The Impeachment Trial

The Washington Post Print Facility

Newspapers. The presses are big. They're noisy. And when they roll, you can feel them through the floor. That's why they're usually somewhere off in the hinterlands instead of in the big, busy office buildings where reporters write 'em.

The Post  prides itself on its dependable home delivery time of 6 a.m. or earlier. Hah!

I bet it was in subscribers' driveways alright. And maybe by 6 a.m., but I bet it didn't have the full rundown of D.C.'s Main Event. The paper has to be at the distribution center by 2:15 a.m. to make the 6 o'clock delivery. The Impeachment Trial went until about 2 a.m. D.C. time (Midnight Colorado time.)
Ain't no way the Washington Post, or any other print newspaper, could even report the actual time Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts finally graveled the proceedings into recess. Guess folks are just going to have to join the 21st Century and get their news online.

I watched it live on TV. (Thank you PBS.) It certainly went past my bedtime and I bet past the bedtimes of many of the Senators. Lord, some of them are even older than me.

What I saw and heard:
    The Senate Chamber was full of Senators. (Pretty much Senators, only. It's not usually full unless they're taking a vote. You normally see one Senator or another at the lectern reading their speech to a virtually empty room.
     And it was quiet. The Senators weren't allowed to talk except during recesses. They are known to visit with each other, normally. You know, discuss, persuade, tell jokes, gossip -- even, or maybe especially, during a vote when at least a quorum is presumed to be there. (That's 51 of the 100 Senators.)
      It was all very formal and decorous. Representative Jerry Nadler was the only one who came right out and called Trump's lawyers liars. I don't know that that was what drew the reprimand from Chief Justice Roberts. He directed the reprimand at both parties. The Trump lawyers didn't call anybody out with the term lie. They just lied, but I'm not sure that's an infraction of courtesy in the Senate.
      Really different than what I've seen of the British Parliament. I don't know that I've ever heard any of them call each other liars, but they are certainly noisy and disruptive. But, now that I think about it, I think I've only seen video of the House of Commons. And mostly during Brexit at that. Maybe the House of Lords is different.
   
The Democrats entered umpteen amendments to the rules the Republicans have established for the proceedings. Each amendment was duly read out. Each side was allotted two hours to argue for or against the amendment. Then Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, a Republican, would move that the amendment be "tabled." (Meaning that whatever the requested change could be considered at some future time. Or not, as Representative Adam Schiff pointed out.) They would have a roll call vote, meaning that each Senator's name was called out and they responded verbally.
Most of the amendments were requests that subpoenas be issued for various and sundry documents and witnesses.
There were no surprises. With one exception, the votes to table were 53 yeas and 47 nays. Hmmm. How many Republicans are in the Senate? Oh, yeah. 53. There are 45 Democrats and 2 Independents who caucus with the Dems.
Formalized deniability! Keeping in mind, one-third of these folks are up for reelection this year. Their jobs are on the line. They didn't vote against having witnesses or documents. They just voted to table the requirement to have witnesses or documents.
The one exception? Senator Susan Collins of Maine. She voted with the Democrats to increase the amount of time for responses to written motions from two hours to twenty-four hours. Written motions are due Wednesday morning. Gosh, I think the deadline for motions was 8 a.m. D.C. time, two and a half hours before my time right now.
Two hours to respond! Senate staffers have their work cut out for them. And on little or no sleep, at that.

Besides not being allowed to talk while the trial is in session, the Senators can't have any kind of electronic device -- no cell phones, iPads. Nada. They're only allowed to drink water or milk. (I don't know that the kind of milk is specified. Cow's milk? Goat's milk? Almond milk? Oat milk?)

They started at 1 p.m. Tuesday afternoon and went until almost 2 a.m. Wednesday morning. They were allowed a 30-minute dinner break and periodic 15-minute breaks. If they need a potty-break, they must use the cloak room. (I assume there are facilities in the cloak room.) The point is, they're not to be leaving the chamber and wandering in the halls or falling asleep in some out-of-the-way corner.

