Great Starts...

The coyotes were restless last night...

Doesn't that sound like a great opening line to a fiction story?

It's not. It's just a stated fact. I didn't sleep well last night because the coyotes woke me up. When they get together in a pack (not always the case, coyotes hunt on their own quite a bit, they are more scavenger than pack hunter) they yip and cry and carry on. It's eerie.

Wolves howl. It's primal and will raise the hairs on the back of your neck a little. It's also kind of deep and vibrates in your chest a bit. Scary. But in that portion of your brain that understands hunters and hunted.

Coyotes? They scream. And cry. And sound like angry toddlers. Or banshees. They raise the hair on the back of your neck and on your arms and make your stomach kind of twist. Because you aren't sure if you should be scared or should try to help. If they are dangerous or in danger. If they are natural or supernatural.

The coyotes were restless last night...

I think it will be a start to a fiction story at some point. Because I love a good opening line.

Re-reading all of my old blogs has shown me that. Opening lines are most often the inspiration (or excuse) for the entire rest of the story. I like them so much that probably 60% of my stories open and close with the same line.

I love a good open and I love a call back.

Quite often what's in the middle is just a way to get there.

But anyway, last night the coyotes woke me up. I didn't check the time. I don't have a bedside clock. We use our phones for alarms so no need for one. And it's part of not fighting insomnia. If you have a clock you are tempted to just do the math all night. If I get to sleep right now I will get 6 hours of sleep...okay if I get to sleep now I will get 5 hours of sleep...oh my god if I fall asleep right now I will only get 4 hours of sleep... So I never check the time. I just relax and try to get back to sleep or at least to that zone of relaxation.

Last night I was having a harder time getting back to relaxed. Like I said, the coyotes were restless. It's hard to relax and go back to sleep when hell demons are outside your window calling for lost souls.

So instead I started thinking about my life over the past few years. Specifically that I have a written record of what I was thinking at certain times. What I believed. What was really going on in my head. Because (and there are scientific studies to back me up here) we are not actually reliable witnesses to our own past beliefs. We often think we have ALWAYS thought one way when we in fact held opposite views at one point.

I've talked about it before and I'm not bad at it for the most part. I know what I've always believed and know what I used to believe but don't anymore. The things I feel the strongest about I haven't shifted on. Some other things I have, but I've also talked about those and why I've shifted. I also believe that as we age we become more and more distilled versions of who we really are. We tend to shed things that we didn't really hold that tightly to. There are areas that I used to be more willing to bend in, opinions that I didn't hold myself but didn't view as being that bad that I now look at and think, nope. Now I'm not as sure if that's just me changing or if it's the world has shifted and now I see where certain paths lead.

I'm not as willing to keep my politics on my blog and then only sometimes, only for big issues, and not on my Facebook page. In the beginning of my time of Facebook (from reading my blog I can see this) I actually worked really hard at keeping my political opinions off of there and keeping them only here. That isn't the case anymore. Now I feel that it's important to make clear what I do and do not believe and why. I think it's a mistake to stay silent when people are saying things that are wrong, factually or morally. Who knows if in ten years I will feel the same way or think this was a mistake. But for right now I feel like we need to have discussions, and we need to see reasonable people make arguments and we need to see that we are not alone in our opinions so we can gain strength from that. (I also know that there are people who do not feel that I am reasonable or have shareable opinions.)

So as I was contemplating the changes in my own opinions over the years and where I am right now the coyotes were screaming outside the window. And I wondered to myself, Where are we? As a country and as a world where are we right now? There is a lot of divide. There is a lot of hypocrisy. There is denial of science, of facts. In the United State we have a president who constantly lies and his base tries to sweep it away by claiming that the media is biased by reporting that he constantly lies. We have divisions on gender, on color, on everything really. We are all very cemented in our opinions and think those that disagree with us are idiots.

"Don't tell me you honestly believe...."

That's how one comment started on a post I made the other day.  Don't tell me you honestly believe... I've written about this before. Of course I honestly believe that or I wouldn't have posted it. Don't be stupid and don't ever presume that I am.

