Sometimes, hell comes to breakfast, as the old saying goes. And sometimes it stays for brunch, lunch, dinner and hangs around for the day after, and the day after.
It's summer, and here in Oklahoma that means the closest thing to hell that even old Cotton Mather could imagine. We have actual heat of more than 100 and heat indexes of easily 110 to 113.
I've been thinking a lot about Mather, the Salem Witch Trials, and the peculiar blend of theology, self-righteousness, arrogance and mob hysteria that led to the torture and murder of innocent people. I've regretfully--and begrudgingly--admitted that we aren't past Salem yet.
It's the Year of Our Lord 2010 and lynch mob fever, the failure to think rationally and analytically, sanctimoniousness and a need to punish someone, somewhere for something to make ourselves feel superior still roam our towns and countryside.
Don't believe it? Listen closely to what's around you.
I've been following the tragic case of little Kyron Horman, who's been missing from his elementary school near Portland, Oregon, since just before school let out. I've hung out on some websites dedicated to "true crimes" and have been appalled by what I've read.
So far, no arrests have been made. The stepmother, Terri Horman, has been the cops' sole focus since the first day. They rushed to assure the community that they had no need to worry about their children.
Three months later, there's been no arrests but a lot of web-based speculation. The land is aflame with rumor, gossip, innuendo, and cyber villages piling up the logs to throw on the witch fire.
Today I learned on one website that the wicked stepmother has....gasp! An over-sized criminal history. And they figured it out.
When she was 18 years old, she got a ticket for speeding. Not her only ticket either. And not only that--at some point she was ticketed for...failure to use her seat belt.
Well, that certainly convinces me that she's evil (not). But watching the self-congratulatory high-fiving of those who ferreted out those bullet-proof indicators of Horman's murderous proclivities has been a nasty experience.
The thing that amazes me is that every minute part of her life has been pored over. The overwhelming consensus that she's guilty has been formed by self-righteousness and "feelings".
She's been slammed for some inappropriate sexual behavior--while the inappropriate sexual behavior of her soon-to-be ex-husband has been well, excused. That's the past behavior--and one website notoriously doesn't allow any discussion about those they put on the protected list, so any current behavior by anyone other than Wicked Stepmother doesn't count.
Right now there's a lot of lascivious lip licking over speculation that Horman, not yet named as a suspect, may--they titter--have been involved in a lesbian relationship (which of course proves she murdered her stepson). There's nothing to prove that, of course, other than she has a loyal female friend.
At this point, I don't know who took little Kyron Horman. I don't know what happened to him. I hope that if the cops ever figure it out, that the case against whoever is solid and that the worst possible punishment is levied after a fair trial and conviction. In fact, I'd vote for hanging, drawing and quartering for anyone who harms a child.
But I'd like to have proof. Solid evidence.
And in some deep way, I really wish that I hadn't had a long-term question answered: how the hell did Salem ever happen?
Well, now I know. Salem lurks within our deepest psyches, waiting only for a spark, fanned by the hot air of smug,loud voices preaching, sans pulpit, about someone else's lack of righteousness.
I've listened to people allege that only the guilty get lawyers, that anything that the cops or a DA does is automatically right (Counterpoint: see The Innocence Project, or meditate on Richard Jewell). I've learned that to question authority or their methods makes you a "supporter" of an obviously-guilty child killer (and slut), and that makes you yourself an evil person.
I've listened to people avow that the protections of our Constitution should be tossed aside. I've learned that there are far too many who think that their "morality" platforms (note, no discussion of their perfect lives required) trump fact, logic, or evidence.
We think she's a witch, so burn the witch. She's not as good as I am, as proven by....fill in the blank.
Among the problems that come from renewing and celebrating Salem--and there are too many to list--is this:what happens when it's your turn to be the witch? Funny, the witch hunters don't see that as a possibility, for themselves or anyone they care about.
It's all those tacky other people, you understand. So to hell with them, to hell with the Constitution, to hell with evidence, to hell with facts, let's burn the witch.
This isn't the first resurrection of Salem, nor will it be the last. But now, I know how it happens.
And I wish I didn't. Because frankly, it scares me.
As it should scare a lot of us.
When weighed against the continuation of Salem, even Oklahoma summers suddenly seem less hellish. You can turn on a fan or the air conditioning during summer, but there is no known appliance that will control the blood-letting lust of the self-righteous.