And those English Royals think they've got it bad!

Am I going to watch the rest in real time? Don't think so. Think I'll just read about it in the newspapers. Online.

Denver Women's March 2020

The Colorado skies gave us a glorious start.

            

Ten thousand of us, all dressed warmly for Colorado's January morning,
began and ended the march in front of the Denver City and County Building.

Four years ago, after Trump's inauguration when the Women's March outnumbered his crowd -- not to mention that it was nationwide. They said we women wouldn't keep it up. They were wrong!

Not only are we still marching, we are voting. As was the case during the 2018 March, there were plenty of people out registering voters and updating voter registrations.We flipped the House in 2018. And if the current Senate fails to do their duty, we'll clean out the White House for them and flip the Senate to boot.





Women's Right truly are Human Rights and Women's issues are everybody's issues. All kinds of people marched -- us seniors, middle-aged people with their teen children, young adults, young families with babies in strollers. All races and genders. People supporting all kinds of causes -- health care, the environment, education. The March took us under the Denver Museum of Art's sky bridge and alongside this sculpture. How appropriate is this?! Trump has been impeached and it's time to sweep him and his administration out!

                       Some of us wore
                                           our shared
                                                         sentiments.











There were signs, lots of signs.

Grey beard and sunglasses, my favorite!

  Some signs were literary                              

  

                                                                              Some witty,

 

                                        Pretty funny, I thought.                           Most Colorado sign        

Some heartfelt, 

some rude.

And the chants, oh those chants. My favorite? "We want a leader not a creepy tweeter."

Somewhere before the 16th Street Mall Free bus back to Union Station, I lost my scarf.  And my water bottle somewhere before The Mercantile Restaurant for lunch. (When I told my husband about the losses, he said I was like a little kid, he should attach everything to me with string.)

But I found something I'd begun to lose these past four years. Something very precious indeed.
Faith in America's People.

Frances -- A Poem

The room is full.
She's waving at me.
Daddy sees someone else
He'd like to speak to.
Two chairs lean against a table. One for me.
Not one I'd choose.
I can't speak to anyone until I've spoken to her
Thanked her for saving our seats.
"Where's Gene?" Daddy asks.
She says,
"He told me to find my own way home."
She doesn't need a way home.
She needs a husband who cares.
Who thinks she's got something to say
She needs him to listen to her speak
Just speak.
Listen to her speak.
I drive her home.
I say,"The sky is gray."
She sees yellow flowers in the median
She doesn't know what they are.
I don't know what they are.
So practiced in silence,
She says nothing more.
I drive her home.
"Thank you," she says.
"Have a good weekend," I say.

I watch until she passes from sight,
She passes from sight.

What You Have Heard Is True -- a book review

2019 National Book Award Finalist

This is a pretty, damned hard book to read. Not because of big words and difficult ideas. Not because it is too academic or artistically obtuse. But because the truth it tells is hard to take. 

I cannot freely recommend it. But I do believe it is important for you to read. It's not just for Americans to read, but maybe especially Americans should read it.

Americans like me who live a quiet, safe life, have no idea. Even Americans who do not enjoy so-called white privilege or Christian privilege or wealth privilege -- they do have American privilege. And Americans, despite our current administration's poor-little-rich-kid view that the world is picking on us, do "have it" better than some of our neighbors. 

Those among us who are truly oppressed -- and there are Americans among us who are truly oppressed -- have an advantage over too many in the world. That advantage is that they are Americans. 

We Americans don't understand why the people of Venezuela or North Korea or the Rohingya of Southeast Asia and the Uighurs of China and so many others around the world allow themselves to be oppressed by their own governments. We ask, "If they don't like it, why don't they change it?" 

In What You Have Heard Is True by Carolyn Forché, we learn why. On the title page the book calls itself what it most truly is, "A Memoir of Witness and Resistance." 