I'm a happy person by nature. My baseline is happy. Most of my day I'm smiling or laughing about something. And yet, there is a rage that is just under the surface a lot of the time now. Now part of that is menopause. I will be honest here, if hot flashes were heat rays the whole world would burn...but it's also the feeling that the world is out of control. That important things are being dismissed. That the wrong things are being thought valuable. That we are in dangerous times and not enough people are listening. And those of us that are concerned are being dismissed. Pushed aside. Even though our numbers are strong and high, the systems are rigged and so we keep having to push and then get criticized for pushing. It leads to that slow burn anger being right there. All the time.

So sleep was difficult.

The coyotes were restless last night...

The Company You Keep...

Part One

William folded the picture up and started to put it back in his wallet. He paused thinking that he really should just throw it out. Forget about her. If his Commander saw that he carried a picture of her he might get the wrong idea.

It wasn't the first time he had contemplated this. He put the picture back in his wallet. It wouldn't be the last.

He stared at the ceiling in the little bedroom he was currently not sleeping in. Remembering their last morning together. He had been so excited to get started. To really make a difference.

"It's not going to be what you think."

She had told him this before. He wanted to steer the conversation away from the topic. He was worried about what she might say. He was worried someone might overhear. His regiment was packing up supplies, getting ready to leave. But she was talking and he didn't want her to stop either. He didn't know how long it would be before they would come back here. 

"You haven't been out there either. It might be exactly what I think. You could be wrong."

She gave him the don't be an idiot look again then rubbed her shaved head. "I have a good idea what it's like out there. I have a better idea what it's like here. I'm not blinded by some sort of misplaced patriotism."

"Patriotism is never misplaced." He puffed up a bit at the suggestion. 

"So noble. So honorable. That will change."

"I will always be honorable!" He really was starting to get insulted now. 

"I know you think that. But as you sit here eating breakfast your friends are stealing everything that isn't nailed down. What are you going to leave me with? No food, that's for sure."

"They are packing supplies, they aren't stealing!"

"Supplies? They are my things. They are taking my things."

"You will get reimbursed by the Army for anything that is requisitioned."

She laughed her bitter laugh. "Do you still believe that? Oh, William, you are naive."

She walked to the table and leaned close to him and whispered in his ear, "There are things that can never be repaid. There are things that once stolen can never be returned. You are going to have choices to make once you're out there. Make the right ones."

Then she walked out of the kitchen and in to the yard where his Commander was working with a group to round up the chickens to take with them. If they would lay eggs while they were in transit that would be best but if not they could kill them and have meat for dinner. William watched from the window as she strode out in to the yard. She walked up behind one of the men that had been sharing the house with them. One that William had never liked. He was the type to take things that weren't his to take, and to leave bruises on white skin that couldn't be ignored. As she neared him William saw a flash of silver in her hand. He could have shouted out a warning right then but didn't. He tried later to tell himself that he hadn't known what she was going to do but that wasn't honorable. He couldn't lie even to himself.

But he never told anyone else that he had seen it coming. He wasn't that stupid. 

She plunged the knife into his brain. Targeting the small vulnerable spot at the back of his neck. It was fast. Up and in. He dropped without a sound. Then she had turned and opened her arms to his Commander, "Fuck you." Those were her last words. He shot her at least 8 times. It wasn't quick and clean. She had been better than them all the way to the end. 

That had been two years ago. 

William had done and seen a lot since then. 

It's why he couldn't always sleep. 

The room was starting to fill with sunlight. He didn't want to look at the floor. He wanted to keep looking at the ceiling. He wanted to keep replaying the memories of her cooking him breakfast. He wanted to go back in time and listen to her about leaving. He wanted to talk her into going with him. Smuggling her out from behind the fence. Living a life where she could grow her hair back or get another tattoo or cook like she loved to...

He looked at the floor. At the stain where the blood had pooled. He didn't want to think about that. 

