Monthly Archives: April 2023

DIB

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I used to contend that “pride” is the noun form of the adjective “proud,” and pride is one of the deadly sins.  I’m over it.

Joannie is going to Oklahoma on business this weekend and called to make a reservation at the Choctaw Resort. They now have a smoke-free casino and hotel.

When she asked whether they offered any discounts, she was asked whether she had a DIB (Degree of Indian Blood) number. She supplied hers and was given a generous discount.

Of course, today we know that there is really no such thing as “Indian Blood,” but in this scenario, just go with it. It is a legitimate way of documenting our native heritage. Our mother went to a lot a trouble to be sure we are all registered on the Choctaw rolls. Her father was the last one of our ancestors to be on the “original” rolls before Indian Territory became the State of Oklahoma.

This ancestor, whom we call Papa Harrison, was born in Lehigh, Indian Territory, in 1901. He would be so happy that he indirectly could make this small thing happen in his granddaughter Joannie’s life. I believe he earned it. Serving as a teenager in WWI, he was shipped to Vladivostok. He was very proud of his service.

He died very young (52), and at that time I was his only grandchild. He lived very modestly and never really had much of anything. He was incredibly “proud” of me. I have no idea why. As a ten-year-old, I hadn’t done anything particularly laudable when he died.

He was also very proud of his Choctaw heritage and talked to me about it often. I am the last of his descendants who was blessed to know him, and  I am proud. 

 

 

Valiant

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For years,  I looked out my upstairs window first thing to see what kind of day it would be. These days, I start by sitting on the side of the bed for a few minutes while Dolly walks around and does her down-dog stretch. All this before I stand up, open the curtains and look out. By then, my faithful body announces what kind of day it will be. The To-Do list is revised accordingly.

Some things are fixed. I can’t avoid glancing in the mirror on the way to the kitchen where I am always surprised to see Mother looking back at me.

Then on to pour boiling water over the grounds in the French press. (Called “the plunger” in my favorite Brit shows.)

Still, the skywatch does play a part.

Many places, this would be called “socked-in.” \

Here we say “somewhat overcast” and carry on.

Gardening is huge here.

Everyone, at the very least, has a windowsill with a few potted plants and a bird feeder just outside. My friend in ManorCare is looking forward to the plastic sheeting being removed from his window once the upgrade on the exterior of his building is completed. Not complaining in the meantime.

When we have a sunny day, everyone from the window-sill gardeners to the lucky community garden gardeners are at it.

Recently, it was a joyful meet-and-greet out there. A virtual celebratory congregation. Everyone is very respectful of the gardeners who are there to meditate and not chat. No one offers unsolicited advice, but is at-the-ready when you ask for help.

I was awarded a bed because my next-door garden neighbor decided to downsize and bequeathed me half of his bed. (I want to call them “plots,” but that is frowned on here for some reason.) He has tended the soil there so tenderly over the years that it was rich and friable when I went down to put in the raspberries and strawberries that I brought with me from my former garden. The strawberries survived as did some of the raspberries that were ripped out of their old place.

Here they are on this drizzly mid-April morning:

I walked down there to cheer on the raspberries.

I came to the garden alone, while the dew was still on the roses.

Dew, but not a single rose bud just yet.

And unlike on a sunny day, I had the whole place to myself. Being an introvert, I didn’t mind.  But even when there’s a cohort, no one looks askance at me when I talk to my plants. Or sing.  Sometimes Pink Martini’s “Hang on Little Tomato.”  Sometimes  “I Come to the Garden Alone.” 

The gardeners out there are all joyful and hopeful, all the while admitting that they are going home to put ice on their backs and take a prescribed narcotic.

There is a word that to me describes gardening at the 45º parallel north, altitude 500 feet. And it describes my neighbors here: valiant.

 

Arraignment

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I am not checking the news today. It’s all a free campaign event for the defendant. And I think he truly believes he has done no wrong. Ever.

Of course, I hope they throw the book at him.

Oddly, this has called up some memories for me of accompanying my then-husband to the SF Courthouse to be arraigned. He had been charged under the RICO Act and with hundreds of counts of mail fraud.

I had pretty much forgotten all the details of that day and looking back, it seems surreal. Really. Like a bad dream that didn’t actually happen. I mostly kept this nightmare-ish episode in a box and went on with my “real” life. I was raising three little girls and going to work every day.

But it did happen and I learned a lot.

This is how criminal justice works in the US:

No kangaroo courts. All court rooms are open, except in the case of children. No one is above the law.

You have the right to a speedy trial by a jury of your peers.

If you are not a threat, you can pay bail and go on about your life until a trial date is set.

You can cop a plea to avoid prison.

You can decline to answer questions put to you by the FBI, but never, ever lie to them.

If you are ever detained by officials, ask whether you are under arrest and what the charge is. You must be arrested or released.

It always amuses me on TV shows when someone is arrested and claims the right to call his lawyer. Seriously? Do you have a criminal lawyer on speed dial?

But here is a question I have never been able to find an answer to: How can someone really believe he has never done anything wrong.? I must be the most self-accusing person in the world. I pretty much see myself responsible for everything I ever did or said or failed to do or say, no matter how well-intentioned I was. Maybe it’s egotistical of me to assume so much responsibility.

This is Holy Week, and although, as mentioned here many times before, I am not a person of tradition faith, I know that, traditionally, this week is a time of self-examination. Roman Catholics are required to make a confession to a priest during this time. Where does this put one who goes to confession seriously believing he has never done anything wrong?

Written on my heart are some of the words of the confession in the old 1928 edition of the BCP: “We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts.”

I am not suggesting that we need to “bewail our manifold sins and wickedness.” But do acknowledge. Do own up. Do make amends if you can.

Say “sorry.”