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In Alabama, according to an Associated Press story, a seven-year-old yellow lab named Wille Bean Roscoe P. Coltrane is running for mayor. Owen was very pleased to hear this news. We talked for awhile about the ramifications of this, and the precedent it might set.

Owen got very excited when I said “precedent.”

“President?” he said, grinning.

“Well, no,” I said. “Precedent. You know, like you do something once and get away with it, and then people think — hey, great idea. And then you — or someone else — can do it again.”

“So if Willie Bean Roscoe P. Coltrane runs for mayor, and he’s a dog and I’m a dog, now I can run for mayor too?”

“I guess so,” I said. “Do you want to run for mayor?”

I watched Owen think about this for awhile. He tilted his head, regarded me with his thoughtful brown eyes. Then he frowned. “I’d need a better name than Owen. A bigger name.”

We talked about that for awhile. Owen’s original first name was Arnold, but neither of us really liked that, so we left that out. Instead, we considered names that would signify allegiance to place, a sense of ancestry, aesthetic preferences, and of course, political point of view. We came up with this: Owen W. Indy Roosevelt Jones Jr.

“Now,” I said, “You can run for mayor.”

“Uh uh.” Owen shook his head, and got the determined look he gets when he goes after a far-flung tennis ball. “I,” he said, “am going to run for president. Me, Owen W. Indy Roosevelt Jones Jr.”

“Okay,” I said, because I always give in to Owen. “What’s your platform?”

Without hesitating, natural politician that he is, Owen answered: “Food, water, shots, walks, dog parks, treats, belly rubs, fetch. For everyone.” Then he grinned, really big. “And all dogs get to sleep on the bed.”

“Sounds good to me, buddy.”

He wagged his tail, picked up his tennis ball, and asked to go out and start the campaign. Off we went.

I am thinking of the shootings at the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church on Sunday, July 27, 2008. It is said that James Adkisson entered the church with a gun in a guitar case, ready to kill because he, as he wrote in a note left behind, hated the church for its liberal views, views which he blamed for the battered economic state of our country, and apparently his own.

You can read more about the shooting in innumerable sites, see stories on the television, scour the newspapers. In all you will encounter the word “hate”. That word has become, once again, a touchstone in this act of violence, yet another in a country with a long history of brutality, person against person. In this instance, and many others, the word “hate” provokes the idea that there is a right-wing hate machine. one that causes people to act in violent ways toward those different from themselves. I reject the idea that there is a right-wing “hate” machine. Not hate. I believe this man did not kill out of hate, but rather out of fear. Fear plumbs far deeper than hate, is rooted in desires and cravings more primal than hate. The right-wing “machine” if there such a thing, is not a machine which produces hate – not as its primary goal – but one that manufactures fear. (more…)

Please read this blog entry and send your thoughts and prayers if you pray, to the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church.

A little more (more…)

I wanted to get out yesterday and see the T parade, but that didn’t happen. Instead, I sat at my desk all day, writing. Grunt writing, unfortunately. A tenure narrative (with the thesis, woven through, of: Give me Tenure or Give me Death). A grant proposal (thesis: Give Us Money!). Endless revisions of both (thesis: Unprintable).

So, I missed the good stuff yesterday. But here’s a blog entry, with pictures, that tells a great story. Enjoy. I did…

It’s a little strange seeing Model T’s everywhere in Richmond, but after awhile a kind of giddy feeling takes over. Like bird watching, I find myself saying: “Look! There goes another one!” Last night, out running errands I saw Model T’s parked at the grocery store, pulling into the drug store, putt-putting down Main Street, going through the drive-thru at McDonald’s, Model T’s everywhere.

I wish I had time to go to the fairgrounds every day and hang out with all the Model T enthusiasts, but I don’t. So, I’m holding out for the main event: the Model T Centennial T Party Parade on Thursday, which starts at 3 p.m. at the Wayne County Fairgrounds and ends at the Historic Depot District. According to our trusty newspaper, “The parade route will be south on Salisbury Road to West Main Street to North 10th Street and end at the Depot on North E Street.” If I follow the logic of that route, it sounds like they all are going to motor directly through the center of Richmond. Very cool.

P.S.
Maybe Mark S. can answer this: what kind of gas mileage to Model T’s get, anyway?

Yesterday, at exactly 7:43 p.m., I turned fifty. A couple dozen friends helped me celebrate: Susan staged the party at her house: the requisite black plates and black napkins, a serious amount of alcohol, a cake with a Barbie in it holding a “50″ candle, and a critical mass of cheese. And people came bearing gifts, which they shouldn’t have but did anyway. A horsie, a poem about a horsie ride (don’t ask), Nora Ephron’s book I Hate My Neck (which I don’t, but cute title anyway), a journal, a purple candle, a reusable bag to use instead of non-reusable plastic bags, a regifted book about saving money after 50 which I will happily regift to the next 50-year-old, cards with jokes about turning fifty, and more. We drank, we ate, we laughed, we doused each other with silly string, and then at an hour when I’m usually thinking about turning in, we headed out. At a little bar, The Coney, a core group of us played way late, drank and danced and laughed and had way much fun until the bar began to close and we called it a night.

