A Tale of Two letters

    Ever since I first learned how to sound out letters, the power of the written word has impressed me. Reading became a passion and I found books could whisk me away into a different time and place, having the ability to both educate and entertain me for hours on end.

     Not everyone is hardwired to read books, but just about everyone reads. Our social media is filled with quips and tips. Even something as brief as a tweet can inspire. A text can reprimand or uplift. A post can generate conversation, debate, support, or hate. 

   As for myself, my love for reading evolved until I found myself writing. I have the power to make people think, laugh, get angry, and even cry. I've written (note, I didn't say published) many works that have done just that.

  Writing is hard work. Sometimes it keeps me up at night. Other times it wakes me up at ungodly hours in the morning and requires me to drink copious amounts of coffee. Yet I would never give it up. It stirs something in the very core of my being. Maybe it is joy, or maybe it is the manifestation of underlying control issues.

Your guess is as good as mine.

  Recently I was asked to write two letters. This is the tale of those two letters.

   The first I almost didn't write. It was a victim impact letter. If you have never written one, I pray you never will.

    The purpose of the letter is to somehow impress upon the reader the value of human life and tremendous impact poor choices and deliberately harmful behaviour has on the community. It is especially difficult to write when those poor choices have resulted in the death of someone you love. I have never written anything so difficult in my life. Nor did I expect it to have any real impact. After all, there are prescribed sentences for various offences, many of which are paltry when compared to the crime. Writing felt like a pointless activity. The case had already become a plea bargain and was not going to trial.Yet many of us did write those letters, working through anger and sorrow to make our voices and the voice of the one we loved heard. It wasn't cathartic. None of what we put down could change the past or make the present any easier.

   Despite my misgivings, it turned out the letters were not pointless. Those letters were read. Maybe not by the world at large, but both the attorneys and the judge presiding over the case read every single one of the eighteen missives produced by family and friends. Two of the letters were read aloud in court.

   The result... the judge pointed out something to the prosecutor and the plea bargain agreement was changed to increase time to be served. A year is not a huge victory, but in a legal structure littered with underwhelming sentences for serious offenses, it was a positive result in an otherwise flawed system.

The second letter was less painful, but still not easy. I had to get past my ego first.

   This time it was a request. Making a request that doesn't sound like a demand can be difficult, but making a request that is costly is even harder. Now add to the mix that the request will only benefit a small number of people and the rest who will be helping to foot the bill will not likely understand the need.

   I'm talking about updating a building entrance to make it accessible for those with disabilities. At least I wasn't asking for new doors or a ramp to accompany the automated door opener. Why was I asking for this?

  No, this is not my normal mode of transportation, but I have been forced to use it in the past. If you look at the photo more closely, you might see an odd device strapped to my leg. I like to tell people it's a court ordered monitoring device... but the truth is, it is a neurostimulator. A nifty gadget to help a person walk when the brain signals do not quite reach the intended limbs.

  Unfortunately, my abilities have not improved over time and I am currently using a semi-effective leg brace and my husband's right arm for support. If this continues much longer, he will need customized shirts or ones with longer sleeves so he can cuff the left side.

   My husband has suggested a cane or walker to help me remain independent, a proposal that I am not ready to embrace as of yet. Probably a good thing, since I would have been hard pressed to enter church a few weeks ago. Typically there is someone at the door to hold it open, but this was one of the rare occasions where there was no one available and I was walking alone. The doors can be a bit cumbersome and I'm not swift on two feet. Add an assistance device (cane, walker, wheelchair) and I am downright dangerous. If I had to manage the door with said device and the horrible balance issues I was experiencing that day, chances are I would still be outside of church, laying on the ground swearing, a cane sticking out of my eye.

Not a good image for a parishioner.

  So I wrote a letter. I explained my dilemma and my appreciation that there is usually someone manning the doors, but how this is not always a feasible option. To my surprise, the response was quick and affirmative. Sometime in the next three weeks a automatic door opener will be installed. Wow, talk about answer to a prayer!

   I'm a writer. I should know the power of the written word. I want you to believe it too. Still have doubts? Can you remember the last review you read before you purchased an item? Do you have a favorite line from a movie? A tweet that inspired you? A text that made you smile?

   Someone wrote these...

The letters made a difference.

Now it is time for me to do some more writing, lest I stop breathing.

By the way, if anyone is asking, I injured my leg wrestling alligators.

Live Entertainment is Back!

   I've never been a crowd person. Large, noisy gatherings tend to make me anxious and defensive. I don't know why. Maybe because when all you can see is the backsides of other people, most of whom are taller than you, the potential of being trampled to death seems somehow much more likely.