"Gosser! You're smaller than me, go see if you can reach her."

His friends, as she had always called them and now he even thought of them that way, had been laughing and joking outside the door to the room. They had stopped at this house not expecting to find it occupied. Most people moved on if they knew the 2nd was on the march. But sometimes they didn't. Then they would hide. Sometimes that worked. If they were only looking for supplies they would sometimes pretend they didn't see anyone. But if they were looking for other things...

William had gone into the room and looked around. He could hear her breathing. She was trying to be quiet but the panic had set in so each breath was a quiet whimper. She had to be under the bed. It was a small bed, low to the ground. They could have lifted it off of her maybe but it would be easier for him to slide under there and just drag her out. His friends closed the door to make sure she couldn't run once he got her out. 

He grabbed her arm and drug her across the floor to the middle of the room, she blinked up at him, the fear turning to confusion, "Billy?"

He hadn't been called Billy in a long time. It was familiar, but not him, not anymore. 

"Billy? It's you, isn't it? It's me, Suzanne. From Mrs. Springfield's class. Remember? We sat next to each other..." She trailed off and then shook her head. Remembering where they were. Who they were. Just how far away Mrs. Springfield's third grade class really was.

William stared at her. "Suzanne. Yeah. I remember you." And he did. She had always been so nice to everyone. One of those people who even in the third grade didn't give in to bullying the weird kids. She never made fun of the quiet boy who just liked to listen to people talk.

There was a bang on the door, "Did you get her Gosser?? Save some for the rest of us!"

Suzanne closed her eyes as her body shook with fear. "Billy..."

"I'm sorry." He reached up and scratched his own face, then yelled as he shot her.

The door slammed open as he stood over the bleeding out body. "Crazy bitch attacked me."

"Ah shit...well that's no fun."

They drug her out into the yard and burned her on the trash pile. 

He slept in her room that night. Spoils of war. 

He put his hand over his wallet, making sure it, and everything it contained, was secure in his pocket. She had been right.

It wasn't what he thought it would be. He thought he had made the right choice though. The honorable one. What would she have thought?

He heard her voice in his head,

"Fuck you."

Useful Idiots...

While she was dressing to go out she had the news on in the background.

The newscaster's face held in what she thought of us "interested listening" pose. But she could see in her eyes the reflections of "why are we listening to this crap?" Or maybe it was her own reflection she was seeing.

Though she knew why she was listening to that crap. Useful idiots. 

Every movement has them. The ones that are sent out, or set up, to spread a certain message. To either take the heat away from what is really going on, or to move the needle with the "invisible hand."

The woman on the news program was a useful idiot. 

She had no idea that's what she was. She was truly sincere in what she was saying. That's the only way it worked. But she still was what she was. She was there to talk about the offensive Halloween costumes that they saw every year. Horrible things. Pushing outdated and incorrect ideas. The newscaster was wondering why she always got stuck with these interviews. 

Useful idiots. 

The nonexistent War On Christmas was fully manned by useful idiots. The first seedings in of them had started years ago but they were having a difficult time reaching full potential for awhile. They (them, the big THEY) had really hit the bonanza when that talking head idiot started making it a centerpiece of his show every year. THE WAR ON CHRISTMAS! It was good marketing. You saw the shift from people being a little put out that stores started hitting them up for Christmas dollars in November to being able to shame anyone who said anything about it when they went up in October. 

How dare you! You are part of the WAR ON CHRISTMAS! 

So they won a nonexistent War on Christmas. And now you were expected to shop for decorations right after you got the kids off to school in September; to plan your gift list, get your matching pajamas, buy the food that will cost you the entire rest of the year budget all to show that you were not part of the WAR ON CHRISTMAS!

The only misstep they had was in trying to take over Thanksgiving as well. More and more stores opened for the day. And earlier and earlier. They were really close to getting all of the calendar between October and December but then...well...the whispers started. "It's the liberals, trying to take away Thanksgiving with their revisionist history." "You know how they are, they don't want us saying grace around the Thanksgiving table. They'd rather we all be shopping! HOW DARE THEY!"

