Jumbled thoughts after the Fourth

 

My vicious guard dog

The Fourth of July is America’s most patriotic holiday. We are, most of us, pumped with enthusiasm for God, country, and whatever. This year in many ways it was particularly sweet, since many of us survived the pandemic and the reign of trump. Disease numbers are down, trump loses followers daily, the job numbers are up, and Biden has shown himself to be a real leader and gentleman in his reaction to the Florida condo collapse and a myriad of other problems.

So it was a bit of a shock to wake today to news reports that said there were 400 shootings across the country over the weekend, with 150 deaths. In Fort Worth, we had fourteen shootings with one death—a pretty high record for us. And too many drownings. I have a Facebook friend who lives outside Chicago and constantly bemoans the violence in that city. So do I, because it’s my hometown. But I was a bit pleased tonight to tell him that out of 50 most dangerous cities in the US Chicago is #31. Detroit is #1, no surprise, but I was surprised that Springfield, Missouri is #3. Several Texas cities were ranked, but not Fort Worth.

I read an article today about the rather dramatic uptick in violence in this country, particularly gun violence. It seems that Federal agencies predicted this, even at the beginning of pandemic. Many people have built up such tension--over fear of the virus, social isolation, the encouragement of right-wing violence, all the strains we've been living under--that this outburst was expected. But one sane voice predicted that Americans are resilient, and we will bounce back to a more regular existence. Not sure that includes mass shootings, nor do I think it means we don't have to work for stricter gun control laws, such as the ban on assault rifles and laws that keep guns out of the hands of the mentally unbalanced and the untrained.

People are still complaining today about the noise of fireworks. I am not as bothered as some, but I have had dogs who were terrified, so I recognize that problem, and I can only imagine how traumatic it is for veterans with PTSD. I will say that Sophie was absolutely unfazed and slept through all those that we could hear. I read of a town in Italy that decreed all fireworks would be silent—you get the beautiful visuals without the noise. I didn’t even know they could do that, but I like the idea. The last time I went to a fireworks show, we sat too close for my comfort, and every time one exploded directly overhead, I felt like my heart stopped. At my age, that’s an uncomfortable feeling. You never know when it could be true.

In reflecting on last night, I was amused to realize I have forgotten how good a traditional Fourth dinner can taste. Hot dog with sauerkraut (okay, I know the kraut is not traditional), baked beans (the only can I had was Heinz vegetarian but they tasted just fine), and potato salad. I had beans and potato salad for lunch today. Still good.

Too much of my own company this long weekend, though Sophie has been a good companion. She, that little 30-lb. dog, stood a yard worker off today, barking and feinting a charge or two. He clung to the gate with it half open, ready to make an escape any minute. When I called out for him to please shut the gate, he made no move. Either he was terrified, or he has no English—or both. At any rate, Sophie was very pleased with herself, and I am glad to have her for protection.

I’ll be grateful to get back to sort of routine tomorrow, with a couple of social things planned. Meantime, I am enjoying the slightly cooler weather. Sitting with the patio doors open tonight.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

Nostalgia on the Fourth

Probably a sign of aging, but holidays now seem to call forth memories of holidays past. Tonight, for instance, I am thinking of my teen years, when the Fourth always meant the stock car races at Soldiers’ Field in Chicago, followed by what was then the most magnificent fireworks display we could imagine—today it would seem tame. I’m not sure, but I think I must have gone with a well-chaperoned church group because I can’t imagine my parents allowing such an outing otherwise.

And then there was the year in the early ‘80s that my shirttail brother and I took my children to the Lancaster Bridge in Fort Worth. Midway through the show I had a panic attack—from realizing how high off the ground we were (heights are a big thing for me)—and it turned out to be catching. Uncle Bob panicked too, and my kids, still very young, had to lead these two doddering adults off the bridge.

One of my best memories was the time friends and I went to the historic Oakwood Cemetery (I belonged to the North Fort Worth Historical Society which sponsored the event). We sat in folding chairs on the riverbank and had the best view of the city display.

There were nights in someone’s back yard when I was afraid a child would lose an eye to a sparkler and nights watching from the twelfth floor of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine, when my ex as still a faculty member and still with us. Nights at Colonial Country Club, when the fireworks exploded right over us and made me think my heart had stopped

Now I’m content to stay home and hear the fireworks in the distance. Jean came over tonight, and we had the supper you must have—hot dogs (we both like ours with sauerkraut), beans (why did I only have vegetarian in the cupboard?), and potato salad that she made. Delicious. And patriotic.

