clearly there are a lot of people who own registered cars in wisconsin who do not read.
how do i know this, you ask?
drive behind anyone with a wisconsin plate and notice where they have put the year sticker. people place these stickers all over the license plate. when you start looking you will see a variety of methods – in the middle of the plate, stickered all around the edges, smack over the raised lettering. however, these stickers are delivered to you in the envelope pictured above. this envelope leaves little doubt as to where to place the stickers – any and all of them. they are not meant to fill in the white space on the plate, nor to cover the numbers and letters metal-stamped on the plate.
so do they not read? that, in itself, i see as a bit of a problem. somehow it seems necessary to be able to read and follow directions in order to be safely out on the road, driving around.
now, i would understand if the state of wisconsin department of motor vehicles just sent you a sticker in a plain envelope, without specific directions attached. you might wonder, “golly gee, where does this sticker go?” but to receive such clear and concise and labeled instructions, how is it that a vast number of drivers, supposedly responsible drivers, have scratched their heads and tore off the backing and stuck ’em anywhere they wanted? what are they possibly thinking? what is the point of this stuck-anywhere-sticker-thing? is it a display of rebellion? is it a display of apathy? do they think it’s artistic? i wonder.
because it just looks like they over-and-over-again don’t read the directions. it’s not like you need cliff notes for the eleven words, “place year sticker here first time and at time of renewal.” plus there’s the arrow. pointing. to the place the sticker goes. what’s so hard about this?
it makes me wonder what else they don’t read or pay attention to. in a world with a global pandemic, we surely need people to read, stay apprised, follow safety instructions and directions for flattening the curve. we need people to be responsible and care about guidelines put into place, specifications to fairly regulate, to simply be in accord.
now, i can’t help but wonder: are the people with stickers all over their license plates the same people – the customers at the corner store – who sneered at us because we were wearing masks during this pandemic?
we cleaned the garage this weekend. our garage is old-old-old. it has a little bow in the front and there is a bit of an issue with the walls no longer in alignment with the foundation. the decades-old automatic garage door opener no longer opens it. que sera, sera.
there was the usual assortment of garden tools and clay pots, chairs-in-bags and chairs-without-bags, the wrought iron table and umbrella we hadn’t put out yet, random bags of potting soil, milorganite, sand, a plethora of spiders and their webby homes. there are old doors in the rafters, the tricycle My Girl and My Boy rode, a red wagon, the hammock. there are jacks, a snowblower-that-doesn’t-work-but-we-should-have-repaired, a wheelbarrow that has seen many trips down third avenue. our bikes hang on hooks; we wonder if i will be able to ride this summer – the whole two-broken-wrists-thing has put a damper on things. there is a woodpile rack waiting for us to re-stock, have a few bonfires in the firepit or the chiminea. and there is my old vw bug. smack-dab in the middle of this tiny one-car garage is my well-loved 1971 super beetle.
it was father’s day yesterday when we moved it out of the garage, me behind the wheel, clutch in, gear in neutral, hand ready on the emergency brake as david pushed. it hasn’t been started in years and i could hear my sweet poppo groan with me from another plane of existence as i looked it over. dirty from a few years of garage-sitting, it sure-enough wouldn’t start and i ticked off a list of things that likely now need fixing. these are things i can’t do anything about right now, so i did what i could do something about.
i got a bucket of warm carwash-soapy-water and a good sponge and my dad and i washed our bug together.
i could hear him telling me about when he and my mom picked it up brand-new in germany for their roadtrip around europe, about how it was shipped back home to a port in new york. i reminded him about how he ‘sold’ it to me in the mid-70s and how i drove that little car everywhere – rain, sleet, snow or ice – and it always kept me safe. i reminded him about how my little miniature-collie-mixbreed-dog missi used to ride in the well (i could hear him laughing when i retold how she one day actually pooped in the well.) we talked about its color iterations – it was born baby blue (marina blue, they called it). somewhere along the way we had earl scheib’s paint it navy and later on down the road it was painted white, its current color. i drove it with my best friend sue back and forth to florida, a trip where she learned how to drive a stick shift. it lived in new york and then florida and then wisconsin. it’s been dragged behind tow trucks and up on flatbeds. it bowed out of the drive moving up to wisconsin, so we pulled it behind us with a tow bar. it’s had a couple engine overhauls and lots of tires. i know how to adjust the timing and the carburetor myself. i’ve played countless john denver and loggins and messina cassettes at full volume in this little car. the heat was either stuck on or stuck off. my poppo reminded me that it had 455 air conditioning – four windows open at 55mph. i drove it to get both my degrees in florida. i drove it through a drive-through to get a milkshake the day i went into labor with My Girl. it’s been around the block.
