Bumping Up Against Other's "Religious Liberty"

The Supreme Court is making some "interesting" rulings in the last few years, notably when somebody's rights conflict with other's religious liberty. Or so they claim. Is it religious liberty to be able to demand others follow your beliefs? Because that's what I see happening.

Take Hobby Lobby. They won a case allowing them to deny health care insurance coverage for reproductive choices. We're not even talking abortion here. Just birth control. In effect, that rule mandated that their employees either had all the babies that chance decreed might start from any sex act because they wouldn't get coverage for birth control, or somehow found the funds to pay for it themselves. It may not seem like much, but did you imagine that Hobby Lobby employees were paid enough to be able to make that expense decision freely? Especially when you compare those employees against other company's employees making the same income, looking at just how much is left in the budget for medical coverage after making all the same other purchases. Comparatively, other employees were free - literally - to choose their own reproductive situations. Hobby Lobby chose for their employees. The owners of Hobby Lobby had a religiously informed viewpoint and were given the freedom by the Supreme Court to impose it on their employees, in every store, across the entire country. They didn't even have the possible standing of an actual religious institution to do so.

Note that only the comparatively wealthy employees, possibly due to a generous second family income or other factors, had real freedom from Hobby Lobby's religion.

There are so many other cases where some supposedly religiously based bigotry is given rein to force other's behaviors. We're not talking about murdering somebody here. But let's think about how historically recent divorce was legally allowed in this country. Or even how it's forbidden in other countries, or a privilege given only to husbands. Religion forces others all too often to go along whether or not they believe in that religion's tenets. I believe I should be free to divorce a husband for a wide variety of reasons, including abuse of me and/or my children. I did so. It was allowed only because of how relatively recent it was. 

Gender issues are the ones bumping up against other's "religious" bigotry these days. We've barely gotten homosexuality decriminalized, nevermind being broadly accepted. Adoption is still a cusp issue, where religions insist the only fit parents are a heterosexual couple. Even single parents are preferred over the benefits a second parent of the same gender can provide. If I were in a place to adopt or foster a child, and in a same sex relationship no matter how loving and nurturing, my odds would still be extremely low, no matter how many children still need stable homes with loving adults. It's a battle still in process.

The latest religious bugaboo is the practical demonization of transgender people. Where religion is the alleged reason for the bigotry and fear, laws are rapidly being enacted about sports eligibility and bathroom use. Listen, when I gotta pee, I really gotta pee, and when your religion decides I can't do it here and now, your so-called religious liberty is simply cruelty under another name. While I'm not transgender, I got my fill of bathroom challenges when I was working in a uniform that was gender-free. (Translation: they were designed for men because mostly men were hired for that job. Even the shirt buttons were on the "man's" side.) I get a glimmer of what transgender people are up against because somebody else thinks it's their religious freedom being denied if they can't be an asshole because they haven't personally inspected somebody's birth certificate and current genitalia. Or even if they have, however that came about.

Let me warn you, the older I get, aside from the legal issues here, the more often you decide you have the right to challenge my use of a bathroom, the more likely your only gain will be a puddle on your floor! Happy mopping, jerk! It I ever have to bump up against your version of religious liberty, one way or another you're going to lose. Whatever my gender is, however my body is formed, it's none of your business unless I choose to make it so, say, by deciding whether or not to have an intimate relationship with you. Your religion doesn't get a say except in whether you decide you want an intimate relationship with me. And by the way, I'm taken, so it's never going to be relevant.

It shouldn't have a say in whether and when I reproduce, or with whom, or how, and you shouldn't get a say about whether you can get cheaper insurance for me because you don't wish for me to use certain parts of what that insurance covers for everybody else. (Would you really want me to decide which medical procedures I want to fund for you to be able to have and call it religion? Really?) You shouldn't get a say in whether I can be a parent to a needy child based on anything other than what kind of parent I can be, and certainly not on whom I love or what my body is like so long as I'm healthy enough to do the job. As long as I use bathroom facilities behind a closed door for privacy, it shouldn't be your decision which door is the "right" one. 