That's the problem with useful idiots, they are useful, but they are still idiots.  So Thanksgiving went back to being a day off. A Fall colored island in a sea of red and green. But just that one day.

They'd try again later. Of that she was sure. 

She had history on her side after all. 

Listening to the woman on the news talk about ancient religions and peace with nature she nodded. 

The first time they had tried to create a diversion it had been like the Thanksgiving debacle, really. Okay, maybe it was worse. She didn't really feel badly about it. It wasn't her. It was history. She only used they because it was her ancestors. So really it wasn't a we sort of they it was a them sort of they. That's what she told herself.

But basically they had been too successful. And then there had been backlash. 

"...we don't wear ridiculous pointed hats, or fly around on brooms..."

So Salem had been a low point in her family history. Who knew that the reaction would be so strong? Sure, looking back it was clear that old superstitions would lead to violence, but at the time? She had to think that her ancestors were just trying to show it was all very silly business and nothing they should even pay attention to. Little girls playing pretend games. But then crops failed (not unusual, crops fail all the time) and people got sick (again, not unusual) and people started to doubt that praying to their God was doing any good. So they found scapegoats. So many scapegoats. Beyond the two useful idiots that had been part of the original plan. Over 200 in the end with 20 dead...

She shivered a little then. 

"...it's very unpleasant to see your culture maligned with silly hats and warty noses..."

So it was a few years later, quite a few years later, before they tried again. And now they had groups all over the world. Women and men who would go on news programs and talk about the ancient Wiccan religion and how it had absolutely nothing to do with story book witches! They were very convincing. As they should be considering they really believed what they were saying. They were a good distraction. 

She opened the hall closet and grabbed her hat and her broom. She needed to pick up a little eye of newt before she could finish her latest brew. There was a weather system coming in that was going to be bad, very bad. She needed to do what she could to make it less so. To provide the "miracles" that always came after such storms. The world needed witches.

And useful idiots. 

I'm Not a Pacifist...

I don't take a lot of shit.

I don't put up with a lot of nonsense.

I have no truck with fools.

I'm not a bystander by nature.

You all know that.

When you are hit in the face you see stars. Mostly nose hits do that. A solid jaw hit can actually drop you unconscious because of the nerve that runs along there. But nose hits, cheek bone hits, those can make you wish you were dropped they hurt so much. Eye sockets? Fragile things. Even if the orbital bone doesn't break the eye swells easily. Nature's way of protecting the eye from damage. Pretty genius really.

If you hit someone in the face your hand hurts. If you hit them hard enough your whole arm feels it. Your hand is solid. The bone you are hitting is solid. The impact stops the momentum so all of the energy has to go someplace.

That funny shot in a movie where someone who has clearly never hit anyone before shakes their hand out? That's real. It's a shock. You don't think you should hurt. You are the one hitting after all.

If you have never been hit at all, let alone in the face, the first time it happens is a shock.

If you are lucky and you get hit in the face, it is the only time you are ever hit in the face.

But if you have been hit in the face, or hit a few faces yourself, you know what it feels like and what to expect. So you are prepared when you might get into an altercation.

I think there are violent people in this world and nonviolent people.

I also think that violent people can learn to curb their violence and nonviolent people can be pushed to violence.

But there is a divide. Even people who have worked very hard at curbing their tendencies can feel it sometimes.

The itch in your hand that creeps along. That makes you feel your fist curling. Or maybe the itch is your subconscious trying to get you to uncurl your fist. I'm not sure.

Saturday before the game we were eating dinner, watching football, and wasting time at BWW. The table behind us had 4, (maybe 4, I didn't turn and look, not by choice, we'll get there) guys watching games. They had been drinking for awhile. Loud. Obnoxious. Told the waitress to smile. Which sets my jaw. Her facial expression is none of your goddamn business...

That was the first time Brent leaned over and put his hand on my knee.

