Rosemont Mine/Copper World: Let Them Drink Copper

On a warm morning in late April 2023, a group of restless discontents, few under 40, meet at Florida Station, a small University of Arizona experimental ranch tucked into the lush foothills of the Santa Rita Mountains. Some wear dusty cowboy hats. Turquoise shines against wizened, tanned arms. A few have brought their dogs. All of us are united against Hudbay, a Canadian mining company with a dismal track record of environmental degradation and cultural abuse. Save The Scenic Santa Ritas has become a powerful coalition over the past several years. Momentum has gathered, and we are heartened that Hudbay’s Rosemont Mine/ Copper World has now accumulated several losses in court, but Hudbay’s deep pockets and machiavellian political tactics are never ending. They pivot around legal obstacles as handily as Messi driving towards the goal.

An elderly woman next to me is happy to be here, although she and her husband are returning to Wisconsin soon. They have finally had enough of the dust and noise from the mining trucks and heavy equipment. They held out for years, she says, but gave up in the end. She seems embarrassed as she confides that they recently sold their 10-acre property to Hudbay and Rosemont. “Kathy is still holding out up there in her house,” she says. “She’s the last one, God bless her.” I imagine Kathy as a stubborn, steely-eyed woman with long silver hair, a champion for the cause, doomed in her little ranch house as the tailings piles threaten to swallow her whole. She will not sell out.

A couple behind me, the picture of healthy retirement living in crisp white linen with hair to match, express anger and frustration at each pause between speakers. They staked their claim in a new housing development on Santa Rita Road – a development which will be sucked dry if Rosemont’s deep straw is allowed to drill the deepest well in the State of Arizona to support the third biggest open pit mine in the U.S. All surrounding wells will rapidly run dry as a result of Hudbay’s deeper wells. Longtime residents will be forced out. After all, you can have copper or you can have water. In Arizona at least, you can’t have both. The man who has made what he now sees as a poor decision to purchase a home here seems incredulous that the state, represented by Arizona Senators Mark Kelly (who refuses to take a stance on the issue) and Kirsten Sinema (who supports Hudbay), would choose copper over water when the Colorado River is running dry and water cuts are being implemented in Tucson. Yet this couple cannot interest other homeowners in the same doomed development to even explore the issue of protesting Hudbay and safeguarding their water supply. No one wants to hear about it.

A professor of Geology at the University of Arizona, Dr. Stanley Evans, takes the podium next in his dapper bola tie to discuss the toxic process of milling and the release of lead sulfide and other harmful pollutants as a result. He speaks knowledgeably about how tailings come to be stacked as gigantic mountains of dead toxins. I am briefly heartened to know that Rosemont has been denied a permit to dump toxic tailings onto state lands. When locked into bedrock, Evans explains, lead and other harmful substances cause no problems. It is not until millions of tons of rock are pulverized by steel balls that the toxins are released into the groundwater and the air. I remembered driving past the towering tailings mountains outside of Green Valley on a windy day and noticing what looked like smoke rising lazily into the air, soon to settle to earth as dust on retiree coffee tables everywhere. The dust grimes the towns of Green Valley and Sahuarita as a ghostly pall, coating cars and roofs like a mild Michigan snow flurry. Many suspect that Hudbay and other mining companies intentionally encourage retirement communities to spring up near the toxic tailings – those folks will probably die off anyway before lead poisoning cripples their bones and stunts their children. Hudbay will face fewer lawsuits to pay for damage: retarded children, plummeting property values, infertility.

A young couple speaks about their homestead next. You can picture them 150 years ago – the blonde wife in her sun bonnet and the rugged husband in chaps as he rides the property mending fences. “The trucks never stop,” he decries, offense visible in ever fiber of his being. Even with a cease and desist order from the Army Corps of Engineers, their homestead has become a thoroughfare for heavy equipment, klieg lights, and endless industrial noise. The rural life they carved out for themselves has become a nightmare. “Who can we contact?” he asks. “They all drive white trucks with no identifying marks. Short of taking license plate numbers, what can we do?” No one answers.