Your religion has whatever rights you give it to affect your behavior. Not mine. I cede none of my rights when I bump into yours. Swing that religious fist all you want to. You have that right. But it stops just before my nose.

What Can Happen With Time On Our Hands

Steve is still chuckling about it. There are even pictures on Facebook now, posted by others.

We weren't sure there would be time on our hands. I scoped out our estimated travel time, Steve added almost another hour, but there were three stops along the way after the only planned-for-sure one was filling the tank. We did know we raced a deadline. All along the way everything conspired to slow us down: extra stops, a couple of heavy downpours, heavy Sunday afternoon return-from-vacation traffic.

The event was his fishing trip with his oldest son, Lance, out on the launch on Lake Mille Lacs. Catching walleye was the stated goal. Seeing his son after two years and spending the evening fishing together to celebrate Steve's birthday was the real prize. I was along to drive, so Steve could take any necessary pain meds and still travel safely. The dog came along because what else? We Heathers stayed in the car most of the time, because after bumping my tailbone the car seat is the only really comfortable place to sit for any period of time. I wasn't fishing. This was Steve's event. I brought magazines to read and a dog to walk. There was always MPR to listen to, a few pictures to take along the lake, and eventually what I'm pretty sure were noctilucent clouds after sunset. (Look them up. I recommend NASA's site SpaceWeather.) It wasn't boring.

Our deadline to show up at Twin Pines  Resort was 5:30 PM to pay for the 6:00 departure. We got there a bit before 5:00. Steve headed in, and 10 minutes later came back out laughing.

He loves t-shirts with fishing themes, particularly when fishing. This particular one was black with white lettering saying, "If fishing was meth, I wouldn't have any teeth." Turns out he doesn't have any teeth - another story. As he related what happened to me, he couldn't stop laughing, but luckily I also heard it later from others who were inside as it happened later, while I ordered a hamburger for my wait. As Steve approached the bar, one of the women read his shirt and told him, "I need that shirt!" Steve stopped, started stripping off his shirt, and replied, "Give me yours." Without hesitation, she ducked down behind the bar, peeled her (outer) shirt off, and they swapped. A photo was taken, shirts were returned, and after much laughter and finishing his business, Steve returned.

It wasn't quite over. I had a chance to chat with her a bit later, resulting in an exchange of information so we could get a copy of the photo, and the story being repeated among the new set of customers lined up paying for their trips. Finally, a second photo was taken, both of them side-by-side just like the original photo, this time in their original shirts. After Steve was out on the launch and things had settled down inside the bar/restaurant, she came out to the car and let me know they were posting the pictures on Facebook. After his trip ended, Steve returned to the car still laughing, saying he was now "famous" on the boat.  So for those of you who want access, look for Twin Pines Resort out of Garrison, MN. Or you can contact Steve, giving him another chance at laughing about it. It's going to be one of those stories for him to relate forever.

"Change The Ref"

I'm still emotionally reeling.

I hope you got a chance to watch Rachel Maddow on MSNBC last night, June 23. If not, there's probably some way to review back episodes, or just this one. It's about gun violene and the "Lost Class of 2021". 3044 students didn't get to graduate in the US this spring due to gun violence.

The parents of one of them became activists. Their organization is called "Change the Ref", a phrase from their son. When playing basketball he often complained of bad referee decisions, suggesting that they change the referee. They put together a video which carries quite a punch to the gut, particularly as it's interspersed with snippets of 911 calls from students in schools during an active shooting. What we saw ends with hysterical, panicked breathing, silenced by loud rounds of rapid gunfire.

The video was shot in Las Vegas. A couple of NRA bigwigs were invited to speak at the graduation of James Madison Academy, named after the "father of the 2nd ammendment". Each was given an "annual"  award for doing so, and requested to go through a dry run of their speeches ahead of time to test lights, sound and video equipment. 3044 empty white chairs were spread out in rowsacross the field as if waiting for the class to sit in them for the actual event. Their speeches of course were about gun rights, and how the students should, after graduation, follow their dreams and not let others stop them, not knowing the so-called graduates had already been stopped.

