Christmas in Omaha

I've been strangely silent about what happened in an Omaha mall last week. Some of you know that I lived in Omaha for 10 years and that my parents still live there. It's where I met and married T. We moved from Omaha to D.C. for law school at GWU.

But what you don't know is that I worked at Westroads Mall during college. I'm intimately familiar with the mall. In fact, I remember when the Von Maur department store opened and how excited we all were. I would go sit in the atrium and listen to the piano player in the store, which, at the age of 20, I thought was the height of elegance. Yes, the atrium where people died.

You also don't know that my husband's family knew one of the victims. A man originally from their small corner of Southwest Nebraska, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time doing some Christmas shopping at the end of a business trip. His funeral was earlier this week.

Honestly, I've been struggling with what to say.

The fabulously honest DD wrote about the Omaha shootings earlier this week and she said many of the things I want to say. This kind of random violence can happen anywhere. The Omaha metropolitan area has more than 1 million people. There are drugs, and gangs, and poverty, and social problems that would curl your toes in Omaha. Just like there are in every city and town in America. Midwestern town does not equal problem free town. People of America, particularly those of you who are in the media, please stop acting so damn surprised.

There are many more things about the media coverage of the shooting in Omaha that anger me. Just as there are many things about sensationalist media coverage of any tragedy that anger me. But what has been unexpected to me is how frustrated I am at the attempt of every community, national and local, to "own" this tragedy.

Now in some ways, feeling personally touched by a horrible event half way across the country or half way around the world is wonderful. Americans follow the news anxiously if a child falls down a well or a country is overwhelmed by a tidal wave. This support can be wonderful for parents, communities, and countries. It can motivate politicians, presidents, and policy.

But this support has a dark side.

The night of the Omaha shooting, our local news channel ran a lead story about the shooting, followed by a segment on protecting yourself at the mall. I have no doubt that news stations across the country ran similar stories. Of course local stations and the broadcast networks are going to cover the shooting. Of course, they are going to address issues that come up peripherally. But they don't have to make it sensationalist. They don't have to put the fear of God in every viewer. They don't have to lead with "Can it happen here? We ask local experts." We shouldn't have to experience 5 straight hours of CNN coverage that makes us think, "Oh. My. God. I will never enter a mall again without an Uzi to protect myself and my children!"

I call this the Fox News Effect.

I know that media outlets are responding to interest in a tragedy when they run segments like this, but these stories do two things: (1) they make us more fearful than is necessary; and (2) they trivialize the tragedies themselves.

Can it happen to you? Or you, or you, or you? Yes, of course it can. Is it likely? Um, no. Instead of focusing on the fear, why can't we have a rational discussion about mental illness? Even better, why can't we talk about how yellow journalism can drive people to do things like this in an attempt to become "famous?"

This focus on fear also moves the focus of the story (and the support of the viewing public) from where it should be - support of the victims, their families, their communities, and the underlying social problems that cause this sort of violence - to us, the viewing public, and what we can do to protect ourselves.

I know that if we stopped watching and voiced our displeasure, news outlets would stop. They run these stories because we watch them. But these stories play into our personal fears. Fears newly awakened by watching frightened and crying customers shivering in the parking lot in the aftermath. We start to think about ourselves instead of others.

In some ways, I felt the same after 9/11. I lived in D.C. I worked at the Pentagon during law school. My friends and colleagues were in that building. So were some of T's. We, and pretty much everyone we knew, were touched by death and despair. We knew the families, the wives, husbands, and children left behind. We drove past the gaping hole in the side of that imposing building every day. We saw the smoke. We felt the impact. We lived with the aftermath. We picked up the pieces and struggled to get on the Metro every day without fear. We boarded planes and pretended to be nonchalant as we prepared for take off.

Meanwhile, every small town in America started fighting over Homeland Security funds and freaking out about guarding the local water supply for a town of 500.

I'm not entirely sure why this made me so angry. But whenever I heard stories about things like that I just wanted to scream. It made me feel as if what had happened to my world was not important. As if what had happened in New York and D.C. was not as important as some hypothetical attack on Kansas City.

