Boulder

You might think we'd be used to this by now. There have been 103 mass shootings in America since 2013. (A mass shooting is defined as "a shooting incident which results in four or more casualties excluding the shooter.") Maybe 103 doesn't sound like a large number, so let's look at another statistic: since 2013, the total number of "gun violence deaths" in America is 9,535. And obviously, these mass shootings did not begin in 2013. In my memory, it was the Columbine killings that brought us to our knees. That was in 1999. The year 2012 gave us the Aurora, Colorado murders. In that same year, 26 people were murdered by a disturbed 20-year-old man with a "scorn for humanity" and a gun. That mass killing, at Sandy Hook Elementary School, claimed the lives of 20 children between the ages of six and seven. Wasn't that the one that we thought would finally inspire changes in America's gun culture?

Columbine. Aurora. Sandy Hook. Charleston. Parkland. Atlanta. Those names are forever connected to horrific mass murder. And now Boulder.

The attached photo was taken in November 2018 on Pearl Street in Boulder. That's me and my daughter Jenna, posing with the bronze buffalo statue designed by Stephen LeBlanc. Jenna lives in Boulder, a bucolic small city on Colorado's front range. It is home to the University of Colorado, a charming downtown, more than a few aging hippies, and a peaceful attitude. Yesterday's murders took place two blocks from the apartment Jenna first lived in when she moved there.

Jenna is safe.

I'm having a hard time. Aren't you?

The night before yesterday's murders, Ed and I watched the HBO documentary on QAnon. We couldn't even see it through to the end, in such despair over this growing dysfunction in America. We are a country rife with mental illness and more guns than common sense. Add a pandemic to the mix, and it's hard to maintain perspective on the meaning of life.

I grew up in a house with guns. My father was a hunter. Memory tells me that his rifles were housed in a gun cabinet that he, a woodworker, built. Whether it was locked or not, I can't remember. I may or may not remember where in the house the gun cabinet was located. What I do remember is that guns were for hunting, and despite my distaste for venison, I have never held any prejudice against those who choose to kill their own game. My son and his wife hunt, as does Jenna's soon-to-be husband. Some of us in my family are vegetarians. To each his/her own.

But I have never been able to wrap my head around America's obsession with guns. I hate the NRA. I continue to be angered by those who misinterpret the Second Amendment to justify their "right" to accumulate weapons. And how many does any one person need? Seriously.

Thoughts and prayers. Yeah, that works. 

Four and Twenty Simple Simons

It's National Pi Day, and I got nothin'. Well, maybe some questions. Like why in hell would anyone bake 24 blackbirds into a pie? Would they de-feather the birds first? And who would eat it? And why couldn't that pieman give a simple dude like Simon a taste of his friggin' pie? And which one is your favorite on Thanksgiving . . . apple or pumpkin? And why did we stop ordering a pizza pie and instead start ordering a pizza? Or just a pie? And what percentage of humans have a clue as to what 3.14159265359 even means?

Back in the 50s, there were not 37 pizza joints in any small town. But in my county, there was one place in a nearby town which was called The Central Hotel, and there was an Italian restaurant there. They had pizza! And lucky for me, my parents were friends with the owners. Louie Nazarro was my sister's godfather, which made me very jealous, because MY godfather lived out on Long Island, and I'm pretty sure he forgot he was my godfather about a week after the baptism. There was never a birthday card or a Christmas present or any acknowledgement at all that he had signed on to look after my religious training and spiritual growth. But Louie Nazarro! He acted as godfather to both my sister and me. I still have the doll crib he gave me for Christmas 1955, the same year my Aunt Georgie gave me my Ginnie Doll. (And yes, I still have that, too.)

My family rarely went out to dinner; that was a luxury my parents could not afford. But a few times a year, we would drive over to Sparta to enjoy a pizza at The Central Hotel. Louie would come over to our table and chat with my parents, and then he would instruct our waitress to treat us to tortoni for dessert. I can still see it and taste it in that part of my brain that is reserved for treasured childhood memories. Add to that the drive home. My sister and I would lie down on the back seat of the Buick and look up and out the windows, watching the streetlights and telephone wires zip on by against a starry sky. There was something other-worldly about that, a peek into the mysteries of the universe. Well, that's how my sheltered five-year-old brain reacted to it.

