Archives for July 2020

Two weeks ago I bought a new old house and the FIRST stop I made with keys and paperwork in hand was the insurance agents office. I’d gotten some quotes before moving in but they were too high (like more than 10% of the house cost high).

So today when I saw that a family who bought and began to restore their own 100+ yo home had it burned to the ground by a freak lightening strike, I was devastated for them.

Even a full rebuild of a home that age wouldn’t preserve all of the original charm.

However, they also discovered, after the fire turned their dream to cinders, that they don’t have insurance. So not just the purchase price but the work that went into the foundation, roof and renovations is lost.

It’s very sad.

And I’m sorry, but how the FUCK do you not ensure they insurance has been bought? I know the mortgage company was “supposed to take care of it” but it’s your life and money on the line!

I got a few more quotes before signing locally and those 2 days I was nervous as hell.

And this family, who I won’t name or link to, had raised nearly $10,000 from donors to renovate the home! If someone gave me ten grand you bet your ass I’d be increasing my coverage first.

Good insurance will protect your investment, mine covers 100% of the purchase price of my home, plus my personal property on top of that. It wouldn’t be enough to rebuild but at least I could start fresh.

I don’t want to pile on and I’m truly saddened for this family’s loss — thankfully no one was injured! — but this is adulting.

If you own, lease or borrow for a car, motorcycle, RV, house or business make sure your insurance is active and sufficient. Today. Because freak lightening strikes happen and I cannot cope with the sob story that begins with “we didn’t know…”

This was originally written yesterday but a full day of terrible internet prevented me from posting.

I’ve been thinking a lot about symbols, about symbolic victories and shallow signs of support. 

It all started with bandaids. 

First of all, I tend to injure myself with alarming frequency. I still have a bruise on my shoulder from running into my truck’s side mirror. I go through bandaids quickly and even use them while I sew to avoid cutting my fingers with the thread. 

Months ago I read a comment from a man who was staring at a bandaid on his finger. It was the first time in his whole life the color of the bandaid matched his skin tone. 

So when I saw that Walmart had these in stock I picked up a box along with my usual choice.

Later I wondered if I was being stupid, if it was just a symbolic purchase?

It’s symbolic, sure, but it’s also strategic. Even “woke” companies won’t manufacture and stock items that don’t sell and considering there were several on the shelf, I felt comfortable buying a box. 

The choice was also considerate. If someone around me needs a bandaid, I have options to offer. I will likely wear them myself and, if anyone comments on the color, it opens up a conversation. 

My whole life I’ve never thought about bandaids matching my skin color. I even go out of my way sometimes to get the bright ones, the Star Wars ones with C3PO…

Anyway, symbols have power which is why people were outraged with these Trump facemasks. Spot the problem:

that’s a terrible symbol of Nazi hatred toward Jews, Gypsies, gays, those with physical or mental disabilities… it’s a clear symbol of hate. Which is maybe why Trump supporters making the masks chose it.

Sometimes we think a symbolic gesture is fine, as long as it’s positive.

But symbolic gestures shouldn’t detract from real change. 

Painting Black Lives Matter in the street shouldn’t be the end of the story. It should herald in fair access to voting, equality in job pay and opportunities and an overhaul of the policing system. 

It’s easy for symbols to be empty promises but equally so to miscommunicate our values. 

Context also matters, a linen sheet on the clothes line says country, fresh cotton, environmentalist. A linen sheet worn over the head, sewn into a peak, says racist, hateful, dangerous, idiot.

Choosing symbols is a personal choice but one that has public ramifications.

When it comes down to it I ask myself: Is this a symbol of love, inclusion, justice and devoid of bigotry? Or is this a symbol of exclusion, hatred, injustice past or present and opposed by those in vulnerable groups?

How I answer that question informs my choices on symbols — from bandaids to statues to face masks.

DEvery week on Facebook I see some far flung friend deriding the idea to defund the police. 

Who will solve crimes? They cry. 

Blue lives matter! They chant. 

I will not live in a lawless country! They claim. 

Who will solve crimes? Podcasters, journalists and Dateline.

The lives of cops do matter but being a cop is a choice and you can take that uniform off at any time. Compare that to the skin you’re born into that cannot be taken off to remove you from danger.

And yeah, you actually do live in a lawless country when our police officers are not held to account for murder it citizens.

