Kyd’s Cockeyed History of St. P

Another year, another repost.
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I'm cooking corned beef and cabbage tonight, much to my delight - there will be plenty for dinner and enough left over for hash tomorrow.  Mom is braving the wild world and joining us.  Bird opts out of the feast entirely, causing me to question whether he's really mine. I get not liking cabbage, but potatoes? Something's not right with the child.  Sprout may try a taste, or she may not.  She's trying to be more adventurous about food, but she can still be put off if it looks odd.

I'm planning on making soda bread, too, because we like it and any leftovers can be used to make a nice doorstop or cudgel.

Seeing as I'm Pagan, you wouldn't think I'd celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Better than most, I am supposed know what St. Patrick did to get famous and earn his sainthood. However, I'm also part Irish, and I happen to love corned beef and cabbage. Also, I consider it a reclaiming of the day for Pagans, or some junk.

A bit of slightly bent history (that has, I'll grant you, been mangled in my head over the years and is rather truncated because I'm not writing a book, here)(I'm writing a book somewhere else). When I was a child, we were told that St. Patrick's day was to celebrate his chasing all the snakes out of Ireland. It is an historically serpent-free bit of earth, and the church attributed this to Paddy and his efforts...kind of overlooking that there weren't any of the slithery things on the island to begin with, if you ask me. Which they didn't, because I was a kid and most grown-ups weren't prepared for my staggering logic and keen grasp of history but rather appalling lack of respect for theology.

Many years later, people were saying St. Patrick's Day was a celebration of all things Irish, like green beer (wait, isn't beer German??) and green clothes, and green hair, and green mashed potatoes (which I won't eat on a dare because, really...green potatoes???), and rivers dyed green (I'm sure the fish are all so very thankful to be included...like Fridays and Lent weren't enough for them!)(that might only be funny if you're Catholic)(or not) and exclusionary parades, and funny little men waving their shillelaghs about (look it up you pervs!!) and that sort of thing.

 In none of the many different explanations for this seemingly random holiday did anyone mention pagans. A most curious oversight of you know what St. Patrick, who was just Patrick at the time (not really, I have no idea what his real name was. For all I know, it was Fred), was actually doing on the Emerald Isle.

He was born and lived sometime between 490 and 461 AD, give or take. Around age sixteen, he was either sent or stolen and taken to Ireland where he spent some time hanging out with sheep and being lonely. He talked to God a lot. You may notice that lots of shepherds do that. You would too if all you had for company all day was a bunch of mutton-heads. I'm sure the Pope understands... 

Christianity was rolling along like a snowball in those days, spreading out all over the dang place. Good grief, it was getting so that a simple Pagan/Heathen (there's a difference between the two, not that the church cared much) couldn't get any peace any more. Everywhere they turned, there was a church being built where a sacred grove used to be, from the trees that used to be the sacred grove, or a church going up on a sacred hill, or someone bathing their dirty feet in a sacred stream. To be fair, there was a lot of real estate lumped under that "sacred" heading in the pagan world. We're like that - we just love our planet so. Plus, you know, all those gods needed housing, and they don't do the roommate thing very well. So the pagans were running out of places to have sex on the ground, in the woods, up a tree - they were big on the sex, those little devils - and to read entrails in their spare time.

I digressed. Sorry.

