Reflections on War, Crawford, and the Case against THIS War
This morning we leave Camp Casey with mixed feelings. We leave behind many new friends who will scatter, literally, across the continent over the next week. We are complete with what we needed to do, connected to our next steps, and exhausted from the heat, the humidity, and the week-long strong emotions. Now we can unravel and absorb all that we have experienced.
We are now traveling down I-35 headed toward Austin, the liberal bastion of Texas, and then on through Dripping Springs to Kerrville, to see my mother.
Had we told her we were in Crawford, she would have been right out there with us, which is why we did not tell her. She would have loved waving her own American flag and ‘cussin’ at the right wing Connecticut Yankee occupiers whom she thinks stole Texas from the “real Texans,” those Johnny-come-lately’s who wouldn’t know the Alamo from the internet.
Now 81 years of age, sporting high blood pressure and even higher spirits, she would have no doubt created a scene! We did not feel it was appropriate to let her loose in a tent with peace activists. Actually, neither one of us wanted to be responsible for her if she got out of control while “straightenin’ those old boys out,” which she does frequently with enthusiasm and abandon. She reminds us, if we dare chide her,
“ What are they going to, hit me? I’m an old lady.”
The Crawford Sherriff’s Dept. is depending on our side to be peaceful, at least.
We know that Kerrville is one of those spots on the map where we will always back in to parking places to keep from getting our Honda Element sliced down the side by an errant angry car key as a result of our ultra-radical bumper stickers. Am not sure which one is so upsetting — “Viet Nam Veteran,” “Veteran for Peace,” “My son is in the U.S. Army” – no, couldn’t be that one. Or maybe, “Will Work for Peace.” Or perhaps the small Gaia sticker perched in the center of the bumper – that famous shot taken from space some years ago. Our beautiful Mother Earth as She looked back then, before the Cleaner Skies Act eliminated the need for American industry to clean up its waste, and before the tax break that awarded the $ 80,000 tax benefit for those folks who bought GM Hummers, allowing gasoline to be guzzled for the good of Exxon, Enron and other EEEEssential coalition partners against this Global War on Terrorism.
With those thoughts, as we turn from I- 35 West onto State Road 290, our conversation turns to exactly how we plan to break the news to Mother about where we have been this week, including why we are 1) here a month before we had planned, 2) are driving instead of flying 3) are coming in from the (Easterly) Austin direction, and 4) have a huge plastic bag of filthy, mildewing clothing. Not to mention, ah, yes, those bumper stickers again.
Driving through these beautiful hills, I have other musings. I remember my roots, and can almost smell the Blue Bonnets that will soon blanket these rolling meadows. My heart jumps a bit as I anticipate that smile beaming on my precious mother’s face as we roll up the driveway, being careful not to get too close to the huge barrels that overflow with corn for the herd of 40 + deer she feeds each evening. This year, one momma deer had twins, and, as Mom and John sit on their beautiful porch under the Live Oaks, they point out each of the 30 in the herd, and each has a name. Every one of the babies born over the past four years, they can identify from across the acreage.
One of the new babies sleeps with Earl, the beloved therapy dog who treks to the nursing home every Thursday to make his rounds. Annie, the deer, thinks that either she is a dog, or he is a deer. Either way, they have learned to lie down beside each other and love one another.
Oh, that we might be as wise.
