It was a day that seemed sort of upside down. The skies were
clear after weeks of rain, despite a weather forecast calling for a 90 percent
of rain. I was optimistic, something a little different for me lately as I
spend my nights in isolation. I was missing the New York City sports scene and
my favorite sports radio broadcaster was on the air. Suddenly he stopped
talking about the Knicks and the Jets and told us there was something awful
going on in Connecticut.
It was the shooting at a school where some disturbed person
first killed his mother at home and then went to her school to massacre her
students.
And so, instead of taking advantage of the sunshine, I spent
the morning listening to the events as they unfolded. I finally shut off the
newscast and decided I needed to clear my head. I went across the street to the
state park and visited Shipwreck Beach, one of the best-known Oregon state
landmarks where there is a wreck of a 1900s-era steamship on the beach. Yet the
beach was very different from the summertime.
I knew there would not be many people, and there weren’t. But
this wasn’t the beach I had enjoyed either. The month of nearly nonstop rains
had turned the sand into a tough grey clay-like dune and footing was quite
easy.
The tide was going out and the beach was filled with the remains of huge
ocean vegetation, some as long as 50 feet. There were tube-like roots at the
bottom and eventually leaves at the top. It was all over the place.
As usual, there was a lot of driftwood, some of it clearly
originating from some sort of man-made function. I found it very appealing and
took many photos. Yet no matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to get my mind off
the deaths of so many innocents.
I remember teaching in the South Bronx where I had to deal with
some insane parents more than once. One time, a man came in and began yelling
and threatening his nephew. I got the principal and it turned out he was
carrying a gun and he was arrested. I thought about my granddaughter who is in
a day care center, and about my friend’s granddaughter, who is in kindergarten.
I went to the park’s lake. There was little breeze and the
reflections in the water of the trees gave me a measure of peace. I took a few
photos and one of them was incredible in terms of composition and color. But it
included a dead and broken tree and my thoughts again turned to Newtown.
I was
near the museum area where I volunteered last August. I thought I would visit
the rose garden. But it is December and there were no roses in bloom and the
branches were neatly trimmed. On the way out, I stopped at a small store I went
to last July. They had wonderful servings of Tillamook ice cream. The freezer
was covered and no one was in the store. I saw a man in the garage next to the
building and I asked him if he worked there. He didn’t, but his daughter owned
the store. She was back in the area when I re-entered and she served me a dish
of cherry vanilla. It is nearly as good as the cherry vanilla the east coast
Caravel stores served. It is the favorite of both the ex and myself. And it
again brought up the murders.
I took my ice and went a few blocks to Warrenton Harbor
where I had a nice view of the Columbia River. To my right was the town of
Astoria and its bridge-linking Oregon to Washington’s Pacific beaches. On the
right were the remains of a dock where sea mines were loaded and dragged across
the mouth of the river during both the first and second world wars.
I listened to Francesca’s former radio partner, Christopher
Russo. He also did not want to discuss sports. Russo, whose nickname is “Mad
Dog” based on his attacks on various sports figures since the 1980, was in
attack mode on the gun lobby. Later, I learned that the weapons and ammo used
in the attack were stolen from the killer’s murdered mother. What the hell a
kindergarten teacher in a bucolic New England village needed with them anyhow?
This is the second time this week that stolen weapons were
used to kill innocent people. Here in Oregon, another young man went on a
rampage killing holiday shoppers. It was fortunate that the weapon jammed and
people were able to escape. The fact is, I’ve been in that mall a couple of
times. And I have not doubt my son and his family, and even the ex, has been
there. But it could have been just about any mall, anywhere.
I got back to the trailer in time to hear the president. He
was fighting back the tears. This was clearly not “presidential.” It was about
a man who had kids who could have been the victims. I don’t care what your
fuckin’ politics are. The man gets it. And we should be grateful he occupies
the White House. He spoke – with eloquence – the words our nation needed to hear
expressed.
Not that it means a damn thing to anyone, but I had to write
about it and post it on my blog. It won’t comfort anyone, and certainly won’t
stop the insanity, as troubled minds need to continue the Columbine syndrome. But
felt I needed to write about it or I would be unable to personally let go of
it. And the slaughter of the innocents continues. When will we ever learn?
