Countdowns

When I was in Chicago in January, I was given a keychain by two dear friends, Mary and LG. It has on it a digital running countdown of the days George W. has left in office. Right now it is 715 Days, 9 Hours, 8 Minutes, and 56.2 Seconds (I had to type that fast because each .something really moves the clock). This little keychain makes me happy every time I look at it. When I first laid eyes on it, there were 750 days left. Each day is one day closer to the end of an administration that I have no good words for. (Go to http://www.backwardsbush.com/ to get your own.)

715d, 9h, 5 m, 34.4s

I’m thinking of other countdowns today as I sit at the Laundry. The count stopped this week on the life of a one-of-a-kind, national, political, biting voice: Molly Ivins. She long-reported on the Texas Legislature but didn’t stop at the borders, there wasn’t a powerful politician that was free from her sharp wit and keen wordsmithing on behalf of the powerless. She’s the one that nicknamed George W. Bush, “Shrub.”

One column I remember well from 1992, she wrote that Ross Perot’s economic plan was as welcome as a wanton woman at SMU Theology. (Some papers ran the word, “whore.”) Working at SMU Theology at the time, I wrote to her and told her how proud we were to be mentioned in her column, invited her to our Women’s Week conference, and signed my name and “the other wanton women of SMU Theology.” Not long after I got a postcard of Ralph, the swimming pig, jumping off a rock at Aquarena Springs in San Marcos, Texas. It read, “Dear WW of SMUT, Would love to come to talk to WW, but this year is out. Booked to the gills. But keep me on your dance card for further on down the line. Best Wishes, Molly Ivins.” At first I thought that someone had played a joke on me but then I knew that few would have access to Ralph’s card, a performer that Molly Ivins favored. I’m only now noticing how she addressed it, simply,
Marilyn Alexander
c/o the Wanton Women of SMU Theology
Dallas, TX 75275
A couple of years later she spoke at SMU and when I asked her to sign my copy of her book, I showed her the postcard. She laughed, said that she remembered and then wrote, “For Marilyn, another wanton woman, Raise more hell!” Kindred spirit for sure.

I’m looking at the obituary from last Thursday’s New York Times. She had countless good lines. “After Patrick J. Buchanan, as a conservative candidate for president, declared at the 1992 Republican National Convention that the United States was engaged in a culture war, she said his speech ‘probably sounded better in German.’” Another quip: “There are two kinds of humor… One was the kind ‘that makes us chuckle about our foibles and our shared humanity… The other kind holds people up to public contempt and ridicule. That’s what I do.’” Her voice was passionate, insightful, and powerful. To check out her final column, Stand Up Against the Surge, go to
http://www.creators.com/opinion/molly-ivins/stand-up-against-the-surge.html
I’m still in shock that we won’t be reading her fresh words and cunning commentary anymore and her loss is just way too soon after the death of her friend and another extraordinary Texas woman, Ann Richards. We’ve lost two national treasures.

715d, 8h, 46m, 51.3s

Then there is the war in Iraq that has no countdown. Besides the above three people giving rise to things political, I’m in this frame of mind because I’m writing up an interview to be included in my book on Laundry stories. Through the Laundry community, I found a soldier to interview that had just come back from Iraq (that was in the Fall of 2005). Living in Helena has made me much more aware of the troops serving in this dreadful quagmire. The National Guard and Army Reserve are big employers here and because it is a small state (in population, real big geographically), it seems that when a Montana soldier dies, I pause a bit longer in thinking about him or her and the soldier’s family, kind of like neighbors down the block. Also, I’d not been to a homecoming parade for returning soldiers before but on Thanksgiving Day in 2005, I was on Last Chance Gulch, the main street through downtown, with the crowd waving little American flags and cheering to the troops hanging over railings of military trucks and sitting on top of tanks. I was moved that they had returned from sights and sounds and experiences that those of us present could not imagine --except maybe for the WWII and Vietnam veterans in the crowd. Hats and signs helped identify them.

I disagree terribly with this war that we are in. We shouldn’t be there and we’re going to have a hell of a time getting out. Our administration has really made a mess of things, a horrific calamity in a land that already had plenty. But even with these personal thoughts and convictions, I wanted to hear from someone who had been there. I needed to hear a soldier’s perspective, even if it was only one of many.

He agreed to come to my house on a December morning. The smell of the freshly-baked pumpkin bread filled the air. I put on tea and we sat on my couch. He was very gracious, trusting and generous to tell his story to a stranger after he finished, but two hours later, he told me that he hadn’t been able to tell anyone about it from start to finish. He said that either people didn’t have that much time or hadn’t asked.

He didn’t come home to a big fan-fare because he did not go with his unit but was sent with one from Missouri. But those that were there when he stepped off his plane wept with joy to have him back. Because he joined another unit, he entered into an already-established pecking order. He was an outsider from the start and had his authority challenged from day one. To sum up his overall experience, he had a supervisor that made work and life hell, oversight of troops that needed his emotional support as much as his logistical direction, and travel on roads that constantly had to be checked for IED (improvised explosive device). In order to do his job as a communications technician he had to travel out to three different hubs to work on internet satellites and internal networks with the threat of an explosion at every turn. He didn’t dwell on the danger as much as the working conditions with his boss. I came to see his experience as a really bad job but in the pit of explosive hell. He had a very humbling story and I was in turn humbled that he would tell it to me without knowing my political persuasion or any reason to think that I would really listen.

715d, 8h, 22m, 44.2s

There is the time running down until the kick-off for the Super Bowl this afternoon. Now, let me say, it is thought that all lesbians follow professional football religiously, as well as other sports. In contrast to a gay man who once said, “Organized sports are optional for my people.” However, for this woman-loving woman, I am not one to sit and watch football games on a given Sunday afternoon or Monday evening or whenever they are televised. My sister, Liz, has to call me the first Saturday in November to tell me who the victor was between our rival alma maters: Texas Tech (hers) and Texas A&M (mine). I never remember that they are playing.

Today I’ll make an exception as I did back in the hey-day of my youth when the Dallas Cowboys were quite the thing. Since the Chicago Bears are in the line-up this afternoon (Mountain Time, 2 hours earlier than Eastern evening) so I have some positive sentiment and loyalty to my friends in Chicago. In fact, two just called me on my cell phone, Jim and Terry, ones for which the sport is optional though the parties surrounding the grand sport are not. I’m also interested that this year marks the first time that both head coaches are African American: Lovie Smith and Tony Dungy. Both seem to be extraordinary men of great character and steady leadership. No matter which team is victorious, it will be the first time an African American coach won a Super Bowl. So the televised game for its historic meaning is another good reason to join the millions of viewers. Still, you can see, my reasons are so not-lesbian, but so be it.

715d, 8h, 18m, 23.2s

Finally, here at the Laundry, a count-up has just begun. There are new owners for the Jailhouse Sandwich Shop & Soup Kitchen. Sambo retired on Friday, his last day to serve up grub. We wish him well. I’ll keep you posted on the new developments in the lunch fare.

There are beginnings and endings all the time. We wait, we mourn, we listen, we cheer, we part, we greet, and the clock keeps ticking.

715d, 8h, 16m, 17.3s