The author writes, "Over the years, I have been asked why, as a twenty-seven-year-old American poet who spoke Spanish brokenly and knew nothing about the isthmus of the Americas, I would accept the invitation of a man I barely knew to spend time in a country on the verge of war. And why would this stranger, said to be a lone wolf, a Communist, a CIA operative, a world-class marksman, and a small-time coffee farmer, take any interest in a naive North American poet? as one man put it, what does poetry have to do with anything?"

That man she barely knew was Leonel Gómez Vides. He explained to her why he chose her: "Someday you will be talking to your own people. Writing for your own people. I promise you that it is going to be difficult to get Americans to believe what is happening here. For one thing, this is outside the realm of their imaginations. For another, it isn't in their interests to believe you. For a third, it is possible that we are not human beings to them."

Forché, because she is not a journalist or an historian, she does not deliver to us a detached report of what happened. She is not a storyteller sitting in front of a cozy fireplace recounting an exciting war story. She is a poet and as such, she involves us in her experiences. Experiences so close to the reader that the tension is palpable. You feel the fear in your gut. You remind yourself that she survives this memoir because you need to be reassured. But, because of her, you know there are those who don't and you feel their loss. 

Our questions: Why do people allow themselves to be oppressed by their government? And why don't they change their government?

"It isn't the risk of death and fear of danger that prevent people from rising up, it is numbness, acquiescence, and the defeat of the mind." --  Leonel Gómez Vides

and

"Resistance to oppression begins when people realize deeply within themselves that something better is possible." --  Leonel Gómez Vides

Like me, you may find yourself with your own crisis of conscience. Complete with the need to know if it is still the same in El Salvador today? And what I can do. 

Out of the Mouths of Drunks

Americans

More than forty years ago Irani nationals, mostly students in American colleges, demonstrated in the United States during the lead-up to the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Some of the demonstrations were in support of the Shah, Iran's word for "king." And some were against. In Oklahoma where I lived, the demonstrations were largely ignored. Iran was far away and we had our own issues.

Several different factions in Iran revolted against the Shah. The faction that ended up in power were Islamists. They established an Islamic republic under the Grand Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. The Shah fled to the United States. To try the Shah for alleged crimes by his secret police against citizens of Iran, Iran sought extradition. It was denied. On November 4, 1979, Irani college students, members of Muslim Students of the Imam Khomeini Line, invaded the American Embassy in Tehran and held 52 American diplomats and civilians hostage for the next 444 days.

In 1980, Americans were being held hostage in the American Embassy in Tehran, Iran. American media coverage of the hostages took up more than 20 percent of all television news. Walter Cronkite ended his news show each evening by saying how many days the hostages had been captive. Public sentiment against Iran was high. People waved their patriotism at every opportunity.

I was a single mother. My son was five.

I drove 52 miles one-way five days a week to work. I was the Night Manager of a Taco Bell in Stillwater, Oklahoma.

Earlier during the Hostage Crisis, I'd worked at a Taco Bell in Oklahoma City. While there, I'd had to limit one of my employees to the back of the store because he was Irani and customers were being rude to him. He was a member of the Baha'i Faith and couldn't return to Iran because the Islamic government there was persecuting the Baha'i. Most of his family had been able to get out of Iran safely, but they were scattered -- some in the U.S., some in Europe.

Stillwater is a college town about an hour and a half northeast of Oklahoma City. Home of Oklahoma State University, a Land-Grant school noted for its Veterinary College and agriculture, engineering, and technology degrees. In 1980 the school was predominantly white. To be fair, the town of Stillwater was probably even more white. Its population of foreign nationals mostly limited to people attached in one way or another to the university.

The Taco Bell I worked in was at the end of "the strip" -- a street going south from the OSU campus, liberally lined on both sides with inexpensive restaurants and beer bars. Usually, after 10 p.m. most of our business was students. People who had been drinking, had the munchies, or were just hungry and tired after a long day working or studying.

