Phew! We Made It Through Another April 21st!

Most people don't think one way or another about April 21st, unless it happens to be their birthday, or as it is this year, the day before Earth Day. My husband and I usually find time to remember our dads, and as we get older, we try to have a "safe" day.

On one of our first dates, 10 years ago, we were sharing our histories. We talked as we looked out at the view of the Bay Area from a parking lot at Cal State Hayward, where I was taking a few classes. Doug asked me about my father, who I have very fond memories of, and I volunteered  that he died rather suddenly when I was 16 years old, leaving a large hole in all of our lives.

Doug said, "Oh, I know, my dad died when I was 16 too." I'm sure we both felt that was quite a thing to have in common. 

Keeping up the conversation, I volunteered that my dad had passed away on April 21st, and it was weird when it came time that my father-in-law should die it was ALSO on April 21st (of course several years later).

"Oh!", he exclaimed. "My dad died on April 21st too..... when I was 16!"

I was thinking to myself, "now what kind of a guy would make this up? This is creepy!" Then I looked at him, and he wasn't fooling! It was almost as if we could hear the theme from "Twilight Zone" in the background.

April 21st was yesterday, and as we're getting older, I've started thinking we should be a little careful. I don't want to be paranoid, but we did say a little prayer for our safety along with the one remembering all the dads. It didn't help that Doug had to climb a ladder outside to clean off a greenhouse window, and both of us had to re-install a heavy wooden door after he painted it, huffing and puffing the whole time. I kind of over-did and felt exhausted after a day of painting and working in the garden. The thought did cross my mind that we don't want any more "coincidences" to talk about in the coming years.

a good day for gardening

Tonight I feel the achiness in my bones of a couple of really good days of hard labor.
I worked alongside my husband on a project today, a new piece of property, and we were working on it together. He was sanding, priming and painting the front door a nice eggplant color, and fixing up the inside and I focused on the garden. Curb appeal seems to be our focus.
While I pulled the weeds from between the California Poppies and allysum, I had intermittent visitations from two little neighbor boys. They were brothers. I asked the oldest one how old he was, and he said "four and a half".
"So", I said, "Are you going to go to kindergarten next year?"
"No, I'm gonna go to judo." Did I mention he was really cute? (From now on I'm going to call them Seth and Micah).
Later on in my digging, I found a worm, so I held it up in my garden gloved hand to show the boys. Seth held out his hand and I gave it to him. I've seen his mom next door doing all kinds of vegetable gardening, so I figure these kids are used to insects and such. He looked at it writhing in his hand and I said," Just set him down next to that flower I planted over there so he doesn't get hurt while I'm digging." He did, and we watched the little worm squiggle down into the soft earth.
Next 3 year old Micah found a ladybug. He had picked it up, dropped it, it landed on it's back on the sidewalk, he at my urging tipped it right-side-up, and it walked on to a leaf. Whew!
They showed me their little bicycles and how they could race down the hill, and I kept digging. When they came back, I said, "Look! Roly-Polys!" Seth took one, crawling from my finger onto his palm and then showed his brother how, no, it didn't sting, it tickled his hand, and then it rolled up into a ball.
I flashed back on how much my daughter loved those little critters when she was little, and how cute she said "Roly-Poly".
The idyllic scene was broken when Micah spotted the ladybug again on the sidewalk and stomped on it and Seth, outraged, kicked him in the leg. We saw the tiny yellow guts splayed out on the concrete and I quickly calmed Micah's tears, swept the little red wings over to a hole in the dirt, said, "you know, it's ok, let's bury him."
The boys were called home, and I had time to listen to the sounds of the birds and the far away train, and the occasional siren or overhead plane. I pulled out weeds with roots that amazed me. On some of them the earth clung in such big clumps I had to shake and hit them with my spade to get it off.
That brought back a memory of when I was about eleven, my mom wanted me to pull weeds on the parking strip in front of our house. I thought I did a great job, even cleaning out the gutter, that had a bunch of mud that had also sprouted of weeds. When my mom took a look at the garbage can later, she was appalled, and called me back out to have me correct what I had done. Every weed in there was heavy with soil, and there were shovel fulls of "my dirt!", she called it, .... silt that had run down the gutter from other neighbors yards, and got caught in our weeds. She made me rescue all the soil from the bin, shaking each weed. She said this was wonderful soil that we should put back into the ground, not throw away. I'll never forget that. She thought of her property as her Tara, like Scarlet O'Hara, just how my husband always says I feel about my home.
Today, when we went back to work  on the house, I worked on the side, doing more weeding and planting. The boys weren't home today, so it was quiet. For a while I listened to Andrea Bocelli on my iPod, but I missed the sounds of nature. That's when I heard clucking. I had heard that the neighbors had chickens, but hadn't heard or seen them. There were about 4 hens peeking at me and softly murmuring through the fence. I love to cluck back at chickens, and I wanted to feed them something, but wasn't sure what they could eat. Suddenly spotting sour grass, I figured if I could suck on the stuff when I was little, it couldn't hurt a chicken. Besides, one of them was poking her head through the fence to get some anyway. We became fast friends when they found out I had a sourgrass connection. Five of their friends showed up. I think I'll be getting to know these chickens pretty well. I'm finding that they are pretty intense about finding food. There are partially dug holes along the adjoining fence. I think I know now why the chicken crosses the road.

