Forevermore?

Halloween is the season for spookiness.  People turn their front yards into fake graveyards, hang plastic skeletons in trees, and carve grotesque faces into pumpkins.

A haunted corn maze would get a lot of delighted visitors.
 

In a recent scarecrow contents in a local park, a dog walker walked skeleton dogs.

This horror decorating can be a way to channel our fears.  We live in times fraught with true terror, be it events in the Middle East or in our own country.

On October 25, that terror, true terror, not made up fake terror, hit the small city of Lewiston, Maine.  That evening there was a horrendous double mass shooting (18 innocents died in two locations) at the hands (and gun) of a 40 year old man.  It was followed by nearly 48 hours of lockdown for residents until it was established that the shooter had taken his own life.

As someone who worked in a community that experienced a mass shooting in 2009  I feel a connection of sorts with each of these communities. I also know that when the national news networks leave the scene, the community is left to deal with its grief.

Back in 2011, my spouse and I vacationed in Brunswick, Maine, which is about 20 miles from Lewiston.  It was a beautiful, peaceful area.  

The horror I felt on October 25 and the following days was mixed with the good memories I had of that area, including our walk across a bridge with a history tied to the city where I grew up.

I also think of Tampa and the Ybor City shooting of this weekend,  a terrible end to a Halloween gathering. Thinking of Tampa also brings back memories of the two years I lived there years ago. Ybor City was where I discovered my beloved strawberry onions.

Gun violence.  A national nightmare we aren't waking up from.

This Halloween we ask:  Will this be our fate forevermore? 

Tragedy in the City

What a sad weekend.  Words stick in my hands, unable to be written.  I wish this was more elegant.

If you want elegance, please enjoy some flowers from my garden in 2019.  Happier times!

The rest of this post is a bit grim, so please feel free to admire the flowers on your way out.  But I hope you'll stay.

As my United States readers know, there was a mass shooting in Buffalo, New York, at a supermarket.  13 people shot, 10 dead, the alleged shooter (whose name I will not use) in police custody.  Buffalo is the second largest city in New York State after New York City.  It is also the home town of our current Governor.

The alleged shooter is an 18 year old man from Conklin, New York, which is about 15 miles from where I live near Binghamton, New York. Conklin is a small community of about 5,000 people.

Our community here in the Binghamton area knows about mass shootings.  We have felt the pain that so many communities have felt. 

On April 3, 2009 (as my regular readers know) a mass shooting several blocks from where I used to work in Binghamton took the lives of 13 innocents and the man who killed them.  That shooting convinced me to start this blog.  That shooter lived locally and bought the gun locally (at a sporting goods store now closed).

The school psychologist at Sandy Hook grew up in Vestal, another town in our area.

But these shootings were not like our shooting. Buffalo's pain is not our pain.  Our shooting didn't involve a young man who drove some 200 miles to target members of a Black community.  He picked the only supermarket in the area.  He must have known that, sooner or later, everyone in that community shopped there.

What else are we learning?  This man graduated from high school and was apparently attending our local community college. He also live streamed the shooting (which was taken down  but other sites keep posting it) and published a long manifesto with his beliefs.  He drank from the poison waters of extremist sites.  He came with weapons inscribed with symbols and words of hate.  This was, pure and simple, a crime of hate.

He purchased his Bushmaster semi-automatic weapon locally in the Binghamton area (although it was modified after sale in a way that would not be legal in New York.) The gun shop that sold the gun is now being targeted on social media, and has closed for this week, and I will not name it.

These are some of those he killed.  Reports state he had planned to visit other sites to continue his spree but the Buffalo police came too quickly. It's also reported that he may have also scouted out Rochester another major New York city, for a shooting.

By all accounts, this Buffalo neighborhood is a close knit community, and the residents are coming together in their grief as they now have nowhere to buy food.

Worse yet, this wasn't the only active shooter event in our country this weekend.  It was just the most deadly. There was a church shooting in Laguna Hills, California, also described as a hate crime. That shooting was stopped by a heroic doctor who died. There was a shooting in a flea market in Houston.  There were shootings in several locations in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.  There were other shootings that didn't even make the news.