So there was this lonely kid, Patrick Whatsisname, hanging out with sheep and pondering life, the Universe, and everything. He got the idea, somewhere along the way, that maybe other folks should share his God. He got out of his contract (OK, probably slavery) and went around telling folks how terrific his God was, and how he reckoned they should convert. It seems that polite conversation wasn't doing it for the pagans, who tended to stare at him, or point and laugh. Rude beggars, huh? Now young Patrick (or middle aged Patrick, or old Patrick, I have no idea) decided he needed to be a bit more...persuasive. He had noticed something common among the pagan big-wigs. The guys at the top of the food-chain, magic/spirituality wise speaking tended to have a symbol on them somewhere...often around their wrist. On the wrist that indicated their "hand of power", or the hand which they believed their "magic" flowed from. If it wasn't a tattoo, it was a torque. Guess what the tattoo/torque was? A critter called the oroborus. For them as what doesn't ken what that critter is, it's a snake eating its tail, and often represents eternity.
Pat realized that if he took away this "power", he took away their mystique and leadership ability. So he removed the snakes - often with something edged and unpleasant. Yes, he whacked off their hands. Or branded their skin. Or took their trinkets. Converting Heathens is such messy work!! It was for their own good, of course.

Some pagans today go on "snake crawls", a sort of pub crawl where they wear snakes and proclaim their paganism. I'm not quite that...er...proactive. I also don't necessarily think old Pat went around mauling everyone he met in an effort to build church membership and win a nifty prize. But it's the bloody aspect of what he supposedly did that earned his name in Christendom and for which his holiday is celebrated.

So again, why would I celebrate the day? Well, I'm all for a day when families get together and discuss history, theology, spirituality, and the like. Traditions are important - they give us a foundation on which to build our lives. People should discuss their history so they don't repeat it - whatever side of the issue they're on. Also, as I mentioned, I am part Irish. I can celebrate that heritage even as I acknowledge its imperfection. And I am Pagan - and I am celebrating the fact that I can be pagan today without (much) fear of having my (largely not visible when I'm clothed) tattoos painfully removed and other unpleasantness (except for the odd zealot who thinks I'm fair game, but I'm used to that. I live in the Bible belt, after all). Precisely because we didn't get wiped out, I celebrate. And have you ever had a really nice corned beef and cabbage dinner? I mean, yum! Oh, but I won't be wearing green. I wear blue. Don't even think about pinching me.

Community, Compassion, Cooperation

Please forgive me if this post isn’t as polished as you might like. It certainly is not as polished as I would like.

I wanted to put it out there into the world, though, as it occurred to me. This is something that I’ve been thinking about a great deal especially in the last few days.

COVID-19 has shown quite a few flaws in our social systems. I could go on about healthcare, scarcity, people with such low incomes that they cannot afford to miss weeks of work, children who will not get a meal of schools are closed, and a number of other things, but I am choosing one focal point here.

Community.

In the last few days I have, by necessity, gone to the grocery store. My particular market is not a large one. It is usually quite well stocked, and often not terribly busy. I know all of the staff members there, and they greet me like a friend. Even on days when leaving the house seems like an enormous chore, a burden that I cannot bear to carry, I can go to my Publix. They have always been wonderful to me.

Today when I went the parking lot was full.  Beyond full. People were circling. At the moment I have the use of a handicapped parking placard, but it did me no good. I had to simply take whichever space opened up first. Lucky for me, one opened up only three or four spaces away.

Walking with a cane is awkward.  I can only imagine how those with worse handicaps than mine are handling these crowded conditions.

I sat down on a motorized scooter and went about my business inside. It was strange, the things that were completely sold out. Bananas? Really? Plenty of other fruits - oranges, apples, grapes, and berries galore. Plenty of fresh vegetables. But no bananas. How odd. 

The rice and pasta were almost entirely gone. Macaroni and cheese, Ramen, wiped out. No toilet paper. No facial tissue. Paper towels running low. Absolutely no bread to be found. Well, not quite true, I did find one loaf hiding at the back of the bottom shelf where almost no one could see it. I suspect I only noticed it because I was sitting on a scooter, and not standing tall. I had to reach down and back to get it as it huddled shivering against the wall. Poor, lonely, a little loaf of bread. No hamburger buns. No hotdog buns. No buns of any kind. The only bread-type items remaining were English muffins and bagels, and I suspect those will be gone by tomorrow.  Tortillas were plentiful, but will likely be gone on a day or two.