i gently washed the dirt off of my little-white-vw-bug yesterday and realized how time had flown by. i was struck by how – right now- in the middle of a pandemic and unrest – time seems to drag. both are true.
yet i know that one day, as i ponder this time – in all its dragging chaos and emotional upheaval – i will look back and realize time, precious time, was actually flying by.
i sat down on the rusty metal bumper and missed my dad.
the chaos of irato. a passage of angry, passionate. a symphony of irate engaging us, challenging us, buckling us under in its fervor.
“take a break,” earth-the-breathless-conductor would admonish. “hold and rest,” earth-the-counselor would encourage. “slow down. be deliberate,” earth-the-sage would advise. caesura. fermata. lento.
acknowledging the rage. listening. resting in the questions. conscious mindful steps. measured decisive action. slowly leading the way with goodness.
i suspect mother earth, in its mother-earth-wisdom, would hear the symphony as transition. the space between before and after. a time of growth and change and every possible note, every possible emotion.
we listen, as earthlings, imperfect-in-every-way, and we get lost. to live in irato is uncomfortable. a cliffhanger.
but mother earth smiles. after all, she knows all about suspense and the big bang and butterflies.
i don’t know about you, but when i was little i waited with bated breath for my name to be called at the end of the romper room show. it never was.
i don’t know about you, but when i was in school i waited to be called on to teams during gym class, the teacher having chosen team ‘captains’ and those captains choosing their favorite friends, a really terrible way to divide up a class without hard feelings.
i don’t know about you, but as an earlier adult i waited to see a single song take off, an album go gold, the writing-writing-writing of a song recognized. somewhere along the way i realized the sheer folly of that and i knew it was important to be satisfied with something-of-mine that resonated with someone-out-there; it need not be monumental to be monumental.
i don’t know about you, but right now i’ve been waiting to go places. i haven’t yet gotten my hair cut or gone clothes shopping or been out to a restaurant. i haven’t gone to the bank or a pub or even a starbucks. i haven’t ordered out or picked up or sat curbside waiting for, well, anything.
i don’t know about you, but i am still impatiently waiting to see my children. a city away seems, hopefully, doable in the near future but a trip to the high mountains requires a bit more detail, a bit more planning, a need for precautions and safety-taking.
i don’t know about you, but it all feels like we are on hold. like we have dialed in and are listening to the interminable muzak-music but, with too much invested, can’t hang up.
we feel like we are looking at life from the inside out. we are waiting.
we feel like we are looking at life from the inside out. and we are watching.
we are watching others move freely about in the world and we wonder – are we the weirdos here? we are watching the disparity between what people say and what people do – those who want to be perceived as covid-safety-savvy but are out tooling around. we are watching the restlessness and the dismissiveness of a pandemic-weary-world. we are also watching anxiety and confusion increase, sleep eluding us, plans in disarray – sub-themes of future covid-19 movies.
and yet, we hesitate. to resume normal.
because these times are not normal.
so we take a bit more time to peer through the magic mirror, look out from in, and romper-bomper-stomper-boo wait. just a little bit longer.
short attention spans. we americans seem to have eclipsed the rest of the world with these. we are a newsclip-sitcom-youtube-radio-cut-text-tweet-snap-insta society; often anything less than fast-paced will bore the viewer-reader-listener. we have reduced lengthy research to reading cliff notes and have lost interest in the documentary series in favor of the 22 minute-plus-commercials sitcom.
enter a global pandemic. three months now, we don’t have to go far to see that the novelty has worn off. just down along the harbor, up on the sidewalk tables, in the stores and the bars with doors swung wide open, it’s as if it no longer exists. pandemic-shmandemic. the attentiveness of many has been worn down; it is no longer possible for what-seems a vast majority to pay attention. they have moved on. the fire of fear and, thus, responsibility has reduced to a flicker.
we watch crowded streets with people protesting, begging for change, asking for the country to turn around and face itself and the underlying racism that has prevailed for centuries. we march, we chant, we write, we listen to speakers, we read books. it is the latest in the viewfinder for america. it is three weeks now. there is action. can we keep this necessary fire of change lit?
masks-and-distance-for-protection-of-all, action-and-change-for-equity-of-all, step-by-step, learning-by-learning. we all have to stoke the flames of transformation and push back against the ever-inviting-lazy-attention-lost backslide into complacency.
