Which side?

We were talking, seriously I thought, B and I, at one of our classic Happy Hour chats a few days ago. We spoke of many things. Somehow the talk got around to people we know. It turned to good people we know. I’m talking about really fine people, the kind who provide foster care for babies that no one else would have, and then adopt them. I’m talking about the kind of people who will get up in the middle of the night to go and care for the ill and needy. I’m talking about people who bear nary a blemish on the record of their life.

“Oh well,” I said. “I try but fall short.”

She comforted me. She’s good at that.

“No, really,” I said. “I try to be good but the bright lights and alluring colors of sin have always had a strong attraction for me.”

She comforted me again. She’s very patient.

“If I were to have it to do over, I’d try to do better.”

She looked off, then back at me. “You know,” she said. “You were just a big lump of dough and we all just had to wait and see if the yeast would make it rise.”

I’ve been thinking about that all week. I seem to think it was a compliment. She refused to elaborate. She’s like that. Once she makes a decree, there is no “instant replay.”

I guess there is room in a person’s life for redemption, if they don’t wait too long. That’s why I have hopes for the so many of the politicians we have in our state. Thomas Becket found it. Saul of Tarsus found it, redemption that is. Can you imagine the impact it would have on one of those who have voted for every piece of hateful and mean-spirited legislation in recent years to say, of a sudden, “I once was blind but now I see?” Gosh, how the Galilean would smile. How the Forces of Darkness would wail and gnash their teeth. I can only imagine.

People like Libby Phelps-Alvarez did it. As the granddaughter of Westboro Baptist Church (WBC) founder Fred Phelps, she was raised to picket soldiers’ funerals, carry homophobic signs, and rain down fire and brimstone on anyone who didn’t agree with the WBC’s extremist ideologies. But since leaving in 2009, Phelps-Alvarez has publicly apologized to the family of a dead soldier whose funeral she picketed. Now she also supports Planting Peace, an LGBT organization whose rainbow-painted headquarters is located right across from the WBC.

Right across the street? Get that? You know, it seems that the step from the wrong side of history to the right side is a short one. It can be as short as right across the street.

Today, I’ll concentrate on the good. First thing I’ll do is go wake her up and tell her that the dough is rising. She’ll be glad I did, just you wait.

A Confession Long Overdue

Okay … Okay. Old friend Rick Fahr  asked me a pointed question about possible sins of my errant youth. After a long week of contemplation, I must confess. While a grade-schooler and Cub Scout, a native Hawaiian woman, married to a serviceman, moved next door to my Den Mother. In what must have been a retributive act, they forced our den to learn the Hula. More than that, they made us assume the position of dancers and perform before friends and parents at the Lakeside Elementary School auditorium, all of us, and I could name some names if I took a notion to. Sainted mothers of the scouts had to make Hula outfits out of crepe paper. It included halter tops consisting of a narrow strip over what would have been, in a more realistic setting, ample bosoms. Instead, they were held up with tape.

Yes. I insulted an entire race, denigrated people who would become my fellow Americans only seven years later, despoiled the service of brave veterans like Daniel Inouye, and dishonored a magnificent cultural phenomenon. It’s even rumored that it later caused young men of that state to disguise their citizenship because of the insult.

So there, Fahr. Truth to power, but I can never run for office. Well, maybe if I chose a good “Salvation Date” that would prevent snoopy journalists from delving into my previous life. That worked for GWB.

Oh, and glad you asked. Sainted mother thought it hilarious. Had I pre-deceased her, I’m sure she would have told about it at my funeral. My sister would be happy to relate it had I not so many tales with which I could respond.

Here’s the number we did. They do it a bit better, but hell, we were only eight years old, and flat-chested boys. One was captain of our school's football team. Think about that for a minute or two. It may answer some questions. But remember those names I could disclose.

Yes I married him, but I was nearly 20 and desperate.