As I rolled through the store, trying to wait patiently for other shoppers to continue down the aisles so that I could as well, the crowds intrigued me. Even during pre-holiday shopping season I have never seen so many people in the store!  A few shoppers seemed to be considering their purchases carefully, but more appeared to be grabbing whatever fell under their eye as possibly useful.  

I’m belaboring the point, I know, but I found it shocking.

The sense of urgency, bordering on panic, was palpable.

And now for the thought that this inspired.

If we were a compassionate, caring, cooperative society, I don’t think we’d be having this problem right now. Yes, we’d be worried about this illness sweeping the globe. I’m not trying to downplay the seriousness of this. COVID-19 is nothing to play with. It’s more the fear of scarcity of which I speak.

I don’t think this semi-panic would be occurring if we were confident that our friends, family, and neighbors would all help look out for us as we would help look out for them. If we were a connected community, I don’t believe we’d be afraid of running out of toilet paper or going hungry even (potentially) under a two-week quarantine.

We would, instead, be confident that if we run out of something, someone, somewhere would step up and help us out, as we would help them under the same circumstances.

Instead, we are a nation of isolated souls living in crowded neighborhoods. We don’t know each other. Maybe we don’t want to know each other. We lock ourselves in our homes and remain separate. My neighbor doesn’t know that she can come to me for help if she needs groceries, or some other form of aid. She doesn’t know that I will give her a ride somewhere if the need arises. She doesn’t know that if they run out of something, she can knock on my door and ask, and if I have it I will give.

This lack of connection is what will do is in, in the end.  We are cells in a body, but we are cells each struggling in our individual ways and not working together to keep the body whole.

I find it distressing.

That separateness is what works very well for politicians, who seek to continue to divide us even as we struggle with a crisis. Politics as usual, fingers pointing, blame doled out, denial, denial, denial. Fight over doing what is simply right. Each side telling the other how wrong that they are, calling things a hoax, calling things an emergency, saying this side doesn’t care and that side wants to take away from you and give to another.

Meanwhile, those of us down here at the bottom of the power pyramid are struggling. When we reach out to help others, sometimes we’re punished, sometimes marginalized, on occasion lauded, but rarely are we recognized as simply being decently human.

Even monkeys take care of the entire troupe. They take care of those at the top and those at the bottom. The least popular monkey is still not going to be eaten by a predator because regardless of their place within the troupe, they are still a member. The troupe takes care of its own.

How is it that we can’t do something that even monkeys do?

You can see from the above that I am fumbling with these thoughts, these ideas. It’s difficult for me to boil it down, to place it in a nutshell. For me personally, it is a huge idea. It is a big deal. I see my fellow humans struggling, and my instinct is to reach out and offer a hand. I may not be the strongest member of society, but I don’t think I’m the weakest either.

I have something to offer, whether it be a ride somewhere, an extra bag of rice, or reassuring word and a warm, comforting smile.

If the least of us strive to have something to offer, why can’t those considered the greatest of us do the same?

If the least of us felt confident that they would be taken care of in times of great need, I believe we would be a stronger society as a whole.

If everyone knew, absolutely knew, that they would be taken care of, that the web would catch them, that they would not fall very far before society grabbed hold and held them up, how much better off would we be?

I truly believe that we would not have empty shelves that used to hold paper goods. That we would not have empty shelves that used to hold rice, or pasta. That we would not have people in grocery stores around the nation, around the world, fighting over resources, if we weren’t afraid of running out because we knew that we would take care of each other.

Whatever happened to cause this sense of separateness, this aloneness, isolation even in cities and crowded places, it is now showing it self to be devastating. The feeling of being on our own, unable to rely on our fellows, will destroy us faster than any virus can.

I apologize if this seems to be scattered, lengthy, or completely incoherent. It is simply a thought that has been rattling around inside my head, and I felt the need to get it out.