In fact, they never knew the significance of this class. They never bothered to look up this school and realize it didn't exist. No questions were asked, just ego and greed, presumably, taking over and taking advantage of spreading their particular "gospel." When the speeches were concluded, they were "regretfully" informed the graduation ceremony had been canceled due to a credible threat of violence. Then the footage of their speeches were edited together with the 911 calls and text of their actual records of stopping sensible gun legislation.

My description of this does not do it justice. I strongly suggest  you search it out, watch the whole video, and prepare to be disturbed in a way the sanitized unending news reports do their best to avoid.

Not Exactly Service Dog Material

Owwww. Yes, I'm sitting to write this. And yes, it hurts. As does standing up. And walking for those first few minutes. It started, like many of these things do, with a little stupidity.

It had rained on and off most of the day. Heather Too wasn't exactly thrilled about going outside to do the necessary when wet grass tickled her tummy with every step. Too much time in Arizona, I suppose. Not to mention a bit too little lawn mowing in the yard. It was more than time for her to go out. Putting her out didn't mean she'd venture more than a foot from the door when things were this wet, and she always kept looking over her shoulder as if asking just what we thought we were doing to her.

That's when I got my stupid idea. I'd go out ahead of her. It had stopped raining for a bit after all, so why not now? Just going to the doggy door in the screen house wasn't very persuasive, so I opened it and started strolling down the ramp. You know, just a casual walk, showing her I'd actually be out with her. Her separation anxiety usually does the rest of the persuasion. I got so into my role playing that I got stupid enough to head down the wooden ramp without holding on to the  rails on either side. Just to show her how easy it was to go down the ramp. Like that's a thing.

Of course you know what happened. It's an old ramp, lots of layers of slick-crap-when-wet on the top of it. Since it hadn't actually rained since we arrived, nothing tickled my brain cells to halt my version of stupid. The next thing I knew my feet flew forward, my butt landed on the ramp, and I slid another foot down the ramp that way. The second I landed I felt my tailbone take the knock.

Fortunately, my hip also took just enough of the landing as well. Steve assures me I have a nice bruise just a little off center to the tailbone. It didn't feel like a break. I'd had one of those in junior high. The pain is much sharper and there is nothing resembling any degree of comfort for months afterwards. But even the bruising takes some time to recover from. And let's not forget the usual challenge getting up from ground level.

Luckily, the ramp is where I'd last perfected getting up from the ground. I needed to go further down first. After a little rest, a little silent cursing, and some plotting of the least painful direction to roll in to accomplish my mission. I also needed to check how slippery the surface was where I'd wound up and where, since it was, I needed to move to in order to ensure safely standing.

This took about 5 minutes. During that time I observed what wasn't happening. My beloved dog was not coming down the ramp behind me. Not to comfort her mistress-in-pain. Not to head out into the grass to do her thing. Not even to get close to me for some possible patting and hugging. Not even when I called her.

I gave up on her and started, finally, rolling and sliding into position. That's when she decided to come join me. Each of the next five moves were interrupted by her being exactly in the way of where I needed to move a part of me. I wound up gently - though exasperatedly - shoving her away each time so I could finally stand up again. She finally went back to the top of the ramp, apparently guessing just where I was heading and not willing to be left behind - this time.

My shoes are filthy. Luckily they are the ones I wear out in the yard. And my shorts look just as bad, but over a larger area. I just pulled them out of the clean laundry for this event. No skin lost, no tears in fabric, and a brush will make the shoes (more) presentable. But owwww. And owww. And even more owww.

At least there were no puddles in the house the next morning when she finally, tentatively, headed out in search of drier grass. Maybe that's hero enough?

A Little Interruption

It wasn't the ordinary interruption. Those involve running out of stump killer, or getting too many thistle pokers inside my gloves and having to remove them, or deciding I need a different tool. For those bigger interruptions, it's just plain exhaustion. I've hit my wall.

