Here's to You, Captain Kangaroo

      One of the greatest pleasures of my girlhood was riding my bike. I had to wait longer than most of my friends for that taste of two wheeled freedom because I didn't get my own bicycle until I was nine.  My older brother got his at six, but I got my revenge when my parents finally brought home a surprise in the back of the station wagon--my very own 26 inch bicycle. My brother's was a dorky 24. It was purple and white. I named it April because that is the month I got it. I didn't need much riding instruction because I had been practicing on my friends' bikes for years. I have not forgotten that first sweet sip of freedom--from home, from slowness, from feet. I felt like I could ride to the moon. April and I spent many years together, she was a good bike, but she was not a Schwinn. My morning mentor, Captain Kangaroo, pedaled Schwinn bikes and I thought they were so cool, especially the Stingrays with high handlebars and banana seats. What I would have given for one of those.
     I left April behind when I got married, but I always had a bicycle of some sort. In Denver and Billings I had a second-hand, three-speed which was sold because, in the 70's, the cool bikes were ten speeds. I still had that bike when we moved to Kalispell, but eventually got to replace it when my husband and I spent our $100 wads on new, cool mountain bikes from Shopko.  He seldom rode his, but I wore mine out, not because I rode it so much, I had three children by then, but because it was cheaply made. Britten later gave me her nicer mountain bike, which she had replaced with a much nicer mountain bike.
     There is nothing wrong with that bicycle, but there is something wrong with me. I am old.  Or at least my shoulder is older, and when I ride bent over low handlebars, my right shoulder knots up. The knot is not the problem, it is when the knot cuts off the circulation to my right hand and climbs up my neck to my migraine zone so it won't be alone in its misery, that is the problem. This wasn't an issue last summer because my new knee, Lefty, was still just figuring out walking, but this spring I have been bicycle shopping. As luck and Boomer targeting would have it, the new cruiser bikes are just our old childhood bikes revisited. Some are eerily retro, with flower decals and tassels on the seat. All they need now is an AARP card clothes-pinned to the spokes. The good news is, we finally get to sit upright and see where we are going, the bad news is, they cost more than $100. Way more, depending on what you get. Beach cruisers, with one speed, coaster brakes and no fenders aren't too spendy, but hybrids, where you can sit upright on a suspension seat to see that you are riding on a mountain, can cost thousands.
     So, when Reed found a suitable, sitable cruiser on Ebay for $180, he bought it for me. It arrived today. I wanted to ride it right away, but it was raining and I was afraid the box it was in would get wet.  It is purple and white. I'm naming it April 2 because that is when I got it. And Captain Kangaroo, wherever you are, it's a Schwinn.

Good Friday

Good Friday

Today is Good Friday,

as if nature understood that,

today's weather has cycled through

 sunshine, sleet, rain and wind.

All these conditions mingling and changing

in a few short hours.

Much like the crucifixion,

  God's love, wrath, sorrow, and  power,

all these attributes mingling together

in the unchanging plan of God

in a few long hours.

Just One Life

    I know the title sounds like this is going to be one of my spiritual posts, but actually it is a rant against the faulty zero risk reasoning of this era. Often the justification for increasingly burdensome safety warnings or standards is "if it will save just one life, it's worth it".  I submit that is not a valid argument because there is no logical endpoint for that standard. A person rushing out of the house because a smoke alarm is going off, may trip and choke to death on their toothbrush. That does not mean we should outlaw smoke alarms or put warning labels on toothbrushes, "Do Not Place in Mouth". Admittedly, that would be a freak accident, but in our litigation lottery society, it would also be considered a golden opportunity.
     There are such things as freak accidents, just as there are instances when people get hurt and, much to the contingency lawyers' disappointment, it's not anybody's fault. By the reasoning "if it saves just one life" it would be important to get out of your home because most accidents happen in the home, not surprising, we spend more time there than elsewhere.  Our homes are filled with electrical wiring, hot things, flammable materials and slippery substances. Our houses are not safe, but how can we go somewhere else?  We certainly can't take the car because thousands of people are killed in auto accidents every year.  Though bicycle accidents are less common, we have much less protection on a bike and more than one person has died that way.  However, a bicycle may have enough speed to avoid an impending accident, pedestrians lack even that advantage.  So in order to save "just one life" we can neither stay home nor leave it.
     If we chose to bubble wrap ourselves and remain immobile in the middle of a room, we would be safe from accidents but our bodies would rapidly begin to malfunction. This would not be the fault of the bubble wrap. In order to save "just one life", it would be necessary not to live it.  That is why I have zero tolerance for our zero risk mentality. Zero risk is our eternal reward, not an earthly entitlement. Hope that doesn't burst anyone's bubble.

