They stand in line, thoughts that seem too long for their turn to appear in print. They nag like impatient children, asking why I don’t give them their due attention as topics for research and discussion. In many cases there is insufficient information for intelligent analysis – this does not mean they are unimportant, but only that I haven’t enough facts to present a comprehensive opinion.
One of the most persistent of these nascent topics is the contents of the containers on the container ship Dali that destroyed the Francis Scott Key Bridge in Baltimore. When that accident was first reported on the television news broadcasts, the National Transportation Safety Board had identified 56 containers of hazardous materials constituting 764 tons of corrosives and flammables, including such things as lithium batteries and medical and chemical waste. Since then, there has been next to no mention of that particular cargo. Through the limited resources available to me, I have learned the following: Those hazardous materials were – and still are – bound for China, Sri Lanka, Maylasia and neighboring destinations. Later, we were told that some of the containers were significantly breached and some are in the water, leaving a reported “sheen” on the water’s surface that indicates leakage of contaminants into the bay. Dangerous stuff: and I can’t help wondering about the final destination of all these nasty, unwanted discards, how it is intended they are to be eventually disposed of and what the effects will be on our planet.
In a lighter vein, I remember that, as a child, I didn’t think summer began just weeks after the last day of school. I know, by the calendar, that it happens in late June, but for most of my life it required some really hot weather to qualify as true summer. This meant an end to those dewy mornings when a sweater felt good as we headed outdoors to the sand pile, tricycle rides along the front sidewalk, or in search of a neighboring playmate and a game of Hop-scotch. In my mind, the sun had to beat down with enough fire to justify thoughts of bare feet, cool shady spots under the big elm trees on the front lawn, or an excursion to the town’s swimming pool for our morning swimming lesson. In the afternoon, we often spent our time splashing in the washtub of water Mother had set out by the garage, carrying pop bottles of water to the border of marigolds and snap-dragons along the fence, or in case of an exceptionally hot or muggy day, playing “mermaid” in the bathtub with one of my sisters. After that extended bath, we would be dried, powdered and dressed only in underpants to lie on a cool sheet spread on the scratchy living room carpet where two rubber-bladed fans swept back and forth, brushing us with cooling breezes and making our voices wobble when we spoke close to the whirling blades.
I was glad to see the dandelions return in full force this year. Last year there were so few of them that I began to worry that climate change, lack of pollinators or some unknown threat had eliminated them permanently. While they are not native to North America, dandelions seem an integral part of the Iowa landscape. Every mother knows their value. We can let the kids pick as many as they like to without jeopardizing our carefully-planned flower beds or, worse, the neighbor’s prize tulips. Remember, all those golden puffs that get picked won’t go to seed and produce more “weeds” next year. On the other hand, when they turn white and fluffy, the kids can practice blowing them all away in one breath, making sure of next year’s crop. It’s a dilemma but a minor one and we have to admit that they are quite pretty against the dark green lawn on a sunny day.
I am mystified by such terms as “our three-month anniversary” or other such observances. The word “anniversary” itself comes from medieval Latin and involves two clearly defined words; “annus” meaning year, and “versus” meaning to turn. It was first used for Catholic feasts to commemorate saints and refers strictly to an annual observance. Surely someone can come up with a better word to celebrate three months of dating. This is how language changes (and is weakened) by our misuse.
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