What is a "culture warrior?"

I gather Bill O'Reilly has a new book out called, if memory serves, "Memoirs of a Culture Warrior," and I wonder, "What is he claiming to be?" So far as I know, people are warriors--meaning they're soldiers--or they have culture--meaning they value the arts and appreciate the sciences.

So far as I know, neither of these terms apply to Mr. O.

I figured I should start by trying to define the term. "Culture warrior" isn't in the dictionary, but "the culture wars" is. In the U. S. (but not in Europe or Australia), and according to no less an expert than Mr. O. himself, "the culture wars" refers to a battle between the "Secular Progressives" and the "Traditionalists."

I would certainly define myself as a "traditionalist." I think marriage is a good thing between commited adults, but not between an adult and a child, since I child can't understand the significance of what (s)he is promising to do; or between more than two people, since it is supposed to be an equal partnership, and, with more than two partners, one of them will be shortchanged. I value the teachings religious traditions, the more so as I learned how much they had in common. I appreciate our Constitution, which the authors made flexible enough to apply to many situations and even wrote in rules for alteration if and when the citizens deemed changes were necessary. While I agree with Robert E. Lee that "war is failure," I also understand that, sometimes, it's necessary.

But, according to Mr. O., I can't possibly be a "traditionalist" because I think men and women deserve equal pay for work of equal value; I appreciate the poetry of the biblical version of the creation of this world, but I know it's not the truth; I don't believe any person has the right to inflict bodily harm on another, especially if the inflictor is an adult and the victim is a child; and I believe that, since God told EVERYONE we should "feed the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick, and look after those who can't look after themselves," that is what we should be doing. Period.

And that eliminates me from the "Secular Progressive" side of Mr. O.'s war. I guess I just have to sit this one out.

Aflak Continued

I thought I'd written all there was to say about Aflak, but, as I was looking him over, the better to describe him, I was reminded of two other stories.

Aflak's head used to come off as a separate piece, but his neck is now riveted in place due to an unfortunate run in with a car which left them both in pretty rough shape.

Dad had a bad habit of laying his cane on the roof of the car when he climbed into the driver's seat. On one occasion, he left Aflak there and drove off. As he pulled out onto the street, he heard a clatter and, in the rearview mirror, saw Aflak bouncing into the middle of the street. He pulled over and was climbing out to retrieve his companion when another car came speeding up behind him. Dad was certain the driver saw Aflak and deliberately aimed the car at him, but, whatever the man's intent, run over the cane he did.

When Dad picked him up, Aflak's head had a few small holes ground into one side and was somewhat wobbly, and the lower end of the ferrule had been snapped off about four inches from the end. He looked around for the car and spotted it against the curb about half a block away. The left front tire was completely flat: Aflak's beak had torn a hole in it.

Dad's friend, Mike, replaced the broken end and soldered a brass collar around Aflak's neck. Dad didn't stay to talk to the driver, but, according to the guard at the condo gate, he'd had to call AAA to bring him a new tire.

The other story comes from Aflak's time with me.

For reasons that are too long and complicated to go into, my children's father was forced into bankruptcy not long after we divorced and I ended up paying off all his debts but the one I hadn't cosigned. That left me with a 40 % share of a small company, the other 60 % being divided between the wife and son of my ex's former business partner, hereinafter known as C. W.

C. W. went on to have an affair with his wife's best friend, his wife found out about it and started divorce proceedings. C. W. then tried to get hold of his wife's share of the business, claiming she had only been a "silent partner" and the shares were his. Asked by the lawyers for an affidavit, I said my current partners had, in fact, been the backbone of the business and their husband/father had had nothing to do with it for several years before I became involved.

C. W. called me and ordered me to "keep my nose out of his business" and, when I said, "This IS my business," told me, "You'll be sorry." He then went to my ex's disgruntled creditor and told her that our divorce was a scheme to defraud her; that my ex, in fact, had lots of money squirreled away; and that he, C. W., would be glad to testify to that effect if she--the creditor--would sue me for my share of the business and split the shares with him.

D. C. (Disgruntled Creditor) then went to her lawyer without C. W. and told him to contact me and my two partners to make the following offer: D. C. would graciously accept 25 % of my shares (10% of the business) and not sue me for the money my ex owed her. No mention of a fraudulent divorce, but lots of allegations that my ex was hiding money from me as well as her.

All this should explain why my two partners, D. C. and I were sitting in her lawyer's office with me gripping Aflak's head so tightly my fingertips had gone numb. As I listened politely to D. C. and her lawyer, I consciously relaxed my fingers, feeling Aflak's weighted head in my hand. I thought flipping him around and holding him by the ferrune and swinging him like a baseball bat. I pictured all the damage that weight could do to D. C. and her lawyer and his office, a sort of modern replay of Samson and the ass's jawbone against the Philistine army.

