Beth's Everything Blog

Archive for February, 2010

If you don’t live in Kansas, be glad. It’s political quirkiness can drive you crazy and sometimes be downright scary. Thomas Frank wrote a whole book about What’s The Matter With Kansas? which  has recently been made into a new film by Laura Cohen and Joe Winston.

Take our Senator Sam Brownback. In an article by Nicholas Kristof, the Senator is said to have lived at 133 C St SE while in Washington and is a member of the “Fellowship” or the “Foundation.” The house is owned by a “secretive religious organization” according the US News and World Report.

It is an international organization. One of its members, David Bahit of Uganda, introduced legislation with the blessing of the Fellowship that would increase punishment for homosexuals in Uganda from life in prison to death.

By invitation of the Knesset Christian Allies Caucus, Senator Brownback spoke to the Knesset in 2004 expressing his and his countries support of Israel against ‘this war of terrorism’ but would the Knesset be so supportive if they knew that The Fellowship to which Mr. Brownback belongs, is in their words, “an invisible believing group of God-led politicians who get together and talk with one another about what God wants them to do in their leadership capacity.”

Senator Brownback has said he will not run again for the senate but does plan, I hear, to run for Governor.

Senator Pat Roberts voted against the stimulus package (as did Senator Brownback) but is now taking credit for millions in stimulus money coming to Kansas to build highways.

He was the Chairman of the Intelligence Committee. As such, he blocked questions about Iraq concerning pre-war intelligence. He did not sanction investigating cover-ups concerning post invasions, and stymied questions regarding the outing of covert CIA agent Valerie Plame by “using targeted leaks and artfully deflecting blame from the White House.” He vigorously opposed any investigation into how the Bush administration used CIA intelligence and blocked his committee from asking further questions.

He voted against the $24 billion proposed allocations to the Veterans affairs administration.

Senator Roberts and Senator Brownback held up the appointment of well-qualified Representative John McHugh as Secretary of the Army until the highly rated Federal Prison at Leavenworth, from which no one in modern times has escaped, was taken off the list of prisons where Guantanamo detainees could be sent.  (In 1898, twelve prisoners did escape and were quickly recaptured)

Representative Todd Tiahrt’s ethics are under investigation by the powerful House Ethics Sub-committee. Even the NRA has a problem with his pro-gun amendment.

Tiahrt and fellow Congressman Jerry Moran have been connected to C Street family and have purportedly referred to themselves of the Christian Mafia.

“Of all the important studies of the American right, The Family is undoubtedly the most eloquent. It is also quite possibly the most terrifying. “ –Thomas Frank.

Both Congressmen joined Sam Brownback and Pat Roberts in voting against healthcare. Why can’t they at least agree on forcing health insurance companies to insure people with pre-existing conditions and allowing everyone to compare insurance across state lines? Their votes blocking even reasonable legislation say they really don’t care about the Kansans who voted them into office.

Meanwhile, who can blame Congressional Democratic Representative Dennis Moore for not running again?

I love Kansas – its waving wheat and Flint Hills – but I’m thinking of becoming an Independent.

Don't give up. Spring is on the way.

I never really owned Top Sea. I just wished I did.

At sixteen, I was too old for camp and too young to work a real job so I volunteered at a local stable a few miles from home. J.B., the aging owner, grunted “ yep” when I asked if I could muck out the stalls and help saddle up the horses he rented out for trail rides.  He sized up all one hundred and five pounds of me and asked,  “Can you ride?”

“Yes Sir.“

“Can you get here by six AM?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Your on.”

The next morning, I arrived at five. Nobody was there. I filled a bucket with grain, climbed over the fence and headed into the field that reached clear down to the Kansas City Country Club. By the time J.B. and his two paid hired hands arrived, I had shooed all the horses into the corral.  He didn’t say much but I could tell he was pleased.

My duties included boosting paying customers into their saddles and leading them on horseback rides along shady paths that wandered through Mission Hills and down to a run off stream aptly named Brush Creek.

One warm sunny day in late June, J.B. came looking for me. “Get in the truck”, he said in his gravelly voice. “We gotta go pick up a new horse.”

