It's Too Big

I agonized, thinking my new library card was too big for my wallet of important ID. It is not. 

It’s a two-piece card, perforated, providing a mini-ID for ‘whatever’.  That’s new.  But an old practice these days.  I won’t be sharing the extra gate-passer with anyone else.   The warning is clear in the fine print under my horrible looking signature (see previous blog post).  I am responsible for whatever is borrowed on the card.   I’m backing away from any more responsibility at this time in my life.  Both those cards are for me only!

The teeny one, hole punched, can be added to my car key assortment of possibly needed information. 

Now, I’m reminded of son Darin’s caution many years ago that it wasn’t good for the automobile’s ignition to have so much pulling on it or did he say ‘dragging’.  Oh well, surely one more little card won’t hurt.

                               

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P.S. I asked for it so my old library card was returned to me.   I’m thinking, Antiques Roadshow might bring their TV production to this area.  I’ll have something besides a lamp and a couple pieces of artwork for them to consider.

Rules and Regulations

Gatekeepers have their jobs to do in our communities. Written requirements, articulated roadblocks and local authorities ultimately control our lives. That's civilization.

Do you have a library card?

Yes I do.

Your name?

Your number?

Your password?

In my wallet of important ID, I have a hard-plastic well-used library card, name prominently typed.  Number written in black ink. No space for a password.

I’m in my home, on my laptop seeking to check the availability of a book. Data not accepted.  Can’t do anything until I overcome this library card roadblock.

Okay.  I’ve carried a card since 1975.  Things change.  I’ve got to update myself.  Off I go to get another one.

Huge parking lot in the municipal center has many empty spaces.  I pull into one of several available spots against the wall, three rows directly across from the library’s entrance.  Taking key from ignition I notice a restrictive sign in front and above me.   My mind chastises me.  That space is for those doing municipal business. 

Am I doing municipal business?  I don’t think so.  I’m there to see if I need a Library Card and if so, get one.  I’m doing personal business.

I don’t want a parking ticket.  I move my car to one of the center rows with no designation or restriction sign posted.

Inside the building, I go directly through the arbor-like secured aisle and make a short left turn to the desk assistant I remember handles inquiries.  A woman was at the counter spot closest to the doorway but she was gathering books putting them on a roll away cart.  No use stopping for her attention.  I was certain she would send me to the other gentleman visible just around the corner.  Why put myself in the position to be ordered where I was certain I should be? My assessment was correct.

The seated man finished helping two women checking out books and asked if he could help me.

Holding out my library card already in hand, I told him I wanted to do whatever was necessary to be able to use the library.  “I had tried to get online service and  could not.”

Taking the card, he asked did I live in town.  He asked for my driver’s license.  He said perhaps I had not used my card for a long time.  I said I wrote a book and was always online checking the library sharing system to see activity for my book.  Looking at the screen in front of him, he told me I needed a new card and proceeded to tap away on the keyboard.

Shortly I was given a longer white plastic card and a felt tip marking pen and told to sign the card on the line where he pointed.  The wide felt tip pen made a horrible signature.

Still keyboarding information he asked for my telephone number.  I gave it. He asked for my email address.  I told him I don’t give it to everyone.  He asked didn’t I want notified if a book is due to be returned.  My answer was that would never be necessary.  A few minutes passed and he produced a document, seemed to be half of an 8 ½” x 11” paper, put it in front of me. 

My quick eyes saw various boxes held my typed personal information.  He did not ask me to read it, just handed me a real ink pen and instructed me to put my signature “here”.   I asked what the paper was for.  He said it verified I was the person that applied for the library card.  I did my usual signature; pleased it looked 100% better than the one with the felt tip marker.  I hoped he had put in correct information, spelled correctly also.

He said the new library card would be mailed to me.   He could give me a library card number to use if I wanted to check out books or go online for library service.  I said okay.  He wrote a string of numbers and perhaps something else on a little scrap of paper and handed it to me.  I questioned whether I would use that until my card came.  He said,  “You want to use the library today don’t you, go online for something?”  “Not today” was my crisp answer.   Then he said, well that number will be good for today only.

He told me until the new library card came I would have to get a handwritten pass each day I wanted to use the library (like using a daily pass for a missing credit card while shopping???).  Feeling dissed as I heard the unbelievable roadblock to using the library, I gave his scribbled note back to him.   He repeated my card would come in the mail.

Then as he held the two signed documents, I asked if I wasn’t getting a copy of the signed proof that I had applied for the card.  He said, “You want a copy of this?  “Here,” and passed it toward me, motioning toward the reference room across the way where I knew the copy machine for the public is behind closed doors.  I said, “I’ll have to make the copy and pay 10c for it?”  He said, “Yes.“

“Amazing,” was all I could say, turning and walking away from him and his papers. 

Deeply disappointed with the services my tax dollars had given me those minuscule 30 minutes; I simply came here to the reference room to calmly sit and work on my laptop.  I would write about all that just happened.

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Gratefully, my son survived his youth.