Today it was a gas leak.

An outside one, fortunately. I was continuing my weeding along the south side of the house. Paul insisted there were actual blueberry plants still growing in that mess, so I decided to prove it either way. They'll be edible before too long, assuming they survived, and they're a favorite. Progress so far is about 4 feet per day. That's not square feet, but linear, in a patch mostly about 3 feet wide. This is day four here if we don't count the two it took clearing out the AC at the end of the house. The whole ares is infested with long and short grass, violets, Canadian thistles - the spikey ones, not like sow thistles - several unidentified weeds, lily of the valley now that it's shady at ground level, virginia creeper vines, and innumerable shoots from trees that were cut back in previous years without benefit of stump killer. Those include maples, box elders, chokecherries, high bush cranberries which are actually viburnums so not quite trees, and whatever else has taken root.  There is also a significant amount of dead blueberry branch bits. Some cut, some attached. Attached means to something still living.

I have yet to find a fully dead blueberry bush. I'm pretty sure a couple are missing however. And there are new shoots popping up, though I don't know whether from seeds or roots, so I have no clue whether and/or how they'll bear fruit. I do know they're yellowish, so I went and bought iron for them yesterday when I got my new lenses in my glasses. 'll have to remember to spread it tonight. There's a hope of rain tomorrow. Otherwise, pull the hose up from where it's embedded in in the lawn - yes, seriously: what happened last year? - and turn it on.

This morning's progress led me to the thistle patch surrounding the first one of the meters along the house. I figured this might be the first time this particular meter had been read in years, the thistles were so thick and tall. Of course, if it were the water meter, they can read it from the street. They put in that system back in the 90's. But as I leaned forward to eliminate a thistle growing between the meter and the siding, I caught a whiff of a familiar smell. Mercaptan.  This was the gas meter. Leaking. There is an octagonal gizmo in the piping, two flattish pieces with a gasket and screws holding it all together. The leak was from there. When I put my nose right on it, like when reaching behind for the next weed, I could tell.

Of course, I wasn't in any danger. Plenty of fresh air diluting the stuff, no smoking, digging, or electrical anything happening, not even my cell outside with me. Just two sizes of manual trimmers and a bottle of chemical plus a brush. The wheelbarrow (plastic) sat next to me out in the grass, and I sat on a resin chair. Nothing to make a spark anywhere. So I kept working, figuring whoever came to fix the problem would appreciate not having to dig into a field of thistles. Besides, I still had some of my morning ration of energy left.

After about ten minutes  more work, I headed inside to make the call. I was told they would be out in about an hour, after asking bunches of questions and giving advice of what not to do. I went back out to prune more thistles while I waited. It turned out to be more like 15 minutes, so there were still a few thistles left uncut or unpulled, but it was mostly a workable area. He confirmed my nose's accuracy, and I headed into the house with the dog for breakfast. He promised to knock at the front door if he needed anything - like warning me to get out of the house fast!

I'm contrasting this visit with one of the first ones from the gas company in Arizona. When we leave the house untenanted because we've gone north, we have the gas shut off completely. Once back, we have one of the gas company employees come out to turn it back on and check every single place it comes through for any possible leaks. They insist, and we appreciate it. That first year when the fellow finished I detected the smell under the stove top. Now that I could cook something, I'd opened the doors under it to get a pan out while he was still down the hall, checking out the water heater. I informed him of the leak. He insisted he'd checked and there was none. He then left. 

Periodically I continued to smell the leak. It wasn't always there, and for some reason I didn't continue to complain to the gas company. However, the next season when we had the gas turned on again, I mentioned it to the new person checking our appliances. He found it instantly and fixed it. I double-checked it this spring when we had the counter replaced and a plumber had to disconnect and reconnect that same stove top. No new leak.

I'm going to go out and sniff that octagonal gizmo on the meter before this guy leaves. If it hasn't heated up outside too much, I think I'll do more weeding. There was a pretty tall blueberry with lots of tiny berries on it sitting right past where I left off.

