Good-bye, Ahno

About a week ago, we learned that Ahno, known in real life as Joanna Jenkins, had passed away. Ahno joined our blogging community not long after it was established a few years ago. In no time, her regular posts filled with her insights and observations made her one of our most popular and beloved community bloggers. We here at HamptonRoads.com and PilotOnline.com will miss her.

As part of Ahno's final blog entry, Ahno's daughter Lydia Netzer offers the following:

Joanna Jenkins was born in Pennsylvania. Her father was an evangelical minister and her mother was a pianist and school teacher. Joanna was a star soprano, studied voice as a teen and recorded an album of sacred music with her family. She entered Wheaton College in Illinois on an academic scholarship, and graduated with a degree in visual art and education. For the rest of her life, she was a teacher, working for 30 years in a depressed urban school district in a Detroit suburb, where she taught choir by writing her own music, art by supplying her own materials, and social studies and literature using her own curriculum. While teaching school full time, she also earned her law degree, and passed the bar exam to become an attorney in midlife. After retirement, she moved to Virginia to be near her family, where she was a volunteer at the church soup kitchen, in programs rehabilitating prisoners, and in local schools. She was a fantastic grandparent to Benny and Sadie Netzer, a loyal parent to Lydia Netzer, and an avid rescuer of dogs and other strays in need of shelter.

She passed away suddenly in her home on June 8. The memorial service for her will be this Sunday, June 19, at 2 pm. The service will be held at Christ & St. Luke's Church, 560 W. Olney Road in Norfolk, Va. If you are moved to send flowers, please consider a donation to GO Rescue Pet Adoptions. This is the local rescue that facilitated Joanna's adoption of T-Bone and Cutlet. http://gorescue.webs.com/apps/donations/ If you are coming to the service, please consider bringing a food donation to the soup kitchen pantry. They can always use spaghetti sauce, canned tomatoes, green beans, corn, boxes of brownie mix, lemonade mix, cornbread mix.

If you know anyone who should have this information and might not see it, please pass along the invitation. All are welcome to attend the ceremony, including children. There will be no viewing and no burial, just a brief memorial of her life.

No Sparkle

John Edwards seems to have lost his sparkle. In a news photo he’s looking at a future without $700 hair cuts. Grim face.

I used to like him. While Bill Clinton argued the meaning of “is,” John Edwards and Lindsay Graham both stood in front of God and country to remind us of the good that Bill Clinton did for this country. Those two impressive bits of rhetoric slowed our national rush to judgment.

I’ll bet that today Mr. Edwards wishes someone would speak similarly on his behalf. No one will. He’s been a lucky man, but he’s out of luck.

1) Personal dishonesty has much to do with fitness for office. John Edwards has been dishonest toward himself, his children, his sick wife, his girlfriend, her child… a cascade of ruin.

“Marital infidelity is strictly between husband and wife. Everyone’s unfaithful nowadays. You can’t hold that against a person. It’s the norm. There would be no one left to run this country if we start weeding out strayed husbands and wives.”

Bah humbug. Fooling around is bad no matter how high a percentage of the populace participates.

“He simply made a mistake and it’s time to forgive and move on.” I challenge the word mistake. That’s where I think you said you want Pepsi and I bring you some, but I misheard and you wanted Coke. A mistake happens when the party at fault is trying to do the right thing. No one engaged in infidelity wants to meet his Momma on the path. He’s being bad and he knows it. “I accidentally had sex with, uh, what‘s your name, girl?” Yeah. Accidentally.

2) What has Edwards accomplished for the Carolina voter? Bill Clinton abused the trust of his family. However, he was a wonderful president. John Edwards? Remind me of anything he’s cone to enhance our well-being.

Will Mr. Edwards go to jail? No. Do Carolina voters deserve someone better? Yes.

Silly News Of The Day…

1) The lady earned a unique booboo. Last night, with an amorous companion, she visited a Jewish Cemetery. Recumbent upon the turf, wriggling this way and that, she dislodged a gravestone which toppled over, hurting her leg. Calls for EMS also brought police who wanted to know, “What…?” The lady maintains that she merely wanted to visit the interment site of a family member but one thing led to another.

She’s in no trouble…which I don’t understand. Somebody fooling around at the cemetery where my people are buried…a headstone gets knocked down…you can’t just prop up that stone with a careless, “Oops, sorry,” upon your lips. Cost me at least a thousand dollars to get the last stone set. Who’s gonna pay?