A young indigenous woman with her son can contain herself no longer and yells in broken English. “Who wants this? No one wants this! In Alaska we come together and we stop this! Why not here? Who can stop this??” she shouts as young son looks on sheepishly, quietly ashamed of her passion. A few dogs growl in consternation. Her words might’ve been voiced 200 years ago. Her outrage quietly shames all of us.

Save the Scenic Santa Ritas Director Tom Purdon informs us that embattled Arizona Senator Kirsten Sinema recently co-authored a cleverly-disguised bill which she aims to push through as a “Green Energy” measure. This ominous bill will allow mining companies to dump an unlimited amount of toxic mine tailings onto federal and state lands, effectively negating the recent ruling against Hudbay. We all know who her handlers are, and the gall and scope of the giveaway to mining companies at the expense Arizona’s most fragile resource, water, is stupefying. “We need that copper for electric vehicle batteries” she claims. Never mind that only 7% of cars sold in the U.S. were electric last year. Never mind that most of the copper from Rosemont would be shipped to China if this bill is passed. Mining company profits aren’t a consideration for Sinema of course, regardless of their contributions to her campaign.

Rosemont/Copper World will consume the same amount of water that 41,000 new homes would use annually. The water will not be replenished due to climate change, and the national forest will dry and deaden. Not even the worst developers would target the area for residential zoning with such a precarious water supply. Showing the effects of long term drought, the area is environmentally as fragile as they come. If Hudbay is approved, the aquifer will be contaminated during the milling process as toxic chemicals leech into the Santa Cruz River, eventually flowing north into Tucson. No amount of cleanup or tradeoff can rectify poisoning the already-fragile water supply relied upon by more than a million Tucsonans.

Filmmaker John Dougherty’s 2017 documentary film “Flin Flon Flim Flam” details Hudbay’s dismal environmental record. I saw this film at the Loft in Tucson and the audience was inflamed with anger at Hudbay’s reckless destruction in Manitoba, Canada. Hopefully the link below works and you can view the 51-minute film yourself. The excerpt below is from an Investigative Media reports story about the arrest of the filmmaker after a screening of the film in Peru:

“Hudbay is seeking permits to construct the third largest open-pit copper mine in the United States in the Santa Rita Mountains on the Coronado National Forest southeast of Tucson. The project has been stopped pending the outcome litigation in U.S. District Court.

Dougherty and Moore were surrounded by police  and ordered into a vehicle after screening Dougherty’s documentary film “Flin Flon Flim Flam” at a downtown Cusco cultural center on April 17, 2017. The film detailed Hudbay’s history of environmental degradation and human rights abuses in Arizona, Canada, Guatemala and Peru.”

Hudbay has no obligation to Tucson, Arizona, or even the United States. Not one cent of profit would be returned to taxpayers for their loss as Hudbay is a Canadian company. The CEOs and engineers are Canadian, and while the company may provide a few unskilled trucking jobs, its long-term impact on the Arizona economy is overwhelmingly negative. While mining might be embedded in Arizona’s DNA, its tragic aftermath is visible in the forbidding, ramshackle mining towns such as Kearney, Hayden, Winkleman, and Globe, their once-vibrant main streets now dilapidated and crumbling. Ghost towns may be scenic, but I wouldn’t want to live in one after the mine pulls out. Under the draconian 1872 mining law which rules mining practices in Arizona, Hudbay has no incentive to even begin to clean up their environmental mess. The company already face dozens of environmental lawsuits in Canada, Peru and Guatemala as residents were left with contaminated water and air. Families in these places now pick their way around apocalyptic open pits and sludge ponds as the mines have played out but the environmental disaster remains. Do we really want this for the next 44 years in one of the most beautiful mountain ranges in Arizona? Are we really willing to sacrifice the fragile ecosystem that supports rare birds and even jaguars to appease the greed of foreign billionaires? I feel dumb even asking such questions when I already know the answer.

We wrote letters by hand in the still heat of the meeting room at Florida Station. The new director for Save the Scenic Santa Ritas even brought stamps as his own expense. It seems futile, but giving up isn’t an option. We can’t drink copper.

