What is your emergency

Flag on the play

What I'm about to tell you happened, I believe, in early December. It could have been late November.

It's all been a blur.

At any rate, one sunny and mild day in recent memory, I opened my front door and looked outside and then to my left, down the porch, as I do every day. 

You never know when a possum or a package may be on your doorstep, so it's my habit to check.

On this particular day, as I noticed more or less immediately, it was not so much about what may be on my porch, as it turned out to be about what wasn't on it.

As in, our large American flag that flies at the far end, was glaringly in absentia.

Just, gone. Flag pole and all.

The reason I noticed, and the reason I look out at it several times a day, is that since it's all about freedom, I like for our flag to fly free.

But the wind sometimes whips it all around, so when I take a gander outside, I glance at the flag and if it needs freeing, I walk the seventeen-or-so steps down there and take a moment to unwind it.

Sometimes (but rarely) a corner of the flag has caught on something above it, at the edge of the roof, and I have to go back inside and grab a grabber, with which to gently loose it.

But this time, the flag was neither wound up nor hung up. It wasn't up there at all.

Before panicking, I trotted down to the flag end of the porch and peered over the railing. Once, a year or so ago, there was a violent storm and the entire bracket holding the flag failed, sending everything crashing to the ground.

But we hadn't had a storm this time, and our star spangled banner had not been wrenched from its base by the fingers of Mother Nature and flung afield.

Call TG, then call the law

So I ventured back inside the house, traversed the foyer and hall, hooked a right, and walked the length of the kitchen so as to go out into the garage.

I hit the button to raise the garage door, to allow for strong clear light, and searched for the flag.

Maybe TG took it down and wrapped it up and laid it aside in here for some reason I don't know of, was my thinking.

(Although that was highly unlikely, I wanted to cover my bases.)

The flag was not in the garage. I walked around outside too, wanting to be sure the flag hadn't sprouted wings and flown a distance and taken its stand elsewhere.

Could you blame it? I'm sure sometimes these days, it wants to.

But it hadn't.

So I called TG.

Did you take the flag down from out front? I said.

It flies high and free today

No, he said.

Are you sure? I said.

Yes, he said.

OK well it's gone, I said.

Gone? he said.

Yes; gone. Completely one hundred percent G-O-N-E and no mistake. Someone came up onto our porch last night and took it, I said.

Silence. Then: Call 911.

I should pull over here and park for a mo.

Because you may be wondering how I knew what had happened to our flag, and when it had happened.

So I will tell you.

Because of the way our house is built, and the lot it was built upon, you have to climb fifteen steps to reach our front door. Then if you want to get to where that flag is, you have to walk at least seventeen normal adult-sized steps to the end of the porch.

In addition, the flag pole is fastened into a bracket that holds it securely.

The flag and pole were not cheap; when our former patriotic display was wrecked, TG took me to a home improvement store where he let me pick out what I wanted, and I got the best American flag setup available there.

The flag itself is five feet by three feet -- not huge, I realize, but still -- and it's a nice flag, and it's heavy. The pole to which it is affixed is also heavy. The bracket holding said pole is strong. To get the pole out of the bracket you have to be strong enough to loosen the screw that holds the pole in the bracket. You also have to be standing right beside it.

I don't suggest it's all that difficult an action to perform. Only that, it is a deliberate one.

Oh and that bracket? It's nine feet off the ground.

I measured.

So there's no getting to the flag from standing on the ground beneath it. Unless you're nine feet tall yourself or you brought a ladder or have the ability to scale brick, you're not going to loosen and remove that flag from a position down below the porch.

The domicile, back in 2017, with little Andrew. Click to embiggen.

Even so, when TG said to call 911, even the pirate thought that a trifle extreme.

Really? I said.

Yes, he said. When they answer, say immediately that it is not an emergency, but you'd like to know how to report a theft of property.

So I did that. 

Tell me about it

Nine One One what is your emergency? the male voice said, when I'd punched in the three digits and waited a beat. 

It's not an emergency, I said. But I need to know how to report a theft of property.

OK what happened? the voice said.

Long and strong may she wave

Someone came up onto our porch last night and stole our large American flag, I said. Flag pole and all. It was there yesterday and now it's not.

Silence (I assumed he was typing) and then: Is the suspect still in the area?

? ? ? ? ?

I will have to admit to sounding exasperated (because I was) when I said: Did you actually hear a single thing I just said?

