Not Everyone LOVES a Parade...

This entry should be read at some points like the book, “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,"  you’ll see when.

Last weekend, I talked my parents into participating in a parade in Des Moines.  It was  just a mile route, close to home, mild weather predicted on a Saturday afternoon.  What could possibly go wrong?  The company I work for has had a presence in Des Moines WA since 1947, when our main building was constructed.  The group decided to echo the era of our origins and dress in 50s style, have a couple of vintage cars for some residents to ride in and make it an event.

First stop was every thrift store in my zip code to find 50s styling threads to mix and match.  If you’re going to dress 50s, you’re going to need polka dots, and polka dots require cat-eye glasses, which then require stick-on rhinestones.  Capris and cardigans, then need chunky jewelry, net scarves and fabulous leopard print bags.   The piece de resistance was a $2 tube of bright red lipstick to complete the look.  Attempts at winged eyeliner were less than successful, and had to be scrapped.  With a boss outfit true to the decade down to my bobby socks, and filling a backpack with phone, chargers and speakers to give us 50s tunes to groove to as we strolled down the street, I was ready to rock and roll, daddy-o.  What’s that about best laid plans?

 

The first issue was getting coordinated and to the staging areas for the parade, 2 hours before the start.  Vintage cars heat up quickly even in the shade and aren’t equipped with modern-day cooling systems to prevent overheating.  When the parade started and we had about 12 folks walking in front of the cars so that we didn’t get exhaust fumes… that means the cars were running at 2-3 mph behind the people.

If you take a car from the 50s out in 80 degree weather and run it at 3 mph for any length of time, it’s going to form vapor lock (carburetor overheating). If it forms vapor lock, the engine shuts down to prevent the engine from overheating.  When the engine shuts down, you have no power to steer OR brake.  When you have no power to steer or brake, mom’s eyes get as wide as saucers and she looks like she wants to bail.  When mom gets a startled look, dad is oblivious – as are the passengers waving from the cars.  

I’m off on the side of the road trying to get the music system to work; no luck.  Mom comes by and lets me know she’s in neutral, car off and has no control.  SLIGHT sense of panic here – just a little bit.  I shuffle up to dad’s car and let him know mom’s predicament. 

He says, "And what can I do about it NOW?" 

Me:“Nothing, just letting you know she’s probably going to pull off before we head up the next hill.” 

The rest of the parade went great - candy was distributed, waves were given, whoops and hollers were received and my partner in crime didn't even hit on the Seafair pirates.

So, I now have one irritated parent, one slightly panicked parent and four aging residents to handle. Our banner is resisting the slight wind and a backpack full of sound equipment that doesn’t work getting progressively heavier...  Happy camper? NOT SO MUCH.

When we get to the end of the parade, both cars are overheated, not running and Dad is ready to post FOR SALE – CHEAP signs on both windshields. As I cross the street to connect with the parents, get the Wesley passengers home and devise a recovery plan, my LEAST favorite aspect of the parade is barreling down the street towards me.   

The pirates in the Moby Duck come blasting their cannon in my general direction.  Some history about me and Seafair Pirates… NOT A FAN.  They scared the crap out of me dragging their swords at age 2 and the sticker they gave me DID NOT make it better.  A staunch hater of loud noises and even more so in my general proximity caused a 3-minute cussing jag to make a sailor blush. And I’m standing next to a retired Methodist pastor.  He has a new view of my colorful personality complete with vivid vocabulary. Bless you, Uncle Butch – a whole ‘nother story there. 

Once we got the cars and tempers cooled down, running rough, blowing smoke and proceeded gingerly back home, parked them and adjourned to Black Angus for some well-deserved libations and cow flesh.  It took 2 weak gin and tonics and a rib eye steak to mellow Dad’s mood.  Needless to say, the folks are not eager to participate in a parade again any time soon. 

Cemetery Management - the little things one never consides

After successfully extracting a brilliant colleague from the cemetery staff to fill my open desk space, I had cause to reflect on how her skills adequately transfer to the work we now do in home health and hospice management.  A step back in the food chain, if you will.  But I digress.

Because knowing the importance of documentation maintenance from decades in the past to know who has paid for what plot, is buried where, how deep, in what kind of container and the marital status of all previously deceased inhabitants. 

