Sprinklers Anyone?

Last night a real estate-related dispute in which I had only peripheral involvement ended up with neighbors in another city calling the police alleging threatening behavior against each other. I believe the incident began with a rug hanging over a patio railing. Is this how the Hatfields and McCoys started their feud?

I have not heard anything more about the railing or the rug today. And for that I am thankful. Nevertheless, I’m a little bit curious what happened. Maybe the police behaved like Bobby Hill and Andy Renko on the old “Hill Street Blues” TV show and mediated the situation, everyone going home relatively calmed down and happier. Or maybe like in the “Maltese Falcon” as Bogey suggested, the police took the whole lot of them down to the station and they all swore out complaints against each other.

For today I have had to deal with a bunch of insurance claims in another real estate matter. This one concerned a flood that caused a BIG mess, the kind someone might have had an excuse to get excited about. Five condos were significantly damaged. But luckily no one got nasty or called the police. Insurers are just slow to pay. So what else is new?

Since I have been dealing with these business matters at home I also have the chance to interact with my pet. I inherited this dog in the same way I inherited the real estate problems, from my parents. And both inheritances have been something of a headache.

The real estate needs almost constant managing. And the dog has always been anxious and unfriendly towards most people. At first he followed me everywhere, not so much for company as to reassure himself that I was still here. Now he has developed a little Alzheimer's and a lot of arthritis.  He no longer comes upstairs to keep tabs on me and sit by my side as I work on the computer. I don’t know which ailment has caused his absence.

He’s taking a bunch of pills, such that it is a challenge to keep track and give them at right times. In the last week he started on some new meds: an antibiotic for what are essentially bed sores, and an anti-inflammatory for his arthritis. Whatever it is though, he is doing much better with the new pills. The joy of life now seems to be far from over for him. In fact he is happier and friendlier than I can ever remember him. My old dog also loves to go in the yard and play in the sprinkler. As the vet says, sometimes when dogs get Alzheimer’s they forget to be anxious and instead turn into nice dogs.

I wonder if maybe some of the folks who need to involve police in settling their interpersonal dramas would be less anxious if they developed a little dementia and forgot their anxiety. Maybe then they would go out and play in the sprinkler instead.

Petty Disputes or Beer Toss

I had the Sunday New York Times and Louisville Courier Journal spread out, debating between the “Week in Review,” the “Style” section with the hunky Olympic hopeful, and the comics in the local paper, when my phones began to ring. As a result, the rest of my Sunday afternoon was consumed with phone calls about petty disputes between other people in a business matter. Don’t other people’s disputes always seem sort of petty?

In the midst of all this telephoning, I had a beer drop out of the fridge and spray all over the kitchen, inside the fridge, the cabinets, appliances, countertop, rug, me and everything else. Not since Mt. Vesuvius erupted has there been such a beautiful spraying machine. Did I mention I am allergic to the gluten in the beer? So I really had to clean it off of everything that might come in contact with food. Then I had to take a shower and wash the rug.

The one thing I have to say, though, is the beer felt mighty cool. In the moments before I picked up the beer and tossed it into the sink, spraying what little of the kitchen had not already been sprayed, I was transported back to childhood, playing in the sprinkler on a hot day. Maybe we need to all try to see the world for a few moments like a kid sees it—for the fun it might produce, rather than for the mess.

My husband had graciously done the grocery shopping and then  agreed to barbecue.  So I guess I have to get him another beer now. There wasn’t much left in that first can.

The Simple Life

We were without power for about twelve hours: an auto accident took out a nearby utility pole. Reduces you to the simple things in life. Since it happened at night that means finding the flashlights. And in the morning trying to figure out how to make coffee.

The night was cool so we opened a window. This morning we needed no alarm clock as we woke to bird calls. We enjoyed a nice walk in the park and a leisurely read of the newspapers. To our surprise, the dog happily ate plain kibbles without all the extras we usually add in--we were not opening the fridge to keep its contents cold. We went out to breakfast to solve the coffee as well as the "no opening the fridge" dilemma.

Now the power is back on.  I have gotten busy and am doing the laundry, emailing friends, and writing on my computer. But it was kind of nice without power for awhile. Inside the house was really quiet, except for the bird songs wafting through the open window.

I easily could get used to a few hours without power. That is, if I could solve one of life's great mysteries: making coffee without electricity. Is there a solar-powered coffee pot? If not, someone should invent one.

Capulets and Montagues over the Centuries

Roseanne McCoy, born in 1859 into a family where feuding was to be a way of life, and her infant daughter, were laid into premature graves less than thirty years later. See the History Channels’ excellent portrayal of this infamous feud.

http://www.history.com/shows/hatfields-and-mccoys/videos/playlists/web-exclusives#hatfields-and-mccoys-saga

Lal Bibi, an innocent 18 year old Afghan woman, chained to a wall and beaten and raped for five days by local militia, may die a premature death because of a family feud. Read the June 2, 2012 New York Times account. http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/02/world/asia/afghan-rape-case-is-a-challenge-for-the-government.html?_r=1&ref=todayspaper 

The dispute between the Hatfields and McCoys supposedly started over a stolen pig.  But there are those who believe the bad feelings between these Appalachian clans had their roots in the American Civil War.  