The 911 operator responded quickly and with great force compared to my level of exasperation, which was semi-low (for me) thusly:

Jennifer. Jennifer. Jennifer!

? ? ? ? ?

I was like, whoa, dude. That's my name; don't wear it out.

But I said: I just got done telling you ten seconds ago that our flag was stolen last night, during the night. How in the name of all that makes any sense whatsoever could I possibly know the identity of the suspect, or his/her whereabouts at this moment? He/she could be standing in my kitchen sipping cider and I wouldn't know because I have no way of divining the identity of the individual who had the audacity to come up onto our porch last night and steal the flag while it was pitch black dark and we were most likely asleep. 

(This even though there are fairy lights all along the porch, both coming up the steps and extending the length of the railing. They are on all the time, but they are more for effect than for illumination.)

He said: I'm just asking because we have to ask.

Which in my opinion, being translated, means: I have a script and I am required to read it no matter what you say. It's easier than actually listening and phrasing my response accordingly.

(Bear in mind this is the first -- make that second -- time in my life that I have called 911. The first time was more than five years ago, when our security alarm sounded in the wee hours, during a violent storm.)

(Turned out it was a problem with a sensor on our front door. And when I called 911 that time (while TG went to investigate), and it was an actual (or at least potential actual) emergency, the person on the other end of the line may have asked whether the suspect was still in the area. I don't remember.)

(But if he did, it would have been a valid question, since in that case the suspect could have been in the next room, or raiding the refrigerator.)

Back to the present -- or at least the more recent past. The 911 operator decided that he would dispatch a patrol car to my house.

But first he asked whether I had a fever, or had tested positive for Covid, or had been exposed to Covid, even in my dreams -- either waking or sleeping -- or in my vivid imagination, or had ever been infected with Covid, even before I was born, or if I had ever heard of Covid, or could spell the word Covid, or pronounce it, or if I knew of anyone who had ever heard of Covid or ever, no matter how long ago or for any reason, had a temperature, or had a relative, regardless of how distant, or a friend, even one living in another city and another state or another country or in a galaxy far far away, who had any personal knowledge of Covid or had read about it or spoken the word Covid out loud or had a degree of fever or tested positive in either or both nostrils, or if I was thinking about getting Covid at some future time, depending upon the stock market.

No, I assured him. I may have said no three times in quick succession, getting louder and more italicized each time, just as he had uttered my name.

(Oh please do forgive my sarcasm; I do not excel at the whole 'rona routine. Nor do I aspire to.)

Signs of the times

So we rang off -- parting as neither friends nor enemies -- and I waited maybe five minutes, and the po po (I mean no disrespect; just chuckle already) arrived.

The law came in the form of an amiable young female officer, who parked on the street and walked up the driveway.

I stood on the porch beside my empty flag pole bracket and greeted her.

We talked over what had happened. She wasted no time in pointing out that, well, we did still have certain signs in our yard relative to the recent presidential election.

She's a grand old flag

Clue to you: We are conservatives. Not a fiber of our beings -- either TG's or mine -- is liberal. In fact, speaking only for myself, I'd rather be dead than a liberal.

Yes! You read that correctly.

Liberal ideology causes human misery and suffering on a scale known only to God, to Whom we will all someday answer, and Who will deal with each and every one of the human beings He created, in His own time and in His own way. Conservatives, while far from perfect and not averse to oft-egregious transgression against the Almighty -- more's the pity -- do not cotton to tyranny.)

If any or all of the above vexes you, it's probably high time you walked the plank clicked out.

But before you do, please know that I have black neighbors and I have white neighbors. My black neighbor happens to be a dear and cherished friend, for whom I pray and who assures me that he prays for me and my family. Neighbor folk in the immediate vicinity to my home -- regardless of their skin color -- get a full-sized loaf of fresh-baked banana nut bread and a card on Christmas Eve. I'm just festive that way.

They bring or send treats and cards to us, as well. We have no quarrel whatsoever with any neighbor. Everyone on our street is friendly and courteous and looking out for everyone else, ready to help if the need should arise.

(Well, there was that thing with the Bothertons next door in the summer of 2013, which I told you about in 2014, after introducing them to you in 2012. But we're friends now. Bygones.)

(And there is William across the way cater-cornered from us, who revvs his Harley Davidson in the garage a little too often and a lot too loudly for my taste. But then I'm a card-carrying curmudgeon who suffers from misophonia, or aversion to sound.)