One night the store was fairly empty, only two young men quietly eating by the window. A group of boisterous students entered. Eight of them, evenly divided male and female. All white. They got their food and sat at table in the middle of the room. Then they spotted the two young men, noted their olive-toned skin. At first their talk, though obviously about the two men by the window, was quiet enough we couldn't understand what they were saying.

But as they got progressively louder and more aggressive, the two diners near the window began to show signs of discomfort. And I got more uncomfortable.

Now it wouldn't have been the first time I had had to step in and ask someone to leave the store because of inappropriate behavior. And if it came to that, it wouldn't have been the first time I had to call the police.

As tension continued to rise another customer entered the store. He was so drunk he could hardly stay upright as he ordered at the counter.

The abusive group got to their feet as one.

The room went silent. The wobbly man at the counter stopped digging in his pockets to find money to pay for his food and focused as best he could on the threatening group. I, my staff, and the targeted young men, stopped what we were doing, afraid to see what would happen next.

The bully-group glared at the men by the window and launched into a loud, belligerent rendition of "God Bless America." The young drunk watched them storm out of the store.

"Hell, they're drunker 'n I am," he said.

He had no idea why we all broke out in relieved laughter.


Things to think about:
Why would they assume someone is not an American based on the color of their skin? Or their accent?

Americans come in all colors and from all parts of the world. Heck, those Americans from up north have a hard time understanding Americans from the south.

Now, more than ever, we need to be kind.

Dear Santa (4th of four) -- flash fiction

This is Dee's fourth and final letter written in 2015

Dear Santa,

Happy almost Christmas!

I know you must be as tired as I am. It’s three o’clock in the morning here and I’m at the hospital with Becca and Thurman. You remember, my daughter and her family are staying with me while their fire-damaged house is being repaired.

Thurman was in the middle of responding to a burglary-in-progress when Becca went into labor. He met us at the hospital all out of breath and worried that he’d missed everything. The man’s done this three times already. You’d think he’d know it’s going to take a while.

The nurses say everything is going normally and we should have a new baby girl. Soon, they say. They always say that. I’m seriously considering going home to get some rest.

Before we left I woke Rodney. Rodney, of the umpteen rabbits in the basement. We left him in charge of the kids. I explained the situation. He promised French toast for the kids, rolled over, and went back to sleep. He’s tired, too.

He’s been accepted in culinary school. He’s a little old maybe, but like his father always said, better late, than later. I miss Marvin. He had a way with words. Sometimes the three years since he’s been gone seem like forever. And sometimes when Rodney smiles just a certain way or Becca rolls her eyes, it seems like yesterday that their daddy was holding my hand and telling me things would work out.

We’ve had the tree up for a while, and we’ve been putting a few presents under it as we go along. It’s an endless fascination for the children. They’re good about not bothering the packages. As much as it surprises me, I have to say the Labradors have been good about not bothering them, too. It all looks so pretty – blinking lights, shiny ornaments, and the star on top.

My favorite ornaments are the ones the children made. I’ve still got Rodney's and Becca’s little Rudolph the Reindeers from when they were in the toddler class at church. You know, with the little red pom-pom noses and googly eyes. Then the ones with their school pictures pasted on. Most of the glitter has come off of those. Thank goodness.

And now we’ve got ornaments the grandchildren made.

In fact, we spent most of the morning yesterday around the dining table drawing and cutting and pasting while Rodney tried out a recipe for shepherd’s pie. He likes to get a head start on whatever his next project is. I guess cooking classes are no different.

Jerry – he’s the eight-year-old grandchild – is very creative. I never thought about Spiderman riding in a sleigh, but he looks almost natural. Despite the odd angle of his legs. At least his mask is red. Mostly.

I think five-year-old Maggie is going to be our engineer. She pasted as many strips of paper as I would cut making the longest paper chain I’ve ever seen. And she doesn’t limit her links to traditional colors or designs. I don’t think I have an intact magazine left in the house.

