Them

After over a year here in Reedsville, WV, I finally ran into an unsettling moment, much anticipated but never experienced up until now. I've been, of course, unpacking it ever since. 
I was getting my hair cut, which meant not some hip place on Capitol Hill where no one noticed me but one where ladies' hair gets puffed up real high and sprayed into oblivion. My neighbors -- who are gay women! On a four-house road we are 50%! -- had recommended this place and by god they were right. I got the best hair cut I've had in years and was charged, no this is not a typo: $15. Must be more when you add hairspray. 

But this time our favorite stylist was out on maternity leave so I got the shop's owner. Within a few minutes the air was aflutter with F bombs and bold statements, delivered with the confidence of one who knows it's her shop. 

The guy she was talking to was shaking his head, ranting about somebody who had unfriended him on Facebook, and I paid no attention until I heard: "He called me a racist!" 

I immediately became aware of being trapped in my chair with someone messing literally with my head, and began to brace myself, hoping it didn't go there. It did. I never heard what he actually did to deserve the title but it was a big fight, with a former friend, and while of course he objected to the epithet, what I can't forget is his face. 

He looked completely stricken. 

He said, in disbelief, "and he hates Trump." He appeared to be completely baffled by both being called a racist and that someone could hate Trump.

I waited, aware of my body stiffening and hoping my mouth didn't open for any reason, but also getting a little freaked that I could get so scared just sitting in a hair salon with people just talking.

I keep thinking about that look. Of all the looks I thought I'd see on a real live possible racist, hurt, scared and baffled were not among them.  

He's four.

I can't believe how slow my processing has been because not only do I have a firm belief system but it is built on layers and layers and layers of assumptions that have gone unquestioned probably since my birth.
So the first piece I got was that "racist" is a really strong word. What does it mean exactly? It's huge. It has such a broad and deep spectrum. I've spent so many years exploring the subtlety of north and west coast racism. How insidious and institutional it is, all with a liberal presentation that says all the right things and votes all the ways. And yet so much is right there to see: plain and simple racism. But after you hurl the word then what? Scream it at each other? I mean, what is the goal?

It's very hard to see that look of hurt and not want to do something different. Surely there is something to work with there.

Parts of West Virginia changed hands between North and South during the civil war over 50 times. It depends on who you ask whether the state is The South or The North. As usual, and they are proud of this, it is not one thing but many things. Things that don't fit in a neat straight line; just take a look at the shape of the state itself on a map. 

But other things are hugely important: being nice, giving your kids the best you can, taking care of your family and neighbors, and keeping The Man out of your business. This last part has made me feel so much more comfortable than I ever though I'd be. Keeping out of someone's business is a very difficult thing. Not relying on passive aggressive jabs and "helpful suggestions" and notes left on doors and on and on. What if you just let a barking dog bark? What if someone's car is in the road? What if that stop sign fell down 5 months ago and no one put it back? What if the sign fell down and someone finally did put it back up, only 3 feet lower? What if the hose from the spring that provides so much beautiful, pure water fell into the mud? You come back in a month and someone has fixed it. No government around to be seen or see you.

So it comes down to something like: you may be queers but you're our queers and we'll look out for you, too. We've interacted as a "we" with all kinds of people, every one of them nice and polite and friendly. The hostess at our favorite restaurant calls us "you two" or "ladies" and always seats us at a booth. Her hair is piled up to there and never moves.

So anyway I went looking online for "how to talk to a Trump supporter" but all I found was vicious, hateful rhetoric that looked like it came from Fox news. Yet it was CNN, Slate, HuffPo, etc. There was not one article that suggested how to find common ground, what to do if you get baited, how to not bait, and all the other pitfalls that comprise the polarization that has become the new normal. (Btw, Yes Magazine's latest issue addresses exactly this; I highly recommend it.)

Reading the hate-fueled crap produced by "my own side" caused a small implosion. I was ashamed. And again, realized I had never even listened to anyone about why they thought Trump was a good option. Not really. 

So I started to. Freed from having to argue or convince, I started listening in on a lot of conversations. And all I heard were painful stories of being left behind, made fun of, misunderstood, and more saliently, colonized. Ripped off. Used. Adding insult to injury, one of colonization's best weapons is to demonize the people you're ripping off, the better to justify the crime. Stop me if you've heard this before.

The coal legacy here is deep but there is a distinction between coal miners and the coal industry. There are so many people "all buggered up" as Ann would say, from industrial accidents and lack of health insurance. Kicked out when they can't work anymore, not compensated for loss of limb and life. And then on top of it, made fun of. The money goes straight out of state. 

It has all left me confused. 
And grateful.
And more open minded.
And humble.
And protective. 

Local marching band competition..

I do like things complicated, as much as I often search to make them simple. So I have plenty of things to chew on. And I keep wanting to share them with you, my nearest and dearest and newest. So:

Folks here go to their kids' high school marching band competitions. No matter what. 
Haul people's cars out of the mud.
Rescue animals.
Hunt animals.
Buy really cheap bad food that makes them fat and sick.

Loyal parents

Transport goats in cars.
Attack drag queens. 
Raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for the same drag queens.
Pull off the biggest teacher's strike in the history of the country. 
Own a lot of guns but have THE LOWEST crime rate in the country. 

Confusing.

Goat yoga at the local Arthurdale Heritage Inc, the town founded by Eleanor Roosevelt on a tip from her LOVER Lorena Hickok.

I intend to keep it complicated, or at least not succumb to simplifying. 

Goat transport

Look at those hills

PD Pancake

Birdfeeder season

Since I last wrote I don't think we'd gotten PD. She would be classified as a Helper by a cat shelter. She is into everything and LOVES being inside, a good thing, because for the first time in my life I am insisting on an indoor cat. Her last name is actually Sullivan or Sullicake but you can't beat PD Pancake. 

