The Boys, in Photographs

To those of you who missed me while I was actually having a life, I love you man. To those who didn't, well, I guess you have lives all the time. Isn't that nice. No, I'm not bitter, why do you ask?

I've been insanely busy and have way too much to write about to actually do it. For now, let's go with an installment of the canine chronicles. Many of you -- okay, three of you -- have taken the time to write me and specifically ask for pictures, video, and news about the dogs. That may be more than the number of emails professing to be pining away without me.

I'm not sure how to take that.

So, without further ado, I present Batman and Mason:

Batman, rolling in the yard

Mason, after his bath last week

Batman taking a breather yesterday.

Nap time.

Mason's freakish drumsticks. Mason has odd back legs. You can't tell so much when he's walking, but sometimes he lies down like this. I can't imagine how this could be comfortable.

Mason, last summer at the dog beach.

Not a recent pic, but it makes me smile to look at it.

I should've gotten a pic of Batman playing with the new tug toy Teen Demon let him pick out at the pet store today. She'll have to be careful of his teeth ...

Puke & Rally!

The son is projectile vomiting.


He woke up seemingly fine this morning, and was skillfully working my nerves about getting his driver's permit (St. Christopher, I'm ready to believe in you.), when I suggested we go pick up cinnamon rolls and coffee cream. Then things took a turn for the worse.

Male Offspring: If I had my permit, I could drive, and you could go in the store.

Me: If you had your permit, you'd be a sophomore. Oh ... you're a freshman. Sorry. Let's go.

MO: I seriously don't want to go to the store.

Me: Cinnamon rolls? Please. Lets go.

MO: [whining] My stomach feels weird.

Me: You look pretty normal to me. No fever, no swelling. Seriously, you're not driving, son.

MO: Landon's driving.

Me: Sophomore.

MO: [walking to the bathroom] Yeah, but he had his permit when he was a ...................BRRRAAAAUUUGGGHHH...........

I made him ginger & chamomile tea to settle his stomach. "Sip it slowly," I said, for the ten-thousandth time since drawing that first placebo of a Lamaze breath two decades ago. "I know," he replied, chugging it. Three minutes later the tea was hurled into the toilet with a force that made me suspect the boy was on performance-enhancing steroids.

He's in the bathtub now, mere inches from the toilet. Four episodes of hurling. Dry hurling. The boy can't even keep water down. The offspring and the dogs all have one thing in common: emergency medical situations or extreme illnesses only occur on weekends or holidays. Anything after 5pm on Friday is fair game. In this instance though, I'm not really worried. Not yet, anyway.

Male Offspring is affectionately known as the 24-hour kid when it comes to getting sick. He'll pop up with some serious projectile vomiting, or bust out with a 103.5* fever until you can practically see green ickiness wafting from his pores. During these times, the boy will be seriously sick. Until the next morning, when he wakes up feeling fairly close to fine. It's like he takes a normal 5-day sickness and condenses it into this fevered, mondo-puke-o-rama deal.

So I'm hoping he'll feel better by tomorrow. If not, it's off to the urgent care weekend clinic. Whee. As for me, I'm still coughing like a smoker in LA, even though I (finally) am feeling better. The cough just will not leave. I'm thinking I need to cast it out like the devil, with some sort of cough exorcism ritual. I'm finally starting to get caught up at work though, and am actually cleaning the house this weekend. Brain and body have just been operating in such a fog this year; I feel like one of those gross hairy moths emerging from a cocoon of illish yukkery. I'm so ready for spring, both within and and without.

In better news, this is the weekend when I can finally take Batman out for a walk. Tomorrow is Day 28 of his captivity. I haven't been able to let him run since he hurt his leg, four excruciatingly long weeks ago. You try keeping 70 pounds of crazy locked up for 4 weeks. 150 pounds, if you count Mason. Honestly though, I have to say he's been a very good dog considering he's been imprisoned for the past month.