What’s “Jewish Cemetery” got to do with it? Plots there are closely sited. If you wait at the light on Church Street somewhere between Community Farm Market and The Virginia Zoo, you’ll see an example. Very interesting place, complex grave art. Everything vertical. Each stone right by the next. Odd choice for a roll in the grass.

2) Those with insufficient trouble in their lives grieve that Bin Laden was shot with bullets oiled in pork fat. Silver Bullet Gun Oil, specifically.

You’ve got to hand it to pig packers…they really do use everything but the squeal. I once got stuck in Detroit on Russell Street. It was early morning and my tiny vehicle lurked between enormous stinky hog haulers. I had to wait while the truck in front decanted its load down the ramp into a nationally-known producer of bacon.

Interesting efficiency. Two lines of trucks, side by side in the street…pigs going in and left-overs coming out. To the right, hogs shot down to their doom. To the left, a blur of ears, hides, and hoofs flew out into waiting semi’s. The screaming and squealing…oy.

Anyway, among pork products sold in this country, you can find a type of oil-fat which some gun enthusiasts like. In Bin Laden’s case, people object because according to Islamic law, the presence of pork is enough to exclude a decedent from paradise. My, my.

Porch Time

Porch Time

An old house on an old street in an old southern town, that house will have a porch. As I walk the Chihuahuas, we pass porches furnished with lush plants, comfortable swings and chairs, books, knitting, pitchers and glasses, bottles, cups, and cans, magazines, newspapers.

It’s safe to leave stuff on a Colonial Place porch…sometimes.

I caught a thief in the process of removing my freshly delivered Sunday paper. He ran. I followed in my car, came up even with him and shouted, “Give me my paper RIGHT NOW!!!” With a fake-innocent smile, he asked, “Do you mean this paper I found at an abandoned house?” I made him give it back and finished, “Brother, you’d better check yourself before you wreck yourself.”

I also interrupted the theft of Benny’s pogo stick from beside my front door. The teenagers on my porch greeted me with coprophagous grins, put down the toy, excused themselves, left, haven’t returned.

Both of those events took place pre-T-Bone.

Starting last Tuesday, my porch is getting an unaccustomed workout. Year after year those white rocking chairs sit still, side by side, face the street, collect dust. Now they’re clean. Morning and evening they rock back and forth. Cups and glasses litter the floor around them. Busy porch. From the porch, I hear laughter, cheerful voices greet passers by.

Beautiful warm weather. As you stroll Colonial Place A.M., you pass porch-sitters drinking coffee, reading the paper. P.M. residents enjoy a cold drink, talk, relax, call out, “Hey. How you doin?” and wave.

We’re in mid-drought, 6” of rain down from the annual average at this time of year. Must water the garden. Silver lining? No mosquitoes to chase people off the porch.

Throw 'Em Back

California Supreme Court ordered Cal State prisons to release between 36,000 and 46,000 inmates because Cali jails are inhumanely crowded. Of course this wrung outcry from California taxpayers. The process of shoveling criminals off the street is expensive. When some horrible guy finally disappears behind prison doors, his surviving victims yell, “Whoopie!” But now he’s turning around and coming right back outside? Maybe not. Only nonviolent offenders are on their way home.

Why is this a good thing? Because, as a nation, we have no business incarcerating human beings for making bad personal choices. By which I refer to recreational use of drugs. Our huge prison overpopulation is due to the fact that we lock up drug users. What’s wrong with that? 1) We don’t ban the whole scope of available intoxicants. Someone who gets in trouble for taking an illegally acquired Oxycontin would be perfectly OK for drinking a bottle of wine and alcohol ruins more lives than are wrecked by meth, oxy, cocaine, etc. 2) We only tolerate alcohol because prohibition didn’t work. Our anti-drug laws aren’t working either if we cram so many Americans into jail that the court says we’ve gotta throw them back.

If drugs were decriminalized, we’d see more homeless addicts on our streets. Yesterday in Bottom Dollar one of them grabbed me from behind in a hug. Panicked, I fought and elbowed him. He peered around into my face, his face right up against mine, and whispered, “Mom! It’s just me.”

Forcing back disgust at his smelly, filthy, disheveled condition, I asked how he was. First of all, he was stoned. Second, he’d had a seizure, fell onto the sidewalk, hit his head hard on the concrete…still oozing blood. He felt awful. He’s one of my soup kitchen regulars. If we decriminalize drugs, there will be more like him.

You won’t agree with me, but I’d rather have him on the street and stoned…freely making bad choices… than sober but in jail. Throughout my life I’ve made stupid choices which I’m glad that God and the United States Constitution were willing to tolerate. Norfolk City Jail was built to accommodate 800. Now it houses more than 1,400. Virginia, like the state of California, needs to return drug-using criminals to the streets. Only violent offenders belong behind bars.