COVID-19, for me, is more than a virus. It is an opportunity to see where I need to reach out a little more, where I need to connect a little better, where I need to reassure, to show compassion and kindness, to show love.  If nothing else, I can drive to reinforce my part of the web. It is my hope that many others will do the same, and that we will emerge on the other side of this a little stronger for it.

So...how can I help?

Paranoia, Pandemic, Panic

Paranoia, Pandemic, Panic

I have paranoia.  It’s mild, as these things go, and oddly specific - I’m convinced that people see me and whisper cruelly, judgmentally, laughing at how fat, how ungainly, how poorly put together and ridiculous I look.  They whisper and giggle and watch me bumble through life and thank their deities that they aren’t me.  

Along that vein, Paranoia also tells me that people wish I would just.  shut.  up.  No one wants to hear it, no one cares, good grief would I please be quiet and better yet, go away?

I’m not worried that anyone is out to get me.  Instead, I know that people are judging me and finding me wanting in every way.

It’s the nature of the beast, and I struggle to gentle it - it’ll never be tame.

Then there’s panic.  Not like panic attacks or generalized fear (which are horrid in and of themselves), but more like targeted, herd panic.  Y2K was a struggle against myself.  Daily I had to tell myself not to give in to the hysteria.  The quiet voice of reassurance in my mind told me we’d be ok, but it was nearly drowned out by the noisy jangling of fear mongers and conspiracy theorists.  I avoided a tinfoil hat and a bunker, but it’s possible I stocked up on a few things, just in case.

These days, it’s COVID19.  Conflicting reports from experts in epidemiology, medical professionals, people inside the afflicted areas, combined with a media feeding frenzy, are saturating my world and poking the bear.  I’m fighting the rising tide of “Omg, I’m going to die because I’m older, fat, at risk, not worth saving!” created by tales of overwhelmed hospitals, sick staff treating sicker patients, limited resources quickly running out, and having to decide who to spend those resources on, who gets the respirator and who will have to wait.

Believe it or not, I’m high risk for complications if I catch this monster.  I know, right?  I meet several of the criteria for higher fatality risk.  Go, me.  I’m low priority on the treatment scale, though - middle-aged, non-productive, I don’t do or make anything necessary to society (by current standards) and am not considered terribly valuable in the grand scheme.  If a choice has to be made, it’s unlikely I’d make the cut.  Superfluous, me.  So there’s that.

Then there’s the concern over every day things like food, water, daily medications.  Stock up.  Don’t stock up.  Panic.  Don’t panic.  Wear a mask and gloves.  Don’t wear a mask and gloves.  It’s in the air, no, it’s on surfaces, no, it’s transmitted by touch.  It can survive for long periods without a host, no, it cannot.

The quiet voice reminds me that we have food and water in preparation for short-to-medium term disasters, and because of how Mom and I both regularly shop in bulk, enough toilet paper and paper towels for half the year.  We might run out of laundry detergent in a month, but if we WERE quarantined and had to stay home, we could just go nekkid so no laundry, right?  I have a backstock of some medication and enough of other meds to get me through a month before I really need a refill or rationing.  I am part of a large and widespread community in which we all help and support each other.  We will, together, be ok.

Poor quiet voice, trying so hard.

The cacophony is rising over the whisper, pushing the panic button, pounding on it with hammers, screaming at me to...what?  Act blindly, run this way and that, hoard, isolate, hide, hide, hide!

So easy to give in.  I’m tired, depression has its teeth deep into me, I hurt all the time; giving  in to the paranoia would make for a nice, destructive distraction.  But I can’t.  Kids, cats, Mom, friends, they’d get caught in the periphery.  It’s not right to inflict this on them...and grasping that sense of loverightnesscommunity helps me keep from letting go, dropping off the cliff, and landing with a resounding splat.

