My Women's March on Washington

The day began at 0:dark:30, as over a hundred of us from the Community Church of Chapel Hill--piled into two buses and hit the road.  Here I am with my bus buddy, Deborah Klinger.  Too dark to take photos--but we are fired up and ready to go!

On the way up, we viewed pictures of huge crowds of women around the world---RISING UP!  Places where protests had already happened or were just beginning--Sydney and Tokyo, Paris and Prague.  We scrolled through pictures on the Women's March app and Pantsuit Nation--showing plane loads, carloads and busloads of protesters from all around the country, making their way to DC in pink pussyhats-- just like us. Such solidarity!

We made pretty good time getting up to DC, and our bus let us off at one of the outermost Metro stations--which was fortunate, because we learned later that this is the only reason we were all able to board the trains.  Our train was absolutely jam packed--and a sea of pink!  And no one else could get on at some of our stops.

On the Metro--a sea of pink pussy hats!

It was 10AM when we boarded the Metro, but it took us an hour and a half to get downtown!   The conductor kept saying "The train will move momentarily"--which soon became a laugh line, as we crawled along in fits and starts.  Fortunately, everyone was good humored and friendly.

At  11:30 when we finally arrived at L'Enfant Plaza, we could barely move when we stepped off the train.  This was not an experience I'd recommend to claustrophobics!  It was stuffy and so crowded we just inched along.

It was  a relief when we could finally see the light of day!  All the escalators in the city were turned off to accommodate the endless waves of people.

Finally we made it out to the streets!

We squeezed along, through the throngs.  Lots of colorful and creative signs!

Patty Hanneman and I stuck together through thick and thin (but mostly THICK!)

We tried to inch closer so we could hear the speakers and see the screens, but moving was pretty futile.  Basically you are just squished in!  We heard some inspirational and fiery speeches from Ashley Judd, Janelle Morae, Alicia Keys, Scarlett Johansson, as well as many lesser known people--who were involved with the march.

This is what it looks like, when you're a short person in a huge crowd, can barely see anything,

and can't move.  The amazing things was that everyone was so polite and accommodating  "Excuse me, I'm sorry.  Can I get by please?" were heard frequently, as people attempted to maneuver through the crowds.  Somehow we managed to part the seas to let a wheelchair through.  Getting to a bathroom was pretty much impossible.  There was no cell service and no internet.  But everyone was SO tolerant and friendly!
 

                                            There was such color, humor and fun all around us!

       After 2.5 hours of standing squished in, unable to move and hearing speeches by people from every possible minority group, the crowd was ready to move and people began to chant "March! March! March!".   The march was slated to begin at 1:15--but it was already 2:30 and there was no end in sight to the squished-in standing and listening to speeches.

Patty and I were a little anxious because we had been told to be back at our metro stop between 4-5--and we thought it could take us two hours to get back!  We had hoped to march, but we weren't sure it was going to happen in time, and we needed some relief from the claustrophobic, crowded conditions.

 We finally made it to a side street where the crowd was thinner.   Immediately, the mood changed.  There was room to walk!  Many people had left the main rally, as we had-- seeking relief-- and had taken over the side streets marching and chanting.  This was much more festive and fun!  Although I still couldn't get a very good perspective for taking photos.

 Because the original march route was so jam packed with people, the actual march-- as it was planned-- didn't  happen. People were making their way, as we were, down side streets towards the Washington Monument.  I wish we had been able to stay longer, and walk more.  I wish we had made it to the Monument.  I wish we had gotten to hear Madonna.  Logistics demanded that we leave early to get back to our bus.

However, despite weariness and discomfort from standing in a close crowd for hours, and needing to pee-- my overwhelming feeling from the day is that I was SO proud to be in that number!

I  feel so heartened, exhilarated and inspired from being in this amazing crowd of people from all over the country!

Pictures of women's genitalia and ovaries were everywhere, along with signs like "Viva La Vulva!"  I was a little shocked at first, but it dawned on me that this is very important.  For too long, women have been ashamed of our "private parts". We have been groped and grabbed and raped.  We have been harassed,  belittled, mansplained to and marginalized. We have been passed over for promotions.  The private is now public, and what was once our shame is now our power!

 On the way home, we learned:  1,000,000 in DC  500,000 in LA  400,000 in NYC  250,000 in Chi

175,000 in Bos  150,000 in Den  130,000 in Sea  75,000 in Madison

We saw pictures our friends had posted of the huge rally in Raleigh back home.  We saw pictures from around the world--from Asheville to Amsterdam to Antarctica.

It's a great day in the herstory of the world!  The love revolution has begun!  Trump was the catalyst, but now we know the real power belongs to us--with women at the helm!

THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE: One protestor's perspective

We could hear the crowd across the street chanting and cheering “Thank you! We love you! Thank you! We love you!” Two police officers supported my elbows, as I mounted the steep step on to the prison bus— hard to do with my hands tied behind my back.  I found my friend, Ruth, and sat down awkwardly beside her as our fellow protestors entered one by one— their hands behind them in plastic hand cuffs. Cecelia, another of my compatriots from the Community Church of Chapel Hill  (Unitarian Universalist)  sat down across the aisle.

As the bus pulled out of the parking lot behind the state legislative building, the crowd broke into a roar of applause. Although we knew they couldn't see us behind the metal latticed windows, and we certainly couldn't wave to them-- we stood to get a better view of them standing in the headlight's glare, cheering and waving their signs. “What a beautiful crowd!” the woman behind us exclaimed. We were heartened and very touched that they were still out there at 9:30 PM. They were no doubt hungry and tired—but they had waited to watch this last bus depart. I myself, at past Moral Monday protests, have only had the stamina to stay until the first bus left. I really didn't think anyone would still be there this late.

The barred windows did not block out the light of the full moon, which followed us down the city streets of Raleigh, as we wound our way towards the county jail. Ruth and I begin to sing “We shall not, we shall not be moved. We shall not, we shall not be moved—just like a tree that's planted by the water, we shall not be moved.” Others joined in, raising their voices in harmony with us. People started other songs “This little light of mine”, “We shall overcome”, “Let there be peace on earth”. 

I looked around the bus. My fellow passengers were young and old; black, white and brown; men and women. We had all been arrested for “Second Degree Trespassing” and “Failure to Disperse”. We had stood in the rotunda of the North Carolina state legislative building singing, speaking, chanting “This is what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks like!” until they led the 75 of us away one at a time. The total number of citizens arrested for civil disobedience during these past 12 weeks of Moral Monday protests is just shy of 1000. Along with those being arrested, thousands of people have rallied on the lawn behind the legislative building every Monday this summer. The movement is a growing groundswell—more and more of us every time. North Carolinians from many walks of life crying out in unison, waving signs and banding together.