The Pace Of Adventure

“I wish I had your life, one long adventure,” he sighed. I explained to the dear soul that he, too, has a life of adventure. He just doesn’t notice it. The difference between us is that I pay attention. My adventurous life rockets right along. By now, since last Sunday when my family left for a month in Europe…

A friend had a domestic dust-up. Her live-in boyfriend of thirteen years accused her of trying to kill him with the fork she used to put a pork chop on his plate…he showed police a little injury site? some kind of pale pink mark? low on his LEG? Police took her to jail.

Owing to a mix-up re. her identity info, police kept Friend in jail until Norfolk’s Chief Magistrate ordered them to let the poor woman go. Not allowed to return home, she moved into my house. With her came a friend of hers, a rent-paying tenant at her house…and friend's-tenant’s CAT.

It’s been a week of all drama all the time, on and on, nonstop. Example: Police on my porch warned Friend of further imprisonment for violating the order forbidding her to approach boyfriend. The night before, at 10:35, when boyfriend called my house, Friend picked up the phone, “Hello?” Cackling fiendishly, boyfriend then called police to say that Friend had illegally contacted him.

Another Example: Police, again on my porch, claimed that during the night Friend slashed all four tires on boyfriend’s Camaro. She said she spent the night sleeping at my house, not out slashing tires. Police: “Can you prove that?“ I interrupted to mention, “In America, Friend doesn’t have to prove that she DIDN’T do something. Boyfriend must prove that she DID it.” Citizenship 101.

Waking today, I wondered, “What insanity will enliven Monday, May 23?” After walking the dogs, I made a pot of coffee, sat down to read Lydia’s blog from Italy, reached for my Prayer Book and Bible. The pace of adventure here requires spiritual support.

It’s War, I Tell You.

Tomato plants. Every year by this date there’s a tomato jungle behind my garage. But not 2011. My yard guy is…well, I don’t know what he is. He’s certainly not working very hard. I think myself lucky to get the grass cut. He hasn’t so much as turned over a shovel full of dirt.

So I personally did a bit of this and that and now there’s bare ground in which I might set some plants. But will that satisfy me? No, I’m struggling in the grip of bitter tomato plant envy.

Neighbor number one lives with her family in a small downstairs apartment…reduced circumstances. They’re victims of our downturned economy. With nowhere to use her talents as a gardener, early this year, she cobbled together a small space by her car. And she planted half a dozen tomato plants. Every morning she’s out there, talking to her plants, fertilizing them, giving them a drink, showing some love. And those tomato plants are magnificent. Long ago they outgrew their tomato towers and are supported on poles she pounded into the ground.

Neighbor number two. Down the street she lives in a house as big as Waterside. It has towers, looks like a castle. She’s turned her yard into a wonderland of pond, waterfall, patio, tropical items, and a raised bed of tomato plants, just beautiful. As high as my shoulder. Not as tall as the plants nurtured by neighbor number one, but nonetheless lovely and lush.

Each lady checks on the other’s tomato plants, courteously congratulates her competition, then rushes home to fuss over her own little garden. It’s war, I tell you. I couldn’t possibly catch up, let alone pass one of them… or could I?

Ain't Misbehavin'...yet.

When my family left for Italy, I thought I was in for a month of watching grass grow. Instead, my house is full of life and action in the form of guests and THEIR CAT.

Hustle-bustle of people here and there, doing this and that…and talking…not to mention THE CAT…T-Bone‘s inspired to new levels of badness. And then Porque Choppe. Her allergies jumped to the red zone. And then me, sitting here with my shoulders up around my ears.

Are the guests rude, acting up? No. Very nice. I’m just not used to others in my house 24/7. Casa Ahno resounds with human voices about as often as T-Bone comes when called. And there’s no clutter here, nothing out of place. And no one sits on T-Bone’s chair. And no live entity stands between me and a destination of my choice.

The situation might be explained as follows:

Yesterday at soup kitchen, I enjoyed the “assistance” of little sous chef, Dante. One of my helpers babysits Dante, brings him with her. He’s two-years-old and very darling. However, in soup kitchen mode, it’s amazing how fast an old woman with two bad knees and two bad hips can move. And there’s little Dante, my shadow, half a step behind me every minute of the morning. I love Dante but yesterday several times I told him, “Don’t be right under my feet.” That, right there…

Hosting a couple of people and THEIR CAT answered one question… no, I am not a candidate for life in one of those people-intensive places for the elderly. By the second or third day, employees would pray for my demise, “All I did was ask how she‘s doing. Her eyes turned red. Fire shot out her mouth. Her head whirled around and around. I’m not ashamed to say that I ran.”