Anyway, I've been trying to get around to everyone's cyberspaces and sling some comments around, but the online stuff has been flagging along with everything else. Such is life. Spring is coming though, and hopefully a big ol' batch of healthy for everyone along with it.
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UPDATE:
As hoped, the son is no longer feverish, no longer hurling. The 24-hour kid strikes again. He is asking for a taco and burrito dinner tonight. Always a good sign.

Of Grammar and Grandparents

Today is National Grammar Day.

This celebratory day is brought to you by the Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar. And lest you think this particular day was chosen willy-nilly, think again:

It's not only a date, it's an imperative. So march forth on March 4th!

Clever. I was thrilled to find that you can disregard certain grammar "rules". It's true. Feel free to:

1) end a sentence with a preposition.
2) begin a sentence with a conjunction.
3) use sentence fragments with discretion.

They have this to say about sentence fragments:

We’ve been told not to use them, but when we do it with a light hand, they can improve the flow of our writing, making it easier to understand.

This is a huge relief. I know what you're thinking. Please, Cowbell does that shit all the time. That's true. My blog writing does tend to be more casual, particularly when I'm getting my bitch on, but the truth is, I am a grammar freak. I even do proofreading and editing for cold, hard cash. In official writing, I would never write a sentence such as, "And I'm all about some ice cream," or "That's where I'm at," but it works here.

Anyway, knowing that I can righteously begin a sentence with "but" or end a sentence with "to" makes me happy. Yes, I do it anyway, but now I won't feel like my grandparents are shaking their heads disapprovingly from the clouds.

Thank you, SPOGG. I salute you.


So, my grandparents.

How I wish they'd lived to see National Grammar Day. My maternal grandmother entered the world in 1907, the only girl born to a farming family in Pennsylvania Dutch country. Her own grandmother took a look at this squalling, newborn girl-child and remarked to her daughter (my grandma's mother), "You may as well throw her in the river, May. A girl's just another mouth to feed on a farm."

Luckily, my great-grandmother ignored her mother's advice and did not throw my grandmother into the river. My grandma went to school, worked on the farm, helped to run the house and take care of her brothers, and eventually became a teacher. She later earned a master's degree in English, despite being "just a girl" from a generation in which women were lucky if they ended up with a high school diploma.

When I think of my younger years at Grandma's house, I think of books and the color blue. Grandma loved both. There was blue in every room, and at Christmas time, the house and tree were always wrapped in blue lights.

My grandma was 40 years old by the time she had my mom and uncle (he was born in January; my mom that December, 11 months later) so I didn't know her until she was in her 60s. She didn't run around and play baseball with us, and she wasn't much of a cookie baker either, although she kept a steady supply of those miniature, individual ice cream bowls in her freezer, each accompanied by a tiny wooden spoon. What Grandma did was read and tell stories. She also still taught, driving off to her classes in her blue Plymouth Duster, wearing a smart pantsuit, her beautiful white hair brushing her shoulders. Grandma was an artist as well, something she passed on to my mom, and which trickled down through me and my sister, to our own children, exploding full force in the Bohemian. I credit my artistic skills, somewhat diluted, and definitely dusty from neglect, to my grandmother.

We loved hearing Grandma's childhood stories, usually about some mischief involving her older brother, my great-uncle Ted. We especially loved hearing stories of when our own mother was a girl. I felt like I was being let in on a secret. She would also make up wonderful stories with animals and invented countries. The worst was when she'd insist we make up the ending ourselves! We wanted her ending, but she wanted us to think for ourselves.

Grandma wasn't one for gifting us with underwear or Barbie dolls at Christmas. She bought lots of books, and had even more in her house. Grandma read to us from the time we were babies, as did Mom. I did the same with my kids, and so did my sister. When people hear that I learned to read at four, and that my kids learned at three and four, they attribute it to "being smart", but I don't think so.  (Okay, we're smart, but that's not what was going on.) It has more to do with constant exposure to the written word, adults never assuming a child is too young to learn, and with making books and stories more exciting than toys.



My Grandpa George, whom Grandma would eventually marry, was a self-educated man. He was born in Chicago, but spent time in Norway as a child. His mother, who had come to the US from somewhere near Oslo, had two sons, Grandpa being the younger. She committed suicide, the story goes, by drinking a large amount of Lysol or some sort of lye-based cleaner. My grandfather was the one who discovered her body.