See, Brent knows that if I lose my cool it's not good for anyone around. So he works as my Jiminy Cricket. And as everyone else's protector. Because first I'm going to say something, then I'm going to do something. Jiminy reminds me that's not the right thing to do.

They kept up the "banter" with other fans in the bar. And by banter I mean screaming at them about their team choice. Now, here is where I have to say, as much as I swear and as much as I don't give a fuck about good words and bad words I also don't like it when people swear loudly when kids are around. You don't know how those kids are being raised. You have no idea what their families are like. So watch your mouth. It's just common fucking decency...

Brent's hand on my knee again.

And then one of them started peppering in the gay slurs. The f word that I don't use. Ever. The one that I even have a hard time with hearing my gay friends use as they try to reclaim it. Because of assholes like this one, who use it as a slur. As a slam to insinuate that teams, coaches, players are somehow less than.

And now I'm not even supposed to turn around. Brent is holding eye contact with me, and his hand is firmly on my leg. Because I'm going to lose it. And if I turn around they are going to read it in my face and as soon as they say anything I will be off.

I am not a bystander by nature.

BUT...

I'm there with Brent and with Christopher.

I was raised around assholes like the dude at the table behind me.

The type that get drunk and obnoxious and use the f word as a slur.

I know that the moment I unleash on them, they will want a fight and they won't be coming after me.

Because that wouldn't be the "manly" thing to do.

And as there are three of us at that table. And as there is one of us who can tell you what it feels like to punch and be punched and still come up for more and as I love the other two people and have no urge to drag them in to my fight even though they are pretty big guys and most likely could handle themselves, as I believe even nonviolent people can be pushed...but I don't want to push the nonviolent people in my life so...

I had to remain quiet.

And it still pisses me off.

It was the safest call to make.

On one hand it was the right call to make.

The unclenched fist hand.

If I had been there by myself I would have said something.

That's the other hand. The clenched one.

Which is slightly insane, I get that. There were 4 (?) of them and one of me.

But as Brent put it as we walked away they would have been shocked that the one they needed to worry about was the one they wouldn't have been worried about at all. Until they realized their mistake.

Because I have no quit when that is flipped.

And, as Brent also said, they wouldn't have understood what I was telling them when I explained why what they were doing was offensive and they needed to knock it off.

Their ignorance radiated off of them.

Just like my anger radiated off of me.

Brent is a good man for a fighter with no quit to be married to. When he sees the rise, he puts his hand on my knee and makes me consider the consequences.

I fucking hate considering the consequences.

When you hit someone your hand hurts.

When you don't your conscious does.

I'm not a pacifist by nature.

Breakfast...

William couldn't fall asleep. He was cold and hungry and the bed he was sleeping in was too small for his 6'5" frame. He knew he should be glad to have a bed, the week before had been spent camping out on cold, hard, ground but the bed wasn't much better really. And the house was only marginally warmer.

He tossed and turned for a while longer before giving up. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a folded picture. She was smiling. Radiant. Happy. He closed his eyes and pulled up some of his most worn memories. The ones that would have fold marks like the picture, fuzzy edges from being held too often, looked at too much. The ones that got him through the cold, uncomfortable nights. The ones that helped him forget the day.

She was cooking breakfast. Eggs. The chickens in the yard were still laying plenty of eggs. And even though he knew they would be either over cooked or underdone he was still looking forward to a warm breakfast to start the day. She was also terrible at making coffee. It was going to be bitter, watered down, burnt or cold. Never could predict how it would be bad, but it was going to be bad.

She was lousy at cooking. But she was great at making conversation. She always gave him something to think about.

"How did you get that scar?" William asked.

Her hand reached up to the side of her head, fingers caressing the raised and puckered skin. "It was a tattoo."

"Did it get infected or something?"

She had laughed. That bitter laugh that he would replay in his head over and over again, trying to hear the joyful laugh inside of it. "No. They cut it out of my skin."

He had looked shocked. He had been shocked. He could still be shocked in those days. "Who cut it out?"