In the air it is palpable: unity, standing strong together and anger against the sheer callous meanness of our new ultra conservative legislature—which keeps stabbing and wounding its citizens under the guise of being “business friendly”. To most of us, it has come as a shock, because our state has always been a place of reason and progress in the South—unlike Alabama and Mississippi. We have been proud of our university system and our very successful early childhood education program “Smart Start”. We have protected our natural resources for decades. Suddenly, North Carolina is inviting other states to dump their garbage here. We are about to frack away our clean water, and we officially deny the scientific fact that the sea level is rising. Suddenly, we have become the only state to deny its citizens Federal unemployment benefits—and we have refused Medicaid expansion under the Affordable Care Act. The lack of healthcare will cost lives, and hurt job creation in our state by curtailing the expansion of medical services. The “earned income tax credit” which President Reagan created to help the working poor is gone, and in its place—more tax cuts for the wealthy. Our education system been hit hard---they have taken away the limits on class size while eliminating teacher assistants—making life so much harder for our teachers and children. And then there are the strict new anti-abortion laws—snuck in in the dead of the night—ironically attached first to a bill forbidding Sharia law in NC, and then to a motorcycle safety bill.

Some folks have traveled for hours to be part of Moral Mondays--to listen and cheer the powerful, eloquent and passionate speeches of NC NAACP president Rev. William Barber. He is an amazingly inspiring, melodious orator in the tradition of Martin Luther King. He often recalls the civil rights demonstrations of the past and how much people have sacrificed to get where we are today: the march from Selma to Montgomery; the blood shed by those who fought for voting rights with their lives including Medgar Evars and Dr. King. He says it is up to us to carry their work forward, to protect these gains, to make sure it was not all in vain. “This is our time!” proclaims Rev. Barber The crowd roars its approval. “Forward together, not one step back” we chant.

Rev. Barber's words were particularly moving on the Monday after the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the murder of Trayvon Martin—speaking about the endemic racism in the system that led to this tragedy, about rampant gun violence and about how our current legislature has gone “gun crazy”--passing bills that make it so that gun records are not public and allowing concealed carry on university campuses, in bars where alcohol is served, at funerals and parades, and in parks where children play. “They want more guns than they want citizens in the people's house.” Rev. Barber shared that through the haze of his anger and hurting over the verdict, he had left the NAACP convention in Florida to come home especially for this Moral Monday because “when you are hurting you need to be around people who still believe in the possibility of us being one people.”

Today's protest was centered around the theme of voting rights--protesting the new voter ID bill, which was clearly designed to create obstacles that would prevent thousands of North Carolinians from voting—especially minorities, the elderly and students. Our legislators had proposed the most stringent new laws in the nation-- not accepting student ID's, reducing early voting, eliminating on site registration, making it so that any citizen can harass another and question their “qualifications” to vote. Rev. Barber cried out “Any group of politicians who wants to suppress the right to vote in any way is engaging in crimes against democracy.”

A Baptist minister led a prayer given “in Jesus' name” for those of us choosing to engage in civil disobedience today. Some of my Unitarian Universalist, Jewish, and atheist friends have murmured complaints about the strong Christian preaching and praying that is a big part of these protests.--and some have questioned the audacity of the alliterative title “Moral Mondays”. Although the organizers have made an effort made each week to include a Rabbi in the speeches from the podium, and Rev. Barber takes care to occasionally mention those who “struggle with faith”-- the language and the tone of Moral Mondays stem largely from the traditions of the black church--historically a huge force behind the civil rights movement. I personally am not offended when Rev. Barber and others speak from their hearts and offer prayers as they know how to do it. They are speaking out of their tradition. Whether you call it Jesus or God, Spirit or conscience. we are all there to take a stand together and to fight for what we believe is right.

As the crowd parted, those of us wearing green arm bands walked down the middle of the aisle two by two. At the front of the parade were clergy from various denominations, and veterans carrying the flag. We were surrounded on both sides by cheers, hands raised in blessing and cries of “Thank you! Thank you!” For weeks I had been one of those who stood and cheered and watched-- admiring and slightly envying those with the green arm bands. It took me several weeks to get up the courage to “be in that number.” But today I did it. The feeling of walking through that cheering crowd was thrilling. I was especially happy to see people I knew encouraging me on— including a piano student and his mom, friends from the Community Church, and old friends I hadn't seen in awhile.

As we gathered inside the rotunda, there were a few more speeches. A Methodist minister offered

a prayer.  A nerdy guy in a white suit quoted Emerson and Thoreau.  A protestor from Wisconsin said he felt compelled to be there,  and a passionate young woman yelled that a dear friend was dying because she couldn't afford proper health care. Someone read from the constitution, and we all repeated it together line by line “the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances"

The chief of police then announced that we had five minutes to clear the premises. As we continued to sing and chant “This is what democracy looks like” I watched my fellow citizens, including an 85 year

old veteran with a cane, being handcuffed and led out.

When it was my turn, the police chief quietly told me to put my hands behind my back and informed me that I was under arrest for failing to leave the building. The zip ties were tight and uncomfortable, but my sore shoulder (which I had worried about) didn't bother me too much.

“Do you have any weapons?” an officer inquired as he patted my pants pockets. He carefully unbuttoned the pocket where I had secured my car keys and drivers license. I had followed instructions and brought only essentials that I could carry. You can't hold a purse or even wear a back pack when your hands are tied behind your back. I had also been careful to use the restroom ahead of time, and to limit my water intake that afternoon.

A policeman herded a small group of us on to an elevator and told us to face the wall. “Our gazes aren't hostile”, Ruth assured the officer. The young woman beside me introduced herself as Kaori, a UNC student, about my son's age.

We were led into a room that normally functions as a cafeteria. This was the holding area where they would process us. Chairs had been lined up in rows—men on one side of the room, women on the other. For some reason there seemed to be more than twice as many women as there were men. Our possessions were taken from us, and my car keys and driver's license were placed in a manilla envelope with my name on it.

I was frisked by a female officer who patted my breasts brusquely and asked if I had anything hidden in my bra. Several of the women later complained about having their dresses lifted by the same officer, and about her reaching down their pants to feel around their waist bands. It was abrupt and vigorous frisking, not the polite pocket patting I'd experienced earlier.