(But William is a conservative son of the South, and he is my new neighbor, and I am assured by a relative of his who has long been a friend of our family, that he is good people, as was his widowed grandmother who lived in that house before him and was our neighbor for many years, but passed on last year, resulting in William inheriting the place and prompting he and Angela to move in. So they got banana nut bread on Christmas Eve too.)

Speaking of moving, let's move on.

With typical pirate heat, I said to the police officer standing in my driveway, in response to her political sign observation: So? It's still a free country for about fifteen more minutes.

I felt like the girl who's accused of having asked for it because she wore her skirt too short.

Because the last time I checked, ours is a two-party system and there were two viable (well; depending upon whom you ask) candidates running for President of the United States, and you got to go to the polls and vote for whichever one you pleased. Am I wrong?

The officer laughed loudly enough for the aforementioned neighbors (who were already peering through their curtains) to hear, throwing her head back the way people do when they are sincerely amused and not just being polite. I think she really did find my rejoinder refreshing.

But I meant it.

On top of things

We chatted a little more about this and that. I asked the officer how she has fared throughout the furor of recent months, given her difficult job.

She said she's done remarkably well, and has been treated with both respect and concern, probably even more so because she is a woman.

I was glad to hear it. I thanked her for all that she and her fellow officers do to protect and serve us.

(I guess we're not all racist sexist ignorant boors down here in Dixie after all.)

Finally she wondered if I wanted a report written up and we decided against that, but she had some advice for us:

It's time to get a camera at your front door, she said. One with a motion-sensor light attached.

I agreed and we talked that over for a moment.

And she took her leave.

Later that day, TG arrived back home. He came to find me, to give me both my kiss and some information.

The flag is on the roof, he said.

? ? ? ? ? 

OK maybe I should tell you at this point that I have checked and, if something is on our roof -- especially far from the edge of it, as the flag was -- it's almost impossible to see it, even from the curb, due to the house being set higher than the street and ours being a relatively low-pitched roof.

Safe skies and blue skies always

You can't see anything on the roof at all, if you're not on the street. And I hadn't gone to the street to look on the roof because I would have expected Johnny Depp to appear on my doorstep, proffering a pink polka-dot possum, before it would have occurred to me that my flag -- still on its pole -- was lying on my roof.

Looking at the picture of my house, try to imagine how a person would throw a flag, on its pole, up onto the roof of said house, from the ground. Or even from the porch. I'll wait.

And yes; I realize it was probably a juvenile prank and as such, not likely to have been a much-premeditated act of suburban vandalism.

As I've explained, we have no fight with any neighbor, of any color, not even the Harley owners, and not even the Bothertons.

But disrespect of the flag bothers me. It bothers me a great deal. And it should bother everyone.

I have a dream

In recent days there has been a billboard in our area featuring a picture of the late Martin Luther King, Jr.

The dream is alive, the sign assures passers-by.

I read it aloud as we were driving past, and TG said words to this effect: Wouldn't it be nice if it really were alive? I'd go along with that. 

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

Dr. King would not recognize what is being done today, much of it in his name.

I have that same dream for my four children who are no longer little, as well as for my six grandchildren, who are.

(One is not even born yet, and you know how perilous a state that can be for some children, born (or unborn) in the USA, land of the once-free and home of the bravely watching but shockingly bereft of a moral compass.)

But I see that they will now be routinely vilified because they are white -- a condition beyond their control -- and that assumptions about their character will forever more be made, and accusations leveled, and rights removed, based solely upon the color of their skin along with -- gasp! -- adherence to traditional values.

And the same must from henceforth and forever be true of us as well, no matter what we do or say to illustrate the falsity of that wicked all-consuming narrative.

That's because love of -- and loyalty to -- one's country equals racism in the lie-loving loony-lib-lobotomized frontal lobe of the leftist, whose hatred of their country flies in the face of all decency.

Especially the elite, champagne-socialist limousine leftists like Congressindividual Alexandria Occasional-Cortex, who whined to Rachel Madcow that on January sixth she did not even want to be in a safe room with white Republicans, because she feared that, in a frenzy of white supremacist bloodlust, they would kill her.

Search her office and find out what she's smoking, please. That kook is more a danger to herself and others than all white Republicans put together, even if they were to be found dancing gangnam-style in the Capitol rotunda, inebriated and wearing cossack outfits, brandishing the firearms normally reserved and approved only for the protection of politicians.

Sixty feet of social distancing wouldn't be enough for me when it comes to that crazy chick.