Have I gone there...yet?  No.  Ain't misbehavin/ so far.

A Doggy Danielle

Last night I watched some New Jersey Housewives footage. ”Danielle” diverted accusers from the substance of their accusation by tangling them in an argument about how they got their information. I thought, “Give her two more legs, shrink her down to five pounds, and she could pass for  T-Bone, that slippery character."  He’s in constant trouble with two human guests in the house*…and a thirty-five pound cat. Every minute somebody’s on his case for trying to sneak a bite, nonstop yapping, tearing up people’s stuff, attacking the cat.

Me: “T-Bone! You crazy mutt! Tearing up toilet paper all over the downstairs! Oh, my goodness!”

T-Bone; “It’s your fault for not putting away everything you brought home from the store. If you weren’t forgetful, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen. You only have yourself to blame so get busy picking up the mess. And another thing…when was the last time you filled my water bowl? Furthermore, a criminal-looking guy’s walking past on the sidewalk. And I’d like to know who put this afghan on a chair? It belongs on the floor where I can rip it up and roll on its remains. Blahblahblahblah…”

T-Bone ought be crushed with guilt. No one should have to stand over him, ranting and raving, waving the evidence of his depradations, “I declare, little dog, you chewed the lady’s purse to ribbons. Aren’t you ashamed?”

No, he's not ashamed. T-Bone: “Your fault, your fault! You brought all these people* into my house without asking my permission. I have nowhere to sit down. That purse was in my way. If you’d stop dragging people in here to take up my personal space, there wouldn’t be a problem, but, oh, no, you just do as you please and then try to blame me when there’s trouble. And another thing, I want to go in my crate but somebody shut the door….yapyapyapyap…” T-Bone’s a doggy Danielle.

*Re. two guests and cat...it has to do with the aftermath of the Tuesday night/Wednesday morning craziness detailed in my last post.

Full Moon Over Norfolk Police

The phone woke me. 11:00 P.M. A shaky voice asked if I’d please get dressed and come immediately. A friend was being arrested for something she didn’t do. I groaned my way into clothes, went to see.

Sure enough. By the time I arrived, friend was in the back of the police car handcuffed. Policeman: “Attempted murder with a weapon.”

Me: “Weapon?”

Him: “A fork.”

I laughed. Policeman frowned, “It’s a serious charge, could mean most of the rest of her life in prison.”

I pointed up, “Officer, observe the full moon. This is the night when every nut in town acts his/her nuttiest. This lady’s boyfriend is mentally ill. Has been fully diagnosed and is supposed to take a prescription. but he won‘t. I’m sure that whatever he told you was untrue.”

Officer: “She’ll be at 811 City Hall Avenue. Gonna spent tonight in a cell, may be granted bail tomorrow.”

This morning at the crack of dawn I arrived at 811 City Hall, found the Magistrate’s Office. Magistrate Wales: “We’ll swear her out of here shortly. Please have a seat in the hall.”

Three hours later, I was still on that seat. During elapsed time, various law enforcement officials interviewed me, all but one of them condescending, outrageously disrespectful. Example...One sneered at me, winked at his partner, and said, “Crack head,” indicating me. It went like that. I’ve never had an analogous experience. It was fresh. New. Horrible.

Finally, heart pounding so I could hear it, blood pressure out of control, I solicited the help of Magistrate Wales. He listened to me, “Sir, officers handling this case listen to nothing I say. They make assumptions which they then treat as fact. I can hardly believe that this place is in The United States Of America.”

He replied, “Your friend should be released immediately. I’m going to see about this.” He came back soon, “Ma’am, I issued a release order for your friend but the officers refuse to honor it. I have a phone call in to the Chief Magistrate. Officers may not disobey his orders. Don’t worry. This will all be over very soon.” And it was. The Chief Magistrate agreed with the magistrate onsite. Friend did not belong in jail. She didn’t have to bond herself out. Simply did not belong at 811 City Hall Avenue.

Crazy boyfriend had been the homicidal party. Friend was kicked in the head twice…steel-toe shoes. She was stomped all over her body. She had seven pages of evidence of this from Emergency Room doctors at Sentara. Also, her t-shirt bears a clear and complete print of boyfriend’s shoe.

I’ve had very positive experiences with Norfolk law enforcement. Last night was not one of them.