Contact http://www.scenicsantaritas.org for more information

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Garbage In, Garbage Out: Stop Rosemont Mine, Save Tucson

The most disheartening Earth Day in memory came and went, leaving a trail of garbage and broken dreams in its wake this year. Tucsonans in particular have reason to send out desperate smoke signals as Rosemont Mine gets the green light from the new environmentally backward regime. To see a video about Hudbay,  and the Canadian mining group’s shameful history of destruction of  the very natural resources they had been charged with preserving, click here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7aacPtEI8s&feature=youtu.be . John Dougherty, Kieran Suckling of the Center for Biological Diversity, and groups dedicated to protecting North America’s only free roaming jaguar population which has been photographed in the bull’s eye of the mining operation’s crosshairs have been waging a silent war against Scott Puit’s bought-and-paid-for rubber stamp on all mining interests. Losing this war threatens the health and well-being of every human being in Tucson, Sahuarita, Green Valley, Vail, and Sonoita. The jaguars aren’t the only creatures whose habitat will be made into a sulfuric acid-steeped cesspool when the CEOs get their way.

Silently, and ever so stealthily Caterpillar has moved into a South Side industrial neighborhood. All it took to sway the largely uneducated, poverty-stricken neighborhood was the vague whisper of “jobs.” Of course, the promised holy grail of 600 jobs is a moving carrot on a stick. Ninety percent of the jobs go to Hudbay employees imported from Canada for the purpose of blasting away our scenic Santa Rita mountain range, well-paid engineers who will then return to their suburban Vancouver mansions. Read more about the “promise of jobs here”  http://tucson.com/business/tucson/caterpillar-inc-bringing-regional-hq-to-downtown-tucson-jobs/article_cce5e19e-10ca-11e6-8c95-a318c5316be1.html . Most mining operations, of course, have sense enough to pad the pockets of local politicians and to employ a few local truck drivers whose temporary jobs require little more than a driver’s license.

It is disheartening that Hudbay, one of the most controversial and least environmentally responsible mining groups in existence, imagines that Tucsonans will ignore their violent and litigious history. To read more about the accusations of gang rape and murder in Hudbay’s Guetemala operations, click here: https://news.vice.com/article/guatemala-lawsuit-against-canadian-based-hudbay-will-finally-see-its-day-in-court . To read about other ongoing litigation against Hudbay’s Guetemala operations, click here: http://www.chocversushudbay.com/  Lawsuits against Hudbay and its operations in Vancouver and Peru are numerous and pending as well.

Despite being denied an air quality or water quality permit, Rosemont is planning to blast into the Santa Rita Mountains just south of Tucson. As the smelter disgorges carcinogens and the leaching operations contaminate the aquifer feeding surface vegetation, the fragile Sonoran desert ecosystem stands little chance. As for us unfortunate human victims, recent studies in Morenci showed that children were showing unprecedented levels of lead in their blood due to Phelps-Dodge mining operations there, an operation smaller than Rosemont. Tucson’s children will be similarly affected as the north-running aquifer feeding into the Santa Cruz River flows into Tucson’s watershed.  To read more about Phelps-Dodge, click on the Arizona Department of Health Services study here: http://www.azdhs.gov/documents/preparedness/epidemiology-disease-control/childhood-lead/targeted-lead-screening-plan.pdf

Mountains do not grow back. The enormous piles of rubble lining the highway south of Tucson were once pristine mountains. The muddy open pits that remain will forever scar the landscape of an area that draws millions of outdoor enthusiasts each year, a double blow to Tucsonans who rely on the tourist industry for survival. As an added insult, Arizonans will not see one penny of profit from the copper extracted from its lands. Antiquated mining laws purposely left on the books to attract foreign investment leave Arizona citizens out of any profit-making from its resources, a shameful practice dating from the mid-1800s that ensured that Native Americans would remain impoverished while wealthy investors would make windfall profits. To read more about the ruinous and morally bankrupt mining laws that deny citizens the right to profit from their own land,  click here: https://www.perc.org/articles/mining-law-1872-0

I will leave you with a photo taken from the “scenic” overlook outside of Bisbee, Arizona, a view which will become familiar to Tucsonans driving south with the family to have a peek at what Hudbay will leave behind in our scenic Santa Rita Mountain range. How any human being equipped with a soul could consider this horrific hell-pit “scenic” defies imagination, but then again we live in Trumplandia now, a land where newspeak and alternative facts have so scarred the public psyche that they willingly cede their fragile rights to oligarchs for a chance to drive a truck. Garbage in, garbage out.