If America is so awfully racist towards non whites, why do tens of millions of them flock to her borders (and will soon be welcomed in, carte blanche -- or should I say carte noir), while countless others live comfortably off of her, even while hating her guts and seeking to destroy her?

That makes no sense at all, mate.

Old Glory needs freeing. All that she represents has been hijacked and is being held hostage by those whose lost souls seethe with loathing for America.

They've thrown her out of sight and if they have their way, she -- as we have had the privilege to know her -- will soon be gone forever.

Forever in peace may she wave

So yes; the suspect is still in the area. And yes; it turns out that we do have, in fact, a legitimate emergency.

God bless the United States of America and confound her enemies, both foreign and domestic.

Especially domestic.

May the sweet fire of true fervent patriotism and deep love of country -- and of one's neighbor, no matter his skin color -- never be extinguished. Regardless of the cost.

And that is all for now.

Except to say: Let not your heart be troubled ... and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen. 

Not awoman, à la the Left Reverend Ewomanuel Cleaver, upon the vast limitless subject of whose prodigious and problematic ignorance I shall not expound because it would be an insult less to his intelligence, than to my own.

Ain't nobody got time for dat.

Although I will point out that he's got more melanin than mental capacity.

I guess I really should be going now.

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Happy Tuesday

The pirate and the pepper mill and a certain leather treasure

As a reference point, the pirate carving stands at ten inches

You know how Christmas is ... lots of warm fuzzies floating all around, permeating the very air you breathe.

It can make you sneeze. A lot like pepper.

Even I don't know what I'm on about this time so grant me a moment to explain. If I can.

We were opening presents on Christmas evening after dinner. Present for the presents were TG and me, Audrey and Dagny, Chad and Erica, and Baby Porter, a/k/a the player to be named later.

Without divulging an undue number of closely guarded family trade secrets, I can reveal that, year round, we lot make prodigious use of Amazon lists.

As in, we refer to the lists for gift-giving not only on Christmas, but for birthdays and other occasions as well.

At Christmas though, those lists really get a workout. They become so crucial, in fact, that if I start checking the lists in, say, late October, with an eye to getting out in front of my shopping, and those puppies are not fully fleshed? I will issue a global email to this effect:

TIME TO GET YOUR LISTS UPDATED

And most of the time, everyone complies.

Mine stays updated. Just so you know. No grass grows under my feet on this score.

And on said list o' mine, this year, was a Peugeot pepper mill.

It is pictured above, standing beside the custom-made carving of Jenny the Pirate herself, made for me in 2014 by Bob (of late I refer to him as Bon but that's an inside joke between him, Mari, and me, so never you mind), husband of Mari, beloved blogger known to most, if not all, of those who may be reading.

If you care to know the details about when Bob made the pirate carving for me, just click on the picture of said scallywag sculpture, at the top of my sidebar. Savvy?

At any rate, there is a story behind the landing of the pepper mill onto my list. And I think you should be brought up to speed on that, at least.

So let's get started.

I've long been enamored of the concept of what I refer to as instant heirlooms. Second- or third-hand swag.

God is in the details

Those things being items owned by a particular individual that, by nature of their timelessness and continual long-term use by the owner, or by who made them (if it is a handmade item), become something that will be passed down to (probably) said individual's children or grandchildren.

I'm not talking about things that are, necessarily, of any great monetary value. Although, they certainly can be.

(For example, my custom-made Jenny the Pirate carving qualifies as an instant heirloom. This is true although I have no idea how much it is worth in dollars. To me, it is priceless. As such it will be handed down to one of my children or grandchildren. I haven't yet decided who the lucky recipient will be so they'd all best mind their p's and q's.)

Late last summer, when my mother was dying, Henry, my sister Kay, and I took a day to go through her jewelry box, and made some decisions about who should get what. Mom was past the time when she would ever wear jewelry again, except for her wedding rings, which she wore until a few days before the end.

We were prompted to begin earmarking the pieces by a multi-page document that Mom had completed several years ago, in which she identified a number of her more important possessions -- both personal and household items -- and spelled out her wishes as to who would get them when she was gone.

Certain furniture items will go to my sister and others to me, when Henry has made his exit and no longer needs them. 

Granddaughters and grandsons will receive various things too, everything from Mom's red transferware to Henry's antique rolltop desk, and many things in between.

This list and the dispensing of said items was separate from both her will and from what had long been a cardinal rule established by Mom: Whatever you gave to her as a gift, you would get back.