But I want to address your commitment to ignorance and misunderstanding the phrase “defund the police.”  I know you haven’t been in school since 8 tracks were new but critical reading is a skill that should improve with wrinkles, not degrade like your hearing. 

Let me tell you a quick story about a little boy I knew in AWANA when I was young. He was adorable and I’ll always remember his Halloween costume of a little tramp, complete with chocolate dirt on his cheeks. Our families attended different churches over the years but we went to high school together just a few grades apart but didn’t keep in touch after graduation. As an adult he experienced some mental health challenges which culminated in hiding out in a garden shed. Possibly due to the influence of drugs or lack or medication, he lunged at the police with a pair of garden shears when they came to investigate. He injured a police dog in the process and was shot dead by police. His family feels that loss every day and I think of the little boy and wonder “what if?”

Defund the police doesn’t mean that man I knew would be left alone in a shed, suffering and struggling. Defund the police means bringing in mental health professionals who are trained and capable of handing such challenges. 

Defund the police means not every problem has a solution that requires bullets. De-escalation is a valuable skill in conflict resolution. 

Defund the police doesn’t mean we don’t have police. It means we should stop funding them as if they were military forces, armed to the hilt with guns and tanks and redistribute that money to other social projects and services that reduce crime at the source and resolve problems with other professionals. 

Police officers shouldn’t be relationship counselors and dog catchers and chasing truant kids and doing welfare checks. 

Defund the police is shorthand for divest funds from police departments and reallocating them to non-policingforms of public safety and community support, such as social services, youth services, housing, education, healthcare and other community resources. 

“But why don’t you SAY that?”

Because, returning to my original point, if you can’t be bothered to google a slogan and understand what people are asking, I know you won’t listen to the explanation without wondering when Jeopardy comes on halfway through a 60-second explanation.

“But we need the police”

Really? Your insistence on ignoring the issue that tells me that you live in an America where the police come to your aid. They’ll answer the call when your car gets vandalized or your neighbors are playing loud music all night. You trust that when a cop pulls you over it might mean a speeding ticket and a bad day, but nothing worse. 

When you have only ever experienced “good cops” you don’t understand why people fear the bad ones. 

And, to be fair, I’m in that white bubble too. I’ve talked my way out of 3/4 traffic stops in 20 years of driving and have never had a bad encounter. 

However, I also have empathy. I listen to those who have been targeted by police, harassed and abused. I’ve watched the videos of cops killing unarmed black children, men and women which occur far too frequently. I see the unions and officers talk about being “warriors” in our communities instead of protecting and serving the people. 

Something has to change. 

Police across this nation have been given billions of dollars which does nothing to stem the tide of crime and allows abuses to continue. 

Something has to change. 

We need a change in recruitment and training, de-escalation tactics, a plethora of support available in communities, accountability for cops who break the law, justice for those killed by officers, and yes, scaled back budgets that focus on the needs of the public, not Deputy Dave’s desire to cosplay Call of Duty at work. 

I do not support giving ever more money to agencies who are not held accountable and fail to protect us. 

So the next time you whine about defunding the police don’t be surprised if I drop a link to this essay on your post. 

“It’s 5 o’clock in the morning”

I sang this song to myself as I clipped the leash on the dogs, grabbed a flashlight and let them outside pre dawn to do their business. 

It’s a song I sing often, substituting with 3 o’clock, seven o’clock, etc based on the time their bladders demand relief. 

Back inside, I grabbed a water and pit stop myself, turning to Instagram for a quick scroll before heading back to bed, intending to read a few messages and be back to slumber soon. 

And then my heart was broken by the announcement of John Lewis’ passing, posted by a friend. 

Now it’s 5:30 in the morning and I can’t sleep. 

The sadness comes in waves and I’m reminded of the essay on grief that helped me through losses before.

it’s hard to accept that this strong, capable, brave black man who fought for his civil rights, marched with Doctor King, served in Congress most of my lifetime and lived to see Barack Obama serve in office is gone. 

He’s gone at a time when our nation is, once again, grappling with racial inequality. As he fought for equal voting rights, Lewis would have likely commented that inequality never went away, it was just ignored.

He’ll never see Trump leave office and hope restored. 

He will never see the fullness of his work realized and enjoyed by those he fought for.