My armor in this war is simple - research coupled with faith.  Study, learn, ask, filter, process, repeat often.  Believe - in myself, in my ability to learn and adapt, in the people whom I love and who love me, in the basic decency nestled in every soul, in my immune system and my body’s remarkable ability to overcome and recover, and, yes, in my deities.  It’s flimsy armor, but it has worked in the past and it’s all I have, so I’ll use it.  I will survive.  WE will survive.

I.  Will. Not.  Panic. 

Now, where’s that tin foil?

Thankful

I have a few traditions on Thanksgiving. Not many - the menu, Mom recording the Macy's parade so we can watch it together at Yule and fast-forward through all the crappy pop music, commercials, and talking heads to see the twenty minutes of balloons, floats and high school bands we’re actually interested in hidden among all that junk, and my list of some things for which I am thankful, in no particular order and in no way complete:

What remains of my left foot, Nubbly
The doctors, nurses, and techs who probably saved my life
The amazing care that my family and friends have shown me while I learn to navigate my new reality
The house in which I live
The Evil Genius

Mum
Sprout
Gypsy, K2, Mizz A, Kit, Sam-I-Am, PJ, Mizz Beth, Martha 'n' Milo, Avalon, my band mates, Dica, Donna, and all of my friends who put up with me when I am most myself and therefor least likable. They are the net beneath me when I fly and fall
Bread
The scent of leaf loam and woodsmoke in the crisp autumn air
Apple cider
Books, music, and art
Clean, plentiful water
Clean air
Clean clothes
Freedom
Nature and the ways she finds to show me something new of herself every day
Words
Song
Dance
Adversity, that joy is all the sweeter (Okay, okay, the joy is sweet enough, so basta with the adversity for a minute, please)
Every creature and plant that I consume to sustain myself, because without the life I take, I would have no life to live
Love - that it exists at all is a wonder, and I feel blessed to know it in many forms
Chocolate, gift from the Gods (yes, even the perversion called "candy bar") (Mmm...candy bar...)
Honeycrisp Apples
Strong hands
Strong spirit
Strong will
Laughter
Cussed determination not to curl up and die just because life can sometimes be a succession of truly awful, bleak, and desolate days...but sometimes it isn't
The Internet
You

I hope you have a blessed day, and that the things for which you're thankful outweigh the things for which you're not.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all, from us at Casa de Crazy to you out in the Blue Nowhere and beyond.

Half-Priced Pedicures

Well, hello!

Rather quiet up in here, isn’t it?  A lot of death and cobwebs, lately. 

I could claim being busy.  Hmm.  Could claim depression.  Hmmm.  Could claim aliens ate my brain.  Hmmmm.

Truth is, I’m not really sure why, I just haven’t felt it in me to write much of anything.  I’ve just been kind of...empty.  

Right now, I’m lying in a hospital bed.  Nothing much going on, nothing much to do, so my mind has been running down old rabbit trails and I thought that maybe I could limber up the old composition muscles and see if I’ve still got it.

I’m in a hospital bed because I had part of my left foot amputated.  Gangrene and MRSA and osteomyelitis, oh my.  I got here by not taking care of myself in some basic, necessary ways.  I went without medication rather than let others do without their comforts, because I felt guilty saying “no”.

I’m learning.  Nnn...nnn...nnnu!  Er...

I’ll get there.

I started working on me a little too late for poor “Nubbly”(the name given to my left foot by Sprout), but hopefully not too late in general.  I’ll have to relearn some basic walking and balance, nothing insurmountable, and get back into healthy habits that is let slide, and never again will I let anyone else guilt me for getting my medication instead of using the $ for their wants.  

I found the line - just on the other side of the toes I no longer have.

Now if I can just convince Nubbly that those toes are gone so that I don’t feel them itch any more...gah!

Fork Me

Something was eating my forks.

I’ve had my every-day cutlery for several decades, service for eight plus serving and infant utensils.  It’s not unusual for a piece to go missing from time to time, only to pop up later in some strange place, but lately?  The forks haven’t been coming back.  They are just...gone.