At almost ten, Michael is the wise, elder brother. He worked diligently with a plastic Crèche kit, defending it against any assistance from his younger siblings. He did let Maggie put the Baby Jesus in the manger. And Jerry added a battered pick-up he called Mater. From the Disney film Cars, but I'm sure you already knew that. Sometimes I wonder if movies aren’t too easily available to children these days. What with DVDs and Netflix.

Then again, I do think it’s better for them to watch those at home than for their parents to drop them at the movie theater for the afternoon. At least there’s more parental supervision this way.

Not that they get enough of that at my house. 

Sometime after putting the Baby Jesus in the little plastic manger, Maggie disappeared. None of us missed her until a rabbit emerged from the open basement door. Luckily Thurman had just gotten up. He’s working graveyards. He saw Rocky’s ears perk up. The young Labrador had spotted the rabbit. Thurman shouted “Stay!” stopping all of us in our tracks. Including the rabbit. Thurman got the dogs out the back door and Michael caught the wayward bunny.

Rodney plunged down the stairs, his flour-dusted apron flapping around his legs. There were rabbits everywhere. Maggie sat in the middle of my bed petting my wide-eyed cat Cleo with one hand and a full-grown rabbit with the other.

After the boys lifted rabbits into their cages and Rodney latched the cage doors securely, the smoke alarm went off upstairs.

Poor Rodney. Smoke billowed from the oven. He turned the oven off and the exhaust fan on high while I flapped a tea towel at the smoke alarm. I would like to say tranquility was restored but Becca came in from work and Thurman made Maggie tell her mother what she’d done. The tale was told amid great sobs and the child was put in time-out while her brothers and Uncle Rodney made a trip to the Colonel’s for chicken.

After a late dinner, Thurman went to work and the rest of us went to bed. I'd only gotten a couple hours of sleep when Becca woke me to take her to the hospital. So here I am. Waiting on our new baby girl.

Drive safely Christmas Eve. I’ll be thinking of you.

Your friend,

Dee

P.S. Thurman just came out to tell me it’s a boy. We all thought it was a girl. The doctor said the baby was shy and they couldn’t see the hangy-down bit on the ultrasound. He said it happens sometimes. Wonder if they'll put him in those pretty little pink things they got at the baby shower. 

P.P.S. They named him Marvin.

P.P.P.S. If you’re not busy Saturday, we’re having a few friends in for a post-Christmas dinner and you’re welcome to come. Rodney is fixing rabbit.

Dear Santa (3rd of four) -- Flash Fiction

This is Dee's third letter to Santa originally written in 2015

Dear Santa,

It’s me again. Dee. You know, the 53-year-old widow living with her son, pregnant daughter, son-in-law, two grandsons, a granddaughter, two Black Labs, a cat, and umpteen rabbits.

I’m still sleeping in the basement which used to be very nice. Well, it still would be nice if it weren’t for the rabbits. Rodney assures me that the smell will not saturate the walls and flooring. The floors are quarry tile. Marvin, my late husband, chose the flooring because he thought it would withstand just about anything that could happen to it. Though I doubt he considered the possibility of rabbits.

Friday was the last day of school before Christmas break. I must have been mad to volunteer to watch the kids while Becca and Thurman are at work. Becca plans to work until she starts labor. I’m glad they’re expecting another girl. Then they’ll have two boys and two girls.

They’re having trouble scheduling contractors to repair their house. The holidays, and all that.

Maybe you remember that Thurman is a cop. He planned to take care of the children while Becca works, but he works all kinds of hours. Mostly while the children sleep, so he needs to sleep while they’re awake. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage.

I thought Rodney – my son, the one with the rabbits – would help. He quit his job. Said he just didn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind cooking for all of us and he’s good at it. But Saturday morning and all day yesterday with me and the kids and the critters was enough to get him job-hunting.