He was 10 years old.

Grandpa George had dropped out of school by the 8th grade, but he never neglected his education. He served in WWII, and did various apprenticeships, coming up through the ranks, becoming a journalist the hard way. By the time I came along, he wrote a regular newspaper column and had once run his own radio show. I can still hear him doing the sign-off in his booming bass, to make us laugh, "And that's the news ... by George!"

Grandpa had an enormous printing press in the basement, a cast iron beast that dwarfed me. Its weight was measured in tons and it made an unholy racket. It was an old-school press, where the ink is rolled across a huge platter and the type is actually metal letters, set in careful lines. The walls were lined with drawer upon thin drawer of movable type, higher than my head, containing the letters and words formed in my grandfather's mind.

Grandpa told stories as well, fantastical tales told with gusto in a resonant timbre, which had Grandma shaking her head, admonishing, "Now don't you go putting wild ideas in those girls' heads, George," which did nothing but encourage him.

Ever since I can remember, Grandpa would quiz us with vocabulary words before we could sit down to eat. "Where is your proboscis?" he'd ask. My sister pointed to her knee. "Well, my chickadee, that's no proboscis, but that bone is called your patella. Say it! Patella!" Giggling, we'd point to our eyes. "What?!" he'd roar, "One's proboscis is not made for ocular work! The eyes handle the ocular responsibilities of one's body!" (rolling his eyes around like a madman) "The proboscis is meant to inhale! To detect an arrrrroma!" (rolling the "r" until we shrieked)

And don't even think about mumbling around Grandpa. "Enunciate your words, young lady! We come from a long line of enunciators! I'll not have mumbling in this house!"

My grandparents, each in their own way, loved language. Whether written or spoken, it permeated their house without us even being aware of it. My mother and uncle each grew up to become language aficionados in their own ways, before passing it on, in turn, to my generation.



So yes, I am a grammar freak. It's in my genes. As a child, I could diagram a sentence down to the tiniest detail. I used to ask my teacher for the most complicated sentence she could come up with. I may not have been able to balance an equation like the math-whiz kids, but my sentence diagrams were the stuff of legend. I don't know if US schools even teach sentence diagramming these days. I used to keep lists of interesting vocabulary words, and yes, as a matter of fact, I did read the dictionary.

To this day, I am far too easily amused by grammar humor, such as the title of Martha Brockenbrough's book, Things That Make Us [Sic]. How clever is that?

I loved the book Eats, Shoots, and Leaves. That title is a scream! It comes from a sign found at a zoo's panda exhibit, meant to convey the fact that shoots and leaves are the mainstays of the panda's diet. The addition of the commas, however, has the panda suddenly doing a dine and dash -- eating, then grabbing its rifle for a shooting rampage, and finally leaving the scene. Come on! That's funny stuff, now.

Is it really just me? Fine. Whatever.

Anyway, that's the story of why National Grammar Day has put me in mind of my grandparents, and why I think they'd get such a kick out of it. Happy National Grammar Day, everyone. Now I have to go call the Bohemian and indulge in some geeky grammar humor which she will, no doubt, appreciate. She comes by it honestly, too.

Remote Area Medical: on the Homefront

Remember the guy from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom? Not Marlon Perkins, I mean the guy who actually did all the work, the guy down in the trenches with the alligators and water buffalo, before Steve Irwin even knew what a croc was. That man is Stan Brock. I saw him on 60 Minutes tonight, but he wasn't sporting his trademark khakis.

Mr. Brock heads up a different kind of wild kingdom these days. He founded Remote Area Medical (RAM), a volunteer organization that brings needed medicine and medical care to remote locations around the planet. He takes no salary, and lives at the headquarters in Tennessee, a former elementary school. He pilots the planes himself. The medical personnel, all volunteers, parachute to their destinations, and serve without benefit of showers, electricity, or other modern conveniences. Medical supplies are donated. RAM expeditions go to the Dominican Republic, Haiti, Honduras, Guatemala, East Africa, India, Nepal, Guyana, and Tanzania.