Dealing with an irate family member who believes that with a staff of 12, each and every one of 40,000 grave sites should be meticulously manicured on a daily basis.  This requires a level of compassion, diplomacy and unflappability that will make dealing with the effects of dementia a walk in the park.

Dead people don't complain.  But their live relatives will find any reason to be dissatisfied.  The fact that a plane flew over during the service and they couldn't hear the readings.  The fact that there is dirt and grass and they had to walk in heels over uneven ground to reach the graveside service.  The fact that names or dates are wrong on markers when the proofs must be signed and checked for accuracy before production commences.  The fact that dad's second wife is buried next to their mother while dad is still living - despite the fact that he owns the plots. 

No matter when someone dies, no one is ready to deal with the logistics.  There are unresolved conflicts,

A Bird in Hand... and Another on the Wing

 

A family of sparrows made a nest outside my parent’s deck door entrance to their home. Decades ago, my grandfather had a mechanic’s shop and put an upside-down coffee can under the eaves for a returning family of sparrows to have a dry and supportive space to build their nest. It’s fun to imagine that this family is a distant descendant of those sparrows that followed my mom to her current home.

She discovered the nest last week while watering a hanging plant and has been feeding and chatting with the mother bird and really enjoying the presence of nature in her midst. Yesterday she was observing the fledgling birds venturing from the nest and attempting to fly for the first time. Her excitement at watching this little miracle occupied most of the day.

On my way to visit my parents, my own fledgling called on the phone. He is moving from a stressful home environment to a new “nest” of his own. He ventured to California as a very young 17yo college student and has been a proud CA resident for the last 11 years.  His friend group planned for years to rent a home together with five individuals. The application process and move process was grueling. He moved to San Diego with no job arranged and found frustration and need to borrow money from roommates complicated his relationships to the point he needed to move out after repaying his debts. Hmm. Didn’t mom caution about both circumstances? Yes, but mom is mom. THIS time, he is moving to a new location, closer to work, retaining a secure job and moving in with two unknown roommates as their third to balance the costs. Taking mom’s suggestions, wow. The difference a challenging year makes. So my own fledgling needed a pep talk and reminded him to stay optimistic, hydrated and well fed during his moving process.

While visiting with my parents, there was a flutter of noise behind my chair. One of the baby birds had inadvertently entered the house while the slide was open and become disoriented.  It decided to try to fly through the window and found a solid obstacle. Mom started to go for it with her bare hands, I grabbed a soft towel so the human scent would not ostracize the bird, the towel would cushion against injury, and hold any soiling caused by the adventure. It perched on the windowsill with a very perplexed “Help me get out!” look. Gently grasping the bird with the towel between my palms, I marveled at the miracle.

Having a wee bird cupped in one’s hands is a powerful feeling of power and powerlessness. Too much pressure could injure it; too little and it could fall. Just snug enough to feel it quaking with the new sensation. What a rush!

The bird was set in a plant outside to recover. It hopped down to meet mama, was promptly fussed over/at, and flew away. The purpose of parenting is to hold snugly, but loosely so that the wings can be tested, and flight achieved. 

Weekly Whirligig: Disciples of a different time, place and journey

Weekly Whirligig: Disciples of a different time, place and journey: It's been a while since I had something big to process.  Knowing that I process better when I write in stream of consciousness and mindf...

Disciples of a different time, place and journey

It's been a while since I had something big to process.  Knowing that I process better when I write in stream of consciousness and mindfulness of what I'm feeling, I'm returning to the blog to do just that.  This is a big one.  A friend told me last week that she has a strong feeling - a 3AM wake up feeling - that my purpose in going through this journey into the criminal justice and prison system, supporting a friend, is so that I can improve conditions and outcomes for those once incarcerated.  AND further improve the process to help them reenter society and change their path going forward with love and respect for themselves and others.  So we're starting on that path.  Part faith journey, part institutional journey and all with the faith that all will be well.

For the first time this Lent, I have some idea what the disciples were feeling.  Jesus took them through the process of what was to come in parable and story and preaching, but they really had no idea.  What would happen? How it would affect them and others far into the future?  They could not fathom the far-reaching affect of this separation from their friend.  I can somewhat understand their walk in the wilderness, not literally, but figuratively.

