The Tacoma News Tribune is offering reader comments on their stories, just as if they were blog entries. Through Haloscan, even.
Yesterday I visited the TNT site to read a story that they wrote — with access to a 300-odd page legal filing in another county that I didn't have access to (on deadline, too far and Thurston County charges what I would call a freedom of information-stifling $.50 per page copy of its documents in county court. I mean, that's MORE than the cost of paper, electricity and toner for what is PUBLIC information. Spending $150 bucks is out of the my paper's budget for what amounts to what is now a minimal story).
So there were three comments that were left anonymously that basically mocked the way the state handles its finances. Nothing out of the ordinary for a typical blog entry on a typical popular site. I believe the comments centered on how TNC (the Bechtel-Kiewit company that has been hired to build the bridge by the transportation dept.) gets to pocket the difference for what its subcontractor can save them but my memory does not serve me well.
At any rate, though flip, the comments were quite stinging. And brought up some good points. And now they are gone into the ether. I'm not sure why this is so.
The Seattle PI also encourages comments but only on its blog stories. Which so far are all A&E stuff.
Anyway, I think it's a fantastic experiment. Sort of. With comments, you kinda have to keep them on if they aren't klantastic or you risk losing your credibility. I wish the Gateway would do something similar. It's a lot of fun to read what people will only say anonymously, because even though 1/2 of it is claptrap, some of it is the honesty of paranoids and more of it is the reflection of regular people.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Oh yeah
While in Arkansas, after dad's first meal out at Star of India, Charles and I were fortunate enough to get a glimpse of The Commander. She was in full regalia, including her phaser, which if I recall correctly, had to be handed in each day she served as a juror during the Whitewater trial to security. It seems unnecessary to carry a phaser, though, when her look is clearly set to "stun." (And I don't mean that in the Seven of Nine way, but rather, in the sense that people can't believe what they are seeing and so they just gawp.)
It was a first for Charles and although I've seen her before, one can never get enough of local eccentrics.
It was a first for Charles and although I've seen her before, one can never get enough of local eccentrics.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Great chili
Here's a recipe my mom wanted for some turkey chili I made. It's low in salt, fat and other nasty things, but super high on flavor — but surprisingly unspicy considering all the hot pepper that goes into it. Also it will make a ton. I made it like this back in Arkansas:
Chop up an onion and any leftover onion bits you have.
Chop up a green pepper and any other bits of pepper you have.
I forgot to add garlic, but you can squeeze some cloves in iffin you want.
fry above ingredients over med-hi heat in a dutch over/big soup pot. Stir.
When they are kinda cooked down add
two finely diced jalapenos.
A package of v.v. low fat turkey (if you are veggie make this a vegan dish by popping in a couple packages of tofu that has been frozen and defrosted and crumbled)
Make sure you stir a lot and break up the turkey into little bits. Unlike beef, it will stick all together (what with the lack of fat and all).
When turkey is browned, dump in
1 28 oz can crushed tomatoes.
Cuss because you think you screwed up — you bought diced tomatoes special for this recipe!
Add 28 oz (or equivalent) of diced tomatoes.
Dump in three cans of beans, which have been drained and rinsed to get rid of excess salt (and no, that liquid is not all that good for you, it's like it's all full of corn starch!). I recommend two cans dark kidney beans and one can black beans.
Stir and put the heat down so there isn't splatter everywhere.
Now for the spices. Get out your Cumin and put a wooden spoonful's worth in there. A lot of cumin makes chili. Do you have chili powder? A wooden spoonful. It won't burn. Trust me. Cayenne? Sure. I used that before, and a lot of it. I paired it with a bunch of paprika. Add paprika anyway, it's wonderfully sweet and savory. Is that all a lot of spice? Yeah, but you know what, that's going to be a lot of chili, too.
Let everything stew together for however long you want it to. Let it come to a thick, grotty clottiness. Boil off excess water. Eat with relish (although a little diced cilantro or shredded cheddar would taste better). Enjoy the cheapness of your work lunch (for the next week and a half), gross out your yoga classmates afterwards.
For Mediterranean farty goodness, here's my ratatouille recipe (and my mom's, but it's less a recipe than a series of guidelines).
Get the biggest pan you can find — bigger than the 9x13. This will be what you roast in. Keep the dimensions of this big pan in mind as you chop up (but not too fine because all the veggies will shrink dramatically): zucchini (aka courgette, 2-3), an onion (oignon, pronounced "onion" with a fransh accent), an eggplant (aubergine, which does not sound like albourge), roma tomatoes (tomates 2-3, at least. They will not keep their shape too good, but instead melt into a nice tomatoey glaze for the veggies) and mushrooms (champignons, baby bellas are good, a pack or so).
Mix these veggies either in a bowl or, if possible, in the roasting pan, with olive oil. The idea, as mom would say, is to think of it as a salad and the oil as its dressing. I found it's a lot easier if you grease up everything else first (minus the tomatoes) and add the eggplant after everything else is coated. Eggplant soak up oil like a sponge and are not good at sharing. On the plus side, they are the funnest of all the vegetables to cut. I am serious.