Next came the most difficult part of the evening—the long, uncomfortable wait. We had our mug shots taken one by one, and were each assigned a case number. Plastic badges with our paperwork and ID's were clipped to our shirt fronts. Then, eventually people were led in pairs to be checked again before getting on to the bus. This whole process was very time consuming. The woman on my left, named Julie, had driven up from Carolina Beach. She had had shoulder surgery and was in serious pain from the handcuffs. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She asked an officer if he could bind her hands in front instead, but was met with indifference “Do you have a note from your doctor?” he asked.

An officer announced that as long as we were quiet (no singing or chanting) we would be allowed the courtesy of being held in the air conditioned cafeteria, instead of the sweltering buses. We conversed softly. The African American woman beside me was a minister from Salisbury. She shared with me the story of how she had had a stroke in church. I told her about my dad, who was also a stroke survivor. Ruth told us about the “Raging Grannies”--the singing, protesting group that she is part of. She said Bill Moyers was featuring them in a documentary on PBS. I hadn't realized that there are chapters all across the country. Kaori told us about her summer internship at Planned Parenthood in Washington DC. We helped each other, bending and twisting to scratch itches, push glasses back up, check the time on watches. Just my luck, I was among the last to get on the third and final bus—so we were handcuffed the longest—almost three hours.

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We were singing “We are a gently angry people”, when our bus arrived at the detention center. Once we entered the building, they finally cut our handcuffs. Wow, what a relief! There were red marks on my wrists where the plastic cuffs had dug into them.  My shoulders and arms ached and felt stiff from being bound in such an awkward position. About 8 of us were placed in a locked cell together--a stark but clean room with just a small metal bench in it—and a toilet with no privacy. Someone suggested that we all give each other shoulder massages. We stood in a circle and rubbed each other's shoulders and backs. We could see across the hall that our companions in another cell had taken their cue from us, and were doing the same. A gray-haired woman wearing a minister's stole led us in some stretches and simple yoga poses—as much as we could do in the small crowded cell.

A young woman named suggested that we introduce ourselves and say a little bit about our backgrounds.  Alma said she was related both to old Southern plantation owners, and to Colombian immigrants. Kaori told us she is the only person in her Japanese family who is an American citizen, and the only one who could vote--so she was there on their behalf.  Others spoke of their work as teachers, ministers, social workers-- of their beliefs and their families. I told the group that my mother had been a civil rights activist in the 1950's—arrested for “disturbing the peace” by singing “We shall overcome” in an interracial group of citizens on the streets of Washington DC and that I felt I was honoring this legacy. Although we came from vastly different backgrounds, we shared strength and conviction.

Before we had gotten completely around the sharing circle, an officer unlocked the door and cuffed our hands together in traditional metal handcuffs attached to a chain. He started to lead us all through a maze of hallways and doors. Walking chained together seemed like a strange cross between preschoolers hanging on to a leash to stay together and slaves bound in chains. Someone suggested that we hold hands. I started to sing “Working on the chain gang” under my breath and a couple of others joined me. “I hope we don't get in trouble for singing”, said Leigh beside me. “We're already in trouble!”, I giggled.

We arrived at another part of the building and were escorted into a different cell where we continued to tell our stories. From here the processing all sort of blurs together in my mind—but it was handled quickly and smoothly. We were escorted from location to location in this stark institution by officers who all treated us courteously. I understand that those who were arrested in the first wave of Moral Monday protests had to stay in jail much longer and were fingerprinted multiple times. We benefited from the experience of those who had gone before, and the process had become much more streamlined and efficient--not just for our benefit, but to save the county money.

Unchained, we walked through doors marked “Release” to enter a room with metal benches, where our driver's licenses were returned to us. Then we waited against the wall in another corridor for each of us to have a turn to receive individual paperwork from a magistrate, and to be told the conditions of our release: not to enter the legislative building again, and to appear in court on the date ordered. When the last officer led us to the last elevator he said “I hope you realize that this was not a typical jail experience.” We were released into the night.

As the small group I was with stepped outside, we were greeted with cheers. People pinned celebratory buttons--badges of honor on us reading  “I went to jail with Rev. Barber”. Ruth's daughter met us with plates full of cookies, and passed them out to everyone, including the cops. The NAACP had everything so well organized! There were volunteer lawyers there who looked at our paperwork, took down our information, helped us sign waivers so we could choose not to attend the initial court appearance.

There were cars of volunteer drivers waiting in a traffic circle. Cecelia and I climbed into a Prius, driven by a young man who had been arrested himself previously, and was now volunteering for the cause. He drove us back to the Baptist church where we had attended an information session with Rev. Barber earlier in the day. We arrived at the church to more cheers, to much needed restrooms, and to an incredible potluck donated by NAACP volunteers—casseroles, stew, cole slaw, fresh fruit, and a wide array of home made desserts. Cecelia and I found our friend Richard, from the Community Church waiting for us.  He had been released earlier, and was sitting at a table chatting with the famed civil rights lawyer Al McSurely. I enjoyed talking with the African American woman beside me who had political buttons all over her straw hat, and some very interesting things to say about the Wake County School Board elections, and how she thought this had been the “ground zero” of Art Pope and our Tea Party legislators. Some women came over and talked to Al about being frisked inappropriately, and he took notes. I savored my dinner, the cold water, the brownie, the fellowship, the festive atmosphere in the room.

There was very little late night traffic on I-40, as I drove home in the dark with Richard and Cecelia. It was wonderful to have their company, to debrief together and share our experience. I felt tired but satisfied, filled both with delicious food and with hope.  I felt connected to a wide community of committed citizens, who will work together to do whatever needs to be done to take back North Carolina.

Morning Walk

Morning Walk by Aviva Enoch

The sound of opening the zip lock bag of liver treats jolts Bentley awake from where he's been lounging on my bed, no doubt spreading white wiry fur on the purple and black Indian bedspread. He bursts into the kitchen. As I lift the leash off its hook, he jumps excitedly, lunges and tries to grab a hold of it, wagging his tail like crazy. Beside the glass doors that lead to the deck, he leaps about three feet in the air, as if to show me exactly where he wants to go. Then, he picks up his toy stuffed snake that's lying on the floor, whips it back and forth around his head, drops it and barks loudly. It's the most exciting thing that has ever happened: Bentley and I are going out on our morning walk!

I command him to sit long enough so that I can attach the harness around his chunky, wiggly body. The only reason he succumbs to this is because of the liver treats that he knows are in my pocket. As soon as the harness clicks, he gets to lick one out of my hand.

