's own mind. That alone suggests how important and how difficult it is to shut one's own neuroses, biases and even hopes and dreams.
Then there's the problem of shutting off well-meaning (or not so well-meaning) chatter of people who care or don't care. How does one do that without hurting feelings, without offending someone, but without giving up who and what you are? I'm not sure myself. I do know I've done it successfully sometimes, and sometimes I've failed miserably. Part of the answer, I suspect, is being willing to listen, but to not make those other thoughts your own or influence your thinking. It may also very well be that unless I followed the other person's wishes or advice, offense would follow. That, ultimately, is beyond my control.
(A sidenote: I'm as guilty as the next person about being a chatterer and intruding my own perspective into people's lives. So, I'm not throwing rocks at anyone. Indeed, it is a part of being human and wanting to help. Sometimes, though, it doesn't help, and we need to remember that.)
The next step is to look at the facts and see where they lead. Although in the context of the original quote, Buffett used the term "facts" in the most restrictive sense, I am using the word "facts" in much broader sense.
Having emotions is a fact of being human. So, if I'm making a decision that requires consideration of emotional states or well-being, then, yes, those emotional states should be part of the fact-gathering process. Intuition -- that process whereby humans subconciously gather and add up information -- should be considered part of the fact-considering process. And then there's the Buffett version of "facts" -- those dry, objective things that look the same no matter how you turn them in the light.
Does this mean that decision-making need be a ponderously slow process, where we all plod along and never allow ourselves a snap decision? Of course, it's not realistic, and of course not all decisions are momentous enough to need a slow process. But maybe we all could use a bit more retreating from the chatter and simply laying out the facts and seeing where they lead. I know I could.. and I plan on trying... even in the middle of things.
Note: If you want to listen to the entire Buffett interview, go here.
-- Warren Buffett
I heard this quote on "Marketplace Morning Report" this morning as I zipped down to work. The Oracle of Omaha was talking about why he stays in Nebraska, rather than being located cheek to jowl next to all of the other investors who make their homes in the Northeast, and how he makes his investment decisions.
It struck me as I was trying to work my way down to Golden Valley that Warren's method of making investment decisions has a more universal application for me and (dare I suggest it) all of us as we try to make decisions large and small.
First, and foremost, I truly believe that getting away from the chatter is essential. I can't count the number of times I've allowed "chatter" of friends and family, allies and rivals, church and state, even my own doubts and fears influence my decision-making. In retrospect, it might have been a lot simpler if I had simply tuned out the chatter, looked at the facts and see where they led me.
I know, I know, tuning out the chatter isn't that easy -- especially when it's the chatter of one's own mind gets in the way of looking at the facts and the direction they are leading. In fact, my Buddhist friends have developed entire meditation programs designed to shut off the chatter of one's own mind. That alone suggests how important and how difficult it is to shut one's own neuroses, biases and even hopes and dreams.
Then there's the problem of shutting off well-meaning (or not so well-meaning) chatter of people who care or don't care. How does one do that without hurting feelings, without offending someone, but without giving up who and what you are? I'm not sure myself. I do know I've done it successfully sometimes, and sometimes I've failed miserably. Part of the answer, I suspect, is being willing to listen, but to not make those other thoughts your own or influence your thinking. It may also very well be that unless I followed the other person's wishes or advice, offense would follow. That, ultimately, is beyond my control.
(A sidenote: I'm as guilty as the next person about being a chatterer and intruding my own perspective into people's lives. So, I'm not throwing rocks at anyone. Indeed, it is a part of being human and wanting to help. Sometimes, though, it doesn't help, and we need to remember that.)
The next step is to look at the facts and see where they lead. Although in the context of the original quote, Buffett used the term "facts" in the most restrictive sense, I am using the word "facts" in much broader sense.
Having emotions is a fact of being human. So, if I'm making a decision that requires consideration of emotional states or well-being, then, yes, those emotional states should be part of the fact-gathering process. Intuition -- that process whereby humans subconciously gather and add up information -- should be considered part of the fact-considering process. And then there's the Buffett version of "facts" -- those dry, objective things that look the same no matter how you turn them in the light.
Does this mean that decision-making need be a ponderously slow process, where we all plod along and never allow ourselves a snap decision? Of course, it's not realistic, and of course not all decisions are momentous enough to need a slow process. But maybe we all could use a bit more retreating from the chatter and simply laying out the facts and seeing where they lead. I know I could.. and I plan on trying... even in the middle of things.
Note: If you want to listen to the entire Buffett interview, go here.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Day 1
Hello.
If you've found yourself here, it's because I've posted this on Facebook and you were either bored, curious or just plain crazy enough to follow the link. Good for you. (I think)
Why start a blog? Why start a blog now?
Well, you can blame my mother. (Yes, Mom, you.) I posted something on Facebook a day or two after the 2012 election. I call it my "Rodney King screed" wherein I pleaded with my Republican and my Democratic friends to try to calm down and moderate their tones and words. Of course, neither side did anything of the sort, but my brilliant writing style and biting wit won my mom's heart (as if she didn't already love everything I do), and she told me that she thought I should write more. I put my head in my hands and groaned.
A momentary diversion: As many of you know, I'm a legal assistant at a small law firm in suburban Minneapolis. What you don't know is that I'm also my boss' ghost writer, for everything from memos of law, to client reports to snotty letters. My hands and brain are at the disposal of my boss, who loves them to pieces and uses them every single day. So, the thought of writing some MORE was, well... you can imagine why the head fell into the hands and the groan ensued.