I think it’s sad, though, that on this day when we celebrate our nation, I’m acutely aware of gun violence. Eight people were shot, many innocent bystanders, on an incident in a nearby neighborhood; a golf pro was shot on the course at a club in Georgia; twenty-plus shots were fired into the home of an Alabama state senator (apparently not politically motivated); and in South Carolina, two boys, ages eight and nine, were arrested for shooting and killing a farmer as he worked on his tractor. They were just randomly firing, apparently not thinking about consequences. What in heaven’s name are kids that age doing with rifles? Every day, it’s at least one shooting in our city, usually more. Folks, this is not what the Second Amendment meant at all. My neighbor, who is a gun aficionado and Second Amendment advocate, claims it means you can protect your home, not that you can randomly go out and shoot guns anywhere, anytime. Hmmm. Guess Governor Abbott needs to read the amendments again.

Nostalgia may come with age but so, I have decided, do altered sleep patterns. Last night about nine o’clock I got so sleepy I could hardly stand it, so I lay down for a quick nap. I woke from a sound sleep at 10:45, feeling refreshed and ready to do a day’s work. I didn’t quite do that, but it was 12:30 before I went back to bed. Now I’m wondering what will happen tonight, because it’s 8:30, and I’m feeling sleepy. Maybe fireworks will keep me awake. Sophie does not appear to be bothered by them at all.

My email program has started doing something spooky—it anticipates what I’m going to say and types it ahead of my fingers. Sometimes it’s right, sometimes not. What I’m afraid of is that I will change what I meant to say to fit what the computer thinks I should say. Yikes! I think it’s something called Smart Keys, but I have no idea how to turn it off. Technology is ahead of me again.

Good night, sweet folks. Enjoy the fireworks, be they near, far, or televised. And remember this can be a great country. We are, as President Biden says, at a crossroads, and it’s up to each and everyone of us to reclaim our country. Do not be afraid.

A quiet and safe Fourth of July

Fireworks in Fort Worth

The pool in Blanco

It’s a quiet Fourth at the Alter/Burton compound. Jordan ahs gone off with her high school girlfriends for a weekend at a rental house in Blanco. The house they’ve rented has a wonderful view of the Hill Country and a smashing swimming pool, which would be important to them as they like to lie out. (My granddaughter recently said something to me about laying around, and I quickly corrected her that it’s lying around—but I can’t correct these girls.)

I truly admire Jordan and her friends for remaining so close in the years since high school. I won’t give away their ages, but trust me—they’ve seen more than one high school reunion. Yet these are the women she would turn to first in moments of joy or crisis. And I am most fond of each of them.

Meanwhile, back in Fort Worth, Christian, Jacob, and I are having a quiet but satisfactory time. Jordan charged Christian with taking care of me, and he’s most attentive. Lucky for him though I am over whatever bug I had and do not require as much attention or sympathy. Today I read most of the day, because I have a book I agreed to review, and I figured the best way to go after it was to get it done. So I devoted the day to it.

It’s a book about two women traveling through France, seeking the stories of women in various small cities and towns about food and family and how they survived World War II. I enjoyed it, especially the family stories and the recipes. One of a man who was separated from his mother as a child by the bombing of Paris and how that affected him as an adult. Another about a woman whose family had a farm. Of what they ate, she said, “We didn’t have to diet,” as she described sometimes having one potato for a family of five. Even in these difficult times in America, I don’t think we can truly grasp the hardship of Europeans during that war.

As for food, my comment is that the French sure ate a lot of rabbit—in rillettes (I think that’s a paté) and stews and other dishes. I have had rabbit once—chicken-fried—and liked it, but like many Americans I am leery of looking at a bunny and then finding it on the dinner table. The French apparently have no such compunctions, and I’m not sure why I do. We eat chicken, don’t we?

Back to the mundane. Christian and I decided on take-out fried chicken tonight. We chose a nearby restaurant, but friends told Christian the chicken was really spicy. He knows I don’t like that, so we settled for the Cook Shack—I had a good chicken sandwich and cole slaw but not the fried pickles I wanted. And I still have a craving for good, old-fashioned, bone-in fried chicken. When quarantine is over—will it ever end?—I’m going to Drew’s Place, where they serve soul food, including fried chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans. Meantime, this was good.