Bentley pulls me down the steps. I really have to work to restrain him. It's a good thing he's not a large dog, or I'd be in trouble. He's a pound hound, about knee high with freckles and spots all over like a hunting dog. The name Bentley, which he was given at the pound, reminds me of a dignified British gentleman. It's a funny contrast to his disproportionately long, short-legged body, and Beagle face with the warm, brown eyes.

Before we exit the back gate, I have him sit for me again to receive a second liver treat. This cues him that it is time to calm down, to stop biting and tugging the leash. Once we get outside the gate and on to the little cul-de-sac behind the house, he jaunts proudly—tail and nose held high. Sometimes people we pass remark on his gait and what a happy dog he must be. But now his nose is to the ground, and he's on to something—following an unseen trail. He pauses, emphatically snuffling a certain spot. I tug the leash and say “come on”, but he will not budge until he satisfies his sniffer, then lifts his leg to add his own special scent to this spot. This is a routine that is repeated often throughout our walk.

We pass old lady Helen's house. She has claimed to be on her death bed since 2002. She is tethered to an oxygen tank, and she never leaves her house. She claims that the old west Hillsborough cul-de-sac we live on is her private drive--even though town records clearly show that it is a public street. We have had some terse exchanges over parking more than once. If I were a better person, perhaps I'd still try to visit her, bring her food occasionally, ask her if she needs anything. She is a sick old lady after all—a shut in. But the rude way that she has treated me allows me to shirk being neighborly without guilt.

Helen's aging Chihuahua, Jada, runs out of the off-white water stained house with its awnings over the windows, and begins to bark at us through the chain link fence. Jada is the only dog I know whose bark sounds exactly like “Bow wow wow”. Although I always think of these tiny dogs as “ankle biters”, and actively dislike them, she and Bentley enjoy sniffing each other through the fence.

Jada's little bark is ferocious, but she is wagging her tail. As I wait for Bentley to finish socializing and leave his mark, I once again marvel at the yard full of old Southern kitsch. There are Negro statues of a man carrying a lantern and a boy fishing-- which I'm sure are no longer made. Behind the shrubs lurks the statue of an Indian chief, with his hand over his forehead as if to say, “How!”. A bottle tree with antique blue and green glass bottles glints in the sun. Beside the fence are numerous sparkly yard globes, bowling balls and bird baths. Stone gnomes lounge on the back porch. A rooster stands as a sentry beside it. The porch is decked with Christmas lights that are never taken down.

Helen grew up in this house— her parents were mill workers. This whole little section of town is now known as the historic “mill village”. We live in simple, small, but very sturdy houses—with heart pine floors and bead board ceilings—originally built by the Bellevue Cotton Mill for its workers in the 1920's. Now, although a few of the original families still remain, the neighborhood is gradually being taken over by young families and singletons who shop at Weaver Street Market, the local health food store. We love the funky old houses, and have renovated them—uncovering the old brick hearths, putting in central air and new roofs, or adding a second story under the eaves, for childrens bedrooms. This is the case with the Clayton family home that we now pass. This sweet young family with two children can often be seen outside chatting in the evenings. I love the way the little street comes to life with the sound of kids riding bikes, playing in the yard, or running outside to watch the trains pass when the whistle blows Both of these children are now my piano students. Yes, sometimes my neighborhood walks lead to professional networking—and I have gained four new piano students this way.

As we round the corner, a lone mockingbird perched on the wire above us, gives us a morning concert-- loudly performing his complete repertoire of whistles, and tunes and cackles.

We are cross Nash Street to Margaret Lane, entering the historic district of Hillsborough proper--

which is generally more genteel, with larger, fancier homes than the mill village. There on the left, we pass one of the more elegant houses in the neighborhood--Sarah's stone mansion, with its lovely showplace garden and meditative goldfish pond. A Mexican man is kneeling in the dirt pulling up weeds. Sarah calls to me from the other side of her wrought iron gate with the artistically welded

metal dragonflies on it. Pink, yellow and white roses adorn top of the fence. She greets me and Bentley, and tells me about how her dog was sprayed by a skunk a couple of days ago—and what a disaster it was. Baxter bolted into the house, rolled on the carpet, and rubbed against the couch—mad with the nose-stinging stench. Sarah said the smell still lingers in her dog's fur despite her extraordinary cleaning efforts involving baking powder and Dawn dish-washing liquid. Bentley is tugging on the leash, bored with this conversation, and ready to get going.

In contrast to Sarah's elegant well kept home, is the rental house across the street, where several young guys in their 20's live. They play their music loudly, put out recycling containers full of PBR cans, and hang out in folding chairs and chat in the front yard in the evenings. One evening, as Bentley and I walked by, I chuckled to myself, as I overheard them comparing the relative rigidity of their fishing poles.

We pass the old slave cemetery. It has no headstones, only a simple memorial to the multitudes who sleep below. I once wandered here around midnight, on a misty night-- on a mission to release a mouse I had just caught in a “have a heart” trap. I didn't want to hear it struggle in the trap all night, so I went out with my coat over my nightgown. I felt like a character in a mystery novel, sneaking out to the cemetery at midnight. This morning, in the sunlight, there is a hawk watching, perched atop a high tree. Perhaps my having a heart did not stop the little mouse from meeting his fate after all...

Here comes Bentley's friend-- little black and white Zoe, with the foxy ears, on the retractable leash

held by her middle aged “mom”. Zoe adores Bentley and starts bouncing and wagging whenever she sees him, even though mom tells me she is 13 years old. As the dogs entangle themselves in each others leashes, trying to sniff each others behinds—Zoe's mom tells me she is moving out of the neighborhood. This surprises me. She says she has a new man in her life, and is going to move in with him. She does seem to have more of a sparkle in her eyes, and she is wearing some pretty green earrings. She seems like an unlikely candidate for romance-- in her sixties, rotund and slow, with a limp in her step. “Do you mind if I ask where you met?, I ask her somewhat enviously. “E-harmony”, she tells me—the online dating site. They just got back from a cruise together. She explains that while he didn't meet all of her “would like to haves”, he does fulfill her “must haves”. She says she attends Unity Church while he is a Baptist. They cancel out each others votes. But he is a good person, she assures me, and they are tolerant of each others differences. Hmmm, maybe I'm not so jealous after all, I think to myself-- but I wish her all the best. We disentangle our dogs, and continue on our way.