Now here's the shocking part: currently, 60% of RAM's expeditions are right here, in the good old US of A. New Orleans, yes, but also Tennessee, Kentucky and Virginia. That's right, instead of deploying its resources to "remote areas", as per the original intent, turns out RAM's services are needed right here, in the richest country in the world.

60 Minutes covered Brock and his team setting up a two day no-cost clinic in Tennessee. The people waiting to be seen were from six states. People slept in their cars, or stood in below-freezing weather, not wanting to chance their shot at medical treatment. They were issued numbered tickets, in order of arrival. The RAM team treated over 900 people.

They turned away 400 more.

Some of the stories were just heart breaking. Like the guy who slept in the parking lot all night, hoping to be one of the lucky ones to make it in. He'd had a heart attack a couple of years before, and had had treatment at that time, but he couldn't afford the follow up care. He'd also been living with an infected tooth for weeks. Yes, actually, he does have health insurance, through his job as a truck driver, but the deductible is $500. He couldn't afford it. He noted that he was fortunate in that he had a vehicle for the two hour drive and all night wait.

There was an elderly woman, in tears because her ticket number was too high to make the cutoff. She was on social security and needed glasses. The interviewer asked what she'd do now, and she hesitated, finally saying she had friends and a church, "... but I hate to ask," she said, breaking into tears. "I've worked all my life ... I hate to ask." (RAM volunteers did end up seeing her, and issued her glasses)

A 28-year-old mother of three had been treated for cervical cancer two years prior. She was supposed to be getting Pap smears every six months, and follow-up care. With three kids and her husband's job loss last year, they couldn't afford it. She got her first Pap smear since the surgery.

Another woman confided it had been 25 years since her last breast exam.

The interviewer asked one of the volunteer doctors who these folks were, this crowd of people so desperate for medical care.

They're the working poor, middle of their lives, most with families, most not substance abusers, and most employed without adequate insurance ...

These folks are people just like you and me. Most of the people seen during those two days are working hard, paying (or have long paid) into a system that is not taking care of them or their families. American families have a right to expect health care from a system we're contributing to. Given the current expeditions of Remote Area Medical, it doesn't look like that's the case.

And So, Once Again...

“My heart is broken in the face of the stupidity of my species. I can’t cry about it. In a way I’m inoculated."
~Joni Mitchell

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Joni wrote this piece in 1969, as a "friend of America" during the Vietnam era. Now, just shy of 40 years later, the words are, almost eerily, still relevant.

This is an a cappella piece; I've always liked it. Nothing but her pure voice and the lyrics, which somehow punctuates the gravity of the message itself. The musical intervals aren't what you'd expect, and it's no cakewalk to sing a piece like this sans instrumentation. But, she's Joni.

I hope you'll give it a listen. Lots of Joni's songs transcend time, but this piece is particularly fitting in today's political climate.




The Fiddle and The Drum - Joni Mitchell I guess Joni realized just how relevant this piece is, in current times. Last year she collaborated with the Alberta Ballet on The Fiddle and The Drum, a project in which ballet dancers perform to her music, against a backdrop of her art. The theme has to do with the warring nature of humans, and how we're affecting the earth.

Love's Recovery

This post is a day late and a dollar short, which is perfect, considering the subject. Yesterday, February 15th, was Singles Awareness Day. It was also my former anniversary. I know, right? We didn't have rain on our wedding day, but really, one's former anniversary falling on Singles Awareness Day is even better. We were supposed to be married on Valentine's Day, but had to wait a day for the license. Every year people asked, "Why didn't you just get married on Valentine's Day?"

I think it worked out perfectly. Single's Awareness Day was just waiting to amuse me.

Lots of single folks bemoan the existence of Valentine's Day. The flowers, the chocolates, the jewelry, the surprise dinners, the chipped teeth from hidden rings in cakes and champagne. Even partnered people hate Valentine's Day. The pressure to think of something unique with which to prove your unflagging love. The unspoken competition to outdo your girlfriend's girlfriends' boyfriends. The whole thing seems a cunning conspiracy meant to torture partnered and single people alike, stamped with the Hallmark gold seal of approval.