Jim Vance, uncle to “Devil Anse” Hatfield, the leader of that clan, had been released from the Confederate Army because of a broken leg. Vance, a member of the Hatfield Wildcats, a sort of local militia, was believed to have killed Asa Harmon McCoy out of anger for his joining the Union army.  Since neither family had much sympathy for Harmon McCoy, his murder did not immediately lead to further bloodshed. 

Thirteen years later, when a stolen pig claim was litigated to the dissatisfaction of the McCoys, the McCoys killed Bill Staton, a relative of both families, whose testimony they believed had been the cause of their loss of the pig lawsuit. The McCoys who killed Staton then were acquitted on the grounds of self defense.  

Roseanne McCoy and Johnse Hatfield were cast as two star-crossed lovers in this family feud. After Johnse was smitten by Roseanne, to the distress of both families, he brought her back to the Hatfield family home. The McCoys saw to it that Johnse was arrested on bootlegging charges. Following his rescue by the Hatfields, the result of Roseanne’s “midnight ride” to warn his family, Johnse proved able to move past his stars much more nimbly than Romeo. The lout abandoned a now-pregnant Roseanne. Not long afterwards Johnse married another McCoy, a cousin to Roseanne. Even though Johnse reputedly was more of a lover than a fighter he certainly did not bring peace to either family. 

Over the next several years, Hatfields and McCoys continued to kill each other in numbers and manners I won’t recount here. Watch the well- documented History Channel mini-series or read any of the accounts if you wish to hear about the full body count. 

More than a century later, in another mountainous region across the world, Lal Bibi, an 18 year old Afghan woman, had not yet had a chance to be anyone’s lover, star-crossed or otherwise.  We don’t know if historical disputes predated the current one involving Lal Bibi’s distant male cousin, Mohammed Issa.  He either had started a relationship with a local girl and was unsuccessful in an attempted elopement or failed to pay the bride price for his fiancé. In any event, the unnamed girl’s family believed it had been wronged.

The Hatfields would have dredged up some charge of trafficking in poppies and if that failed to punish the would-be suitor, they would have shot him and/or several of his male relatives.  In Lal Bibi’s case, when the wronged family failed to obtain a satisfactory settlement, they seized Lal Bibi, who had no involvement in her distant cousin’s alleged wrongdoing, and chained her to a wall, raping and beating her for five days. In addition to her pain and suffering during her kidnapping, once released, her rapes rendered Lal Bibi unmarriageable and shamed; in her society, dead.  

Defying tradition, her family took her to a hospital and then filed a complaint with the governor.  Nevertheless, they say they will kill Lal Bibi if the government does not provide justice for the crimes against her. Lal Bibi, perhaps more accurately, says, “I am already a dead person.” She believes, as apparently her family does, she cannot live with the shame.   

Tribal customs and perhaps genetics, in the case of the Hatfields/ McCoys, play a role in the feuds. The violence between the Hatfields and McCoys may have had its roots more in genetics than in stolen pigs. (“ Medical researchers have discovered that many McCoys suffer from the autosomal dominant Von Hippel–Lindau disease, with approximately 75% of them having tumors on their adrenal glands…The male members of the  (Hatfield) family may have belonged to Y chromosome haplogroup E1b1b” ) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hatfield-McCoy_feud#Family_genetics 

We don’t know whether a genetic tendency towards aggression in some males in the Afghanistan feud plays a role, but we can see compassion and common sense have not eliminated the age-old desire for revenge. When legal remedies for wrongs are not satisfying, Lal Bibi’s family and her tormentors just like the Hatfields and McCoys take their version of justice into their own hands. In Lal Bibi’s case that means her family will kill their own daughter. 

As Shakespeare, writing for the prince, told the Capulets and Montagues: “All are punished.”   Over the centuries how is it that the insanity of such feuds continues? 

Who Are Our Heroes?

As part of a discussion about Memorial Day, MSNBC commentator Chris Hayes recently posed the question whether we should call all of our war dead heroes? And the next day he apologized.



The recent Memorial Day Holiday started me thinking about my Dad, a World War II veteran. He dodged bullets in France and Germany to string communications cables to the front lines. My Dad seldom spoke of that war. The last thing he wanted to be called was a hero.



On Sunday Hayes said he was a little uncomfortable calling all our fallen soldiers heroes. Hayes asked the question whether applying words like “hero” to all our dead soldiers might be a way to justify wars. He emphasized he was not trying to diminish the praise our living and dead veterans were entitled to. Hayes’ comments were very moderate. And not at all disrespectful. Listen to his comments if you haven't heard them. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/05/28/chris-hayes-uncomfortable-soldiers-heroes_n_1550643.html



Nonetheless, Hayes caught enough criticism he had to issue an apology. http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/msnbc-host-chris-hayes-trouble-calling-fallen-soldiers-heroes-sparks-controversy-article-1.1085596  Even his apology caused outrage. http://communities.washingtontimes.com/neighborhood/middle-class-guy/2012/may/29/incredible-insensitive-stupidity-msnbcs-chris-haye/



Asking whether all our dead soldiers are heroes reminds me of the Bogey line, “Yesterday they were just two German couriers. Today they are the honored dead.”