We always want to think we have it under control, we know what to expect and how to prepare for what is to come.  When that power is taken away, we swirl in uncontrolled waves of rage and anxiety.  In a few weeks, a good friend, Yvette*, will be taken into custody to serve 6 ½ years in prison for a fatality accident that was her fault.  Her judgement was impaired, she made a poor decision and someone died.  

We’ve known for almost three years that a sentence would come, but it was a nebulous shadow hanging over our lives while we did other things – mundane things.  Attended AA meetings, appointments, work, grocery shopping, visiting with family, paying bills, doing our taxes, loading and unloading the dishwasher, washer and dryer.  Coming out of a pandemic in various stages and waiting for the court backlog to abate, until her case came to the forefront of a long delay.

And then it happened.  Almost 3 years after the incident.  She called and said, “I have news.  Are you sitting down?  I heard from my attorney and we’ll have two court appearances.  At the one in May, I’ll be taken into custody and serve 6 and a half years, or less.” And I took the news with a surprising sense of calm and acceptance.  Underneath, I was nowhere near calm and accepting.  I was raging inside.  

We all know some of the hiccups of the prison industrial complex and criminal justice system, so while I’m sure she will be dedicated to keeping her head down and serving her time, I’m wondering how she will adjust to the subtle social order within a women’s prison.  I’m hoping that there isn’t someone who has it out for hazing newbies.  I’m hoping she can achieve her goals of further education, sponsoring and mentoring AA buddies.  That she will find a church group to support her in her time of need.  I’m hopeful that the system can help keep her safe, tend to her medication needs and maintain her sanity.  Those are not small goals within a broken system.

Another friend, Betsy*, is preparing for a move to a new home.  We’re not sure Yvette will ever visit that new home.  We’re trying to schedule a gal’s weekend away – but time is compressed and there is a pressing need to make good memories to sustain her in her isolation.  Yes, we’ll visit, write and send her goodies to help pass the time. We don’t yet know what is considered contraband and what is allowed.  But it won’t be the same.  How many times will I start to send her a text message, then pause and remember.  We often went thrift shopping at Value Village and Goodwill together.  I’ve been a few times alone, it’s just not the same.  I’m eating my feelings.  I’ll have six years to correct those mistakes.

We’re clearing Y's rental home to the walls.  I have to resist wanting to keep everything for her for 6 years because that isn’t practical.  She will have space at my home to acclimate after she is released, but what will she truly need?  There is no way of knowing.  She may want to start fresh, she may want to retain some old items, she may have no interest or need coming from such a minimal existence.  We are giving items to people who have true need for them.  We found a home for her sewing machine with a woman who will send it to her family in Mexico.  

We’ll find a new home for her dog, Marco, she has raised since a puppy.  He won’t understand but he will accept. Most likely with someone who needs a pal for their sobriety journey.  This is the one time it might be advantageous to be an animal and not have full understanding of what it to come.  He will have faith that we will find a good home for him and he will adjust and accept.  If only the rest of us could follow and just allow the unknown to happen with such blind faith.

The mantra prayer of Mother Julian of Norwich:

*Some names have been fictionalized, but not Marco...

Jewels in my Life

 The rings and bracelets I wear my heart on my wrists and hands, literally. They each have deep sentimental value and represent lifelong commitments to friends, sisters and women who formed the core of my being.  My wedding band symbolizes the commitment to a friend of over 30 years of trust, honor and not obeying but compromising so that we both win.  When a dear friend died earlier this year, I had her ashes made into a cocktail ring semiprecious stone and inherited all of her costume jewelry rings that were her fashion statement.  The rest of my portion of her ashes sit appropriately in her jewelry box.  

Four bracelets I am rarely without are the birthstones of self, mother, BFF and one for the brilliant blue of my grandmother's eyes.  

"ALL mothers were summoned when HE called out for his MAMA"

In reviewing the new post, I discovered this DRAFT that was never published.  As we approach Holy Week, it is timely as the sins of the past still occur in our day to day.  

"ALL mothers were summoned when HE called out for his MAMA"

https://georgefloydstreetart.omeka.net/items/show/1390

Throughout this pandemic time, I've been plagued with insomnia.  At first it was something I fought, then embraced the quiet solitude to embark on questions that led me down deep rabbit holes. Questions entered my brain that could not be ignored.  One such question was a comparison of the last words of George Floyd and the last words of Jesus.  I found resources for both and they appear below with credit for each compilation at the bottom.  May it give you pause and compel social action.  A drive to be educated, a drive to learn the rest of the story regarding our collective human history and a drive to make changes in large and small ways that will have a ripple effect into future generations.  Peace. MDM

When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved

standing nearby, he said to his mother, "Dear woman, here is your son,"

and to the disciple, "Here is your mother." 