In that environment, we are all at risk.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
A Cuppa Culture
My day began pre-dawn with an unwelcome surprise: my morning tea tasted well, terrible. Bitter. Acid. Goblin tasting, bad enough to roil both my tummy and my well-being.
This, friends, is a rarity. I make great tea, and drink it by the gallons. The current choice for normal life is a decaf Earl Grey, sweetened just so, and cooled in the fridge.
Before heading for bed, I'd filled up the kettle, tidied up the kitchen, and made myself a "good morning" present--a fresh pitcher of tea, second shelf in the fridge, ready to go to fuel my day. Want bliss? Leave yourself a pitcher of fresh iced tea for your toast to the rising sun.
Instead, I'm drinking plain water--health-wise, not a bad thing--and meditating on the wonders, and importance of tea. When I think of tea, of course, I first think of having a "cuppa," the great British preoccupation with putting the kettle on and having some tea.
It's the great national cure-all and pepper-upper. Had a hard day? Have a cuppa. Worrying a bit? Have a cuppa. The Queen does, after all.
And then there's the importance of tea in America's Revolutionary War (sorry, England, but George III was a loony). The Boston Tea Party, where a statement about taxes and sovereignty sent a shipment of tea into the harbor, made the world's largest cuppa and stirred the course of the world's history.
Tea is not only tea, it's comfort, sharing, and culture. I'm multi-cultural, not only because of my Native American heritage (three tribes) but because of the other cultures woven though my life.
Along with the heritage of those three tribes, my cultural and blood inheritances trace back to European family that arrived in this country in the early 1600's and into the early 1700's, and before that, back to the 900's. Surviving a miserable, perilous sea journey, they set out in a strange, primitive new world.
And I'm sure they all drank tea of some sort: Native American willow bark cures, or the international flavor of special blends from Ceylon. The history of tea travels the world, bearing more than a few cuppas of stories.
And then there's the great cultural divide here in America: northern and southern. When I think of iced tea, the second thing I think of is great Southern sweet iced tea, the nectar of the gods.
Teasing your lips and tongue, trickling down your throat on a hot summer day, sweet iced tea is the ultimate addiction. Super-charged with not only caffeine but enough sugar to sink those ships in Boston Harbor, the power of that iced tea has gotten many a field plowed with only a cranky mule, and greased the wheels of delicate (but often deadly) social interactions over china in the parlor.
Sweet iced tea, done well (and I do it very very well) is what I call a deep-dish Southern icon, a part of down-home life so intrinsic that it's only noted when it's missing, or the cauldron brew doesn't turn out just right. In Boston in the 1970's, during a bitter winter snow storm, I astounded, and perhaps horrified, the hotel waiter by asking for iced tea for breakfast. They didn't do that, he informed me. (Solution: order tea and a glass of ice.)
Which brings us to my own personal cultural divide, that of north vs. south. My mother's family is solid rock Yankee, New England style Puritans that arrived here in 1630, helped to found Boston, and then moved on to my early childhood home, upstate New York.
Did I say Puritan? That family heritage makes Cotton Mather and his "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" sound like a hysterical drama queen. No need to carry on (Southernism) that way and waste all that breath and words.
Just get up and get back to work. Work hard, and harder. Do it right, and then do it righter. No whining. What's right is right, and you know what it is.
You get the idea. No indulgence in sweetened iced tea there. Nope, black coffee before busting rocks, milk, water, and oh yes, medicinal amounts of whiskey. How to cure a cold: mix warm whiskey, honey, lemon, go to bed, wrap up and sweat it out before you go back to work.
Meanwhile,the deep dish Southern life of my father's family requires well-sugared iced tea, morning, noon, and night. Sure, well-sugared coffee is great for breakfast (although I prefer tea), but to amble through your day, a little work, a little swinging on the front porch, requires sweet tea.
Keep it on hand for all the emergencies that require the great Southern cure-all: lie down and put your feet up. If you have a disappointment, or get all het up, then it's time to lie down and put your feet up.
If the crisis is serious, then a supporter in your hour of need will bring you a cold wet cloth for your forehead. (The three levels of Southern crisis are: lie down and put your feet up, lie down and put your feet up and put a cold cloth on your forehead, and take to your bed.)
You can see the cultural divide here: the Yankees sweat it out silently and get back to work. The Southerners convene a Greek chorus of supporters and well-wishers offering advice and cold cloths, talk and tsk-tsking, and lots of time with your feet up. (There's a reason why I have an authentic Victorian fainting sofa in my living room.)
