Long, long, ago, in a galaxy of sippy cups far away, a youth group friend told me about Scary Mommy. (Oh yes, former youth group members like snark as much as anybody.). Perhaps I've found my sweet spot, because despite multiple rejections from Guideposts, I just published my first piece on Scary Mommy! It's about my experiences as a female Boy Scout volunteer. And yes, that's me in the header photo, holding a falcon. I mean, who wouldn't want to hang out with a falcon?!

Here's a link: Scary Mommy Scout piece

So, this quasi-quarantine summer is turning out to be a productive season. My YA historical is well under way. My kiddos still have a few activities to go to. I've read a few good books. And, my hair color is now RED...a better match for my firebrand personality.

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We are Aztecs. We have a society that’s advanced, admirable. We have systems to feed our people, engineering to build jaw-dropping structures, arts and culture--yet we’re clinging to human sacrifice. I can’t think of another metaphor for the mass shootings whose numbers of dead continue to escalate. The altar at which we spill the blood of our citizens is the “right to bear arms,” which currently supersedes the right to health care, an education, food, or life itself.

We are told it’s a sacrifice we have to make for that great American cause called freedom. We are told law-abiding citizens need guns to use on the criminals. Who’s next? It could be you. You, who felt like an action movie star upon purchasing that AK-47, could find your own firearm pointed at your head, with someone else’s hands on the trigger.

You can call me liberal, or a snowflake--but only if you enjoy saying what’s untrue. I am a Kentucky native raised in a gun culture. I learned to shoot clay pigeons at summer camp; my father taught me how to line up a pistol’s sights. Guns are of high interest to kids, including my own son, who owns a locked-up BB pistol. They appear in the novels I write. In my family, gun owners outnumber those without. But at least two family members I’ve spoken with refuse to join the NRA; they’re not buying into their agenda. Sadly, our lawmakers are. And in this case, it’s the Republicans who are complicit. They receive huge campaign donations from the NRA, so they have to appease. Dirty money. I’m a moderate who’s probably voted for more Republicans than Democrats—but the Republicans are directly responsible for this problem. Biased journalistic sources are also complicit. It’s the false belief, fueled by biased news outlets, that any candidate other than the furthest to the right will “take our guns.” Some even believe that the Las Vegas massacre was an inside job—perpetrated by the government for legislation they deem unnecessary.

Unnecessary.  When one person took out fifty-nine.

I know what the Second Amendment says. It promises the “right to bear arms.” It does not state that gun ownership cannot be regulated in any way. The drafters of said Amendment lived in a world where a smoothbore musket took thirty seconds to load—on a good day. If a madman ran out on a crowd with intent to kill, the number of lives taken would be limited by his ability to reload, and the ability of the crowd to bum rush him. The founding fathers could not have anticipated high rises, surveillance cameras, semiautomatics and bump stocks.

It seems to me that the character of violence has changed in this country. I watched the local and national news from a very young age, and I was aware of shootings, war, and terrorism. But in a piece I wrote a year ago, I noted that the Columbine massacre of 1999 had a greater effect on me, at age 22, than other national tragedies combined. And here is another area where the media is complicit--our fame-driven culture that spurs people to acts of violence for the notoriety. Our 24/7 news networks opine on why he did it, and the image of the perp lives on. The Las Vegas shooter (name intentionally omitted) does not fit the profile of someone “disadvantaged” enough to off dozens of complete strangers. For that reason, prevention in the mental health and criminal justice systems becomes an ever-more-distant proposition.

Violence has existed since the dawn of humankind, but some violences are more closely linked to personal grievances. Let’s unpack a meme posted by a Facebook friend:








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​I’m an urban educator, so of course I agree that smaller-scale gun violence is a big issue. But I don’t fully agree that the media doesn’t talk about it. I’ve certainly heard about it on my news outlets. True--criminals in Chicago don’t follow the gun laws. True--many of those killed in Chicago are black, and the media usually places a higher value on white deaths than minority ones--and that says a lot about this country. But most of the shootings in Chicago are drug-related. Sadly, many victims are innocent people caught in the crossfire. This is a tragedy on its own. However, there’s a trajectory of human conflict to which these shootings can be traced--narcotics networks, gang turf wars, domestic disputes, and the heightened sense of fight-or-flight experienced by many in a poverty culture. It does not justify death; it doesn’t soothe those left behind. But it’s at least in line with the fabric of human history, traceable to Cain killing Abel over jealousy.

What disturbs about our mass shootings is that there’s no trajectory of human conflict. They occur for reasons even more sinister: the thrill of shooting or the fame of being a murderer.

And herein lies gun control. If we instituted some common-sense restrictions on guns--like maintaining the silencer ban, improving weapons screening in public places, barring bump stocks, and running background checks--we wouldn’t circumvent every shooting. But we would make it more difficult to kill so many people at a time.