Whatever. Valentine's Day does not find me tracing the tracks of my tears to the strains of old love songs. It does not find me lamenting lost relationships through the sad filter of a lone wine glass. Valentine's Day, these days, is just another day. If anything, it reminds me that I am strong, that I have choice, that there are many things worse than not having a partner. It reminds me that being alone does not have to mean being lonely. Singles Awareness Day falling on my former anniversary is just a deliciously ironic twist.

And you all know I love some twisted humor.

Back in the 80s, the ex and I -- soldiers both, in the service of Uncle Sam -- were dating. We met in communications school, after basic training, through a convoluted course of mistaken identities, which is another tale altogether. After a few months, our class came down on orders. His orders were for Germany; mine, Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Now those of you familiar with my sun addiction know that Arizona could've well been the best thing to ever happen to me. Being embroiled in the throes of young lust, however, we were devastated. So we made the only choice that kids who think they know everything could make: "Let's get married! Then we can apply for the Army married couples program and be together! Forever!" So we did.

My orders to Arizona were changed to Germany, and the course of my life was changed forever.

Three years later, the Bohemian was born, and not long after, Teen Demon made her raucous entry into the world. After a suitable time of recovery, the Male Offspring finished off the fruits of my labors. These are the positives I took away from 10 years of marriage, and the reason I can't regret the choice made on a long-ago February 15th.

The 11th year found me back in the States after discovering that the "forsaking all others" bit had fallen by the wayside along about the time I'd been laboring with Male Offspring. February 15th of that 11th year brought, not an anniversary, but a legal summons, informing me that the ex had changed his mind about our signed agreement. He now wanted full custody.

I came away with custody and a load of legal debt that took years to repay. The ex and I got past our differences, I went back to Europe, and we had a great co-parenting relationship for about eight years there. That was actually a best-of-both-worlds deal: the kids had both parents, and we each had a built-in babysitter for hot date nights or weekend trips. Those of you who know the rest of the story are aware that this, unfortunately, did not continue. The ex now lives 12 time zones away rather than across town, co-parenting has gone the way of the dodo, and he brings the follow-up wife, whom no one gets on with, along for his annual week with our kids.

All of this leading to the point that things change, and we get through. The Valentine's Day - February 15th combo has run the emotional gamut for me, over the years. From new love and happiness, to security, to devastation, to fury, to bitterness, to indifference, to wry humor. I came out the other side, and can laugh now, because time allows me to see that what I once believed was the worst thing that could happen to me, was, in actuality, the best. Once, I was devastated to the point of being unable to function. I couldn't comprehend how my heart could continue to beat, how my lungs could continue to draw breath, how my organs could continue to function minute by minute in the face of such unimaginable pain.

Seriously. I wondered how my body didn't just die.

But it didn't. These days, what seems unimaginable to me is the thought of not going through that, of not knowing myself. We made a damn good go of it; we were 18-year-old, foolish kids from different cultures, from opposite ends of the country, who'd known each other three months. We made it 10 years and three fantastic kids on that platform, far from friends and family, with minimal support. We had a good run, and the kids, the lasting proof of that erstwhile union, are already making a positive impact on society. But the marriage was not the right place for me to be.

So Valentine's Day and February 15th aren't much more than a blip on the calendar for me these days. A toast to choices made. No regrets.

Hindsight is a clear-sighted bitch, y'all.

Happy love yourself day.

There I am in younger days, star gazing
Painting picture-perfect maps
Of how my life and love would be,
Not counting the unmarked paths of misdirection,
My compass, faith in love's perfection,
I missed ten million miles of road I should have seen

Indigo Girls, Love's Recovery

GObama! The Speech and the Caucus

On Friday I took the offspring out of school and headed to the city to hear Barack Obama speak. For the kids to hear this man speak, to have that memory -- totally worth missing Biology lab. However this election shakes out, it's historic! I wanted them to experience history being made, and yes, to see that someone who looks like them could well be the next president of this country. So we scooped up one of Teen Demon's friends and headed downtown.