No, I am not calling anyone a Nazi by using Bogey’s quote, even though he refers to two Germans during Hitler’s Third Reich. And granted Bogart starts out in “Casablanca” as the ultimate cynic. But sometimes even cynics hit upon the truth.



I recently finished reading “In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin” by Erick Larson.” Maybe that is why I have the lunacy of the Nazis on my brain. And again, I am not calling anyone but actual Nazis Nazis.



Larson’s heavily-researched book about pre-WW2 Nazi Germany focuses on the initial blindness and naïveté of William E. Dodd, the American ambassador and his daughter Margaret, the Paris Hilton of her day. Margaret enjoyed the Nazi social scene as she flirted and cavorted with Nazis, communists, and it appears anything attractive and witty in pants. There is a possibility that Margaret eventually did a little spying for the Russians. Maybe I owe Paris or Margaret an apology for my glib comparison.



In any event, Papa Dodd thought he could talk sense into Hitler and his cohorts. To his and his daughter’s credit, the glamour of the Nazis eventually lost its gleam. The Ambassador sent out alarms about what was going on in Germany.



But as a reader with 20/20 hindsight I cringe at each apology Dodd and other diplomats made. Certainly for the escalating persecution of the Jews. Also for the restrictions of newspapers that disagreed with the growing wave of nationalism. And for the suppression of dissent and criticism.



WW II often is used as the classic example of the “just war,” the Nazis as the embodiment of evil. Yet how much have we learned about the dangers of nationalism, the importance of free speech and the ability to question if every time someone questions they have to immediately apologize?



Do we need to cast every war a “just war”? Do we need to call every dead soldier a hero? Can we not talk about how much of our terminology is propaganda?



If history teaches us anything about war it should be that not all wars are necessary or just. And that governments use propaganda, sometimes overt and other times subtle, to promote their agendas, including wars.



Propaganda can come in the form of hiding the facts or the body counts, stifling criticism, and using terminology that stirs patriotic feelings. To name just a few examples: we certainly saw that during Vietnam and during the search for WMD in the Gulf War.



There is a thin line between honest patriotism and dangerous nationalism. Our country, no country, is always right. The protection against sliding into blind nationalism is our celebration and use of the right of free speech.





But back to those who should be called heroes. There are many heroes: serving or having served in the armed forces; also in police and fire departments. Forest rangers, teachers and moms and dads can be heroes. The Mom who recently lost both legs covering her children with her body to protect them from the tornado was a hero in most anyone's terminology.





You could call my Dad, like many of the soldiers who survive war, carrying physical or psychological wounds of the horrors of war until he died, heroes. You can call all our military, alive or dead, heroes. But you also should be able to disagree with that term.





Chris Hayes has disrespected no one by questioning who are our heroes. And I intend no disrespect. But maybe, as my Dad might have said, you could say sometimes our war dead are dead, to paraphrase Jacques Brel, “because they couldn’t help it.” We put them into harm’s way. Sometimes when there was another path. My Dad would have called the peacemakers heroes. And so do I.

At the art museum with old friends.

Seeing Old Friends, As Good As It Gets

The three of us recently spent a long weekend.  Hard to believe.  We have known each other since 1965.  And here we are, no longer even middle-aged; unless you believe 60 is the new 40. 

Forty-seven years ago I shared my deepest thoughts and secrets with these two people.  Teen-aged loves, musical loves: Simon & Garfunkel and the Beatles. Favorite TV show: “Man from Uncle.”  The meaning of life, parents, God and death, and what to wear to the Friday night dance.  Also, how to survive the toughest teachers. And did the nuns who seemed to have all the answers really know what they were talking about. We thought we solved many of those issues. 

This past weekend we dined, drank, toured a museum, shopped and talked. But mostly talked.  To the point I was hoarse by Monday when we parted.  

Still so much to share: favorite music, books, and TV shows. We still watch “Man from Uncle’s” David McCallum, now on “NCIS.”  Trips we are planning with our families. Our children’s’ lives; grandchildren, actual and hoped for. 

We talk about when and how to retire.  What to do once we are retired. How long will be able to travel?  Can we still drive hundreds of miles to visit friends?  And how much energy and inclination do we have to try new things?  

We talk about the deaths of our parents. Of the three of us, only one still has a living parent.  We are now the older generation.  So we still talk about the meaning of life. And did the nuns have some or any of the answers. 

I am the first of our threesome to retire.  I write, blog, take writers’ workshops, paint, and travel.  I also spend more time doing things just for me than I have at any other time since childhood.  Exercise, projects around the house, walking the dog, visiting with friends, new and old. But seeing old friends is as good as it gets. They are my roots.