As of this writing, Australia’s had only one mass shooting in 21 years. After the last one, they banded together to create new gun laws and enforcement measures. They’ve reduced not only massacres, but also interpersonal-conflict shootings like the ones in Chicago, and suicides by gunshot. Guns are still owned and used--but mostly on hunting land and shooting ranges. They decided that keeping their citizens alive was more important than feeling like an action hero.

In my preteen years, a favorite pulpy tome was Aztec by the late Gary Jennings. He painted that culture as a twin of ancient Rome--full of lust and excess. Thirty years later, I remember the terror of a young Aztec girl being forced off a platform to her death. Her society tolerated a system that ripped the life from her hands. Only the temple guards had an active role in her death. But her neighbors looked the other way. No disrespect to the Aztecs, or the Romans, but their societies no longer exist. If we can do something about mass shootings--however imperfect the solution--then shouldn’t we?

I’m back at my writing desk after a week at the county fair--my youngest son’s first year as a 4H participant. After a beautiful time of celebrating youth achievement and animal husbandry, a jarring image brought me to tears last night: rabbit, grasped by the ears and thrown headlong into a truck.

Another 4H mom asked me if I’d seen “the truck,” and her tone told the whole story. She described how the truck came for market rabbits--the ones raised and sold for meat--and how disturbed her daughter was by the rough handling of them. “They even took a Mini Lop, a show rabbit, just ‘cause the owners didn’t want it anymore.”

I thanked her for warning me, grateful the truck was long gone and the boy had run ahead. You see, one of those “meat rabbits” had played an important role in his competition.

My son started rabbitry with one animal, an adorable black Netherland Dwarf. “Jason” is normally cooperative, but the heat and stress of the fair had gotten to him. He’d nipped at me on the first day, and when my youngest reached into the cage to remove him for the competition, Jason chomped on the cuff of his white Oxford shirt. He wailed. I pulled up his sleeve and hollered, “No blood! You’re OK!” But the boy was still hysterical.

Just before this happened, a tall teen from the Junior Fair Board had offered to help my son with showmanship, where 4Hers flip their rabbits over to exhibit their animal’s underside--a sort of vet exam from very young hands. Now, this same teen volunteered to help get Jason out of the cage, and showed my son, again, how to carry the wily beast tucked in, with the eyes hidden.

As they walked to the show table, my only hope was that my son would get through the competition. I stood behind the line, and a ball of black fluff bounded down the table’s green turf. Houdini had escaped.

The tall teen approached me. “I’m gonna let him use one of my rabbits.” I nodded. A meat rabbit--a completely different breed--but docile.

I sweated behind the red line, the line that forces 4H children to perform without parental help. My little boy, so serious, described his own rabbit and identified the breed of the loaner rabbit. I snapped pictures of him talking to the judge, and sitting on the bench after, his face etched with stress.

When awards were announced, I kept my phone out for pictures, hopes sub-basement low. Seventh place, sixth, fifth, fourth, third, and second--my son’s name.

Second? There has never been a parent so excited for second! And the flash started popping.

Later, the judge approached me. “He answered every question correctly.” Which he could not have done without the loaner rabbit. No one “shows” at the fair without a creature in his hands.

The next day, my son pushed his fingers through the unmarked cage of the meat rabbits. He wasn’t sure if the rabbit he was petting was the one he’d shown. “Do rabbits go to heaven, Mom? Will this rabbit go to heaven after it gets eaten?”

I nodded, touched by my little St. Francis’ heart for animals. The tall teen smiled, bemused.

Toward the end of the fair, my youngest briefly mentioned “rescuing” the rabbit he had shown. But he didn’t mention it a second time. Acquiring an animal shouldn’t be done on an impulse. He was sad that the rabbits were being raised for meat, but I explained--again--that the burgers and chicken nuggets that we eat were once creatures too. We respect vegetarians, but we’re not in that camp.

Yesterday, I phoned my grandmother, age eighty-eight. She shared her fond memories of eating rabbit-both in her home country of Germany, and after moving to Appalachia with my Pappy.
But she refrains from sharing these memories with my son.

In my writing, I explore undertold stories. Perhaps one of these undertold stories is that of rural kids and their unique relationship with animals. Creatures great and small play multiple roles in our lives. I explored this concept in my novel CIRCUS. Where is the line between use and misuse of an animal? How can we do it in a way that preserves dignity for all parties?

I once read that some Native American hunters thanked an animal before taking its life for materials and meat. I don’t think the rabbit truck crew went to that much trouble. But in my heart, I am thanking the rabbit whose last act was allowing a nervous nine-year-old to poke and prod him. We can’t always prevent the truck from doing what it’s paid to do. But we can celebrate the compassion that our children learn from working with creatures great and small.

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