Christian is spending evenings watering my new grass. The rain we hoped for has not materialized and is now not predicted for a couple of days. Like taking care of me, watering the grass was one of the things Jordan charged him with while she is gone. Woe to him if she comes home and finds brown spots!

So ends an unusual Fourth. I found it hard to feel celebratory today. I’m too upset about where my country is, with a pandemic killing thousands of my fellow Americans and racial unrest being fueled by the man who is supposedly leading us. America today is not the country of my dreams—I pray that we will be able to reverse this and begin the long, slow climb back to greatness, a new kind of greatness that leaves behind some of the problems that got us where we are today. But we need a totally new administration to do that.

Looking out for your neighbors … and yourself

I live in a pleasant, older neighborhood. Some houses have been here almost a hundred year. Some are two-story, some are single-story Craftsman. Yards are mowed, gardens tended. We have an active neighborhood association and lots of traditions. Our community attracts people who are looking for the inner-city experience, where you know your neighbors and feel part of things going on.

One of our traditions is our annual Fourth of July Parade. Everyone turns out—families dress their kids up, drape bikes and trikes with red- white- and-blue streamers. Parents walk along next to their kids, and non-marching residents line the streets of the route to cheer. The parade ends at our local elementary school, the capstone that holds our neighborhood together, where there are various activities for children—face painting, bounce houses, and lots of treats for everyone!

It’s going to be all different this year. The social co-chairs planned a variation of the usual route, with proper social distancing, and issued an edict that masks would be required. The city approved the amended plan. But then the spike hit our county, along with most of Texas, and the ladies went back to the planning board.

The results? We’ll have a parade of motorized vehicles only—sort of like those drive-by birthday parties everyone is having these days. No motorized scooters, no bikes, none of the wagons with baby brother getting a free ride. Nope, not even the dogs we’re used to. And the generous neighbors who always had a post-parade Bloody Mary and Budweiser stand? Postponed.

The parade will wind through internal streets of the neighborhood, so many folks can cheer from their own front yards. And the usual celebration at the end? With a totally different route, the parade will end in a cul-de-sac where residents can take their turn, at a distance of course, at an ice-cream truck. Yes, masks required.

The reason I’m telling you all this is that I am so impressed by the resilience our neighborhood shows. Everyone recognizes that things are not what we want them to be. But instead of throwing our hands up in despair and retreating into our homes, we have a new plan. We will still have fun and celebrated our nation’s birth, but we will be looking out for our neighbors … and ourselves.

When I see people who make such a scene when confronted with a mask requirement—the woman who threw all the groceries out of her cart at a check-out, flinging food hither and yon; the man who had a huge poster saying, “I will not sacrifice my freedom for your health.”—I am appalled. I would like to say I’d invite these self-centered people to my neighborhood to see how people care about each other, but no, I don’t want them and their germs—or their attitude—here.

A friend of mine was in a grocery store with one-way aisles (best idea grocers have come up with yet), when she saw a mask-less woman coming toward her. Not being a shrinking violet, she asked, “Where is your mask?” The woman said something, and my friend said, “My mask protects you. Your mask would protect me.” The woman looked at her and said, “Oh, honey, God will protect you.” Maybe that’s why all those choir members in Dallas sang for Pence without masks. And did you hear that in Oklahoma, post the trump rally, they are getting 100% positive tests. God gave us masks and social distancing; we can’t expect magic from a deity.

Since I don’t go out of my cottage very often—I’ve been off the property three times since last March—I rarely wear a mask. So I’m the first to admit they’re a pain—hot, itchy, uncomfortable. With my hearing problems, I find it difficult to understand a person wearing a mask—I’ve noticed this with a couple of repairmen who have come to the house. But it is what it is, and it’s better than getting COVID-19.

Our numbers are up again today in Tarrant County—605 new cases, and I forgot how many deaths. I notice with satisfaction that more and more people across the nation who at first resisted are now wearing masks. I mean, really, if Mitch McConnell says it’s absolutely essential that everyone wear one, that’s a huge step. Now if only the squatting president would get on board. And then we have to work on the hordes who want to spend the day at the beach or tubing on the Guadalupe or marching in a protest, though a lot of the latter are properly masked.

Do you wear your mask every time you leave your home? For sure?