So Jodie and about 100 others are hunger striking this action.
About this time, Biscuit's mother comes walking by, so we chat about the little guy. I tell her that I took him for a walk. She tells me the story of how he was found near a Houston highway at the age of eight months. He's about three years old now. I wonder if he'll ever get over his abandonment anxieties.
As I'm marveling at the purple color of the bud or fruit of a five foot tall nettle or thistle, up comes a new car. "I'm playing hookey from work," admits the man from Austin as he locks up and walks toward camp.
The newly installed Port-O-Potty has been inserted into the line of cars here. So the foot traffic is a little heavier than before.
Attached to a car, with California Premium Trailer plates, is an artful steel trailer. Into the panels that surround the trailer an artist has cut reverse silhouettes of the symbol of battlefield death: a bayonetted rifle stuck upside down into the ground with a helmet on top. So this is how the crosses got here. Cicadas and crickets sing as waist high grass blows in the westerly wind. In the ditches one finds abundant evidence of the media flood that has come and gone, leaving tire marks in the lush grasses. Along the East side of Morgan road the fence posts are metal. Along the west side, wood. I'm out on the prairie again any my mind runs free. Dragonflies make their way against the wind.
Nearby, Bill Mitchell is trying to get some shade and downtime, but he's being harrangued by a lefty on revolution overdrive who want a petition signed pertaining to some issue that apparently needs lots of explanation. "I'm here," says Mitchell finally, "because my son was killed in Iraq." That seems to startle the lefty somewhat, but I don't hang around long enough to learn whether it shuts him up.
The chalk tally where the crosses begin marks today's official tally at 1,841 killed in Iraq, 13,769 wounded. Next to that is a poster with thumbnails of the first 1,000 faces. While looking at these signs I can't help but notice the one right behind them:
"Posted No Trespassing." It won't be too many days before the juxtaposition of these signs will define a conflict.
*****
"Motorcade incoming!" someone shouts as we all freeze and look NorthEast along Prairie Chapel Road. Is it Condoleeza Rice? Donald Rumsfeld? Bush? Because the line of cars contains a cop car, someone jokes: "He's been in office seven years and they finally figured out what he's guilty of." But the joke draws an immediate rejoinder: "They won't arrest the head honcho." A television news truck peels away from the 'motorcade' and parks inside the triangle as banter in the crowd continues. "Somehow these people think you don't have the right to change your mind. Both this 'motorcade' and the next dissolve before our eyes.
They were purely accidental arrangements of vehicles that somehow just got bunched up on these narrow country roads.
The precinct four road department is back again, with the driver of the truck asking, "Where's my help?"
And the response: "What do you need help doing?" The atmosphere seems to be loosening up quite a bit between protesters and officials. I take in some last images of animal life out here, Lucky Dog, a buzzard, and a butterfly, before taking the next shuttle back.
"What's your name?" asks the woman in the passenger seat. After she hears from the driver and me, she says, "I'm Gen Vaughan." Wow, talk about dropping a heavy name. If you don't know, do a Google on Genevieve Vaughan to get lots of details on this pre-eminent feminist organizer and philanthropist, proponent of gift economics, matriarchal studies, and women's radio. Then get out your calendar and save these dates
for the Second World Congress on Matriarchal Studies:
Sept. 29 - Oct. 2, San Marcos, Texas.
Back at the Peace House I'm going for some trunk supplies in the Honda that I rode in, but I'm also distracted by what's parked nearby. It's a friggin Yellow Cab! I mean here in Crawford a Yellow Cab?
The mystery is answered somewhat when Air America political satirist Barry Crimmins climbs into the cab and rushes toward camp, but I wonder, did he catch that cab on Park Avenue? Anyway, I'm thinking I should hang out here at the Honda. Last car I saw here was driven by Matt Taibbi of Rolling Stone, but that was hours ago.
The side lawn of the Peace House is now drawing a small crowd, thanks to Hadi's world famous wok veggie deluxe. Recipe: get a Texas sized wok, preheat on an outdoor cylinder grill, add veggies and spice to taste, and serve with rice. Mark Green is going crazy for the stuff, chomping down his third bowl and telling me how to trade in electricity the honest way.
Austin musician Bill Passalacqua is
vintage Prine and updated Zevon. He had the whole house grinning up at the VFP convention last weekend.
And he's getting some grins here too. Dick Underhill is shaking everybody's hand. He tells me that Kay Lucas is the story to go for, so make sure the guys from truthout, Air America, and Rolling Stone don't hear this, because I need the scoop.
But what's remarkable here on Thursday afternoon in the side yard of the Peace House, August 11, is the tent that's going up. Three foot metal posts are being pounded into the ground by guys that look like they've done this thing a time or two, and a large white canopy is secured overhead. A half dozen volunteers are dragging out cases of water from inside as portable water coolers are being dragged over the stones of the labyrinth.
Jim from Austin wants to videotape my philosophy of religion, but I take a rain check on that. The heat and the hours are swimming my thoughts around. Under this freshly raised tent, I may be getting religion right about now, but I couldn't unpack a concept for him. We agree to try again in air conditioning.
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