Key Arena was packed to the rafters -- not an empty seat in the house, and people standing in every entryway as well. The arena holds 18,000, but the Seattle mayor said it was a good thing the fire chief had the day off; I bet there were some fire code violations. Outside were 3,000 more people who couldn't get in, including a friend of mine, her 16-year-old nephew, and his friend. Senator Obama went outside with a bullhorn and spoke to those folks after his speech.

This pic shows probably 1/3 of the arena, when people were still filing in to find seats.

Our governor made a surprise appearance, and with her endorsement, came out as the "newest member of Team Obama". Apparently she'd been having a hard time deciding between Clinton and Obama, as had many people.

My favorite shot. As you can see, it clearly shows that the good Senator and I shared a moment. See? He's looking right at me. Yeah, Barack and I, we're tight like that. Hi, Senator.

These guys were working it. Their enthusiasm made up for the jerky awkward dance moves. These boys were serious supporters, now.

It was an amazing experience. And hell yes, it was inspiring.

And I'll tell you something, I'm getting tired of the generalizations that say Obama is all talk and Clinton is all specifics. I've been listening to the speeches both of them have been giving lately, and you know, Clinton isn't giving any more specifics in her speeches than Obama is. Which is fine. I expect them to have specifics on their web sites. I expect them to have specific plans for the issues, and I expect those plans to be available to the voters. I expect them to be specific during the debates. But when I take a day off work, take my kids out of school, and wait for hours to hear this man connect with his supporters and speak for 50 minutes ... I damn well expect to be inspired. I expect to walk away with some hope that day.

I don't believe that hope and specifics are mutually exclusive, that a person who is a good orator is by default an empty vessel of inspiration with nothing to back it up. I think that's just something to latch onto and make waves about.


Here's what Senator Obama had to say about hope last Friday:

People have been saying, "You know, Obama, he’s a talker, not a doer. He talks about hope all the time. You know, he uh, he’s so naïve, he’s so idealistic. He’s a hope monger." This is the argument I’ve been hearing lately.
You know, look, it’s true; I do talk about hope all the time. And out of necessity, because, the odds are, I should not be standing here. I was born to a single mom, my dad left when I was two. I was raised by a single mom and my grandparents. And all they could give me was love, an education, and hope. That was my inheritance.

And so, (cheers) and so, you know, we put hope on our signs ...

But in criticizing me, for quote-unquote “being inspiring”, (laughter) the implication is that I’m somehow not a realist, the notion is that my head is in the clouds somewhere. That, in Senator Clinton’s words, I’m “peddling false hopes”, and I need a reality check.

And, I have to, I have to say, you know, that’s not what hope is. Hope is not blind optimism. Hope is not ignorance of the challenges that stand before us. Hope is not pretending that those barriers that stand between you and your dreams will just somehow go away. Hope is just the opposite.

He went on to talk about the the changes he hopes to make in this country. And yes, I came away feeling hopeful. I was inspired. I saw hope in the faces of my children, as they watched this man speak, a man whose childhood is not so far from their own experiences and realities. I saw hope in my children's faces, and that is something I'll never forget.


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The next day was the caucuses. Caucii? Whatever, there was some serious caucus action going down in Washington state. Record turnouts don't even begin to describe it. Main roads were backed up for miles. The caucus point for my area was a huge high school. Parking lots for the high school, middle school, and elementary school were already packed. People were parking out in the neighborhoods, streaming toward the high school on foot. Some folks parked over a mile away.

I have never seen so many people on foot in the suburbs, y'all. It looked like The Birds, only with humans. Some people didn't get there in time due to traffic and parking issues.

Get me to the caucus on time.

I finally found my precinct in this room. This pic was about an hour before the caucus even started. By the time we got rolling, this room was packed, and it was only one room of many. Hundreds and hundreds of people - I'd bet it was into the thousands.