No community is immune from the poison of hatred or the easy availability of weapons, and we ask ourselves again, "why?" If we aren't minorities who are targets of hate crimes (people of color, Americans of Asian-Pacific origin, various religions) we may live in fear, a fear we don't dare show as we go about our everyday lives. (I say "we" because I am a member of one of those groups).  But make no mistake, everyone in this country is at risk.   Hatred is out of control.  It has become mainstream.

Americans have asked that question of "why" too many times now, in this nation.

How many times is too many?

Or will we offer thoughts and prayers yet again, and then move on, leaving the families and friends of Buffalo, of Laguna Hills, of Winston-Salem, of Houston, of previous sites like El Paso, Pittsburgh, Orlando, and Sacramento...so many other towns and places where hate has surfaced, to pick their lives back up?

This time, what will we choose to do?

Seven in Seven

I had a post all ready on the beauty of spring.  But then the tragedy in Boulder, Colorado happened.

We've had seven mass shootings in seven days here in the United States.  In Boulder, a gunman walked into a supermarket about 2:30 pm Mountain time and killed 10 people, including the first police officer to respond.  This officer had switched careers just to become a police officer.

There was even a livestream on You Tube of the scene, which I have not viewed. The police officer was the father of seven and also leaves a grieving wife.

I have a Facebook friend with a son in Boulder.  He is safe.  I also work with a woman whose daughter lives in Boulder and I'll know in a few minutes if she is safe. She had moved there less than six months ago.  

Boulder is a city of about 100,000.  I was there once, years ago, on the way to somewhere else.  There was something special about Boulder then. 

We can wish this isn't happening but these shootings are.  Will we have the will to face our gun problems this time?  How many more times will a community face a mass shooting incident?  (Mine did, blocks from where I work, in 2009, and the anniversary is coming up in early April.)

All I can do is turn to my previous scheduled post.

Crocuses.  Some people measure spring by the position of the sun relative to the Earth.  Some measure spring by how sweetly the birds sing.  Some look for the first trees to bloom.  Me, I measure spring by the first crocus at my house.

 

True, crocuses have been in bloom in my area of upstate New York for several days now.  But my front yard is situated in a way that it doesn't warm up as rapidly as some.

 

Today was the big day.  Thanks to the pandemic, I am still working at home.  

 

At lunchtime I stepped out for a short walk and this is what greeted me.

 

Not only that, but after work, there was another one.

Spouse and I took a walk after my work day was over, and we saw this in another yard.

It's spring.  The robins were trying to tell me that, as were the cardinals, but the crocuses have made it official.

It's lovely.

It's marvelous.

Little things can bring such joy, even in a period of increasing tragedy.

I will get to those other posts before the Blogging from A to Z challenge begins, hopefully.  Speaking of which, I will be blogging about New York State daily, except Sundays, during the month of April.  I hope you will join me in this virtual journey.

The Garlic Festival

I am heartbroken over the news of still another mass shooting, this time at a garlic festival in Gilroy, California.

I'm heartbroken at our inability to stop these shootings.  I'm heartbroken having experienced, as a sort-of spectator (from a few blocks away) a mass shooting in the community where I live, Binghamton, New York, on April 3, 2009.

There is one way in which my work community of Binghamton, New York and Gilroy are connected.

Garlic.

Each year, the American Civic Association (ACA), where our shooting took place, hosted a garlic festival each August.  In 2009, there was no festival.

But in 2010, it returned, and I am repeating my 2010 post, without editing.  The festival has been held every year since 2010.  This year, it is August 17, and I'm sure many of those attending our garlic festival will be thinking of Gilroy. 

But it takes more than thought (and prayers) to heal a community, or those who lost loved ones. 

In doing some research, I found that Gilroy is close in population to Binghamton. One of the innocent dead (two of the three dead were children) went to college less than two hours away from Binghamton.  More connections. 

What else can be said that hasn't been said hundreds of times? I will not try.

Here's my post from August 2010.

Healing Wounds One Garlic Plant at a Time

No, this post isn't about the medicinal uses of the garlic plant.  But if you came here by mistake, please stay and read anyway.

I'm talking about a totally different type of healing, healing psychic wounds of a community.

Yesterday we went to the ACA's Garlic Festival on the edge of downtown Binghamton.

After a one year hiatus due to the horrendous shooting of April 3, 2009, we welcome the festival back.