Once the veggies are pretty coated, get out the dried oregano and basil. The proportions you are going for are roughly two parts basil to one part oregano. But each part is a big honking part. When the veggies are in the roasting pan, you tump over the basil until it looks like a lawn is sprouting. Then add the oregano in an equal proportion. You will be shocked and offended by the sheer amount of herbage in the pan. Mix everything together until the herbs are kind of decently spread out. But it will never be as perfectly spread as you want it to be, because the basil and oregano will really be kind of sold on the side of the veggies you so lavishly sprinkled them on. So you basil up the other parts of the veggies with a vengeance. You will make yourself sick and giddy at the same time with each shake of the dried basil container. This is how you know you are doing the right thing, when you feel like a profligate wasteful American with the conscience of a European — nay! A citizen of Japan!
The oven should be preheated to 400 or so. I forgot. It doesn't matter. You leave the veggies inside the oven, uncovered, until they are appropriately shrunk. You may have to give the veggies a stir at some point. Some bits might be a little charred. You don't care. You are still under the heady influence of the fragrant fountains of green you let fly from your spice cabinet. I guess the appropriate time to check them is when you are once again able to stand up and concentrate on such mundane matters.
There you go, two recipes that will be so healthy and keep you so regular and yet so offensive to your exercise partners. Being healthy and fiberriffic has its downsides, it is true.
Chop up an onion and any leftover onion bits you have.
Chop up a green pepper and any other bits of pepper you have.
I forgot to add garlic, but you can squeeze some cloves in iffin you want.
fry above ingredients over med-hi heat in a dutch over/big soup pot. Stir.
When they are kinda cooked down add
two finely diced jalapenos.
A package of v.v. low fat turkey (if you are veggie make this a vegan dish by popping in a couple packages of tofu that has been frozen and defrosted and crumbled)
Make sure you stir a lot and break up the turkey into little bits. Unlike beef, it will stick all together (what with the lack of fat and all).
When turkey is browned, dump in
1 28 oz can crushed tomatoes.
Cuss because you think you screwed up — you bought diced tomatoes special for this recipe!
Add 28 oz (or equivalent) of diced tomatoes.
Dump in three cans of beans, which have been drained and rinsed to get rid of excess salt (and no, that liquid is not all that good for you, it's like it's all full of corn starch!). I recommend two cans dark kidney beans and one can black beans.
Stir and put the heat down so there isn't splatter everywhere.
Now for the spices. Get out your Cumin and put a wooden spoonful's worth in there. A lot of cumin makes chili. Do you have chili powder? A wooden spoonful. It won't burn. Trust me. Cayenne? Sure. I used that before, and a lot of it. I paired it with a bunch of paprika. Add paprika anyway, it's wonderfully sweet and savory. Is that all a lot of spice? Yeah, but you know what, that's going to be a lot of chili, too.
Let everything stew together for however long you want it to. Let it come to a thick, grotty clottiness. Boil off excess water. Eat with relish (although a little diced cilantro or shredded cheddar would taste better). Enjoy the cheapness of your work lunch (for the next week and a half), gross out your yoga classmates afterwards.
For Mediterranean farty goodness, here's my ratatouille recipe (and my mom's, but it's less a recipe than a series of guidelines).
Get the biggest pan you can find — bigger than the 9x13. This will be what you roast in. Keep the dimensions of this big pan in mind as you chop up (but not too fine because all the veggies will shrink dramatically): zucchini (aka courgette, 2-3), an onion (oignon, pronounced "onion" with a fransh accent), an eggplant (aubergine, which does not sound like albourge), roma tomatoes (tomates 2-3, at least. They will not keep their shape too good, but instead melt into a nice tomatoey glaze for the veggies) and mushrooms (champignons, baby bellas are good, a pack or so).
Mix these veggies either in a bowl or, if possible, in the roasting pan, with olive oil. The idea, as mom would say, is to think of it as a salad and the oil as its dressing. I found it's a lot easier if you grease up everything else first (minus the tomatoes) and add the eggplant after everything else is coated. Eggplant soak up oil like a sponge and are not good at sharing. On the plus side, they are the funnest of all the vegetables to cut. I am serious.
Once the veggies are pretty coated, get out the dried oregano and basil. The proportions you are going for are roughly two parts basil to one part oregano. But each part is a big honking part. When the veggies are in the roasting pan, you tump over the basil until it looks like a lawn is sprouting. Then add the oregano in an equal proportion. You will be shocked and offended by the sheer amount of herbage in the pan. Mix everything together until the herbs are kind of decently spread out. But it will never be as perfectly spread as you want it to be, because the basil and oregano will really be kind of sold on the side of the veggies you so lavishly sprinkled them on. So you basil up the other parts of the veggies with a vengeance. You will make yourself sick and giddy at the same time with each shake of the dried basil container. This is how you know you are doing the right thing, when you feel like a profligate wasteful American with the conscience of a European — nay! A citizen of Japan!
The oven should be preheated to 400 or so. I forgot. It doesn't matter. You leave the veggies inside the oven, uncovered, until they are appropriately shrunk. You may have to give the veggies a stir at some point. Some bits might be a little charred. You don't care. You are still under the heady influence of the fragrant fountains of green you let fly from your spice cabinet. I guess the appropriate time to check them is when you are once again able to stand up and concentrate on such mundane matters.
There you go, two recipes that will be so healthy and keep you so regular and yet so offensive to your exercise partners. Being healthy and fiberriffic has its downsides, it is true.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
More ER madness
So dad had an appointment with his GP and reported a fast heartrate; the GP agreed and, at 1:30, we hit the ER to meet up with dad's cardiologist, Dr. Garza. He gets an EKG, he gets a chest X-ray, he gets put on a bed in the hall of the ER (not all in the same hour or in that order, come to think of it). Five hours later, we're waiting for either Garza or Singh, the so-called "cardiology gods," to basically confirm the suspicions of about five other doctors that have looked at dad — namely, that his meds need to be upped to control his heart rate. One of them will write him a new prescription and we're outtie.