Coming towards us, climbing up the hill, I see the 30-something, dark-haired man who always looks down—literally and figuratively. His earplugs are in, I'm not sure if he even sees me. He doesn't smile or in any way acknowledge me or Bentley. This is odd, as most people will say “cute dog” or “good morning”, or reach down to pat Bentley on the head.

My neighbor, Dave passes us slowly in his truck—coming home from dropping his young son off at Carolina Friends School. Ryan is taking piano lessons from me, and is making excellent progress. Dave rolls down his window, greets me and Bentley, and complains that Ryan is waking them up every morning by playing Reveille loudly on the piano. But he smiles when he says it, so you can tell he loves it.

We pass the little creek in the culvert by the left side of the road. Bentley begins to sniff around interestedly. If you're lucky, you can sometimes spot baby ground hogs here. Early one morning, I got to share my excitement on seeing with a young mom pushing a stroller. We very quietly watched the baby ground hogs, until Bentley strained towards them, and startled them quickly back into their hole beneath the roots of a creek side tree. Because I was so intent on watching the groundhogs, I hadn't even peeked into the mother's stroller. After the groundhogs disappeared, she proudly took out her new baby to show me, and told me he was only nine days old. I thought that was pretty exciting too, although Bentley was completely oblivious. No groundhog sightings today, although Bentley's sniffer is going full speed. He pauses to leave some nose graffiti. “Bentley was here!”.

Across the street, I see my friend Laura's red brick house. The blinds are drawn, and there are no cars in the driveway. She never seems to be home. Although we are neighbors, I met her for the first time on facebook. A little further down is Karen's little white house. Karen and I have been acquainted since our now college age kids were in elementary school together. Her cat, Cleo, is sitting outside by the old Volvo sedan with the “Obama then and now” bumper sticker. When she sees Bentley, she ambles forward to greet us. Bentley bends his head down, as she rubs against him. It's so funny the way these two seem to really like each other. I think it's partly because Cleo is just so bold and walks right up to us. If she were to run away, Bentley would no doubt want to chase her. On days when Cleo is not outside, Bentley seems to be looking for her, gazing back longingly as we walk by.

Now we see the dog that Bentley doesn't like coming towards us. We stake out our territory on the left side of the road, and I grab Bentley's leash tightly, as the owner of the black lab does the same on the opposite side of the street. Both males snarl and growl at each other, straining to cross, just as a car passes between us. The blond haired owner and I both mutter our apologies and wish each other a nice day anyway.

I am planning my day, as we cut through the parking lot of the large, brick Baptist church and head out to King St. I'm calculating my finances, considering errands I need to run—reminding myself to reschedule Nora's lesson, and to email my mom.  Bentley stops and squats. I turn my head so as not to be rude. I wait for him to finish, knowing the deed isn't done until he kicks some grass in its direction. I found this out the hard way one time when I bent down too soon, and got a face full of grass. I lean down, and expertly scoop the steaming, well-formed turds into my politically correct little white biodegradable bag. I look around for a trash can. Fortunately, the doctor has left his out by the street, even though trash pick up was two days ago. I sometimes feel guilty about dropping these stinky little white bombs in other people's trash cans. One morning, a homeowner apparently witnessed my transgression. I glanced back, as we were a little further down the street, and saw that she had gone out to investigate-- to lift the green lid and peer in, just to make sure it wasn't a real bomb, I suppose.

Now comes one of my favorite parts of the walk. We walk on the sloping purple berry stained sidewalk, as I search above for the juicy ripe mulberries—not the red ones, but the purple ones. I grab hold of a branch and lower it, so I can pluck and pop the sweetness straight into my mouth. This taste reminds me of my childhood, of finding these berries wild in an alley with my best friend as we walked to school.

I hear the plaintive, low call of a mourning dove. In the distance, I spot Bill, walking his German Shepherd up the hill of one of the side streets. Shoot, I missed him. I have a little crush on Bill, a handsome, friendly man about my age. But I don't run in to him very often, and though he always smiles warmly, I'm not sure he remembers my name.

We pass the big, run down historic house that has finally been sold and is soon to be remodeled. I was excited to learn that the new owner is Jim-- someone I had watched bring back to life an almost impossibly derelict mill house that was sagging and falling apart—but had the most enormous oak tree in Hillsborough in its front yard. Now it is a cute little cottage with a handcrafted stained glass window that Jim made himself. I look forward to watching him incrementally transform this bigger place as well. He's not going to “flip” this one, he told me the other day. He and his wife are actually going to live in it. I should ask Jim to advise me on who to call for my drainage issues in the front yard. I bet he would know. But he doesn't seem to be around today.

Suddenly Bentley jerks hard on the leash, practically tearing my arm out of its socket. He barks like mad as he runs, pulling me to the base of a large oak tree. He stands alert and attentive, his tail extended back in a straight line, his nose pointing up, his right fore paw bent slightly in a timeless, hunting dog pose. There is a slight rustling in the leaves above us. Bentley leaps high up the tree trunk, and although I am grasping the leash tightly, he seems to believe he can levitate up the tree. He is baying loudly, a sound that resonates throughout his whole body, as if he has found his voice and is doing exactly what he is meant to be doing in this moment. The whole world needs to hear this Important Announcement. It is the most exciting thing that has ever happened: Bentley has seen a squirrel!!

Intractable

“Viajero would like to meet you”, read the notice from Plenty of Fish. It is not unusual to get these types of messages. They are the equivalent of a “wink” on Match, or a “smile” on Green Singles—and they don't mean very much--only that someone clicking through numerous online profiles, chose to respond “yes”, rather than “no” or “maybe” after seeing your picture. Usually I delete these automatically—especially when they have names like HotHarley, Crappieman, or Python.

Perhaps it was the name, “Viajero”, meaning “traveler” in Spanish that appealed to the globe trotter in me, or perhaps it was because it was early morning, and I'd just awakened from a dream in which a gentleman extended his arm to me and asked “May I have this dance?” Whatever the reason, I clicked through to the profile and checked it out with a little more of an open mind than usual.

There, on my computer screen was a very handsome man—dimples, blue eyes, fit and trim, dark hair graying at the temples, with a warm smile. What really got me were the mountains of Peru in the background—and the photos of a Bolivian city, a llama, and of “Viajero” wearing a crazy, colorful hat posing with children. For the first time in many moons, I felt a little flutter of interest.