While he was only 80 years old, his life was not one of ease. This is a man who was arrested for daring to use a “whites only” toilet and who was beaten on more than one occasion. It’s been shown that the body catalogs the stress and pain from traumatic events. And how do we expect octogenarians to keep working grueling schedules when they have earned their rest?

In times like now, I really miss my stuff. The boxes and furniture all got stuffed into a POD and shipped to Kansas and sits 100 miles away, waiting for the POD franchisee to decide if they’ll deliver it to my home, as promised. 

In one of those boxes, packed tightly among the others, are three books written on the life of John Lewis and illustrated as a graphic novel. 

I first heard of March from The Rachel Maddow Show and when I read them I finally understood the hype. I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried reading about his life, from preaching to the chickens on the family farm to being arrested, watching his friends be assassinated, to standing at the capital and watching the first black president take the oath of office. 

In a country so bitterly divided, it’s hard to imagine our politicians as heroes. John Lewis earned his stripes on the streets and I can only imagine the young black men and women who will follow in his footsteps. 

It is a day of great loss for America. For those who are mourning at the news and even those who don’t give a damn. Because that’s the thing about activists: they fight for your equality and freedom whether you stand for or against them. 

I got “shot.”

Yesterday I was on a lonely country road on my way to the store for some groceries when a shot rang out in my truck. My first thought, obviously, what that a sniper had taken aim to kill me from a hidden perch along the road. True crime stories of random shootings came to mind as I looked for the cause and simultaneously realized I was not injured and there was no blood or broken glass.

Turns out, the bottle of water from the freezer that I brought along was sitting in the console and apparently melted enough to expand and eject the cap. The bottle cap hit the sunroof and landed in the passenger seat. Water sprayed up, hitting the inside of the windshield (and me) accompanied by a loud pop!

You never really know how you’re going to handle an emergency but god knows I plan for them often enough. Earlier this month I towed a trailer 2,000+ miles and at least 10% of that journey I thought about what I’d do when the hitch disengaged. When the tire blew out. When the trailer flipped, taking my truck with it into a ditch.

Not if, when. 

Some people call this “rehearsing disaster” and it’s one way that anxiety shows up for me. I imagine terrible things and then try to plan a solution around them. Thanks to a lifetime of watching Unsolved Mysteries, Forensic Files and Dateline, my imagination is ripe with horrific scenarios to ponder! 

So when the blast of water went off in the truck, I was really rather proud that I didn’t swerve, slam on the breaks or go into hysterics. I figured out what happened, cursed the treacherous water for betraying me and kept driving to the store.

We don’t know how we’ll react until the moment of disaster

If you’d asked me a year ago how I would handle wearing a mask every time I left my house, or moving during a pandemic, or using hand sanitizer from a distillery that smells like vodka every day… I would have assumed the worst.

Rising to this occasion doesn’t take heroic measures, it doesn’t require Avenger level training or a bioengineering degree. All it takes to stem the tide of such a tremendous danger is a care for the life and health of others above my own personal comfort.

Watching videos of other Americans protesting mask ordinances, arguing about personal freedoms and insisting that “it’s all a hoax” makes me so sad. In our moment of need so many have responded with selfish disregard for others. It’s telling that I have seen so many young people and teenagers take in stride the cancellation of school, prom, sports programs, dance, graduation, birthdays and summer camp with grace and dignity. At the same time many adults in their 40s and beyond are the ones screaming about their “right” to go to Disneyworld, go to the beach, and get drunk at a bar for their birthday.

What’s worse, some of these selfish, ignorant, idiotic adults are raising children.

I suppose my brain prefers to rehearse the disaster of a tree falling on my new house, my dog getting sick or a tornado appearing out of clear blue skies because the actual disaster is too hard to fathom. 

You cannot argue about masks with someone who does not care about others. 

You cannot discuss public health with a person who isn’t convinced science is real. 

You cannot convince someone to take precautions who believes everything they don’t like is a lie. 

Perhaps that’s my real fear, because it’s not about getting randomly shot driving in my car (anymore). The real fear is that truth and judgment have taken the back seat to fear and feelings. It’s almost funny when I consider the likelihood of getting hit by lightening in an electrical storm because the odds are so small. It’s not funny to witness so many people who have the benefit of truth and facts in front of them willingly ignore it all in favor of a feel good lie. 

When a disaster strikes, I hope I can respond appropriately. 

When a global disaster strikes, I fear for our collective response.