Not that I’m complaining. I know it’s temporary. Lots of grandparents don’t get to spend time with their grandchildren. Marvin would have loved the full house. Dogs, kids, and all. He was a dear, sweet man, but I don’t know how he would have felt about the rabbits.

Michael – that’s the oldest grandson – he’s almost ten and plays the violin. Luckily most days are nice enough he can practice outside on the deck. I don’t know what the neighbors think. Jerry – the next grand – is eight and has just started the violin which means he’s still playing on a tissue box with a paper towel tube for a neck. Learning to hold it properly, they say. Thank goodness for small mercies.

And Maggie, dear little Maggie. She’s five and very bright. She wants to know everything. But if I hear “Why, Grandma?” one more time, I’m going to lock myself in with the rabbits until New Years.

Cleo, my cat, hasn’t been upstairs since I rescued her from the dogs that first day. Truth be told, Becca rescued both of us. Not that the dogs are bad dogs. No one could expect a dog to overlook being attacked by a hissing, spitting monster.

If the kids slept as much as the dogs do, I’d be more rested. After Maggie’s nap, we went to the park. We had to walk the dogs anyway. I took Buddy. He’s like me. He appreciates peace and quiet. Michael was in charge of his little sister and I figured Jerry could keep up with Rocky. Maybe tire them both out.

At less than a year old Rocky is bigger than most grown dogs. But he’s still a rowdy pup. He tries to mind. You can tell. The way he looks at you knowing he won’t get permission to do whatever it is he longs for.

Our parks are well-used, especially on sunny days. Meredith, who lives two streets over was there with her daughter Meghan and their great lug of a dog named Bruno. Meghan is most likely on your “good child” list. I’m sure Bruno is good, too. He looks like a cross between a St. Bernard and a Great Dane – too much hair and too big.

Louise Fenton was there with her little Dachshund Mac. Louise always looks so nice, full make-up and coiffed, just to walk her dog.

When I stopped to talk to her, I guess Mac thought Buddy was too close to his Mistress and she needed protecting. He screamed and went for Buddy. (I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a dog make a sound like that.)

Buddy and I were shocked. Rocky apparently thought the Dachshund was attacking us – which I fully believed, myself. He came across the playground at a dead run, dragging Jerry behind him. He charged under the swing Maggie was in and tipped her out onto the ground. Jerry lost hold of Rocky’s leash when he crashed into Michael who was trying to catch Maggie.

Poor Buddy pulled back on his leash trying to stay away from Mac. I guess with Rocky bearing down on him, that Dachshund felt the need to run. His leash was around Louise’s ankles when he ran between Bruno’s legs. And then Louise was on the ground with me standing over her holding tight to Buddy’s leash so he wouldn’t join Rocky in the chase.

Bruno pulled free from Meredith and knocked poor little Meghan down. Now, there were two little girls crying. And Jerry was screaming at Rocky.

As big as Bruno is, I doubt that he’d ever felt the need to be fierce. He must have felt threatened or he’d never have attacked Buddy.

There I was hanging on to Buddy’s leash for dear life. Because I wouldn’t let go, Buddy couldn’t get away from Bruno. He had to fight back. But I knew if I let go, I’d have no control of either dog.

You’re never supposed to get in the middle of a dog fight. I knew that, but what could I do? I jerked on Buddy’s leash and pulled him away enough to thrust my hip in Bruno’s face and get between them. The minute I got between them, they stopped fighting.

Forgetting that he wanted to defend Buddy from Mac (the crazed Dachshund) Rocky ran away from the commotion toward the street with Jerry hot after him. Such screeching and honking, you’ve never heard. I can’t imagine what good those idiot drivers thought they’d do honking at a dog and a boy plunging into the street. Luckily, the cars got stopped before they ran down my grandson and his dog.

That Dachshund sat there as calm as could be watching the whole thing. Like none of it had anything to do with him.

Hope your day went better than mine. I think I may have pulled something in my right side.

Tomorrow is bound to be better.

Hopefully yours,

Dee