I’ve been pondering what to do.  I could have gotten by with six.   I don’t often have large dinners, after all, and there’s my good Oneida stainless if needed, but four forks?  Nope.

I finally decided to order something new, a set I’ve been eyeballing for a while now.  It’s an extravagance, and I used part of the inheritance from my father to fund it, but I’m rather chuffed...and for the next few decades (and maybe longer), when I use it I’ll think of Daddy.

Meet the newest addition to Kitchen-de-Crazy:

Service for twelve plus iced tea spoons, soup spoons, and two serving sets.  The pattern is Celtic by Liberty Tabletop.

Oh, baby.

Yes, weird things make me happy, why do you ask?

What if...?

“What if…?”

It’s a question to play with, a question that children like to ask.  

Today, the “What if...?” was about the kids, a sudden thought that struck me as I watched a show about people building their dream homes, either by rehabbing an already established building or from scratch.  

What if I didn’t have kids?

Hmm.

Maybe I’d live with Mom.

Maybe not.  

Probably I would travel more.  I’d have less laundry, fewer dishes, less cleaning.  I’d have fewer expenses, maybe fret a good deal less about paying bills.  Less work at events and fewer costs associated.  I wouldn’t have to plan as far in advance, could pick up and pop off at a moment’s notice.  Lower grocery costs.  Things would stay where and as I’d put them.

I might write more, create more, have fewer distractions.

I wouldn’t be responsible for or to anyone but myself.

I also wouldn’t have constant snuggles, hugs, laughter, runs of puns, heaps of horrible jokes.  There wouldn’t be the endless opportunity to teach and learn, the exhausting, exhilarating privilege of helping shape two extraordinary people into the final framework that will carry their ever-evolving selves through life.  

There wouldn’t be the same sense of wonder at the world, the beautiful rediscovery of life, the universe, and everything, the drive to try all of the things, all of the time, the unceasing why.

It would be different.  It would be emptier.  I’m not one of the mothers who identifies herself only by her children, but they’re certainly a tremendous part of who I am and how I live.  They shape every choice that I make.

So I can imagine with great clarity a life without them, but from a distance, like watching a show about homes in far-off places and wondering what it’d be like to have the resources to build that dream while making the most of and being content with what I have.    

Cecily

How long did I know you?

I can’t remember.

Not long enough.  Always.

I can’t remember when we didn’t actually meet but we met.  Back in the dark ages of Yahoo groups, anyway.

The lot of us, “sisters”, migrated over to Facebook eventually, but it was Yahoo groups first.

We all had babies, relationships, sorrows, joys.  We were honest, open, vulnerable, trusting.  We leaned on each other despite mostly never having been in the same room.

Fey.  You were fey.

Warm.  Sweet.  Funny.

We watched our children grow together, apart but connected.

Now what?

You will not see my Evil Genius and Sprout as they become amazing people.  How will we see your W and D grow up if you aren’t here to share them?

You were quiet, gentle.  What did your voice sound like?  I don’t know, really.  Just snatches on video, not the same as in person.  You meditated daily in support of the water protectors at Standing Rock.  I didn’t always watch.  I was busy with my own disasters. 

Our last conversation was about my son’s hair growing back after a drastic cutting...in 2017. Why did we fall silent?

That man, why did he kill you?  Gentle soul, what could have made him bring an instrument of violence and death into your home and use it on you before turning it on himself?  Why couldn’t he just take his own hateful life?  His life, his choice...your life wasn’t his to steal.  Why couldn’t he quench his darkness and leave us your light?

I want to drag him back from the other side, drag him away from whatever his punishment or peace may be and make him pay.  I feel, my dear, sweet Cecily, I feel such anger, such...hatred...for that horrible, odious,  evil, twisted, tortured man.  I want to hurt him.  I want to make him pay.  I want to punish the people who made him and raised him up to be a murderer, who shaped him into the kind of person who could be so rotten, so selfish, so...

