To the Person or Persons Who Robbed My Dad

He’s 95 years old. His house is small, unassuming. Why would you choose to break into it? He doesn’t have much to steal. He doesn’t have much money, or anything of monetary value. The value of his things is in the memories they provide for him.

You took his cuff links. His mother gave him those. She passed away while he was at war. You took a couple of rings. One was a ring with a ruby, that his father gave him. The other was his wedding ring. He got married in 1944. You also took his Phi Kappa Phi pin. You’re probably too stupid to know it, but that’s a fraternity for people who have achieved academic excellence. Not worth much to you; you’re lucky to have a vestigial, reptilian hindbrain. But it was priceless to him.

You kicked in his back door—the brand new door he just had installed, and was so proud of. You broke a window, leaving jagged shards of glass for him to clean up. You tossed his belongings, leaving quite a mess for a 95-year-old to have to put back in order. He’s a neat and tidy person. You could tell that, if you bothered to look around.

Are you proud of yourself? I can’t get inside your head. What kind of disgusting piece of slime thinks he has the right to break into a man’s home and take his stuff? How do you sleep at night? How do you look at yourself in the mirror and not vomit? How do you rationalize what you’ve done in your own mind? It baffles me. It really does.

The man whose memories you stole is a kind and gentle soul. But he fought in World War II. He served his country, and was awarded the Purple Heart. He worked hard all his life, saved his money, then gladly spent it all on hospitals and doctors when his wife became ill.

And when it became apparent that she was never going to get better, and that caring for her was more than he could handle, he put her in a nursing home. And he visited her every day. For fifteen years.

Are you pleased with your “haul?” What you took couldn’t have amounted to much. But to him? Memories can’t be replaced. There is no insurance policy that covers memories.

So, here is what I wish for you: I wish you a long life. I hope you manage to accumulate your own store of trinkets, mementos, memories, and that you treasure them and take comfort in them. And when you’re old, and vulnerable, and alone, I hope someone kicks in your door and takes it all away from you.

Mazel tov.

The Wanderer

Goldenrod is my daughter’s cat. He is almost thirteen years old; but this story happened three years ago, when he was a sprightly ten.

He was a miracle cat in the first place, because his littermates were the offspring of a barn cat belonging to my best friend, and they all died young; one was accidentally run over, one was dispatched by a three-year-old who didn’t know how fragile a kitten can be, and one was killed by some sort of predator. Goldie was the only one left, and my daughter, who was eight years old at the time, wanted him desperately. After due consideration, my husband made a 700 mile round trip to bring him home for her.

Goldie has always been an indoors cat. He has also always expressed a keen interest in being an outdoors cat. Despite being declawed, he has upon occasion made his escape and wreaked bloody havoc upon innocent grackles and starlings. Typically, he would deposit the corpses in the dining room, as if to say, “Behold the mighty hunter, providing meat for the table.”

To which I would reply, “Ick.”

Everybody’s a critic.

So, occasionally Goldenrod would slip out if the sliding glass door onto the balcony were left open. Sometimes he would even be gone overnight, but he always came back. I would hear him meowing plaintively to be let in.

Until that day, three years ago.

My daughter had gone off to college, giving her older brother strict instructions to watch over her beloved cat.

Goldie slipped out one night. I told the boys not to tell Kathleen, because I figured he’d be back the next night.

But he wasn’t. A day later there was a huge ice storm. I thought sure that would drive him home. But it didn’t. A week later, my oldest son, Chip, wracked with guilt, confessed to his sister that Goldie was gone. Even though it hadn’t been his fault, he felt responsible. He had been tramping the neighborhood for hours on end, hanging up “Missing Cat” posters on every telephone pole, and knocking on doors, asking if anyone had seen our wanderer.

Kathleen, of course, was very, very upset. She came home for the weekend and searched and searched. A few people swore they’d seen him, but none of the leads panned out.

Most of my friends advised us to give it up. Goldie, aging and with no claws to defend himself, had most likely succumbed to a stray dog, opossum, raccoon, or marauding grizzly bear. Nota bene: There are no grizzly bears in St. Louis. I was just seeing if you were paying attention.)

Three months went by. Three months of snow, ice, cold, torrential rains, and dreams. Several members of our family, myself included, kept having strange, vivid dreams about Goldenrod. Kathleen swore he was under some kind of porch. My dreams didn’t tell me where he was. I would dream that he had come home. The dream would be so real, I would wake up convinced he HAD come home…only to be disappointed.