Needless to say, I was not prepared to go from a GP appt to the ER and I have no book and am aggressively bored and, because of the fact that I'm bored and scared at the same time I get angry at these hifalutin doctors who think our time isn't worth it and are making us wait five hours. Also, I have to keep going outside to try to reach mom, who never answers her cell and I have to go through the metal detector each time the security guard doesn't keep his eye on me when I'm trying to get decent cell reception (which is blessedly very little time, but honestly). Finally I reach mom, who is with some people from her Sunday School class who have brought dinner. She comes to relieve me.
When she comes into the room dad has been moved to, Dr. Singh is in there with a coterie of little doctors, standing around an old woman who's had some sort of episode and he's doing the "House" thing, making the little doctors call out diagnoses and I'm sure it would be cute as hell if I hadn't thought he was going to look at dad, confirm the diagnosis other doctors have made and give dad some drugs. I figure mom has come at the last moment and dad is soon to be let go (oh yeah, the nurses withheld water from him for a while and he got whiny, but when he got water he felt better). But I get home, eat and watch an episode of "The Office" and talk with a friend back home before I find out the doctors have three ideas about what might be wrong with him. Two of them are pretty terrible situations, I'll describe them like I was "House." (Okay, I've only seen that show once, I'll wing it)
In the first situation, dad has atrial fibrulation. The atria, a sac within the heart, detaches from the heart muscle. It messes up the beat of the heart and speeds it up. It is dangerous. The EKG has already shown this is not what is bothering dad.
In the second, the sac around the heart is filling up with fluid. This is also a grim possibility. An ultrasound (which takes a while) shows this is not the case.
Or, the alternative, dad just needs more meds. Well, there you go. That's what it was. Mom and dad made it home at 10 p.m. Just in time for dad and me to watch the Daily Show and Reno 911. Trudy's getting married to Craig, the Truckee River Killer. That shouldn't be so funny, but it is.
So mom stayed home today and dad slept a lot and everything is fine.
ETA a description of some of dad's more noteworthy fellow sickies. There was an older man with a distended belly who kept bursting out with, "Praise God!" even though he seemed to be in some terrible pain. I overheard him tell a nurse, "I doo-dooed my pants, and it's bad." I never saw anyone un-doo-doo his pants, either. There was a big old redneck guy with a scrape on the back of his head. His lady came in and she was wearing a very revealing shirt and super tight pants and had a silver-blond eighties haircut — you know the mullet that is for very long, limp hair? Where the top part is parted in the middle and kind of brought back in a wave? That's the haircut she had. Also she had a huge tatoo on her chest and back. And boy was her man proud of her. Also, in the waiting room, was the skankiest little crackwhore you ever saw. Even the nurses were talking about her. She looked to have all manner — and I mean *all* manner — of STDs (she had a bump on her forehead, was skinny as anything, her eyes didn't appear to open correctly, and she was dirty, too), she was in a trashy and dirty little miniskirt and tank top ensemble and she was peripatetic. Either she was trying to get comfortable on the chair with a blanket over her or she was wandering around. Also she was constantly surrounded with trash. Where she was sitting, she was surrounded by chick-fil-a wrappers and chip bags and coke cans and about a jillion wadded-up napkins. She was with her crackpimp (?) who was a big ole ugly dude in a uniform shade of navy blue. I'm serious, his clothes, shoes, skin, hair, all looked to be about the same color of navy blue. He was not healthy. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights.
Needless to say, I was not prepared to go from a GP appt to the ER and I have no book and am aggressively bored and, because of the fact that I'm bored and scared at the same time I get angry at these hifalutin doctors who think our time isn't worth it and are making us wait five hours. Also, I have to keep going outside to try to reach mom, who never answers her cell and I have to go through the metal detector each time the security guard doesn't keep his eye on me when I'm trying to get decent cell reception (which is blessedly very little time, but honestly). Finally I reach mom, who is with some people from her Sunday School class who have brought dinner. She comes to relieve me.
When she comes into the room dad has been moved to, Dr. Singh is in there with a coterie of little doctors, standing around an old woman who's had some sort of episode and he's doing the "House" thing, making the little doctors call out diagnoses and I'm sure it would be cute as hell if I hadn't thought he was going to look at dad, confirm the diagnosis other doctors have made and give dad some drugs. I figure mom has come at the last moment and dad is soon to be let go (oh yeah, the nurses withheld water from him for a while and he got whiny, but when he got water he felt better). But I get home, eat and watch an episode of "The Office" and talk with a friend back home before I find out the doctors have three ideas about what might be wrong with him. Two of them are pretty terrible situations, I'll describe them like I was "House." (Okay, I've only seen that show once, I'll wing it)
In the first situation, dad has atrial fibrulation. The atria, a sac within the heart, detaches from the heart muscle. It messes up the beat of the heart and speeds it up. It is dangerous. The EKG has already shown this is not what is bothering dad.
In the second, the sac around the heart is filling up with fluid. This is also a grim possibility. An ultrasound (which takes a while) shows this is not the case.
Or, the alternative, dad just needs more meds. Well, there you go. That's what it was. Mom and dad made it home at 10 p.m. Just in time for dad and me to watch the Daily Show and Reno 911. Trudy's getting married to Craig, the Truckee River Killer. That shouldn't be so funny, but it is.