“and let us not stop learnin’. we can help one another be strong. let us never lose our yearnin’ to keep the fire burnin'” (reo speedwagon)
i am imploring you to help keep my beloved daughter safe.
please.
enlightenment comes through unexpected channels sometimes. this morning i read a post by a brilliant woman who was my piano student 40 years ago. she forwarded a writing by a young woman who is a server in a restaurant who detailed her experiences in just one of her shifts.
it’s bracing.
my friend-who-was-my-former-piano-student prefaced it with this: “I know it will feel so good to feel normal again and go out to dinner. But please, read this WHOLE DAMN THING before you do. You BETTER tip your server like they are risking their life to bring you a drink, because they f*ing are.”
the server wears a mask and gloves, carries sanitizer with her to work, stands back 6 feet from her guests at the tables in the restaurant. the guests? they remove their masks, which were required to enter, as soon as they sit down and never put them back on, even while ordering, even while their server is present. it is cavalier at its best. her safety is compromised over and over, at every breath, and she is painfully aware, as you read in her candid outpouring.
is the safety of this server any less important than your own? is she dispensable? is your dining-out experience so important you cannot sacrifice a bit of comfort? where has this message of it-doesn’t-matter-if-we-protect-each-other come from? hmmm. let me think. might it be that the “leadership” of this country has made it a fashion faux pas to wear a mask? might it be that the “leadership” of this country has made it seem unnecessary to protect each other? might it be that the “leadership” of this country thinks everyone’s breath doesn’t matter? might it be that the “leadership” of this country doesn’t really give a flying flip about the populace of this country? if i sound pissed, it’s because i am. enough already.
where do you stand?
i, for one, was breathless when i read the detailed narrative of this young woman’s shift. with angry and worried tears in my eyes, i read it aloud to david. i would love to read it aloud to you.
an expert at piecing-it-together during off-peak, My Girl, among other things, bartends and serves. she busts her butt working hard in high mountain towns, waiting on tourists and locals alike. she is a hard worker at everything she does and i have sat on her barstools watching her move in blurrying pace getting it done. the last thing i want to have to worry about in the middle of this pandemic as it actually continues, despite the “leadership” and a percentage of the country’s population ignoring its steady presence, is whether or not the people who are sitting on those barstools or at the tables in her restaurant are (with sarcastic voice) oh-so-tediously pulling up a mask when they are breathing at my daughter. i want to assume that they are. i want to assume that the meager income she is hour-after-hour-after-hour trying to earn will not be dangerous for her. i want to assume that the people who have chosen to go out, have a few drinks, eat a nice meal prepared by a chef, will generously, even at least appropriately, tip her. i want to assume good although i fear selfish, unconcerned indifference.
the server ends her writing with a plea: “For the love of god..if you go out to eat please please please pull up your mask for the few minutes that your server is at your table. Why are you not already doing this?? And oh my god..tip your server like that burrito you are eating may cost them their life…”
have you gone out to dinner? have you gone out for drinks? did you ecstatically plan your outfit and put on your favorite shoes? did you make reservations at your favorite restaurant? did you pile into your favorite downtown bar? did you wear a mask? did you even bring a mask? or did you leave your mask at home because it’s not mandated by the local, state or federal government? does respect have to be mandated? does protecting each other have to be mandated? can we choose respect and protection regardless? there is still a global pandemic. can we connect the dots? can we think???
WILL you be going out to dinner? out for drinks? will you wear a mask? will you carefully protect every breath of your server – someone’s daughter, son, mother, father, sister, brother, spouse, best friend, caregiver? will you recognize their safety? will you tip them for risking their life to bring you your margarita? will you protect the others inside the restaurant or bar? will you give a flying flip?
“E-N-O-B,” we spell aloud when we are thinking about giving dogga a new b-o-n-e but don’t want him to know it, because he has learned what a “B-O-N-E” is. the vocabulary of these sweet pets is astounding, considering, well, everything.
i remember spelling words around my children when they were little. they were fast to learn, so this trick didn’t last too long. we were careful to not ‘cuss’ around them or say things that were foul. we knew they were little sponges; we didn’t want them mimicking that kind of disrespect. the time beth reported to me that The Boy, a toddler, said a swear word, i was mortified. it was both funny in a he’s-a-toddler-and-has-no-idea kind of way and stunning that he had picked up a word somewhere we had been so careful not to use.