Yet, I knew better than to take this “wants to meet you” thing too seriously. I wrote back: “A little bird told me you might want to meet me. Normally when I get these thingies they are from men 15 years older than me or 50 pounds overweight pictured without their shirts. So, imagine my surprise to find these arresting travel photos with the handsome smiling man in the foreground...” Oh, God, had I really written that? I was actually flirting with someone! I thought I had forgotten how... I went on to tell him in a couple of quick sentences about my own recent travels in Transylvania, and asked if he might want to meet and share our travel stories over coffee. “That is, if you really do want to meet me.

Or was it just a random keystroke?”

I hit “send”, rose from my desk and went about my day—not really thinking too much about this. He might or might not answer. I have this philosophy when applying for jobs, as well as looking for love, that if you put out many feelers, —not putting too much stock in “the one right job” or “one true love”, not putting all your eggs in one basket and getting too attached—that it increases your chances.

I was already corresponding half-heartedly with “ZenWalker” and “Phoenix”. Zen Walker was somewhat boring, Phoenix lived too far away. So, I went about my day as usual, only letting my mind wander a little bit, as I walked my dog in the brisk January air, to the handsome, smiling man in the Peruvian mountains.

When I woke up the next morning, his answer awaited me: “No, I did not fat finger the keyboard. I found your profile, ergo, you—interesting. Would you like to meet for coffee at Cuppa Joe or Weaver Street? He obviously had read my profile in some detail, as he'd noticed that I listed these as my favorite hang outs. A good sign. “We could talk by phone first, if'n ya like”.

I revisited his profile, and perused it more closely this time. It sunk in that he was nine years older than me. 64 years old. One year over my stated age limit. Ideally, I would like to find someone within five years of my age—age can make such a difference between your 50's and 60's. The difference between work and retirement, between helping college kids move into a dorm or being a grandparent, between active good health and serious problems. But vitality can vary considerably depending on the individual, and he did look healthy and active in the photos, which were clearly dated from December—just a few weeks ago. I also noticed that he lives in Greensboro. Of course, my preference

was to meet someone in my own little town of Hillsborough, or at least in Durham or Chapel Hill/Carrboro. I don't want to have to make a huge effort to see someone. But Greensboro, and 64 years old were not so far out of the range as to be deal breakers. I decided to go ahead and respond, but to wait a few hours, so as not to appear too eager.

It was the morning of Martin Luther King Day. I got to participate in an inspiring interracial celebration and service at the 1st Baptist Church in Chapel Hill— with spirit filled gospel singing, and rousing speeches by officials with the NAACP. The Unitarian Universalist Choir I am part of sang “Joshua Fit De Battle” with gusto—and I got to belt out some of the high soprano notes. We heard passionate testimony about fighting poverty and injustice, and how there is no turning back. We lifted up our voices as a whole congregation— blacks and whites together, and sang “We shall not be moved” with spirit and conviction. A state legislator spoke about how the Republicans were unfairly trying to rig the voting districts in a completely unbalanced way. He spoke passionately about voting these guys out of office come November.

As I drove home to my afternoon of piano teaching, with these songs, emotions and thoughts reverberating in my mind and heart, I was also internally composing my response to “Viajero”. He had said in his profile, that he was looking for a woman with “a well formed world view”. Good. That resonated with what I had just been immersed in, at the church. But still, I made myself wait to respond. I ate lunch, did some quick household tasks, then devoted myself to listening to my piano students—the theme from Star Wars, The Happy Farmer, “F-A-C-E”-- remember “face the spaces”. ..

Later that evening, when the day was done, as I sipped my celebratory glass of red wine, I finally allowed myself to savor my conversation with the handsome Viajero, and compose my response. I wanted it to be short and snappy, and to show off my “well formed world view.” I suggested a weekend meeting. I said I didn't need to talk on the phone first, as I actually find that more awkward than meeting someone in person for the first time. “Just promise me you're not a Republican, and I'll be fine.” How clever I was! I hadn't said “ax murderer” or “rapist”. Rather, Republican would be my worst fear. I went to sleep eagerly anticipating his reply, and our upcoming weekend meeting, which would soon be finalized with details.

The next morning, I opened his message: “I'm not going to reveal my political convictions here”, it read, “but I will tell you that I would never date anyone who can't listen to other viewpoints and is so intractable. That's a deal breaker for me. Good luck on Plenty of Fish. You'll need it.”

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

The Miracle of Light

I grew up in the Midwest, where being Jewish was a bit of a novelty. One year, a newspaper photographer came to our house—and a picture of our family lighting the Chanukkah candles was featured on the front page of the Lawrence, Kansas Daily Journal world.

In this grainy black and white photo, my father with his bald head and 1970's sideburns— solemnly lights the silver menorah—as he chants the ancient blessing. He is uncharacteristically wearing a dark suit and tie. My mother, sister, brother and I gaze earnestly into the flickering flames. Had the photographer caught us a few minutes later, we would have been acting silly or arguing, but in that moment we were the picture perfect Jewish family observing a ritual passed down from generation to generation for more than two thousand years. We always followed the candle lighting with two songs in Hebrew-- “Maoz Tsur” (or Rock of Ages) and “Mi Yimalel”--which we sang with great gusto. These songs tell of the heroic deeds of our ancestors, in days of old.

In 168 BC, Syrian-Greek soldiers took over the Jewish synagogue, and tried to force the Jewish people to give up their religion of one God, bow down to a statue of Zeus, and to participate in animal sacrifices. Some did it, simply because they were afraid of what would happen to them if they didn't. But a brave band of brothers, known as the Maccabees, led a rebellion against the powerful Greek army—hiding in the hills and using their knowledge of the terrain to attack by surprise, and defeat this much larger foe.

After their victory over the Greeks, when the Jews returned to their Temple, they needed to clean it, not just physically but spiritually—to purify it. They had to rekindle the Eternal Light, which is supposed to be burning always. However they found only a small amount of oil left—barely enough to last a day. According to the story, after lighting the lamp with this tiny bit of oil, an expedition went out to search for more-- travelling by row boat for 8 days and 8 nights. When they got back with more fuel, they were astounded to find that the Eternal light was still burning! Miraculously, that small amount of oil had lasted. This is why we light the menorah, and celebrate Chanukkah for eight nights.