Tonight, I will make my own pizza pie for dinner. The frozen sauce that is thawing now on the counter is made up of roasted tomatoes, garlic, basil, oregano, and thyme, all organic, all from my summer garden. Roasted and frozen to be enjoyed long after the gardens have been put to bed. You'll forgive me if I claim that it is the best pizza sauce. Because it is. For me, anyway.

So Happy Pi Day, whatever that means to you. Let me offer one other "pie story." My daughter and her fiancé just headed back to Colorado after spending two weeks with me. The day before they left, I baked an apple pie for us. Not being great at pie crusts, I opted for the Betty Crocker Impossible French Apple Pie. Connor ate half of it, and Jenna and I had a slice, and there was enough left to offer to my man, who loves apple pie and drove down to see me this weekend. I enticed him with, "I have pie!" I seemed to have forgotten that the "streusel" that tops the pie contains walnuts, a tree nut to which he is allergic. So, yeah, I inadvertently tried to kill my man with pie. I will obligingly eat my humble pie now.

Wherever Hugo . . .

One of the first things I did when I became a snowbird was to find a park where I could do my five-mile thing. And I found a beautiful one, hidden away, full of so many birds . . . and the occasional armadillo. It came complete with a resident alligator and a pair of sand cranes. The park adjoins a recreational spot where grown men fly toy airplanes, and I always offered a peace sign in lieu of a wave when they passed by on their way to their playground. I think they know me as "that woman that gives the peace sign when you drive by."

But a few years ago, a couple of the old guys stopped to chat, and we became friends. Bill and Hugo.

Bill is almost 89, but he still drives and is, as they say, "sharp as a tack." I always think of him as being much like Woody Allen . . . before we hated Woody Allen. Bill is from New York (complete with that Brooklyn accent), and has a storied past. He tells me about the restaurant he frequented in the Village where Bob Dylan was his waiter. He makes slight references to his service in the Korean War, but like many veterans of war, he does not like to talk about it in detail. He does let me know, however, how that experience helped to form much of the way he looks at life. For instance, today he was telling me about a friend of his who got his first COVID vaccine shot and suffered a side effect of shaking. And yet, he was still trying to fly his little plane. Bill suggested he go home instead and take a long nap. "Take a dump and hug your old lady," Bill told him. I like Bill a lot.

But I met Hugo before I met Bill. Hugo would stop his little red MiniCooper in the middle of the road to have a morning chat with me. He and his wife were from Argentina, but they'd been in the States a long time. A couple of years ago, they were able to visit their homeland, and Hugo looked so happy when he told me about it. A year later, when I posted pictures of my trip to the Galapagos Islands, Hugo told me they inspired him to put the Galapagos on his bucket list.

Most mornings when I visit this park, I am the only person there. A few years ago, I had a sobering thought: what if I fall? What if I feel threatened by an alligator or an armadillo? Or worse yet, a creepy stranger? So I asked Hugo if I could have his phone number to put in my contacts, just so I could have someone to call if I ran into trouble. I'm sure he and the other toy plane pilots would do whatever was necessary to assist me. And of course, Hugo obliged. I am happy to report, however, that I never needed to call him.

I last saw Hugo last year, before the pandemic messed everything up. I've visited the park a few times since I've been back down here this winter, but I have not run into Hugo. Today, however, I saw Bill. He stopped to chat, and the first thing he told me was that Hugo died. Bill said he'd had bypass surgery and was in the hospital for six days. On the seventh day, they let him go home . . . where his heart gave out. 

Hugo had a big heart.

Of course, I didn't know Hugo the way we get to know some of our friends. I never met his wife or his kids or his grandchildren. But I have a feeling that Hugo is going to maintain residence in my heart for a good long time. He was that kind of person. Right now, my heart is hoping that Hugo is island-hopping in the Galapagos.

And as for Bill, I hope he hangs around for awhile longer. He, too, has a big heart. And a lot of wisdom. I mean, who else is going to advise you to "take a dump and hug your old lady"?? Wise words.