So mom stayed home today and dad slept a lot and everything is fine.
ETA a description of some of dad's more noteworthy fellow sickies. There was an older man with a distended belly who kept bursting out with, "Praise God!" even though he seemed to be in some terrible pain. I overheard him tell a nurse, "I doo-dooed my pants, and it's bad." I never saw anyone un-doo-doo his pants, either. There was a big old redneck guy with a scrape on the back of his head. His lady came in and she was wearing a very revealing shirt and super tight pants and had a silver-blond eighties haircut — you know the mullet that is for very long, limp hair? Where the top part is parted in the middle and kind of brought back in a wave? That's the haircut she had. Also she had a huge tatoo on her chest and back. And boy was her man proud of her. Also, in the waiting room, was the skankiest little crackwhore you ever saw. Even the nurses were talking about her. She looked to have all manner — and I mean *all* manner — of STDs (she had a bump on her forehead, was skinny as anything, her eyes didn't appear to open correctly, and she was dirty, too), she was in a trashy and dirty little miniskirt and tank top ensemble and she was peripatetic. Either she was trying to get comfortable on the chair with a blanket over her or she was wandering around. Also she was constantly surrounded with trash. Where she was sitting, she was surrounded by chick-fil-a wrappers and chip bags and coke cans and about a jillion wadded-up napkins. She was with her crackpimp (?) who was a big ole ugly dude in a uniform shade of navy blue. I'm serious, his clothes, shoes, skin, hair, all looked to be about the same color of navy blue. He was not healthy. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights.
Krishna Rocks
I'll get some photos up shortly, but this past weekend Granddaddy White and Uncle Charles came to visit. They drove my granddad's Lincoln Town Car up in spite of the uncertainty of supplies from Katrina, but took the route through Atlanta. They made it in Thursday afternoon — apparently they were just flying from Jackson, Miss., where they had stopped the night before. They were so fast that Charles had to call dad while we were doing his walkies at the Hobby Lobby (we were getting fabric and batting for mom's dinner chairs so there might be a place to sit and eat for the guests. However, that project has yet to get off the ground).
Granddad had a hot date Saturday night with Millie, his secretary from 50 years ago or so, with whom he had re-struck-up a friendship after running into her at a Fayetteville Rotary meeting. My granddad may be in his late 80s, but as a single man of his age he is HIGHLY in demand by the widder women. He cooks, he cleans, he is fully ambulatory and, the kicker, according to Charles, he can drive at night. It is not his preferred time to drive, but it means dinners and shows out on the town.
A little irony: Doug and I are young and good-looking (though not as good-looking as granddad) and not at all in demand for dates. We do, BTW, drive after dark. But that's just totally taken for granted by our Gen-X cohort, I suppose.
When I say a hot date, I mean it. They are talking about going to Branson together and seeing Shoji Tabuchi at his cabaret theatre, where he performs a family-friendly show with his beautiful wife Dorothy and delightful daughter Christina. Also a character in his show, his atrocious bowl-cut.
They also ended up going to Devil's Den park for a picnic, and granddad got a flat on the way back home and drove up the hill to the farm with the donut. It's amazing to me that his car made it up that hill in the first place, much less with the donut.
Charles stayed longer and left his "The Office" DVDs here. It's such a funny show, but nobody wins. Ever. It's kinda sad. I guess that's the dilemma of the modern man. He also took dad (and, I guess, me) on our first lunch out since the heart attack. It was to Star of India, and although Charles hadn't been there in maybe two years, Sami remembered him. Sami gives all the credit for his photographic memory to Krishna. Krishna rocks.
Charles also helped me get closer to completing the puzzle coworkers of dad's have brought him. It's a bunch of seaside buildings in Greenland; apparently there are only about three colors of paint in Greenland.
But Charles didn't have much time to spend here; he had class Monday and you know how those college kids are.
Granddad had a hot date Saturday night with Millie, his secretary from 50 years ago or so, with whom he had re-struck-up a friendship after running into her at a Fayetteville Rotary meeting. My granddad may be in his late 80s, but as a single man of his age he is HIGHLY in demand by the widder women. He cooks, he cleans, he is fully ambulatory and, the kicker, according to Charles, he can drive at night. It is not his preferred time to drive, but it means dinners and shows out on the town.
A little irony: Doug and I are young and good-looking (though not as good-looking as granddad) and not at all in demand for dates. We do, BTW, drive after dark. But that's just totally taken for granted by our Gen-X cohort, I suppose.
When I say a hot date, I mean it. They are talking about going to Branson together and seeing Shoji Tabuchi at his cabaret theatre, where he performs a family-friendly show with his beautiful wife Dorothy and delightful daughter Christina. Also a character in his show, his atrocious bowl-cut.
They also ended up going to Devil's Den park for a picnic, and granddad got a flat on the way back home and drove up the hill to the farm with the donut. It's amazing to me that his car made it up that hill in the first place, much less with the donut.
Charles stayed longer and left his "The Office" DVDs here. It's such a funny show, but nobody wins. Ever. It's kinda sad. I guess that's the dilemma of the modern man. He also took dad (and, I guess, me) on our first lunch out since the heart attack. It was to Star of India, and although Charles hadn't been there in maybe two years, Sami remembered him. Sami gives all the credit for his photographic memory to Krishna. Krishna rocks.