Hudbay had whistleblowing filmmaker John Dougherty arrested this week as he screened his documentary about their horrific practices in Peru this week. Hudbay will stop at nothing to profit from impoverished areas worldwide:

http://trendslatinos.com/international-anti-mining-activist-filmmaker-released-from-detention-in-peru/

To fight Rosemont Mine, contact the Center for Biological Diversity here: http://www.biologicaldiversity.org/campaigns/rosemontbisbee mines

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Law of Trump Attraction

 

The Law of Attraction. The Four Agreements. Scientology. What do these three cults have in common? Apparently the means to brainwash middle-aged white men into believing they offer the keys to the kingdom of success with a couple of sports cars and strippers thrown in.

The Law of Attraction is a book which sold millions and promises the “Science of Attracting More of What You Want and Less of What You Don’t” all by magically manifesting through positive thinking. Its spin-off movie, The Secret (2006) about “the simple laws governing all lives” that millions swallowed hook, line and self-help sinker spawned a glassy-eyed army of followers who believed it offered them the Holy Grail. “Secret” cults sprang up and leaders emerged, neo guru saviors of the Dark Age in which endarkenment has replaced enlightenment, and criticism and skepticism are treated as sacrilege.

That previous line? That’s my thesis. I’d do more research, but in this new Dark Age, it’s generally frowned upon.  My own personal reflections will have to do. Law of Attraction cultists (LACs for the purposes of this post), now exempted from all responsibility save thinking rosy thoughts about their hare-brained projects and get-rich-quick schemes, enjoyed carefree lives. Never mind that no one wanted to patent their new invention (mason jar car cups anyone?) or bankroll their new, liberated lifestyle. After all, if one wanted to simply believe in success, one can just as easily manifest from home or from a ski lift as at a stuffy old office. Those offices are for the old schoolers, lost in a morass of negativity.

The demographic of these LACs is surprising. Mostly white middleaged men from good families, LACs have experienced failure in a weak economy. Many seem to have lost corporate jobs or recently divorced, and others became disillusioned in an increasingly diverse culture that left them feeling disenfranchised and emasculated. The message of positive thinking and magical manifestation absolved them of any wrongdoing in their own lives in one fell swoop of dove-winged epiphany accompanied by a chorus of angels.  They had not been laid off, evicted, dumped, repossessed and declined because they’d slept in one too many mornings, had one too many at the office Christmas party or bedded too many neighbor’s wives. No indeed. They simply had not been thinking positive thoughts around what they wanted.  Because of this paucity of positivity, the benevolent universe had callously declined to heap its abundance at their doorstep.

Scientology and its batshit crazy poster child Tom Cruise also serve as a bastion of acceptance for the LACs and their loss of white privilege. Their exclusivity, secret handshakes and message of blind devotion to Ron Hubbard’s “religion through science” is just an earlier incarnation of the Law of Attraction’s blockheaded approach to atom coagulation and great wealth. Boiling down complex ideas involving faith and power into a few simple secrets empowered fist-pumping Porsche drivers to encourage their wives to follow the Stepford rules of behavior without praying shoeless five times a day on a dirty rug.

The Four Agreement, an unsurprisingly small tome, “A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom” is astonishingly even available as an audio book in case the reader lacks the dedication to tear through its simple sentences which would take less than an hour if the LACs would plow on through instead of calling their friends to expound on every earth-shaking gem they unearth from Don Ruiz’ Dark Age resurrection of a few sketchy but purportedly ancient Toltec commandments. We all know how the vibrant Toltec culture fared from their Mexican monuments outside gleaming, pristine Mexican metropolis built by their descendants. Maybe white male LAC aliens planted those architectural ideas.

