Still reeling from the horror in Uvalde

 

I am not a native Texan. I cannot, like many of my friends, claim roots that go back generations (they often let me know about it). But I have lived in this state for fifty-seven years. In Texas, I raised my four children, built a career based on Texas history and literature, found a more-than-satisfactory life. I love this state. Tonight, I grieve for it and I am angry—indeed, furious.

I watched Greg Abbott’s presser today and was mildly surprised but overall appalled. It was all about after-the-fact, what we are doing to help families and the community of Uvalde heal, when truly it is much too soon to even talk about healing. The grief is too raw. I did think, briefly, that both Abbott and Dan Patrick showed some real emotion, but they soon turned it aside to recite the same old stuff. Abbott read lists of agencies involved in the investigation and in caring for survivors. The time frame of the attack was detailed, the fact that all the dead have been identified and their families notified seemed a point of pride. I heard the word “prevent” exactly once. When questions came, Abbott stressed the seven laws he has passed to strengthen mental health in this state.

Not a word about the nineteen laws the last legislature passed and Abbot gleefully signed that loosened restrictions on gun ownership. Not a word about the way shooting deaths have since skyrocketed. Not a word about the six school shootings and other mass shootings in the state that preceded this one. Abbott stuck to the playbook he’s used after every shooting: “This is not a time to politicize.” It makes great cover if you take it at face value.

Beto O’Rourke may have done himself no favors by interrupting and accusing the governor—Republicans will jump all over the incident, and I believe it was the mayor of Uvalde who disgraced himself, though he may not yet recognize it, by loudly calling Beto, “a sick son of a bitch.” But Beto spoke the truth: it will happen again, because Abbott is willing to look anywhere but at gun ownership—specifically automatic assault weapons. After every shooting, we have had the same pattern—Abbott calls a conference, makes a lot of noise, and does nothing meaningful.

When Beto was interviewed after his interruption, the passion he felt about these deaths was so palpable it was in stark contrast to the controlled statements inside the civic center (or was it the high school?). I for one cheer him for making his voice heard, for striking out against “one more time.” He’s right: unless something drastic is done, it will happen again in Texas, one of the states with the laxest gun laws and the highest number of gun deaths. I have five grandchildren still in public schools in this state, and I fear for their safety every day. Beto pointed out that Abbott called this tragedy unimaginable, but it really is not because we’ve seen it happen six times already. It is far too easy to imagine it happening all over again.

What can we do? Does it do any good to write to Ted Cruz? Probably not. To the governor? Probably not. I am not a fan of John Cornyn, but I will give him credit for cancelling his scheduled appearance at the NRA celebration in Houston this weekend—Abbott will supposedly still appear, along with trump who has not uttered one word about the shooting. What an appallingly bad case of timing. We can send donations to help with funerals; we can, as one of my neighbors suggested, donate blood which is apparently needed in the Uvalde hospitals. We can make our voices heard. And we must vote!

I wish there was better news tonight, something happy to write about. But it will take a while, a long while.

False alarm and other matters

Thanks to all for good wishes, but my dental emergency disappeared—does that happen to emergencies? I am crediting it to either the power of prayer or magic—take your pick. This morning, there was no tenderness, no sign of all the unusual stuff going on in my mouth yesterday. Dutifully, being an obedient girl remembering the dentistry of my young years, I called the dentist office. The assistant who answered didn’t seem too interested in making me an appointment. “Well, if you really think . . .” I decided I didn’t really think I needed to see the doctor immediately. I am not fooling myself. I know that it could flare again, but for now, it’s okay.

When I was young, twelve or thirteen, I had a lot of cavities, for which I credit my father. Like him, I  had poor enamel on my teeth. Dentistry then was not what it is today, and the drill was a slow, cumbersome, excruciating thing. My family dentist was a family friend—outside the office he was Uncle Walt—but he was taciturn, which didn’t help my discomfort during many many procedures. Later, I learned to appreciate him with some affection, but to this day I remain sort of dental phobic. Today, at least temporarily, was a huge relief.

So I stayed home, worked, and in a fit of energy, prepared the chicken filling for pocket sandwiches for a lunch guest tomorrow. I’ve had this recipe in my untried repertoire forever, always wanted to try it, decided this was the time. But all the while I thought it was chicken salad in a puff pastry dough. Not until I got into making the filling did I realize it was not salad—it’s a meat filling, like an empanada, only chicken and with more Anglo spicing. By that I mean butter, onion, garlic, mushroom, and thyme. It made the cottage smell incredible, and when Jordan came out hours later, her first words were, “It smells good in here.” So tomorrow I fight with the puff pastry. More wishes of good luck are appreciated.

Tonight, I went to dinner with Jean and good friend Betty Boles. We haven’t seen Betty in a while—she fell, had hip replacement surgery, and various other things, including covid precautions, have kept us apart. But it was good to be back together again. We ate at the newly redesigned Tavern. I’m still not sure about some aspects of the redo, but I love the tile floor—a hostess told us it is marble, which made my mind boggle at the cost. As usual, the food was really good—I had been wanting their meatloaf, and it didn’t disappoint. Besides the mashed potatoes, with a reduction sauce from the meatloaf, were delicious. I ordered knowing I wouldn’t eat it all and came home with a generous doggie bag.

Talk at the dinner table ranged over many subjects. For some reason, Jean and I reminisced about our childhood homes. We moved on, of course, to politics and Beto O’Rourke’s announcement today that he is in the governor’s race. I’ve been waiting months for that word, fearing Abbott was getting the drop on him in campaigning. But I think Beto is wily, knew what he was doing. All evidence now suggests he has a well-thought-out campaign planned and is jumping right into it. An Austin columnist I read tonight quoted an Abbott press-release with fear rhetoric about how all Texans must fight against the dangerous liberalism that Beto represents. No specifics, no policy talk, just vague generalities about threats. Beto on the other hand is already talking about the missed opportunities for expanded medical care for our citizens because Abbott would not accept increased Federal help, the dangers of ignoring the grid and the possibility of another power failure this winter, the danger of having an unlicensed, untrained population carrying  guns anywhere and everywhere, the failure of Abbott to deal efficiently with the pandemic which has resulted in the loss of thousands of Texas lives. Beto has specific talking points; Abbott has vague looming threats of “dangerous liberalism.”

A confession: I took a Pew Research Council survey, and the results showed that six percent of the American population is more liberal than I am. That, of course, leaves ninety-four percent on the other side of the line. Christian said, “That’s about right.” But I think there must have been a mistake. As I rant and rave about injustices and blind stupidity in this world, I think there must be more people who agree with me. If not, please don’t burst my little bubble.

Y’all have a good night. As my mom always said, “Tomorrow is another day.”