This is not to say that the rest of the country had no right to be scared or that no support was rallied. I think we all know how wonderful it was to live in the United States in the wake of 9/11, despite the fear. Americans pulled together in a way we rarely do. I also don't think everyone should act as if another 9/11 scale attack couldn't happen again and do nothing. But for God's sake, when I hear someone from a tiny town in the Northwest talking about the possibility of a terrorist attack at their local Piggly Wiggly, I just want to shake them. I want to shake them until they see the world beyond their personal space.

I know that the people of Omaha will pick up the pieces and move on. But I also know that they'll remember the victims this Christmas while they're in church and while they're gathered with their families, despite the lingering stories.

I know that many people in Omaha will be thinking of those families that are now missing a loved one. They'll be pulling together in support, true support, of those families. That is a facet of the Midwest that I know will always be the same, no matter how many journalists descend on the area.

What also gives me comfort is the knowledge that, despite what happened, the next time I go into Von Maur, or any store in Westroads Mall, I'll be greeted again with a sunny smile and a warm welcome. Because that's just how the people of Omaha roll.

This is for Julie's Hump Day Hmmm for the week. She tasked us with writing about our unique pet peeves.

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I have a new review up of the Autolite Flareglo on my review blog. If you're safety conscious, you'll want this for your emergency car kit.

Monday Montage - Farm Edition Part I

It's good to be home.

Don't get me wrong, it was nice to see everyone, but now I need a vacation from my vacation. I intend to get one at BlogHer. Now how many people do I owe drinks? Quite a few of you, I'm sure, but even if I don't owe you a drink, just wait until I've had a martini or two and ask. I'm a sucker when I've been drinking.

You'll have to bear with me but I have nearly 300 photos from our trip to Nebraska. I normally edit about half of my photos and it takes a lot longer when you have 150 of them to plow through. I've been editing in chunks, so I'm going to shamelessly use my photos for blog fodder all week while I catch up on all my blog reading.

Speaking of blog reading, do you think y'all could have been a little less prolific last week? You don't even want to know how many unread posts I have in Bloglines right now. There's no way I will catch up before BlogHer, so please forgive me if I don't comment on your old posts.

Before I get to the pictures, I also have to thank my guest bloggers. You ladies were fantastic! Thank you again, Heather, Julie, and Lauren. And, Lauren, if you don't start your own damn blog I'm never taking you shopping again!

And without further fanfare, I give you the Monday Montage Farm Edition - Part I of God knows how many. These photos were all taken at T's Uncle's place in the Platte River Valley on the last day of our trip:

Holden pets a goat, while Hollis tries to figure out how to discreetly scrape the goat poo off of his shoe.

"I'm not sure about this, Mommy."

Standoff at the O.K. Corral.

Holden encounters a goat.

"You can't see me."

"I know you're in there, chickens."

"Chicken! Doodle doo! Doodle doo!"

Photo by Hollis.

Hollis, the Pied Piper of goats.

After a hard day's work, Holden heads back to the homestead and his loyal steed.

Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

I'm from Louisiana and proud of my heritage. My family has been in Louisiana about as long as Western Europeans have been in Louisiana. (Both sides. Remember, my family tree doesn't fork much.) I have ancestors who fought in the American Revolution and the Civil War, including a rather notorious and famous Civil War-era ancestor who will remain nameless here. (Hint: His initials are J.D. and he has buildings and schools named for him all over the South, including U.S. Route 1 in Virginia. Knock yourself out on Google.)

My ancestry also comes with plenty of negative baggage - slavery and hundreds of years of institutionalized and socially acceptable discrimination. But when I think of New Orleans, my family, and my Louisiana, I think of food: crab and crawfish boils, gumbo, and crusty french bread. I think of music, cemeteries, beautiful architecture, trees draped in Spanish moss, lazy wet heat, family parties, and belonging. There is always a sense of ownership and belonging. Those are my people.

Those people now belong to my sons and, although I no longer speak with a Southern accent, my sons will. Every time I hear Hollis drawling "yeeeaaaaahh" into a two syllable word, it makes me smile. It reminds me of who I am and who my sons will be.

For an Air Force brat, a sense of belonging is important. When I went off to college, I never knew how to answer that first and simplest of all questions: "Where are you from?" A truthful answer could take a half an hour of explanation. Sometimes I said "Louisiana," but that required its own detailed explanation. Sometimes I took the easy way out and said "Nebraska," where my parents still live and I went to high school. But to be honest, I hated to tell people I was from Nebraska. I still do.