Which is why I'm taking to my bed. The sun's still not up, I don't have any sweet iced tea, the disappointment is great, and there's no good reason not to go back to bed and put my feet up.
Could you get me a cold cloth for my forehead, please?
This, friends, is a rarity. I make great tea, and drink it by the gallons. The current choice for normal life is a decaf Earl Grey, sweetened just so, and cooled in the fridge.
Before heading for bed, I'd filled up the kettle, tidied up the kitchen, and made myself a "good morning" present--a fresh pitcher of tea, second shelf in the fridge, ready to go to fuel my day. Want bliss? Leave yourself a pitcher of fresh iced tea for your toast to the rising sun.
Instead, I'm drinking plain water--health-wise, not a bad thing--and meditating on the wonders, and importance of tea. When I think of tea, of course, I first think of having a "cuppa," the great British preoccupation with putting the kettle on and having some tea.
It's the great national cure-all and pepper-upper. Had a hard day? Have a cuppa. Worrying a bit? Have a cuppa. The Queen does, after all.
And then there's the importance of tea in America's Revolutionary War (sorry, England, but George III was a loony). The Boston Tea Party, where a statement about taxes and sovereignty sent a shipment of tea into the harbor, made the world's largest cuppa and stirred the course of the world's history.
Tea is not only tea, it's comfort, sharing, and culture. I'm multi-cultural, not only because of my Native American heritage (three tribes) but because of the other cultures woven though my life.
Along with the heritage of those three tribes, my cultural and blood inheritances trace back to European family that arrived in this country in the early 1600's and into the early 1700's, and before that, back to the 900's. Surviving a miserable, perilous sea journey, they set out in a strange, primitive new world.
And I'm sure they all drank tea of some sort: Native American willow bark cures, or the international flavor of special blends from Ceylon. The history of tea travels the world, bearing more than a few cuppas of stories.
And then there's the great cultural divide here in America: northern and southern. When I think of iced tea, the second thing I think of is great Southern sweet iced tea, the nectar of the gods.
Teasing your lips and tongue, trickling down your throat on a hot summer day, sweet iced tea is the ultimate addiction. Super-charged with not only caffeine but enough sugar to sink those ships in Boston Harbor, the power of that iced tea has gotten many a field plowed with only a cranky mule, and greased the wheels of delicate (but often deadly) social interactions over china in the parlor.
Sweet iced tea, done well (and I do it very very well) is what I call a deep-dish Southern icon, a part of down-home life so intrinsic that it's only noted when it's missing, or the cauldron brew doesn't turn out just right. In Boston in the 1970's, during a bitter winter snow storm, I astounded, and perhaps horrified, the hotel waiter by asking for iced tea for breakfast. They didn't do that, he informed me. (Solution: order tea and a glass of ice.)
Which brings us to my own personal cultural divide, that of north vs. south. My mother's family is solid rock Yankee, New England style Puritans that arrived here in 1630, helped to found Boston, and then moved on to my early childhood home, upstate New York.
Did I say Puritan? That family heritage makes Cotton Mather and his "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" sound like a hysterical drama queen. No need to carry on (Southernism) that way and waste all that breath and words.
Just get up and get back to work. Work hard, and harder. Do it right, and then do it righter. No whining. What's right is right, and you know what it is.
You get the idea. No indulgence in sweetened iced tea there. Nope, black coffee before busting rocks, milk, water, and oh yes, medicinal amounts of whiskey. How to cure a cold: mix warm whiskey, honey, lemon, go to bed, wrap up and sweat it out before you go back to work.
Meanwhile,the deep dish Southern life of my father's family requires well-sugared iced tea, morning, noon, and night. Sure, well-sugared coffee is great for breakfast (although I prefer tea), but to amble through your day, a little work, a little swinging on the front porch, requires sweet tea.
Keep it on hand for all the emergencies that require the great Southern cure-all: lie down and put your feet up. If you have a disappointment, or get all het up, then it's time to lie down and put your feet up.
If the crisis is serious, then a supporter in your hour of need will bring you a cold wet cloth for your forehead. (The three levels of Southern crisis are: lie down and put your feet up, lie down and put your feet up and put a cold cloth on your forehead, and take to your bed.)
You can see the cultural divide here: the Yankees sweat it out silently and get back to work. The Southerners convene a Greek chorus of supporters and well-wishers offering advice and cold cloths, talk and tsk-tsking, and lots of time with your feet up. (There's a reason why I have an authentic Victorian fainting sofa in my living room.)