Damaged.

But you wouldn’t, would you?  Sweet Cecily.

You fell silent and all I knew was what little you’d shown us, that your love was brilliant and deep and dizzying and...I never saw it devouring you.

Why didn’t you reach out?  Why didn’t I notice?  Why?  So much why.

My friend in the Blue Nowhere, sister of my soul, gentle mother, persistent light in the cloying dark, you will be sorely missed by so many.  

Hail the traveler.

Hail Cecily.

May your journey to the next world be a peaceful one.

May you leave behind all memory of pain and sorrow.

May you carry with you all memory of love and happiness.

May you be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before you, and should you return to the circle once again, may we who loved you in this life have the honor of knowing you again.

Hail Cecily.

Hail the traveler.

“Other people’s solipsism is annoying” - Cecily

Thoughtfetti

On my way elsewhere I decided to get some lunch.  I chose Zaxby’s because they’re fast-ish food and at least seem healthier than other drive-through options.  Being possessed of a large dollop of weird sentiment, I chose to try the Shazam related ( I have no idea how) Honey Butter Bacon sandwich - chicken filet, bacon, and honey butter sauce.  So much potential to go wrong, but it was pretty good!  The honey butter wasn’t too sweet or overpowering, and the chicken was crispy.  I peeled the top part of the bun off halfway through because I didn’t want the bread.  It’s something I might order again for a change of pace.

~~~~~

The end is nigh.  I know this because I worked on weeding the iris bed yesterday evening.  It only makes sense that the apocalypse will follow.

~~~~~

I find myself thinking, once again, about hate.  Hatred is a cage, fear the bait that draws us in, anger the lock that keeps us trapped, hope, compassion, and yes, love, the keys that will free us.

~~~~~

I’m struggling, but my head is just above water and I know that I will float again if only I can keep treading a little while longer.  It’s a painful, dreadful kind of hope and knowing because right now, just the idea of it all is exhausting.  So much easier to just relax and let the dark water swallow me.  Still, I keep on.  It does get better.  

~~~~~

What’s new in your life?

Gone to Pot

Lort.

I would still be asleep but for the very nice sheriff’s officer who rang my doorbell this morning. In his defense, he couldn’t possibly have known that I did not sleep much or well last night and I only really fell into a deep slumber just as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon.

You may wonder why a sheriff’s officer was ringing my doorbell.  I certainly did.

It turns out that “someone” called in a complaint about empty flowerpots all over my yard.

Imagine my surprise to hear that I have empty flowerpots all over my yard.

Before ringing my bell, the nice young man looked around the yard, confused, seeing no empty flowerpots. There are some flower pots filled with soil lining several of my garden beds. The garden beds are fallow as I have chosen not to plant anything this year.  I am pondering whether or not I should remove the garden beds entirely. I can’t keep up with it anymore, and if I should decide to garden in the future I can always put more beds in.

Flower pots? Really? The officer did point out that there were a couple of things that maybe I could relocate because they are scrap and shouldn’t be where they are, but he wasn’t terribly pressed about it.  He mentioned that he was expecting to see empty flowerpots all over the yard, not neatly placed around garden beds and filled with soil. He seemed rather disgusted by the person who called it in.

He’s not the same fellow who has been called out here before on other bogus complaints, and I explained to him that yes, they do get called out here sometimes by someone (eye roll towards neighbors house) who seems intent upon harassing me because they don’t like me or the way that I live.

I told the officer that I was sorry that he had wasted a trip, and that it was likely that they would get more calls throughout the year. If they call ahead I’ll bake a cake.  I have to admit, I thought that the harassment via law-enforcement was over. While I cannot prove that it was the unpleasant neighbor up to her regular shenanigans, it certainly fits her pattern.

