Anti-tax, anti-war

Local voters rejected a county income tax in November only to have county commissioners authorize it this week. Today, I attended a protest in front of city hall. Hundreds of motorists honked in support, but none offered to stand in the rain with us. One yelled (humorously, I supposed), “Get a job!” to which someone of our group yelled back, “That’s the problem—we have jobs.”

I hate standing on a street corner holding a sign. At first, I assumed a deadpan expression simply because I didn’t know what else to do. After awhile, I thought I might be more useful if I smiled and waved. I could do the latter easily enough, but I was in no mood for the former.

Eugene being Eugene, there was another protest across the street (the city hall, the courthouse, and the federal building are on adjacent blocks), this one against the war. I noticed three men with a Marine Corps banner approaching the peace activists, and I wondered if they were for or against the war. I suspected they were for it, because they looked really pissed-off. Sure enough, they placed themselves between the peaceniks and the street, willfully obscuring the signs of the former. One of the Marines screamed that anyone who opposes the War in Iraq shows contempt for every Marine who ever died in any battle of any war (he then listed a dozen or more battles). I was appalled by his logic, and even more appalled when the leader of my group yelled back, “We are with you and the United States Marine Corps, and not with those guys behind you there.”

“Wait just a minute here!” I said to myself, but I held my peace because I didn’t want to take energy away from the protest I had come to support. When the Marines crossed to our side of the street, I worried that the pro-war people and the anti-tax people would look like one big happy family, but I couldn’t think of anything to do about it. When I could stand the situation no longer, I yelled to the people on the other corner, “I hate the damn war. We never should have never gone there in the first place, but now that we’re there, we should come home yesterday.” The people on my side ignored me, and the heavy rain and traffic noise kept the people on the other side from hearing me, so I crossed over. They welcomed me warmly, but I didn’t stay long because I didn’t want my anti-tax placard to dilute their protest.

In less than an hour, all three protests disbanded, because the rain was drenching us and destroying our signs. On one side of the street, I had volunteered to gather signatures for an anti-tax ballot measure, and on the other, I volunteered to attend the next war protest. As with the recent neighborhood war protest, I don’t expect the ones at the Federal Building to shorten the war, but I like the idea of supporting those who support issues that I believe in.

Boots returns home

As I sat in Peggy’s recliner last night in the wee hours (which were my worst hours when my father was dying), I remembered a runaway cat named Boots from thirty years ago. My Georgia cousin, Carrie, had given Boots to me because she was allergic to his fur. I drove him 450 miles back to Mississippi, and he soon disappeared. I said nothing about this to Carrie, but she called nine months later to tell me that Boots had come home. He scratched on the door, she said, and went straight through the house to where his bowl used to stay.

Bonnie and Baxter have a strange way of appearing unheralded when something of interest is about to happen. Like if I take cheese from the refrigerator. Even if I try to be sneaky about it, they are capable of awakening from a deep sleep at the other end of the house and making their way to the kitchen before I can get the package open.

My species has habitually demonstrated the capacity for one generation to declare whole groups of people as hopelessly, obviously, and unarguably inferior, only to have their own children declare them a hopeless, obvious, and unarguable embarrassment. I suspect that our feelings of superiority over other animals is similar, only they present our bigotry with a greater challenge because they compare to us so poorly in some ways even while possessing gifts that we can scarcely imagine in others. What pet lover has not looked at his dog or cat and wished mightily that he could see through their eyes? Whole worlds at our fingertips, yet they might as well be on the far side of the galaxy.

Boots returns home

As I sat in Peggy’s recliner last night in the wee hours (which were my worst hours when my father was dying), I remembered a runaway cat named Boots from thirty years ago. My Georgia cousin, Carrie, had given Boots to me because she was allergic to his fur. I drove him 450 miles back to Mississippi, and he soon disappeared. I said nothing about this to Carrie, but she called nine months later to tell me that Boots had come home. He scratched on the door, she said, and went straight through the house to where his bowl used to stay.

Bonnie and Baxter have a strange way of appearing unheralded when something of interest is about to happen. Like if I take cheese from the refrigerator. Even if I try to be sneaky about it, they are capable of awakening from a deep sleep at the other end of the house and making their way to the kitchen before I can get the package open.

My species has habitually demonstrated the capacity for one generation to declare whole groups of people as hopelessly, obviously, and unarguably inferior, only to have their own children declare them a hopeless, obvious, and unarguable embarrassment. I suspect that our feelings of superiority over other animals is similar, only they present our bigotry with a greater challenge because they compare to us so poorly in some ways even while possessing gifts that we can scarcely imagine in others. What pet lover has not looked at his dog or cat and wished mightily that he could see through their eyes? Whole worlds at our fingertips, yet they might as well be on the far side of the galaxy.

Everyone knows that old people are senile.

I caught a cold three weeks ago, and was hit by a second one just as I was getting over the first. Within minutes yesterday, it went from my head to my chest. I can no longer breathe lying down, and breathing sitting up isn’t any great shakes either, so I suppose I either have pneumonia or close to it.

Dad was the last person to have pneumonia in this house. I remember the gurgling, coffee maker sound of his slow drowning, and the green froth that ran from his mouth in a steady stream. I found his death hard to watch and worse to listen to, but then he was my father. Attending a death is a privilege, and attending a parent’s death is a privilege many times over.

Thank God, my father died here at home, sans tubes, sans blood draws, sans all that kind of stuff that is a miracle to those who have a chance but torture to those who don’t. Save me from hospitals and nursing homes, if you please. If all else fails, and I am in pain, hide me in a ditch with a little bottle of morphine or, if you’re short on morphine, my .357, so I can die on my own terms, so I can embrace death as my final friend.

When Peggy was a young nurse, she took part in tying old people to their beds and treating them against their wills. After all, everyone knows that old people are senile even if they don’t act it. Besides, no person in his right mind would refuse everything that modern medicine had to offer, would he? No rational person would choose to die today if she could survive until tomorrow, regardless of the terms. Yes, Peggy did things then that she would not do now, and that were probably illegal even when she did them. But that’s one of the funny things about the law: large and respected institutions can simply ignore it when they think they’re helping someone, especially when the person they think they’re helping is powerless to resist. As it is said, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”