so when i drive down the street and see bumper stickers that say “f**k you” or “trigger happy” or flags flying in someone’s yard stating “no more bulls**t”, it confounds me. “small children can READ,” i think, while picturing My Girl or My Boy sounding these out from their booster seats.
i wonder what these people are thinking. did they think at all? did they hesitate for even an instant when they hoisted up the flag or peeled the backing off the vinyl? did they think about their children, other people’s children, their parents, their grandparents? did it occur to them that, although we are all entitled to our opinion, we also have a responsibility to decency in community? what carseat ride taught them this lack of couth, lack of regard of respectfulness.
and then i wonder, if i stopped and spoke to the person in the driveway with the crudely-stickered-vehicle or along the sidewalk of the flag-flying-house, if i maybe asked “why?”, would that person apathetically stare at me and sneer, “pretend that i care!”
change is imminent. we can feel its rumblings. we try to tether to something solid, something reassuring. as when fierce winds swirl around us in the woods, we scan the limbs of trees above us, waiting for the inevitable crashing-down-bow. we are unsure. we are afraid.
because change is here. we sense it all around us; we know things will not stay the same. they cannot. for this time is a time of transformation. the transition time will be full of the unknown. the re-shaping will be disorienting. we are agnostic. we are nervous.
because change is like that. it undermines our normal, throws our predictable into a frenzy, propels us past the lines we color in. it’s a metamorphosis like a kaleidoscope, ever-different, ever-rearranging. it pulls, it pushes. we resist. we dig in. we argue with the wind till we are hoarse and weary.
because change makes us fearful. we ask for guarantees that this evolution will be better, that we will feel settled in it, that it will improve things. but life comes with no guarantees and there are few among us who have not heard the words of nelson mandela: “courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. the brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”
and change delivers. courage shows up and partners with strength and perseverance. belief peers from around the corner. and hands reach out to us. we see we are, indeed, not alone. we step. and step again.
and we learn to know: love > fear.
we look change in the face and say, “ok. let’s do this.”
the photograph for this post is taken of a shirt i purchased in a tiny magical bookstore on washington island. it is available – click here or on the photo above – if you would like to virtually visit fair isle books and order one in long or short sleeve for yourself or as a gift.
we put out a different water bowl in the kitchen for dogdog and babycat. neither one of them will drink from the bowl. we put their old water bowl in the next room, filled with water, so that they will be able to hydrate, but we were hoping that they would adjust to the new one. neither one of them will drink from the bowl. in the world they inhabit, one that must have low level anxiety frequencies they can feel from the-whole-outside-world, they do not like change. it’s been days and neither one will drink from the bowl.
“what now?”
in the past months and in what now feels like a broken world, we can face forward. we can set intentions and take one baby step at a time, all in unequivocal love of all humankind. we can be light for each other and we can hold fear tenderly. we can look newness of change eye to eye as we learn, challenge the status quo, embrace compassion and principle and stride confidently into a new time.
we can sit by the new bowl, encourage our dog and cat to drink from it, recognize their fear of the unknown, of change, and just love them.
ella jones said that it’s a time to “have courageous conversations.” she is the first black mayor of ferguson, missouri and, as i listened to her speak, i wrote down these words.
have courageous conversations.
senator lisa murkowski, a republican from alaska, said, “perhaps we are getting to a point where we can be more honest with the concerns that we might hold internally and have the courage of our own convictions to speak up.” i read her words, thought “it’s about damn time!” and took a screenshot.
the courage of our own convictions to speak up.
former president barack obama addressed a virtual town hall. “every step of progress in this country, every expansion of freedom, every expression of our deepest ideals has been won through efforts that made the status quo uncomfortable,” he reassured a trembling nation. i looked for these words so that i could remember them.
the expression of our deepest ideals. uncomfortable.
as we all sit together, walk together, protest together, cry together, we are talking together. in the last ten days of enlightenment, our conversations are asking necessary questions. we are desperately seeking to reach way down inside and to be honest about what we are feeling. we are intentionally trying to learn, to discern, to understand. we are debating. we are arguing. we are admitting we are wrong. we are listening. we are uncomfortable and we are courageous.
yet donald trump tweeted a letter, in a clear display of vehement agreement with the writer who penned it, his attorney, that refers to the peaceful protestors as “terrorists”.
but there’s this: “congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”
and there’s hope. absolute hope. we can’t un-know what we know, un-see what we have seen, un-hear what we have heard, un-change what has changed, un-understand what we are beginning to, yearning to, understand, or un-hope for hope.