“Me?”

“Yeh. You.”

As we rattled down the road I asked him where we were going.

“They got a filly at Woolford Farms they want to get rid of.  ‘Green broke’ and cheap. Might make a good trail horse.”

WOW! I knew about Woolford Farms. They raised racehorses there. My parents knew Herbert Woolf and had been to parties there.  “Why are you taking me?” I asked.

“’’Cause you’re a flyweight and I think you can handle her,” he said.

I nearly burst with pride.

We turned off Mission Road and drove up a driveway bordered on either side by white fences and open pastures. Further on, we passed Mr. Woolf’s sprawling home and pulled up in front of the busy stables. While J.B. negotiated the sale, I went to look at Lawrin, Woolford Farm’s homegrown Kentucky Derby winner. For that amazing feat, his owners had rewarded him with a private pasture in the middle of the farm where, the big, chestnut horse with a star blaze and white front fetlocks, spent his remaining days basking in attention. I got to see him grazing near by.

J.B. whistled for me   He had a distinctive way of tucking in his lower lip and blowing.  (I’ve always wished I could whistle like that.)

A groom held a slender, bay with black mane and tail. “You shouldn’t have any trouble with her,” he said. “I’ve been riding her a bit now and then.”

“Why are they selling her?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Guess she’s not good enough to spend time on.”

I got the saddle we’d brought along and the groom helped me tighten the cinch. I hopped up and he handed me the reins.

“Snaffle bit, so be gentle,” J.B. told me, “and stay close to the back of the truck.”

“What’s her name?” I asked as she danced under me.

“Topsy.  That’s T O P   S E A,” the stable manager spelled out  as he pocketed J.B.’s money.

The filly was a little skittish and a bit prancy but it only took to the end of the driveway for me to fall in love with her.

J.B. and I worked with Top Sea every day, getting her ready for less experienced riders to handle. Meanwhile, I went home each night and begged my father to buy her for me. At first, he just rolled his eyes. Later on, he became sterner. “Do you know how much it costs to board a horse?”

One morning, I got to work at five. I went into the pasture and called Top Sea. I fed her grain from my pockets, patted her neck and kissed her nose. Then I slipped a halter over her head and lead her to a hay bale. I climbed on the hay bale and jumped on her back. She stood still until a touched my heels to her flanks. Then, she took off. She was a racehorse after all.

We flew across the field and I jerked on the halter to turn her and head up to the barn. Now, she ran flat out. I gripped with my knees, head low, hands full of mane hollering YEHAW! By the time I saw it coming, it was too late. I tried to hang on but she stopped dead at the fence and I went flying over her head, landing indecorously but unhurt on the trampled grass.

I groaned and shook my finger at Top Sea.  She curled her lips back and neighed. I laughed out loud and wanted her all the more.

I pleaded with my dad but he told me the only way I could have a horse was if we moved to a farm. He smiled saying he was willing but my mother said over her dead body. She wasn’t cut out to be a farmer’s wife.

I knew that was true. My mother couldn’t even boil water.

Autumn came. I went back to school and only got out to the barn on weekends. J.B. let me ride Top Sea as much as I wanted. I took her all through the hills and down by the creek. I let her graze while I’d sit quietly listening to the sounds of the woods.

I choked back tears the day, J.B. and the wranglers loaded Top Sea and all the other horses into the trailers. Before they left, R. B. shook my hand. He said I’d done a good job with the bay filly, that he’d see she got a good owner. Then they drove off.

Between Santa Fe and Taos New Mexico, the ‘high road ‘ leads to Chimayo and The Santuario de Chimayo. Outside are numerous eateries, vendors selling high priced candles, painted pots and strings of dried red chilies. Lines of people wait to enter the little church, many to pray for a miracle. Even though chicanery permeates the air, something mystical happens.

Bernardo Abeya was a devout friar who lived in Chimayo. One Friday evening in the year 1810, he went out to do penance. As he prayed, he saw a bright glowing on a hillside. Curious, he went to the light and began to dig. To his surprise, he found a six-foot crucifix. He decided it could only have come from the great Cathedral in Santa Cruz so he took it upon himself to return it. It took him many months, but return it he did. Then he went home.