So, the black birdcage you can just glimpse behind the pirate and the pepper mill in the picture at the top of this post, is mine now because years ago, I gave it to Mom.

She loved birds and I bought her several bird-themed gifts over the years. I've got them now too.

But among the items earmarked for sundry loved ones on the pages she had completed, written in her own handwriting were the words: Diamond earrings to go to Jenny.

I admit to gasping with joy when Henry read this to me. She wanted me to have her earrings.

I don't remember when she got them but it seems as though Mom had the earrings for twenty-five years or more. All I know is that for at least the last ten or fifteen years, they were the only earrings she ever wore. And I know that when she acquired them, they became an instant heirloom.

They are smallish, which is not often my style. But what they lack in size, they more than make up for in dazzle. They are made up of baguettes that encircle three round stones. And whenever I saw my mother, for all those years, the earrings glittered on her ears and I could hardly take my eyes off them.

Although we never discussed it, I imagine she noticed me gazing at the earrings and, knowing my preexisting penchant for diamonds, decided years ago that when she no longer needed them, her earrings would be mine.

In my defense, the earrings are completely riveting, due to their cut and sparkle. You should see them in the sunshine, or in bright direct light! I am wearing them in this picture:

I admired the earrings for longer than I can remember

See? They're not big size-wise but trust me: they're extra long on elegance. 

And they are so strongly associated with my mother that, when I wore them to her funeral, folks commented on how much I looked like her and, further, the extent to which her earrings on my ears contributed to the illusion.

What does all of this have to do with a Peugeot pepper mill?

Well, my mother had one. A Peugeot pepper mill, that is. Like her earrings, I imagine that she'd owned it for many years. But it wasn't until I was practically living at her house, helping to take care of her, that I really noticed the pepper mill and realized how great it was.

It was the Paris model, made by Peugeot -- yes, the car maker. One and the same! Why a car maker would make a pepper mill, I have no idea, but you know how the French can be. C'est si bon! It's all good.

Why didn't I just wait and claim it someday when Henry is done with it, you may be wondering.

For one thing, I didn't want to wait; Henry is only eighty-eight and is more active than most people half his age. 

For two thing, Mom's pepper mill is a brown color and I wanted black.

So I located it on Amazon and added it to my list.

And Erica and Chad bought it for me, for Christmas.

After I'd opened the gift and spent a considerable amount of time examining its shiny black proportions and squealing with delight, I said to Erica: Someday this will be yours.

(Adhering both to Mom's rule of what you give me you someday get back, and to my cherished concept of instant heirlooms.)

It weighs three ounces

What if it breaks, you may be asking. What if YOU break it?

It won't. It's solid. It's made to last. It's made to just grind and grind and grind the peppercorns as much as you need and as often as you need, for as long as you need. And beyond. 

It is a treasure and I love it. I am so proud of it that it sits out, on the counter, near me pirate cooktop.

The perfectly proportioned and pulchritudinous Pirate Peugeot Paris Peppercorn Pulverizer won't be hidden in a cabinet on my watch.

But wait! There's more.

I also was given, by another of my daughters, an object from my list which I consider to be an instant heirloom.

In fact, so heirloomish is it that it came with a one-hundred-and-one-year warranty which does not expire until September of 2121. 

I'm pretty sure we'll all be well out of the picture by then.

Technically this item is a paperweight, but as it weighs scarcely three ounces, I'm not sure how much good it would actually do in that capacity.

(Some reviewers of the paperweight on Amazon commented that the makers should have loaded some buckshot inside it, to make it heavier.)

But I don't care because i don't have a whole lot of need for a paperweight in the classical sense. Will it hold a recipe down? I think so. Which frees up the Peugeot Paris for doing what it does best.

The reason I wanted the lightweight leather paperweight is because it looks like something a pirate would own and consider to be among his cherished effects.

It's a four-inch disk of full grain leather, slightly puffed up (something is inside there), hand-sewn around the edges and branded on top with the distinctive Hide and Drink owl logo.

Not without my effects

(Hide & Drink; I know. Sounds funny. Kind of mysterious, like Pass & Stow. Just go with it.)

I love it so much. Not only is it adorable and different and useful and durable and heirloomish, but it came in a burlap bag with leather accents and also a leather square dangling from a ball chain and featuring, again, the H&D owl logo.

I'm wild about it. When I touch it or hold it (I haven't actually used it to weigh anything down yet), I feel all piratey.

There is no downside. The kids will be fighting over it when I'm gone.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday