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June 22, 2025

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3 Top Story Spy Journal

Chicken Scratch: God freakin’ help you by Elizabeth Beggins

January 10, 2025 by Elizabeth Beggins
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I was at Walmart, at the customer service desk. Two peopl messing with the printer, and a woman helping another customer. The woman had to leave the desk to help a customer out in the store. As she left I heard her say, “God freakin’ help you, hon.”

So, I stood there, with my mouth hanging open, wondering WHY ON EARTH she would say that to me? I know Walmart customer service is often bad, but really? Then I turned to the guy working on the printer and saw his name tag. His name was Godfrey.

For almost a decade, I’ve laughed about this tale which belongs to my friend, Stephanie (shared with permission). We’ve all been there—hearing things that weren’t said, saying things that weren’t meant.Like the night my pseudo sous chef thought I said we were having snake for dinner.Or the story I read about someone asking a new roommate if they enjoyed watching p*rn movies when they were actually asking about foreign (“for’n”) movies. Or the long conversation I had with a woman about her Westy and how much we both loved them. It wasn’t until I told her ours was red that she gave me a funny look. She’d never heard of that color, while I thought of it as common. That was the point when we realized she’d been talking about her West Highland Terrier, and I’d been talking about our old Volkswagen Westfalia. I miss that ride.

Image of a vintage, red camper van

Our beloved (and long gone) Westy

These mix-ups ended with hearty chuckling and some great anecdotes, but can you imagine the seismic shift that might have been provoked with a subtle change in tone?

God freakin’ WHAT??!

Everyday, we stand on countless interpersonal fault lines, babbling Rings of Fire on the brink of conversational disaster. When things get wobbly, most of us manage to keep our shit together—stabilizing, soothing, regrouping. Except when we don’t. Then, shots are fired, and someone ends up getting hurt. Though we can’t predict what another person will bring to a discussion, generally speaking, we know how to play nicely in the sandbox, or how to not run with verbal scissors. It boils down to basic stuff we’ve been taught repeatedly.

Listen more. Talk less. Ask clarifying questions. Choose words thoughtfully.

Image of a mnemonic device: Before you speak T.H.I.N.K.

From the Coaching Tools Company

Probably, we heard it first as a short axiom: Think before you speak. More recently, a version called T.H.I.N.K. has surfaced.

  • T = Is it true?
  • H = Is it helpful?
  • I = Is it inspiring?
  • N = Is it necessary?
  • K = Is it kind?

While I haven’t been able to pinpoint when it came into being or who authored it, like its older cousin, it is meant to help us help ourselves, and others by association. The newer one seems to appear most often in educational settings, LinkedIn essays, and Pinterest images. One site calls it an acronym for kinder, more effective communications. I’d argue that it’s more of a mnemonic device than an acronym, but I suppose I shouldn’t be arguing at all, considering. You see how this goes?

In truth, nothing here is new. Tenets very similar to these were set down in a Victorian-era poem in 1872, and in the Buddhist Pali Canon, nearly 2,000 years earlier.

Monks, a statement endowed with five factors is well-spoken, not ill-spoken. It is blameless & unfaulted by knowledgeable people. Which five?

“It is spoken at the right time. It is spoken in truth. It is spoken affectionately. It is spoken beneficially. It is spoken with a mind of good-will.” — Anguttara Nikaya 5.198

Think. Before. You. Speak.

It is a topic I keep coming back to. If practice really did make perfect, I’d be the shiniest, most flawless example of perfection this side of the Mississippi. Maybe both sides. In reality, nothing could be farther from the truth. With greater frequency than I wish, I am a bumbling, fumbling, foot-in-mouthed numpty. And that doesn’t count the times I’ve been utterly unaware of my blunders. I bet my husband could help me tally up some of those. I’m at expert level in the slow learner’s game.

Evidently, holding back on verbal projectiles is a lifelong lesson, for me anyway. But we all know communication can get even messier when we take it to the virtual realm. Though the ‘think first’ principle still applies, the likelihood of flawed interactions increases when we’re on an electronic device. All those typos, the lack of punctuation, disjointed timelines, and anonymity are like dropping a Mark-77 on an arsenal of dormant missiles. It’s called the online disinhibition effect which, in laypeople’s terms, means if I’m communicating through a screen, I’m much more inclined to become an asshat.

In recent past, I found myself immersed in reactions to a post on Civil Discourse with Joyce Vance. One participant took exception to parts of the original essay and to several comments that followed. They shared their disagreements repeatedly. Their name turned up so often that I started to suspect a troll. (Do we still call them that? Or is that disrespectful to trolls? Serious question.)

But there was more to this person. There was evidence of respect. There was an admission of being in post-operative pain. Amid the dissent and cynicism was an earnestness and something that felt like sadness. Several people, who only saw the former, wrote back with sharp, dismissive comments. Others tried to find points of agreement. One respondent stood out from the rest. He noted their shared experience as disabled military veterans and built his remarks from there.

The tone of the disgruntled individual shifted markedly. Finally, someone who understood! Finally, someone willing to notice and connect! The exchange nearly brought me to tears.

Respondent: Look at my profile–disabled vet like you. I “low crawl” in bed every night. I get VA counseling every week to get my head tuned up. I feel the same way you do. I see it coming. I am majorly frustrated by how any veteran or active duty can [believe that way] and how the weapon we used professionally is easily available to anyone. Or how, in a dark future, our active duty brothers and sisters will be deployed against Americans!

Please, please, don’t become a casualty a second time. WE NEED YOU! Pull it together Troop–fall in, the enemy is in the wire!

p.s. I got the cats too. They got me through a year and half total lock-down.

Respondent: Use your anger, man. That’s how I got out of my chair. The batteries are long dead, and the van is gone. I replaced it with a 25 year old pickup that somehow, by God, I get into and out of (but the bed, no way!)

There’s lots of energy in anger. Welcome Home….

Frustrated commenter…what a great couple of replies! Thanks for reminding me of the camaraderie I miss every day.

Perception changes everything. Where we notice value, we direct attention. Where we direct attention, we notice value. This is the symbiosis in civil discourse. This is the genesis of cooperation. This is how we make space for our differences and for what we have in common.

Godfrey can help us.

Image of two hands reaching for each other with sky in the background

Photo by youssef naddam on Unsplash


Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Spy Journal

Chicken Scratch: All the Way In and Back Out Again by Elizabeth Beggins

December 17, 2024 by Elizabeth Beggins
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“I stand at the window looking out, trying to remember the truths that nature always brings home. That what lies before me is not all there is. That time is ever passing, and not only when I notice. That strife and pain are no more unexpected than pleasure and joy. That merely by breathing I belong to the eternal.”

― Margaret Renkl, The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year

 

This time, the weather gods mean business.

At least twice already, we harvested what we thought was the last of the fragrant and flavorful bounty of summer, only to find the host plants still upright and serviceable the next morning. But this time, the forecast leaves no room for doubt.

In anticipation, we dismantle the vegetable plots, cutting away strappy vines and woody sprigs, stacking wire cages, setting aside to save tomatoes of any appreciable size, in hopes of future ripening. Even plucked green, homegrown fruits have more potential than the road-weary options at the store. Or, we tell ourselves they do, which might be more important.

We snip incandescent marigold blossoms from weary stems, leaving some petals behind as an offering, bringing some inside to dry. Poor man’s saffron they call it, but it feels rich to me.

A fresh collection of marigold petals

After dodging a full blown freeze right up to the cusp of December, it finally arrives and unburdens itself all over everything. Begonia melts, colocasia slumps, trailing tradescantia flops in a flaccid mess. The fig, which only a day before clung resolutely to its frock, denudes itself in real time, leaves letting go like skydivers.

I’ve always been reluctant to transition my gardens from one season to the next, but it grew more noticeable when weekly market sales were no longer a driver. Professionals swap out plants proactively, knowing one is about to become less productive. The farmer can’t afford to wait until the current crop is completely spent before replacing it. She is an editor with a red pen and a looming deadline.

I’m fine with eliminating plants that have produced their last. But these days, and this day, as any day when I am in command of such life-reducing decisions, I feel twinges of guilt for ripping out these beating hearts. To compensate, I give thanks. For real. I say, “Thank you, tomatoes. Thank you, marigolds.” I follow with something truthful about how hard they’ve worked, how much they’ve provided, the elegance or ease they’ve added to my days. It is a gratitude practice that transports me from myopia to interconnection. I need it.

Creative inspiration from a few of the non-humans I coexist with

Once the space is clear, I’m able to embrace the full potential of this seasonal evolution. My husband fills the area with leaves, a father zipping up his child’s coat on a blustery day, to insulate the exposed earth from the ravages of wind and rain. Soil is the lifeblood of the garden, and we are determined to protect it.

Determination and protection are words I hear a lot right now, in the context of warding off political and cultural changes that feel threatening. The world is in turmoil and we, its human inhabitants, are both cause and cure. Resistance, we’re told, is imperative.

What we’re not told is the shape that resistance is meant to take or how we’re supposed to manifest it. How we do what we’re told we must do is entirely up to us, an opportunity for agency, and no great surprise that every process looks different. Some are leaving swords where they lie, some, while going it alone, are forging connection.

I’ve heard some people say, recently, that they’re practicing self-care as an act of resistance, as if they must maintain the pretense of fighting while they’re struggling to regroup. Friends, most of us don’t need permission to breathe all the way in and back out again. Please, practice self-care for its own sake. Dread is our constant companion, but so is delight. I can think of nothing more transformative than finding new ways to flourish, despite the times.

After the freeze, early December 2024

For me, the natural world offers guidance. Just look at it! Freed, for a time, from doing anything obvious, the garden is, nonetheless, engaged. It’s protecting an army of living creatures right where it is. It’s rebuilding from the long growing season, using the resources it has available. What it produced in its active phase continues to provide physical and emotional energy now.

The last few mornings, I’ve carried a kettle of boiling water outside to mix into the frozen bird baths I’ll maintain as best I can this winter. As I take in the garden, like the friend that it is, I don’t see resistance. What I see is resilience.

Bounty!

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Spy Journal

Chicken Scratch: This is (not) Sparta! by Elizabeth Beggins

November 8, 2024 by Elizabeth Beggins
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It’s Wednesday, November 6th, 2:00 AM. By the time you read this, polls for the 2024 American elections will have closed and results will be coming in. Some will be decisive, others not, but the expected outcome is that, eventually, a new president and numerous state-level officials will be determined.

Much as I considered holding off on this until after the dust settles, I decided against it. Nothing here is going to change because of this election. Tomorrow, and the day after, next week, and the week after, this message remains, as does my faith in our ability to make it happen.

_________________________

Agitated by a fresh litter of baby demons chewing at my insides, I make the unfortunate decision, a grave lapse in judgment to be sure, to give myself unbridled access to social media. I score a juicy political nugget in no time, comments ranging from solidaric to scurrilous that take the original post to a whole other level. Moments later, to virtual strangers, I’m winging verbal insults that start with f*ck and end with face.

What the hell? I take a breath, put the phone down, check myself. Where did that come from? This isn’t who I am. Or, at least, it isn’t who I want to be.

Socially, and metaphorically, this is Newton’s Third Law. Somebody shoves, I shove back. (Work with me, physicists; I know it’s not that simple.) We first test the theory as two-year-olds, hone it as teenagers, perfect it as adults–principally in politics, particularly in American politics.

This is us against them. This is Sparta!

The Siege of Sparta, Pyrrhus — Wikipedia, Public Domain

As a pernicious wave of political polarization threatens, though not for the first time in this country, to unravel what we have spent almost 250 years holding together, we want to know what’s driving it, where it’s coming from, and who or what to blame.

– Social media algorithms herd us into isolating bubbles that shimmer only from the inside.
– Cable news creates enduring political silos.
– Confirmation bias keeps us tethered to what we already believe, regardless of conflicting information.
– The two-party system forces us to separate into two camps.
– Our behavior is modeled after what we hear from our elected officials.
– The 1% want us divided so we are less focused on our massive economic disparities.
– All news, everywhere, is biased.
– Our country was built on the backs of displaced and enslaved people, and we’ve never fully addressed that.
– Wars rage and lives are shattered. Lives. Are shattered.
– Who can distinguish truth from lies anymore? Who bothers to try? 

Now is a good time to emphasize, in case there’s any residual confusion, that this is, in fact, not Sparta, and any attempt at parallels should be cautionary, at best. Spartans lived in perpetual fear of being overtaken by the much larger, oppressed class of Helots. Only about 15% of the population were considered citizens, because to count as a Spartan citizen, you had to have a certain amount of wealth. The society practiced eugenics, kept and hunted slaves, was run by two kings and a handful of rich people.

So, there’s that.

Now back to assigning blame for the political mess we’re in, it seems no matter which direction we point our fingers, or which finger we point, we’ve been unable to diagnose the primary cause of our antipathy. But there is one abiding theme: We all think we are at risk of losing what is important to us. We all believe we are playing a zero-sum game against a perceived enemy.

Think. Believe. Perceive. Notice those words. They are important. And it is with that in mind that I want to make something eminently clear: Americans are not as polarized as we imagine ourselves to be.

Yes, there are extreme factions. Yes, some of our democratic functions have been incapacitated by division. Yes, our election process needs an overhaul to address things like pervasive gerrymandering and controversial campaign financing.  But study, after study, after study, after study, after study shows that the vast majority of We the People want very much the same things for ourselves and our futures.

We believe in the right to vote, the right to equal protection under the law, the right to privacy, and the right to practice the religion of our choosing. The problem is not that our values don’t align, rather it is that we think they don’t. And why would we think otherwise, when so much of what we hear coming across our airwaves, see printed in our publications, and repeat on our social sites, tells us who we are, or aren’t?

Whether or not you ascribe to the notion that we are tribal by nature, there is no denying that we are prone to sort, cluster and categorize to make it easier for our brains to process and recall information. Neurologically, we appreciate these simplifications. When patterns recur and our expectations are substantiated, our reward centers ping, which further encourages the behavior.

Simplification sounds harmless, but it leads to stereotyping and othering. Attributing blanket traits to those who are different from us reinforces our own identity at the expense of someone else’s.

Fueled by news that tells us we are hopelessly divided, from entities that know if it bleeds it leads and for which attracting readers is a matter of survival, we find evidence of our disunion at every turn. In fact, we expect to find it, and it confirms what we already believe.

Conservative. Liberal. Gay. Straight. Old. Young. Female. Male. Black. White. The mere mention of the words brings to mind concepts, images, and assumptions for how a person in one group thinks, what another wants, and how they differ from or align with our own core values.

If you’re getting the idea that we are our own enemies here, good. Because unlike what happens on Capitol Hill, our own behavior is within our control. This is not a problem that is ours alone to solve, neither is the government the only form of power we can exercise. The more of us who train ourselves away from tribal psychology, the more capable we will be of healing our wounds. To put a finer point on it, we’re working to depose the f*ckface mentality.

The person who seems unable or unwilling to acknowledge the wisdom of our well-reasoned explanations for why their candidate is the wrong choice for the country: Not a f*ckface.

The person we were sure was well-studied enough to not be a single-issue voter: Not a f*ckface.

The person who voted for a third-party candidate because they didn’t want to support the status quo: Not a f*ckface.

We may have different backgrounds, belief-systems, and visions for what we want from our government. But our fears are likely very similar.

These are the people who file in with us to vote, the ones who sit behind the tables and make sure we are given the right ballot. These are the people who let us go before them in line, when we’ve got three items and they’ve got 30, the people who cheer next to us at the ballgame. They’re the ones who leave persimmons on our steps while we’re out, the ones we went to school with, the ones who pass us the green bean casserole at the Thanksgiving table.

It is a difficult time to be an American. We have developed emotional attachments to our political parties which render us unable to separate our identities from our affiliations. Criticism of our beliefs feels like a personal attack. But many of us are also more engaged in politics than we’ve ever been before and driven to reconsider what we’ve been missing, who hasn’t been heard, and how we can make a difference.

Tell me I should be taking a stand for democracy, and I’ll tell you I’m looking for ways to uphold my convictions without typecasting or dehumanizing my fellow citizens. I’ll say that, best I can tell, the way we think about each other, and the words we use to talk about each other, are what ultimately play out around us. Our children learn from them. Our societies learn from them. Tell me that this is all someone else’s fault, and I’ll tell you that the only person I’ve got permission to change is myself.

Photo: eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Spy Journal

Chicken Scratch: Such good fortune by Elizabeth Beggins

October 19, 2024 by Elizabeth Beggins
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As a newly-fledged adult, I entertained the idea of becoming a greeting card writer, going so far as to look up what was required to apply for that kind of position. It wasn’t that I had a deep-seated desire to take on a nameless, faceless writing job. Rather, I thought that even with no experience, I could crank out less anemic verse than what I found on the cards available at local stores. 