1. Mama, mama, mama!

“When George Floyd called for his mother, he was calling for all of us,” said a friend

of mine who is the mother of a young Black son. When Jesus was dying on the cross, he

looked to his mother, Mary, commending her to John’s care. We can only imagine how

Mary felt to see the life slowly leaving her son’s body. In his last moments, Mr. Floyd

cried out for the woman who brought him into this world as he realized he was being

ripped out of it. 

 

"I am thirsty." ​ (As translated in the New Living Translation (NLT.)

2. Please, man.

When Jesus was on the cross, he appealed to his tormentors to quench his thirst.

Mr. Floyd appealed to the humanity of his tormentor to save his life. He was already on

the ground and restrained. He was not a threat. This plea echoes the signs of the 1960s

strikes when working-class Black people asserted their dignity by simply saying, “I am a

Man!” It also echoes the appeal of Sojourner Truth for persons to see and value her

humanity by saying, “Ain’t I a Woman?”

 

I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."

3. You’re going to kill me, man!

Mr. Floyd told Chauvin he was dying and pleaded with him to stop. As the trial goes on,

we are hearing the damning testimony of persons who all say they know they witnessed a

murder — an assassination perpetrated by white supremacy at the hands of the police.

How many times have we heard deadly force being justified because of a perceived threat

or a need to stand one’s ground? We remember the witnesses of Jesus’ march to Golgotha

and Simon of Cyrene who did his best to help our Lord.

“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” 

4. I can’t believe this.

Floyd’s disbelief that a transaction with an alleged counterfeit bill could cost him his life.

The shock from emergency personnel who clearly saw the signs of distress yet were not

allowed to render assistance. The horror of rookie police officers out on their training

patrol witnessing a superior crushing the life out of a restrained suspect. We all cannot

believe the cruel brutality of white supremacy—yet it plays before our collective eyes daily

with its deadly consequences. We remember the brutality of the Roman Empire and the

fact that Jesus’ execution was an example of the continued assurance of their supremacy

through brutal oppression.

  

Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." ​

5. Tell my kids, I love them.

Floyd had a life before he became a martyr, a slogan and a T-shirt image. He was a friend,

a son and a father. Behind every victim of racism is collateral damage — grieving children,

a heartbroken community, the lost potential of what could and should have been. Even

though his death has become a symbol of the cost of institutional racism for Black people,

George Floyd was a real man with real people who mourn him and have been robbed of

his presence in their lives. We remember Jesus’ human relationships and the grief of his

loved ones that often get lost and forgotten in the course of Jesus as a symbol of divine

love.

"Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." When he had said this, he breathed his last.

6. I’m dead.

Between 1920 and 1938, the New York branch of the NAACP hung a flag outside of its

office emblazoned with the words, “Another man was lynched today.” In 2015, the flag

was revived and updated to say, “Another man was lynched by police today.” Jesus’ death

was a public lynching complete with a gambling show. The world has borne witness to

Floyd’s lynching — many anguished, others cheering and some nonchalant — in the same

way the spectators watched Jesus hang his head on Golgotha as the sun set.

... he said, "It is finished!"

7. I can’t breathe!

The most well-known phrase that embodies how white supremacy has strangled the life out

of Black people globally through the trans-Atlantic slave trade (Maafa), colonialism,

apartheid, segregation and a litany of other terms associated with white supremacy and

anti-Blackness. It was first seared into our memories when we watched Eric Garner have

the life choked out of him. On May 25, 2020, over 600 years of global anti-Blackness

seemed distilled into a single moment as a white cop ripped the spirit out of a Black man.

We remember Jesus committed his spirit to God as his lungs collapsed from the crucifixion.

https://religionnews.com/2021/04/02/on-this-good-friday-let-us-reflect-on-the-seven-last-words-of-george-floyd/ - John  Thomas III

Fairchild, Mary. "7 Last Words of Jesus." Learn Religions, Aug. 27, 2020, learnreligions.com/7-last-words-of-jesus-700175.