Then I remembered the Hollywood classic, Samson and Delilah, with a very buff, bare chested Victor Mature beating off all those heavily costumed extras, and I almost giggled. I was still angry, but I wasn't going to let them know that. I wasn't going to let them know a damned thing.

D. C. and her lawyer finally ran out of things to say, and my two partners, intelligent people that they were, knew it wasn't their place to say anything. The lawyer finally said something like, "I suggest you take some time to think about our offer," I said I would, and we left. My partners assured me that they'd stand behind anything I decided, and I told them how much I appreciated their support. And then I left.

When I got home, I called C. W., got his answering machine, and asked him why he hadn't been at the meeting. I took Aflak for a long visit with my friend, Anne, and a walk along the ocean.

A week later, when D. C. called to ask me what I had decided, I simply said, "I'm not giving you anything." She blustered and threatened to sue me, but I said "You do what you think you have to do," and hung up on her.

And that was the end of that. I still think Aflak would make an excellent substitute for that ass's jawbone.

A Cane Called "Aflak"

I first became aware of canes and the people who use them when I visited Linus in New York in the mid-80's. I was surprised to see that not just the frail elderly supported themselves on "walking sticks," but quite healthy young people as well. As Linus explained, "New Yorkers walk or take public transportation a whole lot more than the rest of the country. If you sprain your ankle, or--God forbid!--break it, you need something to help you get around while you heal."

Canes weren't always medical appliances. From the 1600's up through the early years of the 1900's, they were a gentleman's fashion accessory, constructed of fine woods and topped with handles made of precious metals. A few men carried sword canes, but an ordinary cane could do some nasty damage to an attacker's hands and head, as well as parry blows from fists, feet and various weapons.

My next experience with canes was personal, following a spectacular pratfall resulting in a twisted knee and soft tissue damage that stubbornly refused to heal. Various treatments and medications eased the hurt enough to let me sleep, but walking any distance was, quite literally, a pain. So I tried out various styles of cane--the wooden "old man's" with the curved handle that didn't fit my hand, the metal "orthopedic" that always felt too short (this in the days before someone got smart and made them adjustable). I never went as far as the "quad cane," which was taller, but, as I knew from my caregiving jobs, was a dangerous fall just waiting to happen.

And then Bernie, the male half of my favorite couple, went into a group home and was confined to a wheelchair, leaving behind a handsome oak cane inset with brass bands and a brass handle shaped like a duck's head. His wife, Mrs. K., who was left behind to clean out their apartment so she could move into an assisted living facility, didn't want or need it and gave it to me.

I carried that cane for the next two years while my knee finally gave up hurting and healed. My dear friend, Anne, once remarked that "You're the only person I know who can turn a medical appliance into a fashion statement." But this was one fashion I was more than happy to retire to the back of my closet.

Then my dad's health began to fail, due to a combination of multiple TIA's (Transient Ischemic Attacks--the so called "ministrokes" that don't leave any noticeable aftereffects), serious allergies to almost every antibiotic in the doctors' arsenal, and a missed diagnosed, bad reaction to Lipitor. He, like me, found walking difficult and the choice of canes less than satisfactory. So I offered him mine and--you'll forgive the expression--Dad took to it like a duck to water. It's longer length suited Dad's 6 foot height, it's heavier construction his greater weight and the broad duck's head fit his large hand admirably.

Dad christened his new friend "Aflak," and continued to enjoy his silent company even on "graduation" to a power chair. Aflak proved to be invaluable for reaching elvator and handicapped door buttons.

Dad died almost three years ago. I thought about having Aflak cremated with him, but I'm glad I didn't follow through with that idea. I, too, like his silent company.

Creation

Perhaps I should have written "creating" in the title line.

However.

I sometimes think I write the way other people drink or take drugs or abuse sex--as an escape. Sort of a vacation from the reality of my sister's illness and my mother's heart condition, my son's dangerous job and my own often heartbreaking one. I've certainly done some of what I think of as my better work--including this blog--in that escapist mood.

But not always.

Some writing is a direct challenge to those who pushed my "outrage" button. I used to write op/ed pieces for local newspapers in that vein, and then be totally flabbergasted when the editor(s) printed my tirades without altering so much as a comma. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised--they and I were nearly always on the same side. Plus I was always careful to make certain my "ducks were in a row"--my facts were the facts, not edited to fit my assumptions. I took--and still take--great delight in pointing out such "editing" in other people's writing: reread April's post on creation "science" if you don't believe me.

And yet, in some ways, that writing too can be an escape. Following an intriguing trail of facts and opinions is a wonderful way of taking your mind off things you can't change or control. I highly recommend it.