I live in a tiny precinct. I could easily walk the precinct borders in short order. We set a record for attendance, with 27 people, not including the six late-comers. More about that later; it got dicey up in that gym for a while. Folks from other precincts said theirs set records as well.

Surprise visit from the governor. She gave a pretty rousing speech for a skinny, little, white grandma. Girl is scrappy.

So we got down to the actual business of caucusing. It was exciting to see democracy in action at a grassroots level. I ended up getting more involved than I'd anticipated. All that research I ended up doing over the primary vs. caucus issue paid off, I guess. Our precinct captain was a very nice guy. He was also extremely disorganized, and gave the impression that he'd read the rules on his way over, while stuck in all that traffic. A few of us banded together, after exchanging some concerned looks, and became unofficial assistants.

Our group went Obama-24, Clinton-3. Clinton did get one delegate. Yes, a candidate can acquire a delegate by "rounding up", as you can't send half a delegate on a candidate's behalf.

After the tally, people had the opportunity to make a plea on their candidate's behalf. In our group, about five of us spoke for Obama, and I was actually disappointed that the Clinton supporters chose not to speak, because I'd been looking forward to that, and genuinely wanted to hear what they had to say. Some of the other precincts, however, did quite a bit of back and forth. I was impressed that everyone who spoke mentioned that both candidates were strong, both were respected, and both would be good leaders. No mud-slinging or nastiness. Go Dems! After that, people had the opportunity to change their original vote, but no one in our group did, so the tally numbers for delegates went official.

About this time the late-comers started showing up, and that's where things got dicey. According to caucus rules, you must be signed in with your choice by 1:30. The late-comers were already pissed and winded after parking in the next county and hiking over hill and dale to get there, so that news did not go over well. Debate ensued. Our precinct captain didn't know what to do. Some folks said we should just sign everyone in, regardless. Our not-so-fearless captain started to do this. I was concerned that breaking some sort of party rules could lead to all the precinct's delegates being invalidated. Several others felt the same way; we said we'd feel better if we had confirmation from the district chair before we made a decision. Our captain loped off to find the district chair.

Now the newcomers were looking at us like we were haters, and the "just sign them up" crowd was looking at their feet. Things definitely felt uncomfortable. I went and talked with the newcomers, I really did feel bad for them. I mean, we all had problems with traffic and parking, even those who got there early. I thought all the votes should be counted, and I felt the party should've better anticipated high turnout, and either had more caucus points, or run shuttles from various points in the community, along with getting the word out beforehand to get there early. Anyway, before our captain returned, everyone was friendly again, which was good.

Turns out the district chair said we could not break the rules, and that it would've been subject to objection if we had. However, the late-comers could still have the opportunity to be a delegate, so that was cool. One of them actually did end up being an alternate.

I got chosen to be a delegate, so I'm pretty stoked about that. Whoo-hoo!



I have mixed feelings on the caucus process. On the one hand, people are really involved on a community level -- it was energizing, and people were talking and connecting. I was very impressed with how the community came together, and everyone was very supportive and friendly. It didn't much matter who you supported, there was an overriding feeling of excitement just that folks were exercising their right to vote, to be a part of the process. I also think people tend to be more informed with the caucus as opposed to the primary.

On the other hand, people who work on Saturday, who don't have transportation, who may be disabled, the elderly ... those folks have a hard time taking part, and their voices aren't heard in numbers that reflect their place in the population. That's a problem, one that needs to be addressed. (Yes, there is a form to vote in absentia, but it only applies to three situations: religious observances, military service, or disability)

I actually think there may be something to the WA Republicans' method. They do both a caucus and a primary: they choose half of their delegates though the caucus, and half via the primary. This way, you get the involvement, but people who may otherwise not have a voice still have a way to be counted. I'm still not sure, though, as you can also do both with the combo method, and I'm not sure that doesn't skew things. Anyway. So I have mixed feelings on the caucus system, but I really enjoyed it, and more than that, I felt encouraged and hopeful in spending that time with my community working toward a change.


This was about half an hour after everything wound down. It took quite a while for traffic to die down. Way to go, Dems.

Fired up, ready to go!