Charles also helped me get closer to completing the puzzle coworkers of dad's have brought him. It's a bunch of seaside buildings in Greenland; apparently there are only about three colors of paint in Greenland.
But Charles didn't have much time to spend here; he had class Monday and you know how those college kids are.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Hurricanes and worry-canes
Well, I suppose you know the drill — dad's doing fine as far as the recuperation goes. Since he is not able to lift anything heavier than a mug or a fork, yet is not as active as he probably should be, I have tasked him to unload the small dishes from the dishwasher. But he kind of has backed off that, because he wants to see if mom needs anything. Mom, you see, slipped in the tub last night and hurt her arm bad enough to need to go to the ER. She didn't break anything, only bruised it pretty bad, and she took the day off.
I swear, the luck of those two. Aunt Carol has always said they'd be a good sitcom.
Well, because it was Labor Day yesterday and mom was home, I did something mom and dad would have liked to do if they weren't overwhelmed: volunteered at their church, which was to be a shelter for some families from Katrina.
The church offered to take in a "bunch of Indians," and when I asked Indians or Natives, I heard, "you know, Indian Indians, like a tribe." Obviously I have a lot more exposure to the, er, politics of this sort of thing, what with being from the Northwest and all the fishing and gaming and tribal issues up there. But I was in for a little more White cluelessness before the day was over. Before anyone gets upset that I am making fun of these goodhearted volunteers, I would like to point out that these are all goodhearted volunteers I am talking about. They are people who are honest and open about what they don't know or understand, in that incredibly protected white person way. They want to understand so bad. It was charming.
When I got to the church in the afternoon, only one family was there. They were from New Orleans and had been there since the day before. They were intent on relocating to Arkansas, and the father (it was father, his pregnant girlfriend, their almost 1-year-old daughter, his mother) was looking for work and already had some business cards. Normally he's a barber. Poor pregnant mother had to sleep on air mattresses and her back was hurting something fierce. The grandmother had picked out a new cotton dress and lime-green shoes. "It's my new Labor Day outfit," she told me. She has 17 grandchildren and a great-grandbaby and the only ones she can't track down are the baby's family.
There were scads of donations, though. Some of them were ... weird. Like a bag of clothes with six unmatching socks at the bottom. Like stained old drawers — male and female. Like about 8,000 T-shirts. I swear, we are a T-shirt junkie of a nation, or maybe a junkie of what the T-shirts represent — vacations, biblical sentiment, regular cheeseball sentiment, pride in breeds of dogs, pride in breeds of brand names (unless Old Navy has actually established football, rugby and street hockey teams), pride in sports institutions — then using and discarding the T-shirts once they are raggedy and stained and don't feel so soft or new like so many busted syringes. There were plenty of toys and games and books. I was stacking and sorting some — Clive Cussler, John Grisham and LeCarre really have a grip on the imaginations of the people of mom and dad's church (there was also a full set of the "Left Behind" series. I couldn't blame a body for wanting to shuck them, but hadn't these evacuees been through hell already?) and came across one titled "Social Welfare Policy" with a long subtitle by Ira Colby.
It made me mad; I had no idea what the politics of the author were and the cover was no help. I held it up to one of the volunteers that seemed to be kind of in charge and said, "Is this for real? Is this a joke? What is the point of this?" Her reply: "Just chuck it. If you don't feel comfortable, just chuck it." She and another volunteer regaled me with stories of stuff they'd already chucked, unwashed sheets being the main offender.
There were a lot of nice things — and NEW things, too. I pulled out some pants in misses sizes 0-6 with tags still attached. But when the evacuees came, lemme tell you, those will not do the job. Gals from southern La. are on the big side. Willing donors were dispatched on an emergency run to get some big-girl bras. A search was posted for big-girl clothes. The well-to-do women of mom and dad's church seem to be a pretty petite, fit bunch. There were new shirts from LL Bean, Izod, Tommy Hilfiger, Gap, you name it.
About 3 p.m. or so Donell, who was kind of running interference for a lot of shelters and delivering families from the Arkansas State Fairgrounds (which he said was horrible — three hots and a cot, but no privacy or dignity in the big old Hall of Industry), brought us a family that had been evacuated from the Convention Center in N.O. Of course, the church was expecting 40 Native Americans, but they didn't want to turn the family away.
If the church had turned away the family of four, it would have been the fourth time they were denied a refuge. They were put on a bus in N.O. with no clear direction where they were going. The bus first stopped at Ft. Smith, at the now-converted into a refugee center Fort Chaffee (where dad spent a couple of weeks back in the reserve evading 'Nam), where they were turned away because it was full. Then they stopped at Camp Robinson and the bus was turned away. Then they were sent to a Baptist campground that had been converted into an evacuee shelter and that was full and the bus was turned away. It ended up at the state fairgrounds, where the father and Donell met.
The church has one of the better refuges, Donell said. Not only are there plenty of clothes and supplies, but there are toys, and the families are to get their own "apartments" in the gym — really just partitioned areas with air mattresses, folding chairs, a couple of tables and chests, but able to be screened off from the open area. Evacuees also all got checked out by a doctor (pediatrician to boot) and registered nurse who are members of the church. That's not a service that's available to everyone.