When I left Nebraska for college in Miami, it was with the expectation that I would never really live there again. It wasn't my home. I didn't belong. And frankly, I thought it was pretty boring. When I thought of Nebraska I thought of long stretches of flat highway, corn and wheat fields, smelly cows, dust, and maybe, if I was feeling charitable, pioneer Nebraska with a whiff of Little House on the Prairie.

If you contrast the mystery and excitement of Louisiana in the 1600's and 1700's, with the dusty plains of Nebraska in the 1800's, I thought the choice was clear.

Nebraska sucked.

I did, however, end up back in Nebraska, where I met and married T, a born and bred Nebraska farm boy. T and his brother grew up helping his parents work their family farm in Southwest Nebraska. I'll admit that he does have some exciting ancestors sprinkled in there, including Christopher Wren, but I thought that his ancestry and background paled in comparison to my own.

I couldn't wait to leave Nebraska, to view it from my rear view mirror as I drove away for good.

I began to look at Nebraska differently only by seeing it through T's eyes. When we were dating, he took me out to his parents' farm. We tromped out into the middle of a field and T turned to me and told me to stand still and listen.

At first I heard nothing.

No cars, no phones, no planes in the distance, no mechanical buzz of any kind. I didn't hear any of the myriad of sounds we all hear every day and ignore in their constancy. It was a bit freaky, that silence.

Then I heard the wind in the grass, birds twittering, a faint mooing, and my own shallow breath. There was movement all around me, in the air, the trees, the field, the shifting light. But it was still. Suddenly I understood what my husband loved so about his corner of Nowhere. I began to understand the man who would be my husband.

Don't get me wrong, my T has no desire to lead the life of a farmer. It's hard work. Harder than anything I've ever done. And in many cases farming is a direct route to bankruptcy and heart break. Only those who farm bigger or, in some rare cases, smarter, survive. But T loves Nebraska. Much of his love is, of course, caught up in his love for his family, but it's also the love of a way of life and a certain type of person.

Farmers are entrepreneurs, only without the attitude of entitlement. They take risks as lofty as the Las Vegas high roller or the venture capitalist. But farmers don't keep planting or ranching for the love of money. They do it for love of the land and of family. They have a deeply ingrained sense of responsibility to the earth they keep and the people they feed. It took me a long time to understand that.

While we were in Nebraska last week, we helped my in-laws pack up their house. Several years ago they sold the family farm, although they retained ownership of the house and the land around it for a time as part of the sales contract. Two days ago they closed on the sale of T's boyhood home. I know that the sale was undoubtedly harder for T's parents than for T, but still it hurts him. He wants to show the boys his history and the loss of his home means a loss of some part of his childhood. A part he assumed would always be there waiting for him to visit.

But still, T's parents will be nearby in my mother-in-law's childhood home, a place that is still a part of T and the story of his life that he will share with our sons. So now, T is beginning to talk to the boys about farming and tractors, cows and chickens, pivots and irrigation. He is teaching them the language of his people. He is showing them a piece of their history.

H&H are thrilled with anything involving both animals and heavy machinery. In fact, Hollis was in tractor overload on our trip. He spent hours staring out the car window as the scenery passed us by - the scenery I thought of as a boring stretch of flat highway - watching the cows, asking about each piece of farm equipment and the "big sprinklers" (the pivot irrigators).

In knowing and loving my husband, I've grown to know and love his state. Watching my sons discover Nebraska is something else entirely. It's wonderful to watch Hollis's eyes light up when his daddy promises to let him ride a tractor, pet goats, or chase chickens. What boy wouldn't love that?

But I also hope that the boys will someday see Nebraska through their father's eyes. They won't just see chickens to chase and cows to harass. One day they'll look over the rolling hills from their great-grandparent's house in Southwest Nebraska and they'll feel that wonderful silence. They'll understand a piece of their father they could never know without standing there in that spot and listening to the sound of nothing.

One day Hollis and Holden will think of Nebraska and its heritage with a sense of wonder. They will see the floods and the drought, the feast and famine of farming, the flawed beauty of what was once the wild west.

They will belong to Nebraska as much as they belong to the South.

The road ahead.