Imagine his surprise when he found the very same crucifix glowing in the hole on the side of the mountain where he had first seen it. Once again, he took it back to Santa Cruz and once again, upon his return to Chimayo, he discovered the crucifix in the hole on the side of the mountain. For the third time, the Friar carried the six-foot crucifix to the Cathedral in Santa Cruz but when he returned to Chimayo, it too had returned. At last, it came to him that the cross, now called the miraculous crucifix of Our Lord of Esquipulas, wished to stay in Chimayo.

So he built a tiny chapel but as the story spread many people came to receive the blessing of the cross. Eventually, a church made of pink adobe was built near a meandering stream under the cottonwood trees

People enter through the fragile wooden gate into the courtyard of the Santuario de Chimayo, past a wooden cross that is mounted on battered millstones. Perhaps they come hoping for a cure. They leave with a tiny vile of sacred soil from El Posito, the sacred well of earth. Many discard their crutches and canes and leave humble tokens of gratitude.

“Do you think it really works?” a sickeningly frail young man asks, his skin transparent, his eyes pleading.

“Yes, of course,” answers his comrade.

Her simple response is the same kindness that sends hundreds to New Orleans and thousands to Haiti. It is the magic of compassion.

The summer before my parents sent me away to camp, my aunt’s maid Hazel brought Liza Pearl across the street to play. It was a busy thoroughfare but like me, Liza Pearl was only eight years old. She had tight black braids and a shy, sweet smile. She said she liked to play house and paper dolls and jacks. I liked to play Buck Rogers and kickball. We compromised with hopscotch, a game drawn with chalk on the sidewalk. Once in awhile, she won.

Liza Pearl wore hand-me-down clothes. I could tell because her shirt had my school’s name on it and I knew she didn’t go to my school.

Sometimes we would crawl under the lilac bushes out of the hot sun and tell stories. Hers were filled with castles and magic and far away lands. She would get a distant look in her eyes and stop at the most exciting part. She’d giggle when I’d poke her to continue and I could see the pink of her mouth and her big white teeth.

My best friend Caroline (emphasis on the line) and Liza Pearl didn’t know each other. Caroline loved to climb trees. One day we decided to try to reach the top of the twin poplar trees in the empty lot behind my house. We each weighed about eighty pounds so the slender limbs of the trees seemed to hold us as we shimmied to the tops. I waved at Caroline from my treetop and just as she started to wave back, the limb on which she stood broke. I watched in horror as she crashed to the ground and landed with a thud.

Before I could climb down my tree, I saw Liza Pearl, arms swinging, dash across the street. She rushed to Caroline who lay flat on her back gasping for breath. Liza Pearl quickly rolled Caroline her on her side and patted her on the back.

I watched, paralyzed with fear. “I think she’s turning blue,” I cried.

Liza Pearl hit her again, harder. This time, Caroline took a deep breath and coughed. Her color returned and after a few moments, she sat up.

“Anything broke? Liza Pearl asked.

Caroline gingerly felt her arms and legs.

“Shouldn’t be climbing no spindly trees,” Liza Pearl said.

Relieved, I laughed and pointed to the one I’d slid down.  “Looks like I took all the leaves with me.”

Caroline stood up and brushed herself off.

Liza Pearl grinned. “My mother just baked some cookies. Bet she’d give us some.”

Caroline shook her head. “I’m not allowed to play with niggers,” she said.

I stared at her, shocked. The smile faded from Liza Pearl’s face. Then, eyes lowered, she walked back across the street.

I watched her go, my heart hurting. “Why did you say that?”

“Because it’s true. My father says we can’t associate with them.”

I found my legs and ran to the curb to call after Liza Pearl. I saw her and her mother standing in the doorway. Her mother looked at me before she and Liza Pearl, their heads held high, walked to the bus stop. The bus came and holding her mother’s hand, Liza Pearl climbed aboard. She didn’t look back.

That’s how I learned the pain of prejudice.

Caroline and I drifted apart. I never saw Liza Pearl again.