I was happy to learn that I cannot be cited for any code violations because of yardwork, or lack thereof. There is no code for grass height, nor is there any code for fallen branches or deadfall in the woods.  I’m thankful for that, as I do not own a lawnmower and I’m disinclined to do yardwork even on my best days. I wouldn’t mow this early in the year, anyway, as leaving the grass and flowers to grow as they will is helpful to the local honeybee population.  He nodded approval and understanding.

All in all, he was a very nice fellow. Kind of cute, if I’m being honest. I caught myself glancing down at his left hand to see if he was wearing a ring. Oh my goodness, but old habits die hard! He told me he hopes that I won’t get too much trouble from whoever it is that’s calling me in and smiled at me. I told him that I thought that he was awfully pleasant, and while I wouldn’t like for him to be called out here again it wouldn’t be terrible to have another conversation. I don’t think I was flirting. No really. Why are you rolling your eyes that way?

He mentioned that he really likes the banner on my door. I told him that it is something that I strive for, and although I may not succeed every day I never stop trying. We chatted about his ink (I will notice tattoos), exchanged pleasantries, and he was on his way.

The upshot of this visit, for me, is a new acquaintance in law-enforcement (I must admit, for all of the bitterness that I have towards certain law enforcement individuals, I have not had many bad experiences with my local constabulary. They have mostly been pleasant, professional, and even downright friendly throughout most of our dealings), and a little more empowerment regarding the state of my home and the laws surrounding us.  Oh, and I got a blog post out of it!

I do wonder. These supposedly Christian people never approach me, never ask me nicely to take care of anything that concerns them. They never offer to help me. They know that I am a single mother with two children on a large property (3/4 of an acre is quite large where I live, although small in comparison to other rural areas). They know that I do not own a lawn mower or other yardwork equipment, just some small hand tools.  I know that they have never seen me out doing any kind of yardwork. I have always tried to remain pleasant when dealing with them, even when they were unkind and even downright rude to me. Why is this? Why do they feel that it is not only acceptable, but necessary, to harass me to live my life the way that they deem fit? 

I may not be Christian myself, but I do know Christ’s teachings.  These people who claim to follow him do not seem to understand what he tought. I wish I could say that this was isolated, an anomaly to the religion, but it isn’t. Before anybody gets their feathers ruffled, I know there are good Christians in the world. Just as I know that there are good pagans and bad pagans. It’s not really about what gods we profess to follow, it’s more about how we choose to behave and embody their teachings. In this neighborhood, there seem to be a lot more people who speak one thing, but an act another.

I know that my neighborhood is no different than many neighborhoods in this area, and in fact in this nation.

I find it distressing.

While I can think of many ways to be ugly to the unpleasant neighbor who seems to think that harassing me via law-enforcement will get her what she wants - my living a life that she thinks is proper, or moving away - it simply won’t. There is a very specific set of circumstances that will allow me to leave this house and move to another property. Those circumstances haven’t been met, yet, and likely won’t be for a very long time. She is simply going to have to deal with her frustration as I have no intention of changing anything.

I will continue to endeavor to live a good life. I am human, and I fail, but I never stop trying.  I will let the unpleasant neighbor live her life without addressing her. Frankly, aside from writing a blog post or two, she’s really not worth my time. She has to live with herself. She has to think the thoughts that are in her head. She has to live with the consequences that her ugliness bring into her life. I do not. 

Now that I have written this account of my morning encounter, I’m getting on with my day. I have things to do, things that make me happy and that will hopefully make others happy as well. There’s a stack of sewing as high as my head to be done. There are cats to be pet and fed and otherwise loved on.  There are music lessons and cooking to be done.

I may even go out and trim the Camillia bush. Not because of my neighbor, or for any other reason than that I know it needs doing, and was already planning on getting to it in the next day or two.

Flower pots. She called the sheriff because of flower pots. Maybe I need to go over there and offer to teach her to quilt or crochet. She clearly needs a hobby.