She had turned and looked at him. What he thought of as her "don't be an idiot" look. "When they shaved my head they saw the tattoo so they cut it out."

"Why?"

"Because you can't shame someone who has chosen to be that way."

He didn't understand what she was saying. That was probably why she often gave him that don't be an idiot look.

She sighed, "They shaved my head to shame me. To make me look less than. To make me unattractive. But the tattoo shows that this is not the first time my head has been shaved. That at some point I chose to shave my head. I chose to be bald. I chose to decorate my bare scalp in celebration of my baldness. Shaving my head to shame me doesn't work if it reveals I am not ashamed."

"What was the tattoo?" He wanted to picture her from before. What would she have gotten a tattoo of?

"It was a rose." Her fingers traced the scar again. "My sister and I got them together."

"Why?"

"My mother had cancer."

He started to say he was sorry and she raised her hand to stop him. "Don't do that. Don't tell me how sorry you are for my loss. Just don't."

She turned back to the stove and then kept talking, "When she lost her hair my sister, my aunt, and I all shaved our heads as well. When the doctors told us that the treatment wasn't going to work my sister and I shaved them again and got roses tattooed on our scalps. Her name was Rose."

She kept her back to him. He didn't say anything. But he remembered watching her touch the scar and thought about it a lot. How it must feel. That raised and puckered skin. How it must feel to her, to have lost that piece that connected her to her mother and to her sister. He ate his overcooked eggs and drank his watered down coffee.

Another morning a few weeks later they were talking about movies.

She was cooking again. He was waiting for breakfast. The house was warm and cozy. And she was talking more than normal which made it even better.

"Is it a reflection of society or was society shaped by its reflection?"

"It's just a story."

"It's just a story that is told over and over again. So is it just a story at that point or is it a blueprint?"

He was lost again but he didn't want her to stop talking. "It's not even that common of a story."

She shook her head, "Really? It's not? If you have a strong woman in a movie how do you show her vulnerability? She's raped. Or you say she had been raped and that's what made her tough. If you have a man that you need to spur into action how do you do it? You rape the woman he's closest to. Rape has been used as a plot device since stories have been told. Is it because rape has always been used as a weapon, or is that rape is now used as a weapon because we've seen it so many times in our stories?"

"But the stories show how awful it is, so maybe it's a lesson."

"Does it really show that? If the outcome is that the hero is heroic, that the woman is stronger than she knew, or more vulnerable than she was before, is it really showing that it's awful? Or is it giving permission to use it as needed?"

"I think it's awful."

She nodded then shrugged her shoulders. Placing his plate of runny eggs in front of him he noticed the line of bruises around her wrist. He didn't ask where she got them.

A week or so later she was cracking eggs getting about half of the shells in the mix.

"Are you from here originally?"

"Yeah. Born and raised. I left for college but I came back."

"I'm..."

She cut him off, "You are from some quiet suburb someplace. Not quite a city boy, but not really one of the country kids either. In the middle."

"How do you know that?"

"Your accent for one. Your friends all have country accents. You don't."

She always called them his friends. He had corrected her a few times, they weren't his friends, they were part of his regiment, but not really friends. She had just shaken her head and said they weren't hers and yet here they were so they must be his. He had stopped arguing.

"My accent gives me away?"

"And your manners."

He pulled his elbows off the table quickly.

"Not manners like that. Manners like mannerisms I guess. You approach the world a little differently."

"So do you, but you were raised here."

"But I left and came back. I saw other ways to be. I'm from here, but not all here." She laughed her bitter laugh again.

"Why do you talk to me and not anyone else?" His friends as she called them always said it was weird that she never spoke. But they were never here for breakfast.

"Because you listen. Because I want you to hear me."

A few weeks later her jaw had a dark black bruise lining it.

They were talking about the 2nds. They were moving out soon and he was excited.

"It's not going to be fun, you know." She never really talked about what he was going to do. This was new.

"Well, no it's not supposed to be fun. It's important though. We have to make things right."

She laughed, "Right. Sure."

"What are you going to do when we leave?"