We weren't going to go until today, but the weather report, combined with a one hour postponement in an event we were supposed to go to yesterday afternoon, combined in us making the trip yesterday.  We didn't have too long to say, so didn't go inside to purchase garlic food.  There were lines and we didn't have time to wait.

Just think, going inside, into a building that some might say was haunted.  But how fitting that laughter filled that space yesterday.

Outside, the mood was just as festive.  A number of booths were selling...well, what else, but garlic.  Spanish Roja, White German, Music, Elephant, and many more, hung braided, sat in bags, or loose, next to plates with pieces cut up for pre-purchase sampling.  We bought a couple of bags of spouses' favorite, Music.  Another booth had local pestos- spinach, sun dried tomato, red pepper, and more. Still another booth had pesto made from garlic scapes.  (Garlic scapes are the top of the garlic plant, just as the seed area starts to form.  They are delicious but you have to get the plant at just the right time or they become tough.)

Still another vendor, reminiscent of the New York soup man Jerry Seinfeld modeled his "Soup Nazi" after, sold his genuine Pennsylvania smoked sausage.  If you looked at him wrong, he told you to "Go to the back of the line!"  (No Garlic for You!)  But it was all in good fun, the crowds gathered to enjoy his banter and we bought some sausage from him, too.

Local food, local garlic, even garlic ice cream (which I didn't try in 2010, but have tried since). 

A good time was had by all.

Postscript - my hope is that Gilroy will, in their own time, hold this festival again.

They Are Us

Who are we?  Angels?  Devils?  Who is to blame?  Should we be concerned about something that happened half a world away?


If they haven't come for you, yet, they will try, which is why we must treat what happened yesterday in New Zealand with the utmost attention.  Hatred knows no bounds.  This is not a movement of a few individuals.  The movement of hate towards "the other" is growing daily.

It's impossible to know the pain the people of Christchurch, New Zealand, are experiencing today, whether or not they were in the two mosques that were attacked, or members of the families, or friends, of the 49 killed for no other reason than being Muslims at prayer on a Friday.

All I can do is reach out, as a member of a community which, on April 3, 2009, faced its own horror - a mass shooting in a classroom for immigrants in our community, which left 14 dead.   We are coming up on the 10th anniversary of that shooting, which was not a terrorist attack, but, rather, was due to an immigrant who had received services there blaming the organization for his subsequent troubles.  But still.  The memories may fade, but they will never disappear.  I don't send thoughts and prayers.  I just send a few words, which will ripple and disappear in the sea that is the Internet.

I am also the member of a minority religion, one that these same terrorists would target without a moment's hesitation.

A year ago, I visited the mosque in Johnson City, New York during an open house.  It was a most interesting experience, one that I haven't blogged about yet, but I should.  It was quite informative.

Several things stood out, one of which I will mention today.

On a table were some educational pamphlets, free for the taking.  Most explained one or more facet of Islam.  The people were were asking questions, all (in my earshot) respectful, wanting to learn more about their neighbors.  But some of the pamphlets addressed the fear - the fear of the "other".

So, I thought of that when I heard the remarks of New Zealand's Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern.  To paraphrase her, she said, of the victims.  “Many of those affected will be members of our migrant communities—New Zealand is their home—they are us."

They are us.

This time, it was Muslims.  Just as, in our recent history of shootings or bombings in religious institutions carried out by domestic terrorists of the United States, it has been Jews, Sikhs, and even Christians targeted by a white supremacist.

I disagree strongly with Trump's belief that white nationalism is not a rising problem.

If you think you are immune because you are not a member of one of their targeted groups, guess again.  These people are us.  They can be our neighbors.  Our employers.  Our customers.

Will we welcome immigrants and "the other"? Or will we continue down the path we have embarked upon?

New Zealand is making its choice.  But what about the rest of the world, including us?

Where Have You Gone, Mr. Rogers?

I am heartbroken. 
Three months ago, a rabbi wrote a post on his congregation's blog about gun violence and our failure as a nation to address it...well, read it for yourself.

His wife and daughter are both teachers.   The rabbi prays for their safety daily.  And then the violence came...to him.  His congregation.  