Nevertheless, the idea wouldn't let me go. It kept dancing around the edges, flirting with me, teasing me with the possibilities. I could become RICH, I could become FAMOUS... I could... yeah, right. Not. Like all flirts, it promised more than it probably will ever deliver.
I wasn't taking all of the flirt's promises seriously. But at my age, to have anything flirt with me is a miracle, so I began to think about it some more. I began to think about wanting a bigger and better forum to spew my nonsense. I began thinking it might be fun to create something, rather than play Castleville all night every night after I get supper fixed and Ben to bed. (Hello, my name is Kathy, and I'm a Castleville-oholic) I think I finally realized I had to do something different when I started dreaming about doing nothing but crafting gold bars. (Those of you who are fellow Castleville-oholics can quit laughing now. It will happen to you).
So, this is part "okay, Mom, you win," part "Castleville rehab," and part "yeah, it's about time I used the talent for something other than figuring out why the shingles on a mansard roof are falling off.." This is either going to be a fabulous success, a horrific failure, or somewhere in the middle. My bet is on door number 3.
Which brings me to why I named this blog "In the middle of things." I'm known for being in the middle of things politically -- my liberal friends think I'm conservative, and my conservative friends think I'm liberal. I'm moderate in my choice of religions. Episcopalianism is the epitome of moderation. I'm moderate in my habits -- except for eating. I only drink with my pals and even then, I'm more than likely to be nursing a brew than pounding them down. Don't smoke, but I am not a big fan of hounding other people who choose to smoke off the face of the earth.
I'm also in the middle of my life -- okay, just beyond the middle of my life, if you believe the life expectancy tables, which I don't. (Hey, both my grandmothers lived to be in their mid-90s... it is possible).
So, this will be an avenue to explore the things that I care about -- family, friends, the state of our nation and the world, politics, arts, science, and even the art of moderation itself. I won't always be moderate -- I don't have a moderate temper -- but I will try to be more than moderately entertaining. I won't be more than moderately poetic, so don't worry too much about that. I may be more than moderately snarky at times, and I do apologize for that right now.
I may need some help in decorating the joint, so if you have some ideas, feel free to share. Just nothing too wild....
That's it for now. Tomorrow night I will try to tackle something moderately (okay, okay, I'll quit now!) more interesting. Thanks for reading, and let's see how this goes...
If you've found yourself here, it's because I've posted this on Facebook and you were either bored, curious or just plain crazy enough to follow the link. Good for you. (I think)
Why start a blog? Why start a blog now?
Well, you can blame my mother. (Yes, Mom, you.) I posted something on Facebook a day or two after the 2012 election. I call it my "Rodney King screed" wherein I pleaded with my Republican and my Democratic friends to try to calm down and moderate their tones and words. Of course, neither side did anything of the sort, but my brilliant writing style and biting wit won my mom's heart (as if she didn't already love everything I do), and she told me that she thought I should write more. I put my head in my hands and groaned.
A momentary diversion: As many of you know, I'm a legal assistant at a small law firm in suburban Minneapolis. What you don't know is that I'm also my boss' ghost writer, for everything from memos of law, to client reports to snotty letters. My hands and brain are at the disposal of my boss, who loves them to pieces and uses them every single day. So, the thought of writing some MORE was, well... you can imagine why the head fell into the hands and the groan ensued.
Nevertheless, the idea wouldn't let me go. It kept dancing around the edges, flirting with me, teasing me with the possibilities. I could become RICH, I could become FAMOUS... I could... yeah, right. Not. Like all flirts, it promised more than it probably will ever deliver.
I wasn't taking all of the flirt's promises seriously. But at my age, to have anything flirt with me is a miracle, so I began to think about it some more. I began to think about wanting a bigger and better forum to spew my nonsense. I began thinking it might be fun to create something, rather than play Castleville all night every night after I get supper fixed and Ben to bed. (Hello, my name is Kathy, and I'm a Castleville-oholic) I think I finally realized I had to do something different when I started dreaming about doing nothing but crafting gold bars. (Those of you who are fellow Castleville-oholics can quit laughing now. It will happen to you).
So, this is part "okay, Mom, you win," part "Castleville rehab," and part "yeah, it's about time I used the talent for something other than figuring out why the shingles on a mansard roof are falling off.." This is either going to be a fabulous success, a horrific failure, or somewhere in the middle. My bet is on door number 3.
Which brings me to why I named this blog "In the middle of things." I'm known for being in the middle of things politically -- my liberal friends think I'm conservative, and my conservative friends think I'm liberal. I'm moderate in my choice of religions. Episcopalianism is the epitome of moderation. I'm moderate in my habits -- except for eating. I only drink with my pals and even then, I'm more than likely to be nursing a brew than pounding them down. Don't smoke, but I am not a big fan of hounding other people who choose to smoke off the face of the earth.
I'm also in the middle of my life -- okay, just beyond the middle of my life, if you believe the life expectancy tables, which I don't. (Hey, both my grandmothers lived to be in their mid-90s... it is possible).
So, this will be an avenue to explore the things that I care about -- family, friends, the state of our nation and the world, politics, arts, science, and even the art of moderation itself. I won't always be moderate -- I don't have a moderate temper -- but I will try to be more than moderately entertaining. I won't be more than moderately poetic, so don't worry too much about that. I may be more than moderately snarky at times, and I do apologize for that right now.
I may need some help in decorating the joint, so if you have some ideas, feel free to share. Just nothing too wild....
That's it for now. Tomorrow night I will try to tackle something moderately (okay, okay, I'll quit now!) more interesting. Thanks for reading, and let's see how this goes...
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