Trends and social movements only become apparent in retrospect, but back to my thesis about LACs and the New Dark Age. The new guru hath arisen, and his name is Trump.

 

 

 

 

 

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Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies grow up to be Donalds

Political correctness has risen to a smothering, generic tidal wave of late, flooding all edgy, quirky commentary with a pervasive wave of blandness so all-encompassing that it threatens to shame, stifle and smother even the most mildly off-center opinions if they don’t conform to an increasingly predictable and flavorless norm. Whew. What brought this on? As I chatted with a gleefully-retired former colleague at our gym, the Donald came up. Yes, that Donald. The erstwhile Republican “contender” who dared to speak his mind regarding immigration in a colossal foot-in-mouth diatribe that left his viewers breathless with outrage and scrambling their twitter feeds like so many F-16s. While Trump’s candidacy is little more than joke fodder, his willingness to put himself on the chopping block for such a vibrant display of public vilification hints that he’s hiding platinum-encrusted balls in those “hecho en Mexico” Trump fat pants. After all, the other Donald (not Duck, Sterling ) was dragged into the Roman arena as lion food by his much-victimized Prada-wearing, Ferrari-driving Delilah when he failed to pay enough to make her go away. When the juggernaut of media backlash, tongue-lashing and reputation-flogging that ensued had finished with the limp-sailed Clipper captain, he’d lost all but a few greasy team T-shirts and a couple of deflated stadium chairs. Back to the gym where my friend basked in his newly-found freedom to jump off and flip the bird at the overloaded  bandwagon of rainbow flag-waving kumbaya-singing celebrants on which Big Brother rules of correctness are enforced through threats of joblessness and social pariah-hood. I had recently seen one of my favorite comediennes, Jen Kirkman, at a popular seedy nightclub. He laughed at the venue and told me he understands why the edgy comic chose to play to a crowd that wouldn’t be easy to offend. He told me that most comics won’t do standup on college campuses anymore because they are afraid of offending the wrong trust fund kid who will wage a twitter war and destroy their careers. He is right, of course, and free to be.

Thus, out of the conversation emerged these seven “New Office Rules” for maintaining popularity and scoring in the New Age of Kumbaya:

  1. Write and speak using the passive voice only. Instead of “Juan in accounting once owned an ironic Southern Cross beret,” say “Southern Cross berets were once iconic hipster-wear owned by accountants who didn’t pay attention in U.S. History classes.”
  2. Create non-specific euphemisms to refer to all humans, never using identifying traits which might indicate latent recognition of race (i.e., racism). Instead of: “The Circle K by my house was robbed by a tall, overweight white man,” say, “The Circle K was relieved of its generous beer inventory by an XY-chromosomed human being obviously suffering from PTSD with two legs and arms and in possession of one head.”
  3. Never say or write, “I think.” Instead, deflect all personal responsibility for any and all opinions with “Some say Big Macs might cause obesity,” or “A $20 million government study of (insert the opinion topic) determined that (cherry-pick anomalous data that supports your personal opinion).” Being data-driven is always correct.
  4. Listen politely to all who have the floor, and nod sympathetically whenever the speaker alludes to any sort of victimization. Agreeing with the uncorroborated accusations of outraged victims, especially regarding campus rape or police brutality, is almost always politically correct, no matter what the body cams show. You might even score a Rolling Stone cover story.
  5. Dissenters, no matter how well-studied in their opinions, are headed down the Sterling road to a Unabomber cabin in upstate New York. Never disagree with a co-worker wearing a yarmulka, fez, bonnet, or beret (unless unfortunately decorated, see above).
  6. Loudly and publicly crow about your support for popular causes, such as Single Cuban Transgendered Parents of Disabled Youth. Change your facebook profile picture to reflect solidarity with colo-rectal cancer-suffering Bangladeshi refugees.
  7. Wear ribbons, wristbands, prayer scarves and other public displays of awareness at meetings or when trying to score at a bar. Tearing up is especially effective in the latter situation.