"Same as I'm doing now, I guess. Wait for one of you to be smart enough to kill me."

He laughed. She had to be joking. "Why would any of us kill you? We aren't killers."

She nodded. "It's not going to be like you think out there."

He was frustrated. She didn't know anything. She had been a subversive. That's why her head was shaved. To show that she wasn't really one of them. He shouldn't have let himself forget that.

"We are defending The Constitution. We are the 2nds!"

"You should have read it before you decided to defend it. Did you know there are other amendments after the 2nd? The 3rd would be interesting to you I would think."

He was mad and wanted to give her a smart answer about defending all of the amendments, but he knew it had to be a trap. He had no idea what the third amendment even said. But she wouldn't have brought it up if she didn't have a point. She always made him think.

"Why are you waiting for one of us to kill you? Why haven't you just killed yourself?" Even as he said it he regretted it. Kill yourself was not what he wanted to say. He was going to take it back, but then she answered.

"I did. A long time ago."

"What?"

"When I decided to stay when all of my friends where moving away. When I made the choice to help others get out. I knew the risk. I told myself it was like my mother's cancer. I was going to die anyway but I could help. I sent people to the city. As many as I could. When the fence was electrified and the gate locked I knew it was too late. It was like the cancer had spread. When they shaved my head and cut out my tattoo. When they put in the tracker. When they forced me to open my doors to you and your friends. This will kill me. Eventually. I made that choice."

"You don't have to be like that."

She smiled at him. "I do. You don't though. You have a choice still. You could walk away. Once you are on the other side of that fence, you could just walk away. Your accent would protect you."

He felt the eggs churning in his stomach. She was trying to get him to desert. That was treason. She could be shot. She would be shot. He could shoot her right now and it would be legal.

He didn't.

His commander did.

Going through the house before they left he found the picture. It was of her standing with friends around a table filled with food, she was wearing a chef's hat and an apron with the name of her catering company on the front.

She had been an excellent cook.

Bad Influence...

Sometimes I wonder what my parents were thinking when they raised me.

I'm pretty positive my siblings always wonder what they were thinking.

I've talked about it before. They raised me to question things. To never just take a straight answer. To keep asking questions until I got an answer I was satisfied with. And I will be honest I am always more satisfied with "I don't know" than I am "Because that's the way it is." I don't know is a perfectly valid response. Because that's the way it is is a cop out and means you have never thought about it.

So I question things. And I have talked about the fact that the first two big things I questioned were their religious beliefs and then their politics. And I didn't stay with their choices. The answers didn't make sense to me.

I was raised in a time and in a conservative dynamic where men and women were treated differently, they still are, that hasn't changed, I just left. Men are the teachers, the leaders, the head of the household. Women follow. It was technically what my parents preached but I never really saw it in action. Yes, I knew, theoretically that Dad was the head of the household and if he had ever come down on the opposite side of Mom in an argument he would have won. But as far as I know the only time he told my mother no was when she wanted to name me Sarah. So, yeah, theoretically I got it. But practically? Six years old sitting at the dinner table, "Dad may be the head of the family but Mom is the neck that turns the head."

Listening to an interview the other day from a woman who wrote a book about leaving the Purity movement in Evangelical churches. She talked about a story from her first experience with the Evangelical movement, it was a summer camp. One of the girls was pulled aside and chastised for answering too many questions in bible study.  She was asked how the boys must feel with her always jumping in ahead of them with the right answer. How it must make them feel less than. And honestly who was going to want to spend time with such a know it all?

This wasn't an unusual message when I was growing up.

How will the boys feel about that?

Let them go first.

Let them answer.

Be impressed with how smart they are. How fast. How strong.

Dim your light a little because they can't stand the glare.

I chafed against that, as you can all imagine. But I still tried. It was expected. I laughed at dumb jokes even when I knew they got the punchline wrong. I waited to raise my hand in class to give someone else a chance to go first. I pretended to not know or understand how to do something so a boy could teach me. It was all part of the way the world worked. Until I realized that it really didn't work for me like that.