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions...

....or Confessions of a lazy protester.

The quote in my title came to mind this morning when we arrived too late to get arrested at the Occupy Livermore protest at Lawrence Livermore Nuclear Weapons Lab. By the time we arrived at 9:15 the last row of Alameda County sheriffs had marched off in formation, leaving a still-imposing line of officers dressed in camoflage, their billy clubs across their chest. There were a few of the usual protesters still standing around and they thought  I supposed, it was comical when we walked right up to the barricade and said "Can we still be arrested?" One officer said "No, it's all over Ma'am." Chagrinned, we turned around to find one of the lifelong white-haired activists near us. She smiled and said softly, "Next time maybe you should leave a little earlier."

The Good Friday Protest has been happening faithfully for about 30 years at Lawrence Livermore Lab to make sure people don't forget that we are making weapons of mass distruction right here in the USA. Wondering why it's suddening affiliated with the Occupy movement, we know it's always been called an Ecumenical protest, attracting all sorts of peace-loving people from different faiths and walks of life. My husband Doug first heard about it from the late Father Bill O'Donnell, who is still there in spirit usually with his picture on a placard that says "Presente". He would have gotten arrested if he could.

The first time Doug introduced me to this group of folks was about 8 years ago, and we were about to be married. We came early, around 6:30 or 7:00 to the rally and to listen to the speeches. It was very cold, and we were glad when everyone started walking toward the gate on Vasco Rd to block it. There was singing of songs and people carried signs, following a big wooden  cross with an arty Jesus on it. We watched as the cops marched out to meet them and blocked the gate. The folks that agreed to make a statement and be arrested lined up  in rows in front of them, and we were among the others that cheered them on from the curb. Besides, we didn't know how long we would possibly be detained, and we didn't want to miss our honeymoon.

The next year we came a little later, enough time to catch the end of the speeches, march along with the others to the lab's gate, chant and sing, and cheer on the arrestees. Once again though, we couldn't stay.... we had a trip planned to Europe. Similar excuses presented themselves until about four years ago.

Another Good Friday we decided to get more involved, we got there just as folks were nearing the gate. We had decided to be arrested that day. We had been observers long enough. Stepping off the curb, we were the participants, staring back at the young men in their black uniforms,in fully regalia, looking back at the gathering through their dark sunglasses. (I wondered, "Are you listening to our songs? Did your mother teach you these songs of gentleness when you were small? Do you hear me? Do you see me?) We kept singing peace songs and spirituals and my favorite, "Dona Pacem" (grant us peace) as a "round". When it came our turn, the sheriff read those of us in the front row our rights, and said if we didn't leave we would be under arrest. We didn't, so each sheriff put our hands behind our backs, surrounded our wrists with handcuffs, and pulled up on our hands in the back to remind us of their control. People in the crowd rooted for us and called out "thank you" as we were led back toward the busses. I was handed over to a female officer, who frisked me and asked if I had anything in my pockets that could injure her before she plunged her hand in. All of our belongings were put into a bag for us, and we were taken, still handcuffed, to a bus. Sitting forward in the seat because of the cuffs, we chatted a little and shared with the other detainees. We told them that Father O'Donnell used to call this an "easy bust", and they agreed, having come here for so many years in a row. They hoped that each year more young people will come out and realize that nuclear weapons shouldn't be a choice for anyone.
When it came time to get off the bus, because of the closeness of the seat in front of me, I found out I couldn't stand up in close quarters without being able to hold on to something in front of me. The driver came back in to find out why I was lagging. He helped me up. Then we were all put into one of 3 cyclone fence cages to wait. We wondered about other prisoners that have been put in much worse places. There were a couple of nuns and priests and ministers and a number of activists, many who recognized each other from other years. ...... Within an hour and a half, all of us had been removed from the cages two at a time, brought to a staging area where we actually had a photo taken with an arresting officer, were fingerprinted, ID'd, and released to be driven to the street and let go. I guess we hadn't had to worry about missing our honeymoon because of jailtime.

The next year was about the same, but we arrived a little later, coming just as the folks were about to be arrested, and we were able to join in.
Next time, we realized we could park in the neighborhood across the street and we arrived just as a couple of lines of protesters had walked with the sheriffs and asked if we could be arrested. They let us. We were arrested, booked, and back at our car by 10:30 AM.
This year. This year.... We don't want to give an excuse. There was traffic, yes, but we didn't account for it. As we drove past the gate of the lab to park our car, the last protesters were being led away. We were late. We were lazy protesters, and we're sorry.

There really shouldn't be any nuclear bombs. They don't keep anyone safe.