I know, what is the likely-hood of being trampled in a crowd of relatively peaceful people?

Well, actually, I have been knocked over when there were no real crowds. The resulting injury left me with no option but to keep walking hobbling for several miles until I could get someplace I could remove my boots and possibly seek first aid.

I've been told being knocked over was not a result of my stature, but the fact that I walk slowly and with an uneven gait.

Whatever.

The point is, the danger is real.

   So to venture out on the 4th of July to the park filled with crowds of hot, hungry people to see a 100 year anniversary firework show was quite a feat. One I achieved with lots of acetaminophen. I know what you're thinking... acetaminophen doesn't help with anxiety. No, it doesn't, but it does help on days when you wake up feeling like you got beat up with a Louisville Slugger and can barely walk. Thank you screwed up auto-immune system and the disease that made it that way. Nevertheless, I was determined not to miss spending the holiday with family and friends, especially after a year of pandemic confinement.

  Unsteady and crabby, I headed out, snapping and snarling the entire way. I apologized so much for my attitude I was mistaken for a Canadian, but for a change, I wasn't the entertainment. That role was handled by the teeming crowds around me.

People are funny.

   First of all, let me say schools have been somewhat successful in teaching people to stand in line. Well mostly. I mean, there was a general semblance of a line that cut through our picnic area and headed toward the multiple food trucks parked at the curb. But having taught the basics of forming lines, schools stopped, not wanting to overload their students with more than the basics. The lines were chaotic affairs resulting in confusion and trampling blankets. One of which I was laying on  as I contemplated more acetaminophen while recovering from a trip to the port-a-potty.

 

   After having food spilled on me, I opted to leave the blanket where I risked being stepped on to take refuge in a chair behind the coolers where I could view the entertainment in relative safety. Eventually my husband got tired of watching people trip over other folk's belongings only to discover they were in the wrong line for the food they wanted (or not in line at all, but standing behind a group of picnickers who had staked their spot out earlier and were trying to keep their children from being trampled), and using his "official" voice, separated the lines to angle off in different directions.

He has an amazing voice, one that bespeaks calm and authority.

At any rate, everyone listened and no one argued. It was pretty cool.

   Now ensconced in the relative safety of my chair I awaited sunset and the start of what promised to be a spectacular firework display. 

  

 No, not talking about the unsanctioned display.

Seriously, what kind of adult has his kids play with mini firework displays in a crowd?

Especially when the mini display is specifically banned?

   

I was waiting for the REAL display to take place far over our heads
with earth shaking booms and dazzling displays of pyrotechnics put on by the professionals. Unfortunately, as darkness began to descend, I began to detect what could be a potentially glaring problem.

   

Not all the food vendors stopped serving at the appointed time. It wasn't a surprise, wait time in the lines to obtain food was an hour long. I didn't begrudge anyone a late dinner or the vendors making an
extra buck after a lean year, but I wasn't the only one in the vicinity becoming concerned about display viewing. People all around us were beginning to grumble. So my husband did what any mature adult would do in such a situation, he spoke to the event staff.

 

As you may have guessed, they were as responsive to his request they speak with the food vendor as they were addressing the sparkler family.

The fireworks began.

   I had just enough. So had everyone else. I decided to address the matter myself. Thankfully, the acetaminophen kicked in, otherwise this might be a blog about my subsequent arrest. (Of course my faithful husband accompanied me, just in case my temper was stronger than the meds.)

   Putting on my good manners and using my polite voice (yes, I have one) I asked the owner of the truck if he could kindly turn off the outside lights on his truck. He was a bit irritated, so I followed this up by telling him we very much appreciated his consideration. As he grumbled his way into the truck, I called out a thank you and made my way back to my seat.

   The exterior light went off. The kids around us gave their thanks.

THEN THE TRUCK LIGHTS WENT BACK ON!

   Did I see duct tape in my loving spouse's hand when he told me to stay put? Not sure, I remained seated while my husband headed back toward the event staff before things could get out of hand. Unfortunately he was too late. Other, less medicated and less understanding individuals decided to address the matter themselves using less than civil tactics. The firework display was augmented with an increased police presence and muted flashing blue lights.

   Evidently someone pulled the plug on the truck, damaging it in the process. I felt bad for the business owner. I felt bad for the police trying to find the culprit in the masses. I felt bad for anyone who didn't get their dinner. Fortunately, no one was physically harmed in this totally avoidable circumstance.

   The fireworks were terrific, supplemental entertainment non-withstanding. I'm looking forward to the future live events.