It made me miserable.

If I'm smarter than you are and that bothers you then learn more. Or deal with it. There are three people in my little alphabet family and I am pretty sure I'm third. It's not because of my gender. It's because I like smart people so I married one, then bred with him and made a REALLY smart person. Brent, by the way, would argue with me and put me above him. Marry someone who thinks you are the best.

But anyway...I can deal with not being the smartest person in the room. But I cannot and will not act like I'm not smart so you feel better about yourself. And I absolutely won't put up with you treating me like I'm not as smart as you are because I don't have a penis.

And if you are friends with me I am going to encourage you to ask questions. To find answers that satisfy you. To understand why people are asking you to do things. Or be a certain way. Or think a certain way. I want you to question your world. Even if the first thing you question is my lack of religious beliefs and my politics. Even if you come to different conclusions than I did. I want you to question things until you are satisfied.

I'm a bad influence that way.

Lucky Lady...

She was born in the middle of a blizzard.

"How lucky!"

That's what everyone told her parents.

Even though the power went out and the hospital was understaffed and the pipes at the house froze while they were at the hospital leaving a huge mess to take care of when they came back home with a new baby in tow.

How lucky!

When she was 5 she was struck by lightning. It was a freak accident. She wasn't even outside. The bolt had hit the front porch, traveled along the rail, through the wall across the floor and into her where she sat on the floor in the living room. When she was 9 she was struck again. After the lightning rod had been put in to prevent another freak accident. So lucky! Struck twice by lightning in the same place and she was (mostly) fine!

I mean she was terrified of storms. She had not one but two burn scars on her legs where the electricity went in one side and then out the other after traveling through her body, stopping her heart on the way through. But, as luck would have it, both times she had been with someone who knew CPR and got it started again.

Really lucky!

Her first date with Gary had been a picnic on the beach. So sweet. It was going really well and then the seagull pooped on her head. So much poop. So much digested fish-smelling poop. "Oh my gosh! That's such good luck!" That's what everyone told her. Except for, you know, Gary, who threw up when it happened. And how could she blame him really? It was not a good smell. It wasn't a good feeling either. Warm. Wet. Smelly. But it did free up Gary to date Susan and their marriage seemed really happy.

Such good luck!

It rained on her wedding day. "Best luck ever!" That's what everyone said. Rain on a wedding day was lucky weather.

Even though the reception hall flooded and a lot of their gifts were ruined and the cake disintegrated. And her parents fought with the caterers and the caterers fought with the rental hall and everyone was yelling at everyone else and the rain just kept falling. It was so lucky.

Best luck ever!

When the crickets invaded the basement of their new house everyone said, "Crickets are good luck!" So much good luck. You couldn't walk without wading through all that luck. "You can't call an exterminator! Killing a cricket in your house is bad luck!" Living with a basement full of crickets wasn't great luck either. For four years they did everything they could to get rid of the crickets.

She saw a shooting star. "Make a wish! It's good luck!"

So she did.

The house burned down. The crickets had ruined the wiring. That had been her wish, to get rid of the crickets, she should have been more specific.

Nobody was home when it burned.

That is fantastic luck.

She had been traveling for work, out of town for the week. But where had he been? The house had burned overnight. Lucky that nobody was home. But why wasn't he home?

What great luck.

When she met her second husband the first thing he had asked her was, "Do you believe in luck?" She had laughed so hard she choked on the hors d'oeuvre she was eating. Luckily he knew the heimlich maneuver. He saved her life. She felt lucky.

Really lucky. For the first time. He was her luck.

Her eyes opened slowly. She listened to the hiss of the machinery around her. Then she could make out the voices in the hallway.

"It's just luck that anybody survived that accident."

"Amazing. Did you see the pictures of the car?"

"I couldn't believe it."

"Did she lose...."

"Yes, but really, with the amount of pain medication she's been on, and then being the only one to survive the accident. Really, it might just be lucky for her."

She closed her eyes again.

She had always been just so lucky.