In all my years of lighting the Menorah, first as a child and now as an adult--there is one Chanukkah that stands out in my mind. Some of you will remember the great ice storm of 2002. During this time, my then husband, son and I were without power or water for a week, due to downed tree limbs on power lines. We were fortunate to have a garage/shop adjacent to our house, which was heated with wood. We moved in, and this became our little “cabin in the woods”. We became a pioneer family, making lentil soup and hot chocolate on top of the wood stove, and melting ice to wash up. It was much darker than usual at night, deeply dark, with no street lights or house lights nearby. As we lit our Menorah , the eight small candles gave off a surprisingly significant stream of bright light, illuminating my family's faces, and filling the entire room. As we sang, and played our traditional game of dreydl, I felt connected to Chanukkah, in a way that I had never experienced before. It felt to me as if the flickering light had come alive. It dawned on me how precious light truly is, and how important it was to our ancestors. Before, the miracle of light had been just an old story—not my personal story. As the candles melted down one by one—our one-room-cabin grew gradually dimmer and dimmer, until the last flame extinguished, its tiny plume of smoke rising. All was sadly dark, save for the dim orange glow of the wood stove.

We lit our “hurricane lamp”, which had a wick floating in oil. This lamp, a gift from my ex-mother-in-law, had sat on the shelf for years and had never been used until this ice storm. We didn't even have fuel for it. Some neighbors, who were better prepared for emergencies, gave us a small amount of oil. Amazingly, that small quantity of fuel lasted for the entire week we were without power. It gave out only after the power came back on, when we brought the lamp into our “big house” to use as a centerpiece for our first “welcome back to civilization” dinner! The house, with all the electric lights back on, now seemed enormous and garish.

In the traditional Chanukah blessing, we thank God for performing miracles in this season, in days of old. May the miracle of Light, be truly yours in THIS season today and always...

Blind Date

“A fan from way back wants to meet you”, said the email from my friend Janet. She had copied Joe Accardo on the message. What? I have fans? I couldn't help but feel flattered. Joe used to listen to my radio show, back in the day. And Janet knows him, so he must be all right. “He thinks you're the 'bees knees'” she wrote. I clicked “reply all”. “Do bees have knees? Would hate to disappoint,” I entered.

I heard from Joe the next morning. His email described wonderful memories of hearing me on the radio. There was one day in particular: He was shaping a metal sculpture in his studio. It was early spring and the door was open to sunshine and breeze. He described “the music, the butterflies, the wrens, zipping in and out of my big doors” to the ethereal electronic music of Japanese composer Isao Tomita that I was spinning. He had called to thank me. He had called me a couple of other times at the radio station as well. It was certainly not unusual for us to get calls from listeners—but I thought I perhaps vaguely remembered our conversation about Tomita that day. Joe wrote that he had admired my voice on the radio, and my VOICE—my musical selections. He said that he had always wanted to meet me, and when he came across recent publicity about my playing folk music with Janet, he thought “this is my chance” and asked her to introduce us. He wanted to meet for lunch or coffee.

I felt excited. This was different from Match.com—where someone is looking for a date and checking out various women with certain criteria. No, he wanted to meet ME specifically. Joe sent me a friend request on Facebook. I saw that he was an old hippie, living in the country—a few years older than me. I perused pictures of his interesting metal art—fanciful garden gates and flower sculptures, practical wine racks and fire place tools. He wrote that in addition to being a metal artist, he was a bass player who was just getting back into playing music. I couldn't help myself. I was really looking forward to meeting him, and felt some butterflies myself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As I waited inside the door at Fiesta Grill, I kept glancing around to make sure I hadn't missed him. He burst through the door. I thought for a moment it must be St. Nick-- bushy white eyebrows, round belly, full beard and thick white hair. Although I had seen his photo on Facebook, he was much larger than I had expected. When he shook my hand it was rough and weathered from heat and metal. “I'm a little nervous,” he confessed, as the Latina server led us to a table and brought us fresh, warm tortilla chips and salsa.

He started talking right way. Joe told me he had just met this amazing blues singer-- oddly enough, at Lowe's-- buying lumber from his son. They had joked about the warp of the wood, then introduced themselves. He placed her CD on the table, across from me and told me the story of her life—how she had been almost aborted-- then adopted and abused; was recovering from cancer; and had just moved to Chatham County with her new husband—and how her whole life story could be heard in her soulful blues songs. Her music was so powerful, that this lady had inspired him to pick up his bass again, after it sat idle and untouched for a year. He described a previous blues band he'd been in and how he had organized and drawn people together to play—including the “Boss Brass”-- how he was going to do this again, because her talent was so amazing, even though he'd sworn off late night bars and band personality clashes forever.

Joe told me he was ethnic Italian, from New Jersey and had been destined to become a blue collar worker until acid opened his mind. In college he “cherry picked” the studio art classes he wanted, skipping all the boring hoop jumps that would have led to a degree. He tuned in, dropped out, hopped the bus to North Carolina, and wound up living in a commune and creating art. Said he was getting more of an education in farm fields than he had in the classroom. He told me about sitting on the front steps smoking, during a break at a local reggae concert by Rasta Fire. A woman walked up the stairs, casually placing her hand on his head. “I felt an electric shock run through my whole body” he said. He described their courtship, their marriage, their children. The difficult years—building their own home, their poverty, his late nights playing music, his alcoholism, their estrangement when he came to bed reeking of beer at 4AM. The metal work, the forging, the sweat, the summer heat, his wife's affair. How he engaged in a little investigative work to discover who exactly she was seeing—pretending he knew more than he did in conversation-- until the name of her illicit man was unwittingly revealed. Suddenly, he found himself on moral high ground—a place that was new to him. He became so angry that his Italian New Jersey upbringing took him over and he phoned his wife's lover and threatened first to burn down his house, then to sue him for all he was worth.

I munched my Mexican grilled chicken salad in its fluted shell, as I listened. Every once in awhile I smiled or nodded, or asked a question. The salads at Fiesta had certainly improved in the last few years. The lettuce was much fresher and crisper. “Well”, he said “Say something. Tell me a little about yourself”. I couldn't think of a thing to say.

I told him a little about my piano teaching. He spoke again of how he had admired me on the radio, about how my voice had “soul”. “I'm just a normal person”, I said. “Yeah, I get it, ” he answered—like he had finally figured out that I was just an ordinary middle aged piano teacher and church musician, not some exotic, glamorous music guru who would change his life. All I wanted to do was go home and walk my dog.

I felt like a prisoner, waiting for him to remember to put his debit card on the table, after I had given him cash for my share. Now, he was talking about his redemption through AA. Finally, I pointed out that there were people waiting for a table in this small, crowded, popular lunch spot. He finally got up to pay the bill, but then I had to follow him politely to a friend's table—a blues guitarist from Raleigh-- and hear Joe tell him about the awesome blues singer who had inspired him to pick up his bass again. Just when I thought I had made it to the freedom of the parking lot, he asked me if I'd like to sit with him in his car for a little and listen to his lady blues CD. “I really need to get going”, I said. “I'd like to walk my dog before my piano students come,” but perhaps he could email me the files. I climbed into the shelter of my car and slammed the door behind me. It was such a relief to be alone again.