Chip came home crying one evening, saying that he’d found Goldenrod’s body. It didn’t surprise me; I’d kept an eye open whenever I was driving, expecting to see his sad little white-and-gold body along the side of the road. We got a spade and a cardboard box and went to retrieve him for burial. All we found, though, when we reached the location Chip had indicated, was a much flattened squirrel. Goldenrod, it seemed, was still “in the wind.”

In early June, I was driving home from grocery shopping when my cell phone rang. It was Chip. “I’ve found Goldenrod,” he said. “He’s alive.”

I didn’t believe him. It’d been over three months. Chip insisted. He said that a man in the neighborhood had called him and told him there was a cat fitting our cat’s description living underneath a shed about a block and a half from our house.

“Are you SURE?” I asked Chip. “Are you SURE it’s Goldenrod?”

“Positive,” he said. “I’m looking at him right now. But he’s too scared to come out.”

We got a can of cat food and coaxed him out from under the shed with it. He was horribly emaciated and dirty, but it was Goldie. When we took him to the vet, she said he was in great shape, other than being malnourished. That was an understatement. He was literally nothing but skin and bones and big green eyes. He walked around the house in a daze. It was like he couldn’t believe he was home.

But he was.

Kathleen had gone on a camping trip with her friends. Chip couldn’t wait to tell her. He called her on her cell. “I’ve got somebody here who can’t wait to see you!” And he sent her a picture from his phone. Kathleen was quick to point out that he was found in a place very like the one she had seen in her dreams. I have no explanation for that, but it’s true.

I have to give full credit to Chip; he worked so hard, trying to find that cat. And, wonder of wonders, it paid off. We gave the man who’d called in the tip a $50.00 reward. He tried to refuse, saying that he loved animals and he was just happy to help, but we insisted.

Why didn’t Goldenrod come home? He was only a block and a half away. I have a couple of theories. Possibly he got hit on the head or something happened to disorient him so that he couldn’t find his way. Clearly, he was terrified to leave the small, cramped haven underneath that shed. I’m certain he’d been chased, and possibly attacked, by other animals, which so traumatized him that he didn’t even go out to try to find something to eat. As thin as he was, he wouldn’t have lasted much longer. It may even have been our own two exuberant German Shepherds who did some of the chasing. Occasionally they’ll take off after a rabbit or a cat. They may have run Goldenrod off when he tried to come home.

But, whatever the reason, he did make it home, none the worse for his ordeal. The only fallout was that, when he first got home, he ate and ate and ate until he was rather a fat cat, when he’d always been a bit on the skinny side before. I think, like Scarlett O’Hare, he said to himself, “As God is my witness! I’ll never be hungry again!”

He also showed no inclination to wander for a couple of years. In fact, if picked up and carried to the door, he would object, vigorously and violently. He wanted no part of that nasty “outdoors” place. Lately, though, his bad memories must have been fading, and he has shown some interest in the great outdoors again. Well, I figure he’s only used up two of his nine lives at this point. And since he has demonstrated an eerie ability to send us prescient dreams about his whereabouts, I hope he’ll be a little more specific, and let us know WHICH porch or shed he’s hiding under, next time.

Welcome home, you stupid cat. We missed you.

Challenger Seven

Per Aspera, Ad Astra

Twenty-five years ago today, seven brave astronauts were lost as the space shuttle Challenger exploded, 73 seconds after lift-off. At the time, I wrote a song which has been performed at numerous science fiction conferences, conventions and gatherings over the years. I couldn't find a decent recording of the song, so I thought I'd just post the lyrics here. Per aspera, ad astra, my friends. Per aspera, ad astra.

This was written in honor of the Challenger Seven: Mike Smith, Dick Scobee, Gregory Jarvis, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Judith Resnik, and Christa McAuliffe, one week after the explosion.

There's just no way to count the cost; it's hard to understand.
But even with our pain and loss, we cannot let it end.
Oh Challenger, true light of liberty
A guide for us and our posterity.

I challenge you to seek your dreams of space.
I challenge you, the nation and the race
To be everything that I had hoped to be.
I challenge you as a memorial to me.

We are a land of pioneers, and many brave ones have died.
But though we've lost the best of us, we're proud to say we tried.
And one small step became a giant leap,
A memory for a nation to keep.

I challenge you to seek your dreams of space.
I challenge you, the nation and the race
To be everything that I had hoped to be.
I challenge you as a memorial to me.

If they were standing here today, they'd say, America, we love you.
And you've got to keep on striving to explore the stars above you.
To end what we have lived for would be wrong.
We pass the torch to you; keep it burning strong.