So the Choctaws came in and it was just crazy registration time. There was supposed to be a security search of the bags — did not happen (no alcohol, drugs or weapons allowed in the gym. A pastor said the stuff would be confiscated but returned when evacuees left. The weapons thing also could apply to the church — one pair of donated shoes came with a box of shotgun shells. Apparently this being Ark. one must make certain allowances for hunters who hide ammo from kids and then forget about it.) Nobody was sure how the families would break off into groups or which apartment they'd stay in. All the organization was being dumped on one overloaded volunteer so I tried to break off the responsibility a bit and approached a nice liberal woman about figuring out who goes where. She gave me a little talk about how the families choosing where they would sleep and having some autonomy was part of the healing process and I was like, okay, if that's how you want to play it.
Medicine is an important service — when the tribe came in (25 Choctaws, but none of them easily identifiable as such — they were all Black, which did a little confoundation on the volunteers) — some of them had not recieved any care for ages. Many evacuees just plain old forgot their medicines, too, usually for asthma, high blood pressure, diabetes and more. One elderly woman had a terrible wound and a deep staph infection on her leg and the doctor recommended she go to the hospital (there was also a boy — teen or so, I guess — with serious developmental issues and a feeding tube and medications. I can't imagine the woman taking care of him would want to return to the fairground).
But that would get bound up in some politics. The chief, who went by that title and was fairly reachable through a cell phone at the state fairgrounds, had agreed to the rules of the church in a preliminary discussion with one of the pastors. But there was a question of keeping the totality of the tribe together, even if that meant putting an elderly woman with a staph infection back at the fairgrounds. It was all a bunch of drama, and the goodhearted volunteers were disappointed that not only would noses be turned up at the hospitality, but that other families that could have been moved there — and two were turned away while waiting for the tribe — were not.
Most of the people who came in wanted to stay, though there were issues with the air conditioning. Also, remember the thing about the choosing and healing process? Well, partly because of that and partly because a room was set up to be a hospital-like room, there were all these joined rooms and the people decided the couples with small children should have their own rooms and all the teenagers should dorm up in one room — a coed room. This was presented by the kindly liberal at an organization meeting. I and another, senior, pastor both said "Nuh uh" at the same time. That didn't fly. The rules were written to make sleeping in "family groupings" mandatory, to be presented with the chief present as an authority figure.
Another source of potential tension came to see me while I was alone at the desk. A kid who had a Gamecube wanted to hook it up to the huge tv on loan from a local dept. store. I told him I didn't have any say-so, that I would ask someone who did, and that in the meantime, I didn't think it was a good idea because there were a lot of kids and they could be jealous.
Man, it was interesting watching how these two communities are going to come to an arrangement (or not).
As I was leaving a Lincoln Town Car and a Jeep Cherokee pulled into the church and three very native looking people got out — a man with a red shirt that said "Arkansas Bear Dance" and a big braid, a man with a braid and a Muskogee t-shirt and a woman in a flowy white ensemble with beaded jewelry and the affect of a living dreamcatcher, if you know what I mean. Bear Dance had a real typical native accent; the other two sounded Latino. Bear Dance asked me if this was where the people from Mississippi were. I said there were a lot of Louisianans and walked them down to the hall. I asked who they were looking for and Bear Dance said "Choctaw." I said, "well, they're chock full of Choctaw in there." I guess they've heard that a lot or maybe it's just the understated Native American thing to not laugh, but they were clearly on a mission and I really really wish I had stuck around to see what was going to happen.
At any rate, I came home and mom was in the hospital's e.r. and dad was reading that second Hamilton bio. I volunteer tonight so I guess I'll find out who is staying and who is going and will update.
P.S. This blog vetted by dad for potentially over-sarcastic things about good, kind people. I can't say enough how much folks want to help at that church and how positive the response has been. There are going to be misunderstandings, crummy T-shirts and all that everywhere. I'm just trying to be honest about it while doing justice to the authentic goodwill that exists in my folks' church.
I swear, the luck of those two. Aunt Carol has always said they'd be a good sitcom.
Well, because it was Labor Day yesterday and mom was home, I did something mom and dad would have liked to do if they weren't overwhelmed: volunteered at their church, which was to be a shelter for some families from Katrina.
The church offered to take in a "bunch of Indians," and when I asked Indians or Natives, I heard, "you know, Indian Indians, like a tribe." Obviously I have a lot more exposure to the, er, politics of this sort of thing, what with being from the Northwest and all the fishing and gaming and tribal issues up there. But I was in for a little more White cluelessness before the day was over. Before anyone gets upset that I am making fun of these goodhearted volunteers, I would like to point out that these are all goodhearted volunteers I am talking about. They are people who are honest and open about what they don't know or understand, in that incredibly protected white person way. They want to understand so bad. It was charming.
When I got to the church in the afternoon, only one family was there. They were from New Orleans and had been there since the day before. They were intent on relocating to Arkansas, and the father (it was father, his pregnant girlfriend, their almost 1-year-old daughter, his mother) was looking for work and already had some business cards. Normally he's a barber. Poor pregnant mother had to sleep on air mattresses and her back was hurting something fierce. The grandmother had picked out a new cotton dress and lime-green shoes. "It's my new Labor Day outfit," she told me. She has 17 grandchildren and a great-grandbaby and the only ones she can't track down are the baby's family.