I have never been happier to get home to my little house-- to safety, to stillness, to my wiggling Beagle and my cats. As soon as I set my purse down on the counter I deleted Joe from my phone and then just for good measure, deleted my last the last “lame duck” date. Then I went online and deleted my free trial account from e-harmony.

Out of Gas

I had just hooked up my new stereo and was listening to my first record album in about 15 years. Joni was singing “I am on a lonely road and I am traveling, traveling, traveling.” and I was singing along with her as I swept the floor. It was a warm, September Saturday. My front door was open to sunshine and breeze, when a knock came on the screen door. What's this? Nobody comes to my house spontaneously. And I hadn't heard a car in the driveway. Standing in the doorway was a shaggy middle-aged man in shabby shorts.

The scruffy stranger pointed to the old beat up blue pick up truck—parked illegally in the middle of the intersection. “Ma'am, we ran out of gas.” “Oh,” I thought, “the old 'I ran out of gas' trick.” A favorite of pan handlers. “Do you have some gas---like for a lawn mower that we could buy from you?” In his hand was a wad of cash and he was offering to pay for it. Well, maybe he really HAD run out of gas... “Sure”, I replied. It was a little weird, but all of those Sundays of listening to Mindy's sermon's about helping our neighbors, helping “the least of these” had influenced me. I wanted to be a Good Samaritan in my heart. Besides, he had offered to pay for the gas, so it must be all right.

“Do you want me to wait over here?” he asked politely, as I started to walk towards the shed, and he stood by the open door of my house—Joni still trilling through my splurgingly expensive new speakers. “You can come with me,” I told him, as I opened the door to the unlocked shed. I found myself apologetically explaining to him why I had three lawn mowers sitting in the dark, dusty shed. “That one doesn't work, and that one works but doesn't do too well when the grass is high. I really only use this one,” I gestured, as I picked up the red plastic gas can—filled with the most expensive gas I had ever purchased. I had bought it back in the day when gas was $4.99 a gallon. It had lasted for two years, and was still about 1/3 full. He took the gas can across the street to the old blue truck and dumped my precious hard-earned money into it. Well, never mind. I was helping a stranger.

His companion returned the empty gas can to me—an older black man with missing teeth and shoes with floppy soles. “Do you want anything for this?”, he asked. I shook my head. It was so obvious that they needed the money more than I did. He thanked me and left. I stashed the empty container back in the shed, closed the door, and went inside—feeling a little foolish, but virtuous at the same time. As Joni sings: “Some get the gravy. Some get the gristle. Some get the marrow bone. Some get nothing, though there's plenty to space.” I had helped a neighbor in need. I could pat myself on the back for that.

It was early one morning, about three weeks later—as I was standing over the kitchen sink, sleepily filling the coffee pot with water, that I glanced out the window and noticed that the shed door was open. “That's odd,” I thought to myself. I'm very careful about always closing that door because I have cats, and I don't want them getting into mischief in there. I walked outside to investigate, peered into the shed—and that's when I saw it—the shockingly empty space where my only working lawn mower had been. How could someone have just come into my yard and taken my lawn mower? Would the new stereo be next? I felt violated, upset and unsafe. I called the police. “My dog did bark last night,” I told them. “And I heard the sound of something being wheeled over gravel. I assumed it was my neighbor pushing his trash up to the street.” Never mind that it was midnight on a Saturday night. My half asleep brain hadn't thought of that. I felt really foolish.

“My lawn mower was stolen out of my shed last night *&^%$#@!” I posted on facebook. “Will your homeowner's insurance cover it?” asked one friend. I had assumed it would. But when I finally got in touch with an insurance agent I was told, “The value is not in excess of your deductible". $250 lawn mower and $1000 deductible do not compute. Right. Well, at least I could call Sears and get some credit by canceling my extended warranty.

“Do you keep some lights on outside at night?”, asked one of my facebook friends. “Thieves don't like the light.” “Was your shed locked?” was another helpful comment--and “Thank goodness they didn't break into your house!” Yes, my thoughts exactly. “Single women need to be smarter and more self protective than the rest of us, to survive well in this world,” advised another.

That night, I lay in bed—trying to sleep, with the porch light blazing outside my window, and a brand new lock on the door of the old shed. I must have just fallen asleep when I was awakened by the crunch of gravel and Bentley's wild barking. I peered out the window and saw car headlights in the driveway. Oh my God, the thieves had returned! Heart pounding, I picked up my phone and called 9-1-1. “Five oh one West King Street. I'm the one who called you this morning about a missing lawn mower.” I told the operator, my voice shaking, “A car just pulled into my driveway. I think people are getting out and walking around. You need to send someone out here right away-- PLEASE! ” I gave the operator my name and phone number—while anxiously peeking out from behind the blinds. There were flashlights in the yard, footsteps by the shed. A deep voice said “There's a lock on here.” Then, I heard the walkie talkies, and it dawned on me that they were not making any effort to be quiet. I suddenly understood what the operator meant when he told me “There should be someone there right now.”I opened the front door, and there, under the bright porch light was a uniformed officer. “Ma'am,” he said, “I think we may have found your lawn mower.”

They had returned to the scene of the crime to collect finger prints to take to their forensic expert. They were gathering evidence. Didn't I have the serial number? No, but I did finally manage to fish out my lawn mower manual from my bulging file marked “warranties and manuals” At least they had the model number and a picture of it now. They promised to return the next day.

The detective patted the handle of my red Sears lawnmower, which was looking none the worse for the wear. “Is this your lawn mower?” Why yes, it was! “It was an old beat up blue pick up truck”, explained the detective the next day, “that broke down last night.” Through what they called, “good police work”, they had brilliantly put two and two together. I had described the “out of gas” incident to the officers on the morning after the theft, just in case there was any connection. “These people have their scam down. They've done this many times”, he explained to me, They knock on doors and ask for gas, and they notice who has lawn mowers in unlocked sheds. “There were three lawn mowers in the back of the truck, and one of them was this one.” I was so surprised and delighted that it had come home to me. I had never expected this. “You are very lucky,” concurred the officer, as we both signed an official form, saying he had left the mower with its rightful owner. After fumbling a bit with the new lock, I wheeled it back to its rightful resting place, beside the now empty red plastic gas can.