So now I’m fifty and a day, more or less. If anyone ever tells you that turning fifty is hard, or depressing, or lonely, or any other negative thing — don’t believe them. Fifty is just great and made all the much more fun when celebrated with good friends who don’t mind if you act ridiculous or goofy or overindulge in wine and cheese and cake and, well, more.

To those friends, all of them, I say thank you for a great birthday. Your friendship is the greatest present of all.

I like to pride myself on doing a lot of things, getting them done, and not getting stressed along the way. Ha! Pride goeth before a fall. I admit to being stressed, right now. Here’s why:

1 - I got approved to write a big NEA grant. It’s due in three weeks.
2 - The people in Bloomington who are supposed to help me with this are not answering their phone.
3 - I have to wait for the people in Bloomington to answer their phone before I can write the grant.
4 - Which is due in three weeks.
5 - I’m turning 50 Saturday.
6 - I covered my gray roots last night with icky stuff. It worked, but still. Gray roots?
7 - I have a zit.
8 - I have great frustrations about having gray roots AND a zit. Okay, two zits. This is wrong. Just plain wrong.
9 - My tenure dossier is 2/3 done. It is due — oh, hell, I don’t know when it’s due. Soon.
10 - I’m moving to a new house in two weeks.
11 - They are putting new carpet and painting the walls in my office in two weeks.
12 - Everything I own is in boxes.
13 - Including my horse books which I need right now.
14 - Because my horse is lame with a stone bruise.
15 - Did I mention I’m turning 50 Saturday?
16 - I am.
17 - Okay, so Bloomington called back. “Hi, are you the one who’s applying for the N.I.H. grant?”
18 - Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
19 - “Oh, NEA. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to put you on hold.”
20 - Noooooooooooooooo
21 - “I’m sorry. There’s no one here. Now I’m going to have to put you through to voicemail.”
22 - “Hello. You’ve reached the voicemail of sldfkjsldkjflskjeliru [indistinguishable] I’m out of the office. Leave your message and I’ll call you back.
23 - I leave a message for this anonymous person who may or may not be the right person and hope for the best.
24 - I googled “stone bruise” +horse
25 - Let him rest, that’s the advice.
26 - Well, at least Buddy is going to have a good day.
27 - Now, I’m going to find a paper bag and poke eyeholes in it. If you see me wandering the streets of Richmond mumbling to myself, just pretend you don’t know me.

If you are the least bit morose about the state of the world, watch this video LINK. If you are of a cynical bent, this may not ease your malaise, but then, probably nothing will. However, it eased mine.

I missed it — a potluck dinner using food grown within a hundred mile radius. The intrepid Chris Hardie produced a nifty video of the event with lingering shots of berries, a beautiful pie, bean dishes, some handsome lettuce and a number of contented eaters. What a great idea, and one I hope happens again this summer. One of the real joys of living in Indiana is the fact of a real plenty of good food, locally grown and available.

One of the questions Chris posed in his video was: why do you think locally grown produce is important? One answer on the video was that this effort supports the local economy. True, and that’s good. It also potentially cuts down on the buckets of gasoline used to truck things in from afar. I say “potentially” because even 100 miles can burn up a lot of gas, unless the search for local food is careful, intentional, shared. Another answer was the fellowship of coming together to share the food. A way to build community, connections between people, which is sorely needed. And, by the look of the cheerful crowd, welcome.

So here’s an idea, Progressive Wayne County folks: how about a Progressive Potluck? Locally grown food, served up at several local homes. You start at the first, eat the good stuff, then travel to the next, eat more good stuff. The trick is: getting from home to home by bicycle, foot, horseback, scooter (the kind the Amish kids use) … anything but a gasoline powered vehicle. The only exception would be if there are disabled folks who must make use of a particular kind of transportation (van, for instance). This event would be something the local newspaper, radio, WCTV, etc. would love to cover. Good PR for Progressive Wayne County, letting more people know what is possible in our part of the world. It would be fun, too, to include a diversity of cuisines and by way of that ethnicities in the event too. What do you say?

P.S.
I am happy to say that I will be moving to a new place in a few weeks, and will volunteer to be on the progressive potluck route. This home is a bit “greener” than the one I’m in now. In the new one I can have a garden, in a yard that has enough sun to actually grow some decent vegetables. Not this year, except for some late growing lettuce and some onion sets for next year. And next year? Beans, tomatoes, lettuce, snap peas, squash, and my beloved leeks. This house also has a wood burning stove, and it’s not hard to find local firewood. There are enough windows that face south and west, and there you go: a little passive solar energy too. Now if I can only get my hypermileage skills honed…

Dear Human Beings –

Me Owen, again. I am writing on Jean’s blog to say something to all the people who set off fireworks in July: DOGS DON’T LIKE FIREWORKS. We don’t. They scare us. A LOT. Fireworks make us hide our heads under furniture, and shake like … um … cats? This makes us feel stupid. Please, oh please, people who have fireworks: be nice to your neighborhood dogs. Go away somewhere far out in the country where there are no dogs (okay, no cats either ) and do your fireworks there. Not in the sidewalk in front of the house I live in, not in the alley behind the house I live in, not in the streets around me either. I’m a nice dog and I’m sad about being scared.

Thank you.

Love, Owen

PS Yes, I can too write. Jean taught me.