With rockets raging through the sky, we watched our heroes die.
They took the risks, they challenged space, with knowledge as the prize.
For if we never dare, we never can achieve.
And all we need is the courage to believe.

I challenge you to seek your dreams of space.
I challenge you, the nation and the race
To be everything that I had hoped to be.
I challenge you as a memorial to me.

Be everything that I had hoped to be.
I challenge you as a memorial to me.

Tucson Tragedy

The tragedy in Tucson has caused a shock wave that is still reverberating round the world.

In the wake of something so inexplicable, so abominable, people want to assess blame. Could anything have been done to prevent this tragedy? Did anyone suspect that this man would do something so heinous?

There are lots of theories being propounded, particularly by liberals. Did Rush Limbaugh set the gunman off? Were the pugnacious comments from the Tea Party candidates to blame? (A quick review of the guy’s political leanings seem to indicate that he was more Leftist than Limbaugh-like.)

And then there are the gun control advocates, screaming in outrage. How could this man have been allowed to have a gun in the first place? I heard a radio DJ suggesting that if guns were outlawed, he wouldn’t have been able to pull out a Glock with a 33 round magazine and shoot, and shoot, and shoot, until some bystanders with nerves of iron tackled him while he was trying to load another mag. Elderly Patricia Maisch actually snatched the magazine out of Loughner’s hand while he struggled to reload. Bless her.

I have a few things to say about this line of thinking. First of all, if an unbalanced person isn’t able to get his hands on a gun, he can always download instructions for creating a bomb out of common household items from off the Internet. Shucks, he could have killed 60 people instead of six. Pandora’s Internet box is open, and it’s too late to slam the lid down now. Second, laws banning gun ownership are only going to be obeyed by law abiding citizens. Criminals and crazies are not law abiding citizens. Banning guns will merely strip the common man of his or her right to protect himself. I will say this: The only thing that might--and I stress the word might--have made a difference at that supermarket, is if one of those law abiding citizens had been carrying his legally acquired firearm, and had the presence of mind to pull it out and kill the bastard before he’d had the opportunity to shoot nineteen people. There is no way to say whether or not this scenario would have made a difference or not, obviously, since it didn’t happen, and no one knows how they will react in such a horrendous situation—until they are faced with the terrifying reality. I don’t know myself whether or not I could have “stepped up”. I hope I never have to find out.

The most disgusting thing of all is that certain politicians want to use this tragedy to further their own agendas. They don’t care whether or not Rush Limbaugh really provoked the shooting spree. They just want him off the air because he makes people think, and liberals are pretty sure that’s a dangerous thing.

The simple truth is, no one could have predicted this. Even people who got some vague, disturbing feeling from Loughner most likely never would have thought he would take a gun and shoot innocent people in a crowd. Why? For the very simple reason that it is unthinkable, that’s why. Anne Frank said, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” We all want to believe that. And I do. I really do believe that most people are really good at heart.

But there are monsters in the world. If you’re very, very lucky, you’ll never come face to face with one. But they’re out there. Seventy-five years ago, a monster took over the hearts and minds of a strong nation and slew six million Jews within a short period of time.

But some people want you to believe that there are no monsters, no real ones. They want you to give up your ability to protect yourself. They’ll tell you it’s for your own good. They may even sincerely believe it. That’s the police’s job, they’ll say. (And when seconds count, the police are only minutes away…)

The predators are salivating at the very thought of the populace voluntarily giving up their right to bear arms. I’m certain of this. I’ve seen it before. Years ago, we were transferred to Ft. Bragg, NC. We started house hunting. This was during Desert Storm. A great many of the troops had been deployed, leaving wives and children behind in Fayetteville. We were told by the police chief that violent crime jumped 200% in Fayetteville after the soldiers were deployed. The predators knew their prey had been left alone and unprotected.

It seems like there have been a lot of predators out lately; a lot of unbalanced people shooting, a lot of crazies using violence and mayhem to garner a little time in the spotlight. Whatever is causing it—Rush Limbaugh, voodoo, the full moon—this is not the time to roll over and play dead. This is not the time to surrender your weapons and let the government “take care of you.” Remember how the Nazis “took care of” people (after systematically disarming them.)

I am basically a very unassuming person. I am not rich, or powerful, or physically strong. I don’t have military experience or police training. I don’t have a personal body guard, or a state-of-the-art alarm system, or an electrified fence around my property.

What I do have is a .45 caliber handgun and enough training to put my shots where I want them to go. I don’t know whether or not I could have made a difference in Tucson. But by God, I like to think I would have tried. It might not have helped. But it might have given little Christina Taylor Green a fighting chance.