jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

I just kind of threw it in there, didn’t I? Not eating meat for 20+ years is kind of a big deal, in my mind. And then I did. And then I blogged about it like, “whatever.”

The reasons I stopped are all still really good reasons. Mainly, I couldn’t get with being any part of this process since I couldn’t get right with all parts of the process. I wouldn’t work in slaughter house or a factory farm, aesthetics or abilities aside. Most of them are morally corrupt operations, both in the treatment of the animals and the workers.

Reading Temple Grandin’s books helped soften me. Not in my opposition to how animals are usually processed. But it opened me up to the idea that there is an acceptable way to do it.

I remain conflicted. When I made the hamburgers I went to a hippie grocery store and bought conscience-soothing (whitewashing?) beef. But I still wouldn’t personally kill a cow. Not unless there was nothing else to eat. I feel like an accomplice.

But. Still. I believe that we’re built to eat meat. Humans are high on the food chain and I don’t intend to challenge nature. That’s how you get mutant monkeys and dinosaurs roaming the earth in modern times.

Being an absolutist is easy. Expressing compassion and ecological concern can be tied up in a nice bow when you take meat off the plate. Maybe my way through is to counter-balance these occasional returns to my carnivore roots with a heightened sense of those values in the many other ways they are available.

We have been there more than here in the past month. “There” being various places, some local some not. I have to look at my calendar to remember. We lucked into a very important house guests. The family, in various combinations, rode boats and ate clams, grilled corn and hailed taxis.

All good.

Last night Elliot yelled his face off on an airplane. In a short pause I heard someone many aisles back say, “Someone is NOT happy.” Considering the situation, I appreciated the mildness of the comment. The flight attendant came to offer him a cookie and I had to admit to her that he was screaming because I made him put his tray table up for takeoff. We were all so happy to hit 10,000 feet.

Last week on an airplane the gigantic man in front of me pushed back suddenly in his seat. I mouthed “Oh my god” to Damon and then looked up to see the guy was standing up and totally busted me. He and his wife apologized, which made me feel even more like a jackass.

Alden quizzed a flight attendant about the speed of the plane, negotiating with her to arrange a speed that is comfortable for him. Later, once he decided he liked the flight (As soon as we lifted off he yelled, “We’re flying! We’re flying!”), he stopped her passage to send a message to the pilot that he should feel free to go fast.

I will happily fly with Alden again, but Elliot is getting checked with the luggage.

At the South Carolina Aquarium

The lady at the salon stole my baby and gave me this little boy in exchange.

Yes we do keep a huge plastic slide right in the middle of our house. Sometimes sliding can’t wait.

The first anniversary of my Dad’s death looms right around the corner,  helpfully positioned near Father’s Day just in case I forget.

Days go by now when I don’t think about him. No other way to function, to be sure. For months I stayed hung up on the question, “Where is my Dad?” Literally, not philosophically or spiritually. I could not accept, couldn’t even understand, that he ceased to BE. I still don’t understand that, but it just makes me feel sad rather than freaked out — because now I do accept that there’s nothing I can do about it.

I usually solve my problems by just whaling away at them until something gives. But this. There’s just nothing I can do about it.

Today I’m thinking more than usual about my grandpa, Charles St. Charles (no joke).

Born Casimiro Cianciolo, his family came to America from Termini Imerese, near Palermo in Sicily. He married Carmela Rini, had two kids, supported an extended family as a matter of course, and earned a Purple Heart fighting for America on foreign soil during WWII. He very rarely spoke of his time in the service, so most of his stories went with him when he died. I do know he was shot while arresting his ordered retreat to return for an injured soldier, which is how he got his commendation.

I try to work hard. And I try not to complain. Several important people taught me the value of that, but he taught it to me first.