Love Lives Here

      At times I am glad I am a Christian because I think the incongruities of our culture would drive me insane otherwise.  Without an understanding of the perverse and pervasive nature of sin, life would make no sense.  How else could I explain why an organization called "Love Lives Here" would raise money to support an abortionist? Love Lives Here began as a grassroots effort in Billings when some Jewish households were targeted for holiday vandalism. To show solidarity with their Jewish neighbors, the neighborhood bought and displayed menorahs in as many homes as possible. Hence the name, Love Lives Here.
     Recently in my own hometown, a local physician's assistant, our lone abortion provider, had her office ransacked.  Despite the fact that a bailbond office was also broken into, the "doctor" insisted it was a hate crime and blamed it on religious people. In our politically correct crime classifications, "hate crime" is thought to be worse than more personal crimes like murder, although I have yet to hear those referred to as "love" crimes.  It was particularly poor timing for a ransack because a 40 Days for Life prayer vigil was set to begin about that time and had to withdraw to praying at churches or homes so the vigil would not be associated with acts of violence.
     Apparently Love Lives Here does not have that problem because they have raised thousands of dollars to help rebuild a place that murders babies.  Love Lives Here supports Death Kills Here. If I didn't understand that sin corrupts reasoning, the incongruity would blow me away.  Or perhaps not, if I were not a Christian perhaps that reasoning would make perfect sense to me. Scary thought. I am trying to pray for Ms. Cahill to come to know Christ before a life which has made her bitter becomes an eternity so much worse. I am praying for the young man who vandalized the clinic and his Christian family and that the testimony of the pro-life movement will not be harmed. And I am praying that some good will come of this. Ms. Cahill is thinking of leaving our unloving community and going where people can live and let live. That's what we wanted too--live and let live.

Would Have Been

                  Would Have Been

Friday would have been her birthday

and I would have bought her clothes, a bracelet,

or some trinket she would have liked.

Although in her later years, she barely noticed the birthdays and holidays

that had once been so important to her.

At Christmas I was too busy to focus on the one gift I didn’t have to buy.

But her birthday, Mother’s Day--

they will be strangely empty this year.

As her illness estranged her life,

so it has shaped her death.

What am I supposed to feel?

Her death would have been sadder

were not her life so sad.

Meanwhile, the would have beens

hang on me like clothes,

but in a small part of my life, like a bracelet,

a trinket of the grief I would have borne

if our lives would have been different.

Waiting to Go Back Home

      My mother spent the last three years of her life in a dementia facility.  She was the only patient there who did not have Alzheimer's, but her debility and schizophrenia made her fit in well. I work with both elderly and mentally impaired in home health, but it takes a much greater level of commitment to work with dementia patients on a daily basis. That is a special calling. It helps to remember  that the people who live in these facilities are not the elderly people you see. They are children, and soldiers, and parents. People with lives they are trying to get back to, but can't. This is for them and for those who will become them.

  

 Waiting to Go Back Home

Carol is waiting right by the door, 

she has her winter coat on.

She wants to be ready when mommy appears.

She’s waiting to go back home.

Albert is pacing across the floor. 

What’s taking Martha so long?

Why is she spending so long at the store?

She ought to be taking him home.

Marion’s children are late coming back, 

school should be over by now.

The strangers around her don’t know where they are.

Why haven’t the children come home?

Who are these people, and why are they here? 

They know that something is wrong.

Shouldn’t their family have shown up by now,

so they can take them back home?

Why shouldn’t they fidget, and struggle and cry, 

and try to sneak out of the door?

Their mothers, and lovers, and children are gone

and waiting for them at home.

One Was Caged

       Seldom have I had a poem so unwilling to be girded with words as this one. It has been said that writing a book is like trying to wrestle an octopus into a mayonnaise jar, writing this was like trying to give birth to one. But, now that the labor pains are over, and my creation is not so appallingly ugly, I plan to either enjoy it or forget it.

      One Was Caged and One Was Free

From his cell, he heard her steps, light though those might be,

the jailer’s daughter, little Jen, barely past the age of ten

was bringing evening bread and tea.

One was caged and one was free.

He smiled at her with crooked teeth, folks called him Simple Ben,

in jail for thievery of balm he thought would ease his dying mom,

but fever took her in the end.

Then Ben was caged, but she was free.

“Are ya ailin’, missy Jen? Sit down, for pity’s sake.

For though it’s dark here in the jail, even by this light, you’re pale,

and I see how you shake.”

Though dark his cage, his heart was free.

Without a word, she bent to slide his meal beneath the bars.

When she straightened up again, he saw the welt upon her chin,

red where one had struck her hard.

While bound in rage, some fists are free.

“Father’s at his drink tonight.” whispered little Jen.

The jailer, in his house above, with wife and daughter he could love

chose the bottle over them.

While he was caged, they were not free.

Through the bars, Ben held her hand until her trembling ceased.

He sang a song his ma had sung, when folks were cruel and he was young,

that once had brought him peace.

Though he was caged, he wished her free.

“I’m glad to have you here with me.” she said to Ben, at last.

And strengthened by his simple love, left cell below for hers above,

in hope sleep held the jailer fast.

One was caged and one was free.