Not The "Big" Progress

It's not as visible as usual today. Yes, I was still out in the yard for my morning hour+, but you won't see fewer trees or anything else major or highly visible.

I blame Paul. I was prepared to  do the major jobs, at least the ones the right size for the loppers. Anything bigger requires the chain saw in my opinion, like the one Paul took to the way overgrown lilac hedge Saturday. You can even tell where his arms got more tired as he went. The height of the stumps left behind to sprout out again got lower as he went. Of course, I'm also going with insider knowledge, since he came inside and sat for a couple hours before returning to the hedge. But that kind of work is highly visible.

I don't know what he did with the loppers after cutting much of the downed lilac branches into firewood-sized chunks on Sunday. I also wasn't about to chase over the yard hunting them. That would have taken half the energy available. So I did other things. They aren't so spectacular.

I located more creeper vine in the yard and cut parts back. It'll keep growing, but that's another day's work. Right now it's somewhat curtailed. I cut down more scattered cup flowers. Short ones, not the ones already 6 feet tall and still climbing. They are popping up all over the yard, so it's walk over here, chop, carry with you over there, chop, etc. Then they get tossed into the old pond to decompose, along with their old dead square stems.

A whole mound of previously cut creeper vines, now thoroughly brown and thus finally dead, got relocated from just over the fence for the raspberry patch and into the former pond. If you hadn't seen the mound there, you'd never notice.

Previous pruning/chopping left small piles of brush scattered around. Most of those had lots of leafy stuff attached, something Paul wants in the pond rather than the wood pile. I get that. I was just too tired to do anything when I hit my wall those days, so they sat. I took two apart this morning, stripping off tender branches with leaves for the pond, putting woody branches in the bigger brush pile. Of course, that bigger pile already had a big mix of non-woody cup flower stalks - on the bottom, no less - that I had to strip out individually and haul over to the pond. So four piles became one of mostly brush - hey, I didn't strip ALL the leafy stuff out - and a higher level of stuff decomposing in the old pond.

Note to self: do NOT try to walk across that pond, not matter how much you want to trim the wigelia back and kill/remove the trees behind them scraping the house when the wind blows. It's a walking hazard. Let Paul do it.

Nothing more is dead today than when I started, at least nothing major. There was a bunch of grass pulled at the bottom of the stairs, along with creeping charley and dandelions. Enough got cleared that some deadly nightshade vines lost their hiding spots and got somewhat demolished. Some moss patches got cleared off the concrete steps now that sun can hit them and it's drying up. I still put my hour+ in, and the dog whining reminded me that I promised Steve not to overdo it this morning.

But like I said, nothing major happened out there. You can't look around and see progress like in previous days. Not unless you're part of that ant hive I disturbed at the bottom of the stairs when the rocks topping it got rearranged when creeping charlie roots lost their grips. At least they're not the biting kind. If I can't get positive acknowledgement, I at least want to avoid complaints.

Eye Opener

Literally... and figuratively as well. What is it with these guys? Or am I painting with too broad a brush, considering I'm selecting two out of the universe of these guys?

Today was my get-new-glasses eye exam. I have my own unique way of prepping for one of these. I don't wear glasses for hours ahead of the exam. I want my eyes to be  examined in as near a possible to their resting state. I discovered years ago that if I had been reading in the car while waiting for my next run to come along, and reading lasted over half an hour or so, when I refocused my eyes on the road I'd see double. Not everything, but double power lines stood out against a blue sky. If they changed for that, they might change from any wearing of glasses for a period of time before the test. I so seldom am perfectly satisfied with my next pair of glasses. Since I can see better driving without them right now, there seemed no down side to the idea.

All the technical stuff, checking the "new" lens where the cataract grew, looking for possible macular degeneration, effects of pre-diabetes, all that stuff had already been checked out by my eye surgeon before we left Arizona. But he's a little pricey, so I tend to go to a chain store to get my prescription for glasses checked before getting new glasses. Big savings! Turns out I still got charged $93. Just for the simple exam. Used to be under $50.