If these seven rules help advance your career in even the smallest way, let me know. I think I’m too late for these two.

Donald S Donald T

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On Knee Pads and Feminism

Slothslive

This anecdotal allegory arose after a recent concert by the original Sloths. This band, led by a Rick Springfield doppelganger unable to afford what should be a mandatory quota of Botox and Juvederm but who is nonetheless dedicated to his female listeners in much the same way as the “Jesse’s Girl” legend, played recently in a fairly obscure downtown club that must have brought home the fact that the County Fair is not rock bottom for an aging hair band. The Sloths are a classic rock group from L.A., and have undergone many incarnations since a few top 40 hits in the 60s. I was not yet a gleam in mommy’s eye when Tommy McLoughlin first took to the stage, and the Admiral of the Garage Era is still at the helm…in knee pads. The title-generated dry ice fog might now be clearing a bit. As my friends and I settled in for a night of fandom (sort of a middle-aged version of One Direction boy band hysteria ridiculed by our accompanying males), the Sloths ascended to the stage. Tommy sported the Sunset-Strip standard black leggings that showed off his waning virility. He also wore a pair of industrial strength knee pads that he would need as the head-banging mounted to a crescendo. During “Wanna New Life,” Tommy showed startling agility by leaping from the stage and sliding a respectable 20 feet into an arm-sweeping, kneeling elegy to a female fan he’d spotted in the crowd. We erupted in fits of teenage-girl exuberance. Throughout the night, he seduced, cajoled, and conjured the ladies in the audience, perching fetchingly on stools next to us and crooning into his wireless mike to emphasize lyrics in “Lust,” and generally cudgeling Rick Springfield holdouts into oblivion.

The next day as I was cruising Home Depot to buy supplies for two HI projects I am planning over spring break, there in the hardware section, I spotted them. Knee pads. Shiny black ones, industrial strength elephant-sized pads, and gel-infused non-rockers for the classically-minded set (pun intended. I never mind rocking, even during delicate HI projects). The selection was dazzling to a lady who is no dilettante in the art of 1940s bungalow restoration. In fact, I chose a sturdy pair that just happen to match my tool belt. I was so delighted that I sent a pic to my fangirlfriend who was at the Sloths show to celebrate the purchase, gushing “I was so inspired I bought a pair.” She replied, “You need them more.” By was of exposition, my FGF and I have been friends more than 20 years. She is a delicate lady, an intellectual but a withering violet when it comes to women doing “man’s stuff,” aka how I lead my life. She also knows I climb on roofs often, and that I prefer nail guns over Vietnamese manicures. I told her I was coating my roof and sealing my patio this week. She told me, as she often does, that I am a Badass. Her sexual allusion is funny. I am a small blonde woman who enjoys exploding the stereotypes of the mohawked, jackbooted feminist one might expect to see in Carhartts. My hackles do rise when women themselves shame one another for expressing sexuality on any level.

After the global recession, I saw the retreat of hard-won gains in the feminist movement. I watched many accomplished female students downgrade their goals from “doctor” to “nurse,” and once again childbearing and housewifery gained momentum as the ultimate form of female self-realization. Any suggestion that a woman’s skill set might also include non-traditional endeavors like HI skills is socially shunned. The bullying and cattiness aimed at women who embrace their sexuality (slut-shaming), who wear overalls and know their way around a garage (lesbian, undatable) has snowballed into the type of misogyny I thought we left behind in the 1980s. The millennials are at the forefront of this new, primeval Cult of Domesticity, just as they are shockingly driving the bus and chanting racist slurs. I say, woman-up and strap on your knee pads, ladies.

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New Year’s Snow in Tucson

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image

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English For the Verbally Insane

* Note – the list below is not original. In fact, it’s been floating around among English teachers for several decades. It deserves to be resurrected and redistributed because I know we can still appreciate a clever turn of phrase.

The English Language Asylum for the Verbally  Insane 

We’ll begin with a box, and the plural is  boxes,

But the plural of ox becomes oxen, not oxes.

One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,

Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of  mice,

Yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,

Why shouldn’t the plural of pan be called pen?