What do we know about the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania synagogue shooting as of right now?  11 dead.  The shooter in custody, with 29 counts against him.  All in what used to be Mr. Roger's neighborhood. Do you remember Mr. Rogers?  If you are younger than your mid-20's, you probably don't.

Yesterday, it wasn't a beautiful day in that neighborhood.

The shooting happened during Saturday morning services - and, worse yet, during a bris, which has been reported as a "baby naming ceremony" but it is a lot more than that.

The suspect is said to have yelled "All Jews must die!" as he fired his weapons.

Why are we not surprised, with all the hate that people are now feeling free to express in our country?

Monstrous words make monsters. 

As much as I hesitate to link to an archive of social media posts the alleged shooter made on various social media, I feel it must be publicized.  We must know the enemy of all decent people.

Our country, as we are continuously reminded, is in a crisis situation perhaps not seen since the end of the United States Civil War (1865).  I am one of those who maintain that this war never really ended.  We still fight it today, but without official armies.

We've had the Battle of Charlottesville.  Now we have the Battle of Squirrel Hill.

Will we repeat the cycle that Rabbi Jeffrey Myers wrote about three months ago?  To quote him:

"I recall seeing a post not long ago that rather accurately describes the life cycle of news, and I paraphrase to the best of my recollection: Tragic event – Thoughts and Prayers – Call to Action by our Elected Leaders – Hang Wringing – Next News Event."

I sadly note this is far from the first shooting in a house of worship in our country and Canada.
A Sikh temple in Wisconsin.
A white supremist in a historic Black church in Charleston, South Carolina.
Just to name a couple...

So, we've had the most recent tragic event.  The thoughts and prayers are going out.

Are we going to rinse and repeat?

Or do we deserve better?  Will we finally break the paralysis that even Las Vegas and Parkland couldn't?  It's a wonderful thing that people are reacting the way they are but there has to be more.  Each one of us has to begin with ourselves, and then, we must turn our nation around from the iceberg we are approaching at full speed.

Perhaps we need Mr. Rogers more than we will ever know.

Day 28 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge #blogboost

Now the Journalists

This time, the shooting was in a newspaper office in Annapolis, Maryland. 

Editors, journalists, and a sales associate had not gone out to get the news.  The news came to them.  And, five dead  later, the survivors joined with a sister newspaper, the Baltimore Sun, to report on the news that had just happened right before them.

This shooting was a little different, though, because a close in law was visiting us, and she worked for a suburban New York City newspaper for many years.  She, through her words, had taken me into a newsroom on the morning of September 11, 2001, as she and fellow staff members gathered around a television set, watching the aftermath of a plane that rammed into One World Trade Center in downtown Manhattan, wondering if it could have been an accident.  Minutes later, as they watched (live on television) a plane hit Two World Trade Center, they had their answer.

They all scattered, journalists, editors, other support staff.  They did their jobs, as if they had been trained for this moment, and returned that night to commuter parking lots full of cars that would never be driven by their owners again.

My in law told me of the threats her paper had received after a particular story had run, not too many years before she was laid off.  She edited her social media so that people would not know she worked for that paper.  Now, her worst fear had come true - a man with a vendetta against his local paper had taken action.

I don't know what it is like to be a journalist, but I do know what it is like to be a bystander (several blocks away, and I was not a direct witness) as respects an active shooter situation - in fact, it was the topic of my very first blog post in April of 2009.  Other people did their job that day - police, medical personnel, and - yes - journalists.

Now, we need newspapers more than ever, but journalism (in this I include support staff) has become a more deadly field than ever before.

The shooting joins all the other ones - in churches, in schools, at concerts, at nightclubs, in movie theatres, at a military base, so many that we can't even remember them all any more.

The names blur.   We hold demonstrations and nothing happens.  We send our thoughts and prayers and that keeps us going until the next time.

Our President said on Thursday: "Journalists, like all Americans, should be free from the fear of being violently attacked while doing their jobs."  The Governor of Maryland said  "There is no amount of clarity that will ever explain or nullify the pain that comes with losing so many lives for so little reason,"  in a statement Friday morning.  He went on to say that "journalism is a noble profession upon which our democracy depends, and we will fight to defend it."

But the dead are still as dead, and their families, their friends, their other loved ones, cry out to us, the American public, to do whatever it takes to make it stop.

Will we answer the call this time?