I need new glasses. Not the frames. They're perfect. Titanium, purple, flattering to my face, and fashionable from my grandmotherly point of view. But lately I'd been frustrated while trying to read road and street signs. Even watching TV was clearer without the glasses. It was time. A little research pushed the idea that I might consider switching back to glass rather than polycarbonate lenses. Glass, after all, is what is used in precision optics like camera lenses. I arrived at my appointment with questions.

The first one wasn't what I'd planned to ask. The vision center requires mask wearing. Not a problem, I keep a supply hanging from the turn signal arm in the car, handy for any place requiring them when I'm out and about. But the optometrist ( right word?) wore his under his nose. So what I blurted out was whether he knew it didn't do him any good unless it covered his nose? He rather firmly replied it didn't make any difference. Masks didn't prevent any body from getting covid, and only people who watched CNN or MSNBC didn't know that. There was absolutely no scientific proof otherwise. None.

Well, I immediately pegged him as a FOX watcher. Since I'm fully vaccinated I really didn't worry for myself and he could wear or not wear his mask any which way he chose and it wouldn't affect me. Nonetheless, my second question was to mildly inquire whether he'd gotten his vaccinations then? This time he got a bit huffy. He considered his vaccination status as a private personal health issue and he wasn't about to share it with anybody! I took that as a "No." Everybody I know is happy to talk about where they were in the process and which vaccine was used, along with reciting the ease or struggles they had with getting their shots. But again, I didn't figure it affected me, so we got down to the exam.

Somewhat surprisingly my eye prescription hadn't changed ... in 5 years! Other than the cataract, of course. That's where my records with this store went back to. This was when I asked about glass vs. polycarbonate lenses. He took a close look at my current glasses and informed me the nonreflective coating (optional) on the glasses was flaking away, distorting my view through them. He wasn't sure if real glass would react the same way with that coating, but glass was pretty rare in his business these days so it was probably a moot point. Anyway, I could just order polycarbonate without the coating. I'd likely be as happy if not more so with those lenses.

The discussion had distracted him from the bifocal exam. Or in my case, trifocal. Every time he offered me a choice between two lens corrections, saying that I likely couldn't tell the difference, I found a distinct difference. Not sure what each set was about, but one was always quite clear and one not in each pair today. This was novel to me as well. I've usually had a hard time distinguishing between those pairs.

After discussing the other things in my eye history which had already been examined thoroughly and making notes in my chart, we finished up amicably and he sent me off to the other part of the store to order my new lenses. More surprises lay waiting. I asked again about the possibility of glass lenses, and she had to check. The only way those are available these days is with "Transitions" lenses, the kind which darken/lighten depending on inside/outside conditions. Those  never worked for me. Before I'd bought them, nobody had ever bothered to inform me that car windows block the UV rays which trigger the change. I just wasted my money on them since I spent my days in a car for 29 years. (That's why the left eye cataract.) Still, I was curious about the pricing, now that I was retired and spending actual time outdoors. Another check, then I was quoted a price three times the cost of polycarbonate lenses. That decision was easy!

She walked away with my current glasses, put them in a machine in the back alcove, then returned them to me. No measuring where on the lenses the bi-and tri- focals should line up. No keeping the glasses to put the new lenses in. I was surprised. I had an older pair at home, still good enough, which I'd packed for such a contingency. The only reason I didn't have them along was I left finding them till there was no time for an extended search to figure out where I'd packed them, once we discovered it wasn't in the glove box as I'd thought. Just as well then. Still, I asked why I got these back, and she explained the machine had done all the measuring, the new lenses would be cut to specifications, and in about a week they'd pop the old ones out and put the new ones in.

On my way out the door my mind returned to wondering just what it was with optometrists and their "science" opinions. Of course, I admit my universe of two was this guy, and Rand Paul. This guy at least had real credentials, not resorting to making up a way to credential himself like Rand Paul had done. Still....