There were scads of donations, though. Some of them were ... weird. Like a bag of clothes with six unmatching socks at the bottom. Like stained old drawers — male and female. Like about 8,000 T-shirts. I swear, we are a T-shirt junkie of a nation, or maybe a junkie of what the T-shirts represent — vacations, biblical sentiment, regular cheeseball sentiment, pride in breeds of dogs, pride in breeds of brand names (unless Old Navy has actually established football, rugby and street hockey teams), pride in sports institutions — then using and discarding the T-shirts once they are raggedy and stained and don't feel so soft or new like so many busted syringes. There were plenty of toys and games and books. I was stacking and sorting some — Clive Cussler, John Grisham and LeCarre really have a grip on the imaginations of the people of mom and dad's church (there was also a full set of the "Left Behind" series. I couldn't blame a body for wanting to shuck them, but hadn't these evacuees been through hell already?) and came across one titled "Social Welfare Policy" with a long subtitle by Ira Colby.
It made me mad; I had no idea what the politics of the author were and the cover was no help. I held it up to one of the volunteers that seemed to be kind of in charge and said, "Is this for real? Is this a joke? What is the point of this?" Her reply: "Just chuck it. If you don't feel comfortable, just chuck it." She and another volunteer regaled me with stories of stuff they'd already chucked, unwashed sheets being the main offender.
There were a lot of nice things — and NEW things, too. I pulled out some pants in misses sizes 0-6 with tags still attached. But when the evacuees came, lemme tell you, those will not do the job. Gals from southern La. are on the big side. Willing donors were dispatched on an emergency run to get some big-girl bras. A search was posted for big-girl clothes. The well-to-do women of mom and dad's church seem to be a pretty petite, fit bunch. There were new shirts from LL Bean, Izod, Tommy Hilfiger, Gap, you name it.
About 3 p.m. or so Donell, who was kind of running interference for a lot of shelters and delivering families from the Arkansas State Fairgrounds (which he said was horrible — three hots and a cot, but no privacy or dignity in the big old Hall of Industry), brought us a family that had been evacuated from the Convention Center in N.O. Of course, the church was expecting 40 Native Americans, but they didn't want to turn the family away.
If the church had turned away the family of four, it would have been the fourth time they were denied a refuge. They were put on a bus in N.O. with no clear direction where they were going. The bus first stopped at Ft. Smith, at the now-converted into a refugee center Fort Chaffee (where dad spent a couple of weeks back in the reserve evading 'Nam), where they were turned away because it was full. Then they stopped at Camp Robinson and the bus was turned away. Then they were sent to a Baptist campground that had been converted into an evacuee shelter and that was full and the bus was turned away. It ended up at the state fairgrounds, where the father and Donell met.
The church has one of the better refuges, Donell said. Not only are there plenty of clothes and supplies, but there are toys, and the families are to get their own "apartments" in the gym — really just partitioned areas with air mattresses, folding chairs, a couple of tables and chests, but able to be screened off from the open area. Evacuees also all got checked out by a doctor (pediatrician to boot) and registered nurse who are members of the church. That's not a service that's available to everyone.
So the Choctaws came in and it was just crazy registration time. There was supposed to be a security search of the bags — did not happen (no alcohol, drugs or weapons allowed in the gym. A pastor said the stuff would be confiscated but returned when evacuees left. The weapons thing also could apply to the church — one pair of donated shoes came with a box of shotgun shells. Apparently this being Ark. one must make certain allowances for hunters who hide ammo from kids and then forget about it.) Nobody was sure how the families would break off into groups or which apartment they'd stay in. All the organization was being dumped on one overloaded volunteer so I tried to break off the responsibility a bit and approached a nice liberal woman about figuring out who goes where. She gave me a little talk about how the families choosing where they would sleep and having some autonomy was part of the healing process and I was like, okay, if that's how you want to play it.
Medicine is an important service — when the tribe came in (25 Choctaws, but none of them easily identifiable as such — they were all Black, which did a little confoundation on the volunteers) — some of them had not recieved any care for ages. Many evacuees just plain old forgot their medicines, too, usually for asthma, high blood pressure, diabetes and more. One elderly woman had a terrible wound and a deep staph infection on her leg and the doctor recommended she go to the hospital (there was also a boy — teen or so, I guess — with serious developmental issues and a feeding tube and medications. I can't imagine the woman taking care of him would want to return to the fairground).
But that would get bound up in some politics. The chief, who went by that title and was fairly reachable through a cell phone at the state fairgrounds, had agreed to the rules of the church in a preliminary discussion with one of the pastors. But there was a question of keeping the totality of the tribe together, even if that meant putting an elderly woman with a staph infection back at the fairgrounds. It was all a bunch of drama, and the goodhearted volunteers were disappointed that not only would noses be turned up at the hospitality, but that other families that could have been moved there — and two were turned away while waiting for the tribe — were not.
Most of the people who came in wanted to stay, though there were issues with the air conditioning. Also, remember the thing about the choosing and healing process? Well, partly because of that and partly because a room was set up to be a hospital-like room, there were all these joined rooms and the people decided the couples with small children should have their own rooms and all the teenagers should dorm up in one room — a coed room. This was presented by the kindly liberal at an organization meeting. I and another, senior, pastor both said "Nuh uh" at the same time. That didn't fly. The rules were written to make sleeping in "family groupings" mandatory, to be presented with the chief present as an authority figure.
Another source of potential tension came to see me while I was alone at the desk. A kid who had a Gamecube wanted to hook it up to the huge tv on loan from a local dept. store. I told him I didn't have any say-so, that I would ask someone who did, and that in the meantime, I didn't think it was a good idea because there were a lot of kids and they could be jealous.
Man, it was interesting watching how these two communities are going to come to an arrangement (or not).