She loves her Mica

Cabin

It's finally finished! What was supposed to be just a little ol' tiny house became a local contractor's project and we have one solid little cabin!
Fully insulated, better shower than the one in the house, a comfy chair and a full table to write on, a kitchen and fridge and best of all, a lovely front porch!

Before

During

I should have stood someone next to this unearthed stone. It's huge and can only be moved with a bulldozer. 

Big damage to the lodge space, very disheartening.
So Ann painstakingly reseeded it and slathered on hay.

Ready for you to come visit! 

Transported

So I was talking to somebody and mentioned transporting animals, saw their blank face and realized I have not really mentioned what I've been doing with said transporting.
It's not unlike a witness protection program (thanks, Megan!).

Great Pyr, no crate big enough. 

Then she stood up .

Someone picks up the dogs or cats, meets me at a public spot like McDonald's, hands over the crates and paperwork, and then I drive them to the vet, the new foster, or another vehicle in a long day's journey. We give them new names and set them up with a new life and family who love them. And the rescue orgs actually even monitor how the placement is going. 

Amazing. Shortest trip was 25 minutes, longest so far is 2.5 hours (Morgantown to Hagerstown, MD, where they traveled on to Boston).

The people who run these things are saints. Absolutely sainted people. And many have been doing it for over 30 years and most are in their brilliant and wise third age.

Thank god I'm not at the segment of the chain that actually collects the dogs from their surroundings. Our own dog Mica was in a hoarding situation and has some big anxiety because of it (I thought I ate fast).

Rendezvous van, 3 rows x 4 = 12... And that's just in the back.

I have learned a few things.

• Never take the big dog out of the crate first to pee. You will not get him back in, and the little pugs and chihuahuas will hate you.
• Wear warm clothing even if you're in the car most of the time. You do a lot of standing around while paperwork is filled out. Plus sometimes you need all the windows wide, wide open...
• You may worry that the smell of cat pee will be ungodly, but their poop is far, far worse. See windows, above.

My usedta be pristine Subie.

• Dogs like symmetry as much as the next animal.



Jasper peed on my left front bumper. A few minutes later he came back to pee on the right one.  

• And one I just realized: The uniform is not unlike the one I wear for bee-routing.

Bee routing

Animal transport

Hmmm.

So my latest round was a puppy who'd been found with motor oil covering her head.
I was about ready to track down the perps and pour motor oil on their heads when a coordinator remembered that she'd heard as a kid that people put motor oil on animals to treat mange.
This helped.
So one of the many kind folks in the chain cleaned the pup off, passed her on to a boyfriend of a transporter who was sick, and then I met him about 90 minutes away.
I found both dude and dog in the back of his car, cuddling up. She was covered in mange, her skin so raw it was bleeding in places. "She's such a sweetheart," said vounteered-guy. I thanked him and counted him as a new volunteer for life.

Instead of putting her in my crate I knew she had to sit right next to me.

She was in such pain that she leaned against the seat so her belly could get some air. She also had a fever. It was hard not to make all over her but I knew it would hurt if I touched her too much. So I just scritched her ears.
Finally she just started staring at me, like she had finally noticed what was going on.
Then she crawled across the bucket seat and laid her head in my lap, where she stayed the rest of the trip.
The next day, the Great Pyrenees rescue woman called to say that when she was posting the successful rescue to FB, someone else posted another picture of the same dog. 
Only it wasn't the same dog. 
It was her lookalike sibling.
I repeated the whole routine the very next day. I called them Punch and Judy. 
I'll spare you the worst pictures but it was the most extreme case of mange I've ever seen.
Then I took them to the vet.

Judy airing her belly and leaning against the wall. 

You know in the movies where the protagonist walks into a room and everyone's in hazmat suits except her? 

Punch gets the once-twice-thrice over.

I was sitting on the floor, each dog's head in my lap, when two vets in masks and gowns walked in.

Oh, I stuttered, stupidly realizing what anyone else would have wondered immediately:
Are they contagious?
Several scrapings later (which caused the pups to howl) the verdict was in. It was the non-contagious kind. 

I found out later when telling the story to Ann that I should have led with that.

Punch was agitated on the drive up. 
I calmed him down and he got quiet. Got a little smug about that.
Moments later I discovered the source of the agitation when a giant poop smell wafted over the car. 
In the vet parking lot I cleaned it up (Newbie! Didn't lay down the pee pads right! No paper towels in the car!).
The receptionist gave me cleaning supplies and even took the trash from me. Saints all along the animal railroad. 

Three days later they were already better. When their skin was not as red and Judy's UTI was on the mend (hence the fever), it was bath time!

Would love to have this for my driver license picture....

Fluffy fluffy puppy!

Before (Punch). 

After

One last thing:
At the vet's, when I hauled them back out to the car, one in a crate, the other in the assistant's arms, I saw that it was snowing.
And I hadn't eaten yet.The road back to Arthurdale is very curvy and the snow was coming down so hard I had to keep my lights on low beam.
I thought to myself, piteously, never have I desired nor deserved a glass of wine so much.
I turned on the radio to ease my mind but then flipped it off to listen to the silence and watch the snow. So quietly I wasn't even sure of it right away, the car filled with the soft, steady sounds of snoring, passed-out puppies.

Other stuff

What kind of animal makes this mark? *

This was Ann's commute...

Never will I complain about the cold again.

Mica peeing at 1 below.

Mail lady.

Spring (may be) springing! Don't jinx it!


Love to everybunny!

* Cross-country ski pole