If I speak of my foot and show you my feet,

And I give you a boot, would a pair be called  beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,

Why shouldn’t the plural of booth be called  beeth?

Then one may be that, and three would be those,

Yet hat in the plural would never be hose,

And the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

We speak of a brother and also of brethren,

But though we say mother, we never say methren.

Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and  him,

But imagine the feminine: she, shis and shim!

Let’s face it – English is a crazy language.

There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in  hamburger;

neither apple nor pine in pineapple.

English muffins weren’t invented in England .

We take English for granted, but if we explore  its paradoxes,

We find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing  rings are square,  and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is  it a pig.

And why is it that writers write but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham.

Doesn’t it seem crazy that you can make amends  but not one amend.

If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn’t preachers  praught??

If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a  humanitarian eat?

Sometimes I think all the folks who grew up speaking English should be committed to an asylum for the  verbally insane.

In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a recital??

We ship by truck but send cargo by ship.  We have noses that run and feet that smell.

And how can a slim chance and a fat chance be  the same,

While a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a  language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out, and in which an alarm goes off by going on.  So if Father is Pop, how come Mother isn’t Mop? And that is just the beginning–even though  this is the end!

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Honey Bee

Honey Bee

by Saba Bennett

Hovering, careening, preening,

Beguiled by heavy petals gleaming –

Alighting for an instant, lucky flower

Timeless tongue flicks, honeyed hour

Sticky pistils, pollen-smeered

Smiling bee, glistening beard

Darts off into the yellow fog of noon

Yawning beds of blossoms swoon

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Dial Me Up

Addiction has become an ever-more fascinating concept in the digital age. The common culprits such as alcohol, heroin and meth seem crude and boring compared to post-9/11 contenders like Xbox, smart phones and gadgets. It strikes me that many of my friends and acquaintances confess to feeling increasingly lonely and isolated. The one thing all have in common is that their significant other for many years has been a cell phone. The constant artificial stimulation, notifications, and validation provided by gadgets has trumped the sound of a loving voice, the hand that holds and the stillness I took for granted growing up in a house with a dial phone that hung on the kitchen wall.
Yes, our large plastic phone hung on the wall, its cord twisted and worried as my sister and I got every bit of distance out of it in a fruitless effort for privacy. I was made achingly aware of my cheerleader sister’s popularity when the phone rang for her with more urgency than it did for me. Luckily I was free of its weak sphere of influence as soon as I slammed the screen door and headed out into a world full of small adventures that I learned to appreciate for their own merits, not the number of likes they would get on facebook. My answering machine was actually my mother, and her garbled interpretations were much funnier than voice-to-text malapropisms. One could actually withhold or divvy out information in reply to, “Did anyone call?” that would torture the inquirer more effectively than no bars on a cell phone. The lingering, false strain to remember the exact message, the intonation of the voice and any background information that I could provide could drive a family member mad.
We lived so far out in the country that our phone was hooked up to a “party line.” This didn’t mean that we partied like rock stars, of course. It meant that our neighbors, pig farmers and staunch German Methodists, could listen in on our conversations. Yes, that disconcerting click or unfamiliar throat clearing during the awkward new boyfriend call was old school voyeurism that taught us that privacy is a crucial component of civility. If I were ever daft enough to divulge an embarrassing secret on that active party line, half the county would know it the next day. While most plugged-in addicts strive for infamy and notoriety these days, even setting themselves on fire in hopes of going viral, I was taught that only barbarians sought attention by behaving badly.
As the younger generations interact with tech more than with peers, brief and dysfunctional Tinder-style hookups replace deep, committed relationships. Even so, most of these kids won’t ever know what true loneliness feels like because they have no role models for solid marriage or long-lasting friendships which require them to disengage with any regularity from their couch and console. One can’t miss what one never had.
I envision fashionable “unplugged” treatment plans sprouting up to tackle gadget addiction, and governmental intervention to punish those whose addiction affects productivity. Taxing data usage would launch us into a new economic boom. Getting together for coffee and cell phone addiction stories in the back room of an old church will be a sobering experience for all of us.
phone

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