Which is why I'm taking to my bed. The sun's still not up, I don't have any sweet iced tea, the disappointment is great, and there's no good reason not to go back to bed and put my feet up.
Could you get me a cold cloth for my forehead, please?
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Springing forward
Yes, indeed, folks, it's time for most of us in the U.S. to do the spring clock ritual. Push that clock forward and claim a bit more daylight.
The Peanut blog is also springing forward after a hiatus. For awhile, I was the Space News Examiner on Examiner dot com. Did I make money? Heck, yea.
Did I leave? Heck, yea.
The reasons were many, but pretty much focused on professional standards and ethics. That being said, I enjoyed expanding my network in the space community, and really had a heck of a good time writing about space again, often 2 to 4 stories a day.
Most of all, I found Twitter. You can follow me at PEP010. I'm also a proud member of the Space Tweep Society , whose founder, Jen Scheer flyingjenny, won this year's Shorty Award for Science tweets.
I also took some time off to deal with health issues and test out being at least semi-retired. For a compulsive over-achiever workaholic, this was an interesting experiment.
Much to my surprise, I discovered something new--deep within this Type A++++ personality lurks a happy little B personality who's perfectly delighted to goof off with friends, read, and oops, new addiction, play computer games. Plus, of course, having a good time with my two rescue dogs, Bran the German Shepherd (106 pounds now) and Owain Glendower the Pembroke Welsh Corgi (weighing in at 32 pounds and the leader of the pack).
Then there's the Oklahoma Hep Cats, under the direction of Hoppy, Senior Cat, a most meticulous cat. In a former life he was a British butler and often reminds me of how I should be conducting affairs in his household.
What am I going to do with this blog next? I don't know. I do know that I'm itching to start writing out loud again.
And I can write very, very loudly on issues I'm passionate about. Or, whisper softly and seductively about other worlds of passion.
I am, after all, not only just a journalist, but a poet.
For spring, I'm putting on my poet crown and my best metaphor gamboling shoes. Then there's the magic cape for flying well beyond gravity and loop-de-looping up there where the eagles play.
Pull up your lawn chairs (in Oklahoma preparing for the social season requires keeping a lawn chair in your car at all times), hoist a cold one, have some popcorn, and enjoy the show. You can yell encouragement too, if you like. (You would like to yell encouragement, right? Right.)
It's spring, folks. Time for new growth.
The Peanut blog is also springing forward after a hiatus. For awhile, I was the Space News Examiner on Examiner dot com. Did I make money? Heck, yea.
Did I leave? Heck, yea.
The reasons were many, but pretty much focused on professional standards and ethics. That being said, I enjoyed expanding my network in the space community, and really had a heck of a good time writing about space again, often 2 to 4 stories a day.
Most of all, I found Twitter. You can follow me at PEP010. I'm also a proud member of the Space Tweep Society , whose founder, Jen Scheer flyingjenny, won this year's Shorty Award for Science tweets.
I also took some time off to deal with health issues and test out being at least semi-retired. For a compulsive over-achiever workaholic, this was an interesting experiment.
Much to my surprise, I discovered something new--deep within this Type A++++ personality lurks a happy little B personality who's perfectly delighted to goof off with friends, read, and oops, new addiction, play computer games. Plus, of course, having a good time with my two rescue dogs, Bran the German Shepherd (106 pounds now) and Owain Glendower the Pembroke Welsh Corgi (weighing in at 32 pounds and the leader of the pack).
Then there's the Oklahoma Hep Cats, under the direction of Hoppy, Senior Cat, a most meticulous cat. In a former life he was a British butler and often reminds me of how I should be conducting affairs in his household.
What am I going to do with this blog next? I don't know. I do know that I'm itching to start writing out loud again.
And I can write very, very loudly on issues I'm passionate about. Or, whisper softly and seductively about other worlds of passion.
I am, after all, not only just a journalist, but a poet.
For spring, I'm putting on my poet crown and my best metaphor gamboling shoes. Then there's the magic cape for flying well beyond gravity and loop-de-looping up there where the eagles play.
Pull up your lawn chairs (in Oklahoma preparing for the social season requires keeping a lawn chair in your car at all times), hoist a cold one, have some popcorn, and enjoy the show. You can yell encouragement too, if you like. (You would like to yell encouragement, right? Right.)
It's spring, folks. Time for new growth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