That Wednesday I was feeling surly, emotionally charged about the killing of an unarmed black teenager by a uniformed policeman.  A mother’s son, Michael Brown, Jr. was shot dead last Saturday afternoon in Ferguson, Missouri.  

Leaving the house to update my library card was an effort to put distance between that horrible news and me.

Instead, I left the municipal complex more disgruntled because of the perfectly precise and  ‘un-user friendly’ process for replacing an old library card.

Today I am better.  On Friday, the mail carrier delivered my new library card.

Now if only law enforcement authorities would make it a precise matter of information for public record and to media that it is against policy for any officer to shoot to kill an unarmed person.  That officer will be held, subject to an immediate and thorough investigation.  I think it must be part of the rules and regulations from the lowest level of oversight up to the highest.

You People, Those People, We People

We are a nation of diverse people.  Too many times we react negatively to the differences between them and us, be it social, economic, or cultural differences.  To bad because we are one United States of America.  I find myself asking, “Are we the crazy ones, we capable, educated, caring folk?” 

Jai's Art Speaking To Me

Social media is filled with personal perspective about the recent killing of a young black man by the police. Unfortunately it’s old news as it keeps happening to black men.

Today there is blame, crying and verbal head shaking about the rioting and destruction going on in Ferguson, Missouri.  It’s the backfire from the shooting death of teenager Michael Brown by local police (no argument on that fact).  I’m inclined to feel compassion for the rioting as an expression of grief for the horrendous racial injustice that continues for black men in this nation. Think Trayvon Martin.

First news reports told me Michael, this latest victim, was 17 years old and unarmed.  Now I see in several sources, he was 18 years old.  Also I’ve read he was grabbing a policeman’s gun.  What really happened?  But did he have a birthday everyone forgot had happened?  Did he run toward a policeman, not down the street hoping to escape from folks who challenged how he was walking in the neighborhood?

First reports had the devastated mother sharing pride for his graduation from high school, adding her son was thinking about going to college.

This morning I hear he was starting college on Monday.    

No matter how the facts evolve and ferment, bottom line, once again, a police person shot a black kid dead.

No matter the seemingly self-serving details being generated, when are we the people going to put a stop to this continuing occurrence of murder with authority?

  

As usual (think Trayvon Martin), there’s no whole story – yet!  Get ready America. 

Whatever his life plan, Michael Brown’s murder that day was, at best – a mistake, and at worst – a crime that must be acknowledged by the local leadership, quickly!  

The shooting is the event we must systematically address (think strategy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.) to see that it never happens again.    

Are you up to it America?

I’m certain, here in 2014, more citizens have law degrees than they did 60 years ago.  Still, back then community leaders with or without credentials mobilized to plan and legislate change that provided equal rights to all.

In 2014 for sure there are more mega-churches with mega-dollars than there were 60 years ago when the churches assumed magnificent leadership roles in that civil rights movement for equality and justice.

Today our response finds us deeply sad and angry about the injustice.  We are disgusted with the riots.  Otherwise we sit and wait.  We haven’t accepted the truth that the task of implementing a solution to the problem belongs to all of us. 

Diverse America is in trouble and all we do is whine.

Have we become too affluent, or too politically savvy, even fearful for our own security to invest ourselves in putting a stop to this craziness?

What do you think?  Please let me know.

Did I Eat a Rotten Grape?

Feeling too poorly to go to church was what she told me.

Hmmm.  I saw her yesterday.  She looked good; she looked – well - actually beautiful.  Her conversation revealed some family/friend issues, painful to me as I listened.  But it was nothing her strong personality had not dealt with over the years.  The good woman lived a life ever faithful to holding high standards.   She seemed to encourage habits in others that would help them have happy, prosperous lives.  I’m thinking, though, life’s imperfections affect each of us in different ways.  The truth is if you don’t bend, you will break – sooner or later.

This morning she volunteered no other excuse; simply sounded depressed about not coming to church.   

“Are you going to be okay,” I asked?

Then the words spilled out, telling me how blessed it was she didn't oversleep.  The dogs barking had her awake after 7 am but well before 8.  Expecting one of the others in the house would respond and answer their pets, she snuggled in for a bit more sleep.  The incessant barking continued.  The dogs obviously needed something.  (Why? O why didn’t someone help them?) She loved those four-legged friends.  Up she got. Downstairs she went – let the dogs out – turned off the lights that had been on in every room throughout the night (why? O why, she wondered?) – put coffee on – let the dogs back in – fed them – let one out and in again.  Finally with chilled grapes and a mug of coffee returned upstairs, 8 am, to get ready for church.   She wouldn’t stop her punishing thoughts.  Everyone else peacefully slept.  Munching the grapes, sipping her coffee, she thanked God for getting her up to be on her way.  But, she was emotionally and physically exhausted.  Be good to you was the message no one uttered, but she heard.  She would relax for a while.  Not feeling better soon enough, feeling frail, no longer able, she had to miss the fellowship of church.

She wondered, she said, “Did I eat a rotten grape?”