Computers--the Internet

I really like this computer--my dad's, bought the summer before he died and still in the room we call "his office." It has lots of bells and whistles that I haven't even begun to figure out and it's responsive to most of my needs (which I'm told is a function of its huge memory).

And I love the internet. With my best friend two time zones away, my daughter and her family in Canada, and my son in the Army and presently in Germany, it allows me--if not instant--certainly daily contact. Not to mention Google and Wikipedia, which point me to information I'd never find in an ordinary library.

I don't like the spam--the ads for cheap drugs and "erotic enhancement appliances"--or the truly annoying pop-ups this computer allows me to block (most of the time--the occasional one slips under the radar and gets closed tout suite).

I even enjoy the--usually--stale jokes that seem to get circulated with every change of the season. I always read them for the occasional brand new one or the new spin to an old one.

But (you knew this was coming) I loathe the e-mails that end with "pass this one on to three (four, six, your whole buddy list of) friends and something wonderful will happen." And the ones that add "if you delete this message, something terrible will happen" make me so angry I want to track down the creators and shove their heads right through their computer screens.

How dare they make such threats? Yes, I know they're impotent, but the idea that anyone thinks what they have to say is so important they have use threats to make certain we all listen to/read them is so far beyond arrogant I haven't found a word in English to describe it.

So I've told my friends and family, "send me the stories and the pictures and the cute kid/animal photos and the inspirational messages and the jokes--even the raunchy ones--but DON'T send the others." I don't want them and I won't pass them on.

Mother's Day--Children's Middle Names II

Someone once said that the only reason for giving a child a middle name was to let him/her know (s)he was in deep yogurt. I don't remember my mother broadcasting her displeasure in that way, but I know I did.

This is the most memorable of those occasions.

Arwen and Dee (William Richard named himself "Dee" when he was barely old enough to walk, let alone talk, and the name stuck, in part because his father loathed being called "Billy" and wasn't about to saddle his son with that name) were in middle school, Arwen going into fifth grade and Dee into sixth the summer Simon Fraser University opened their classes to elementary school children so they could get a taste of what college was like. For a week, kids got to use computers (a very big deal in the eighties), do experiments in the various science labs, use cameras in the photography studio and then develop their own photos, and, in Dee's case, learn basic business principles.

We lived on a cul-de-sac, which gave us a tiny front yard, but the biggest back yard in the neighborhood. Add to that my philosophy that the kids were welcome to do anything that didn't result in bodily harm, and ours was the playground of choice for all my children's friends.

A few days after their week at Simon Fraser, there was the usual congregation of kids in the back yard with the usual level of noise. I'm not certain how long they'd been there when I heard someone stomping up the back steps and into the kitchen; that someone was Arwen and she was furious. Without even giving me a chance to ask "what's wrong?" she said, "Mom, Dee says we have to pay him rent to use the back yard."

"WHAT!"

"He says that's what he learned in the business class."

I can say this now that my children are adults, but it was all I could do to keep a straight face as I walked out onto the back porch and said in my best sergeant-major-on-the-parade-ground voice, "William Richard Phillips, get up here! Now!"

Now, a child who knows (s)he's in trouble when his/her mother uses his/her first and middle names knows there's some really deep yogurt waiting when she uses all of them in one breath. Dee came. Arwen went out via the living room and the front door so she didn't have to pass her brother on the stairs.

Dee verified what his sister had said, explaining that our back yard was something everyone wanted to use so we should be making a profit on it. Assuming my best Jehovah-speaking-to-Moses-from-Mt.-Sinai voice, I said, "Dee, I am the president of this corporation and there will be no charging anyone rent to play here. Do you understand me?"

No argument, just a disappointed sigh--"Okay"--and he went back down the steps. I don't know what he said to the other kids and I never asked.

I was laughing too hard. And I'm still laughing.

Not Your Grandmother's Cross Stitch

Say "cross stitch" to people who don't do needlework, and their first thoughts are "antique samplers" and/or "ersatz early American decor." Say the same words to a person who does needlework and they're likely to picture elaborate, multicolor scenes that are stunningly beautiful, but take months to complete or a variety of needlepoint that's extremely tough and long-wearing but also takes time and a strong frame to complete.

And then there's this book I just found called Stitch Graffiti (by Heather Holland Daly, published in 2008) which turns all those notions on their lovely, complicated heads. Ms. H-D says things like, "try stitching this design on nylon screening" instead of traditional cloth and "change the colors if you don't like mine." She then tells you a simple way to balance the colors when you do change them so the design looks like it was planned that way, not arbitrarily altered.

Like most needlework designers, she includes an alphabet, but hers really does look like something some school drop out might have spray painted on a city wall.

All of her designs look like they'd be fun to do, and, to make the creation as relaxing as possible, she offers suggestions about the appropriate music to play while you stitch.