As I was leaving a Lincoln Town Car and a Jeep Cherokee pulled into the church and three very native looking people got out — a man with a red shirt that said "Arkansas Bear Dance" and a big braid, a man with a braid and a Muskogee t-shirt and a woman in a flowy white ensemble with beaded jewelry and the affect of a living dreamcatcher, if you know what I mean. Bear Dance had a real typical native accent; the other two sounded Latino. Bear Dance asked me if this was where the people from Mississippi were. I said there were a lot of Louisianans and walked them down to the hall. I asked who they were looking for and Bear Dance said "Choctaw." I said, "well, they're chock full of Choctaw in there." I guess they've heard that a lot or maybe it's just the understated Native American thing to not laugh, but they were clearly on a mission and I really really wish I had stuck around to see what was going to happen.
At any rate, I came home and mom was in the hospital's e.r. and dad was reading that second Hamilton bio. I volunteer tonight so I guess I'll find out who is staying and who is going and will update.
P.S. This blog vetted by dad for potentially over-sarcastic things about good, kind people. I can't say enough how much folks want to help at that church and how positive the response has been. There are going to be misunderstandings, crummy T-shirts and all that everywhere. I'm just trying to be honest about it while doing justice to the authentic goodwill that exists in my folks' church.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Sick as a dog
Poor Shelby. Here's dad getting all this attention and he's wheezing and sneezing and bleeding from his leprosy spots. I mean, the dog's a mess. It's ironic because mom and dad got a Jack Russell because of thier alleged hardiness, and the poor old thing is just a mess. I gave him a half a child's Benadryl and he seems to have stopped snotting up. It's just the most pitiful thing you ever saw, an old dog walking around sneezing and snorting and not being able to walk well because of his pain.
Dad has felt a little off the past couple of days — it could be a side effect of the drugs he's on (about a jillion), part of the natural depression that comes with the heart surgery recuperation process (it's in all the pamphlets and booklets), or just part of all the pain and muscular stuff that comes with having your chest cracked open. Nonetheless, we soldiered out to the mall the other day for walkies.
Dad did a loop of each of the three floors, the top one twice, and there were lots of benches and even some leather la-z-boy style chairs to crash in. As we were at dad's last bench before leaving, he was approached by a guy who was a member of the same club as him — the broken heart club, so to speak. He was 59 (like dad) when he went in to get his new valve, a pacemaker and a quadruple bypass. He said his heart was so enlarged it had split his valve. Jeez. It was all stress, which he quickly depleted himself of — sold his business and divorced his wife — and said that he's about as good at being a bum as anything.
Dad has been sad about Katrina. Lots of human misery and all that. As a non-Arkansas resident I feel liberated from the bonds that usually restrict journalists from doing anything nice for anyone anytime and have offered up my name as a volunteer to do whatever with a couple of churches. See, a lot of the evacuees are here in Arkansas, and they haven't got a thing or a clue about what's going on in N.O. They are being put in the Ark. State Fairground, Barton Coliseum and War Memorial Stadium. What is up with putting these folks in sports arenas? If the Superdome was a terrible place partly because it had no showers or anything that made it an appropriate place for people to live with dignity or privacy for a couple of days, what will make the Astrodome better for an untold period of time? I am really curious.
Dad asks why not reopen Fort Chaffee? Bases that are being closed? Seriously, why not?
Anyway, it doesn't sound like there's a strong interfaith alliance that is getting things together to take care of people up here — though lots of churches are sending supplies southward, there is an opportunity to get things done in this community.
So dad's still soldiering on and pretty much the same as before except now with a voice.
Dad has felt a little off the past couple of days — it could be a side effect of the drugs he's on (about a jillion), part of the natural depression that comes with the heart surgery recuperation process (it's in all the pamphlets and booklets), or just part of all the pain and muscular stuff that comes with having your chest cracked open. Nonetheless, we soldiered out to the mall the other day for walkies.
Dad did a loop of each of the three floors, the top one twice, and there were lots of benches and even some leather la-z-boy style chairs to crash in. As we were at dad's last bench before leaving, he was approached by a guy who was a member of the same club as him — the broken heart club, so to speak. He was 59 (like dad) when he went in to get his new valve, a pacemaker and a quadruple bypass. He said his heart was so enlarged it had split his valve. Jeez. It was all stress, which he quickly depleted himself of — sold his business and divorced his wife — and said that he's about as good at being a bum as anything.
Dad has been sad about Katrina. Lots of human misery and all that. As a non-Arkansas resident I feel liberated from the bonds that usually restrict journalists from doing anything nice for anyone anytime and have offered up my name as a volunteer to do whatever with a couple of churches. See, a lot of the evacuees are here in Arkansas, and they haven't got a thing or a clue about what's going on in N.O. They are being put in the Ark. State Fairground, Barton Coliseum and War Memorial Stadium. What is up with putting these folks in sports arenas? If the Superdome was a terrible place partly because it had no showers or anything that made it an appropriate place for people to live with dignity or privacy for a couple of days, what will make the Astrodome better for an untold period of time? I am really curious.
Dad asks why not reopen Fort Chaffee? Bases that are being closed? Seriously, why not?
Anyway, it doesn't sound like there's a strong interfaith alliance that is getting things together to take care of people up here — though lots of churches are sending supplies southward, there is an opportunity to get things done in this community.
So dad's still soldiering on and pretty much the same as before except now with a voice.
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