More recently, I’ve had similar thoughts about fortune cookies. What has happened? Have you noticed it, too? Most don’t offer fortunes at all. Instead, they’re stuffed with aphorisms or statements, and on occasion, quotes lifted from famous people, without any credit given.

The good ones are rare enough that I am apt to save them. I currently have four, and that speaks volumes. Granted, we don’t eat Chinese food that often. But when we do, I don’t think it’s asking too much to want my fortunes to be telling. The other stuff is just fluff. I don’t play the lottery, so the lucky numbers aren’t useful for me, and thus far, I’ve not managed to learn a word of Chinese.

This is not a fortune. This is a quote from comedian, Steven Wright.

I figured I wasn’t the first red-blooded American to lodge such a complaint, so I decided to explore cyberspace in search of ideas for when, and why, the downfall began. Shoddy craftsmanship often has roots in cost-saving measures, also known as corner-cutting, and I can’t be sure there’s not a little of that happening here. But the story that revealed itself indicates otherwise, and it is a good deal more intriguing than I would have ever predicted.

First, because it relates to where we’re going, I want to bring you the history of the cookies themselves. Despite their ubiquity as a traditional treat at the conclusion of a Chinese meal, these folded, foamy, vaguely vanilla crescents probably did not originate in China, at least not in the way we might think.

Were you to walk the path this cookie traveled to get to the version we know today, you’d first bump into a bunch of 14th century Han Chinese hiding revolutionary messages inside—or under, or on top of—mooncakes, a seasonal confection enjoyed at the Mid-Autumn Festival which celebrates the fall full moon and harvest. The story goes that the oppressed Han, galvanized by the secret notes in their celebratory cakes, rose up to overthrow the Mongolian Yuan Dynasty, which had occupied China for nearly a century.

But Hok-Lam Chan (or Chan Hok-Lam, in customary Chinese), a Hong Kong born historian, determined that those tales are pure fiction, probably retold without revision from a place of nationalistic pride.   

True or false, using baked goods to convey messages does not, to me, constitute a credible origin story for our friend the fortune cookie. Humans have devised all manner of disguises for their missives, including scalps, smoke, and dead animals, so it’s not as though the mooncake caper was a particularly novel approach.

Now, our explorations jump ahead to the 19th century. While the details grow a little less fantastic, they’re still not much clearer. At this point, the Chinese continue efforts to link themselves to the provenance of the cookie, and except for the fact that the dessert is essentially nowhere to be found in China, they might have succeeded.

The trail on this part of the journey takes us to David Jung, a Chinese immigrant living in Los Angeles in 1918. Jung owned the Hong Kong Noodle Company and, purportedly, gave cookies with bits of scripture inside to the unemployed. But the path also forks over to Seichi Kito, a Japanese-American, also in L.A., who founded Fugetsu-Do, a bakery that still exists today. Kito, we discover, sold haiku-stuffed cookies to Chinese restaurants. A snack company called Umeya also gets in on the act of claiming the title as inventor.

Meanwhile, over in late 1800s San Francisco, it’s said that Makoto Hagiwara, a gardener whose life’s work was maintaining the well-known Japanese Tea Garden, gave out a modified version of an even older style of Japanese wafer, to express thanks to those whose protests helped him get his job back, after he was fired by a racist mayor. The cookies he shared came from Benkyodo Bakery, which not only alleges to have developed the cookie’s flavor as we know it, but also to have invented a machine to produce them in large numbers.

All this, and nothing of the little slips of paper inside! Join me for one more jaunt before we find our way back to the fortunes themselves.

The older Japanese cookie mentioned above? That one traces back to 1870s Kyoto. Journalist Jennifer 8. Lee, in her book about the history of the fortune cookie, explains how local bakers, back then, made crackers called tsujiura senbei (translation: fortune cracker) with a shape identical to the one we enjoy today. She also sites research from Yasuko Nakamachi, who discovered references to the crackers, and even an illustration of them being made, in historical literature written well before the modern cookie appeared in America. 

Tsujiura senbei – photo from: Atlas Obscura

By the 1950s, through twists of fate that include World War II, the American palate, traveling military personnel, savvy food-business owners, and the tragedy of Japanese internments, the U.S. version of the fortune cookie had taken the Chinese-American food scene by storm.

Some manufacturers, like Wonton Foods, based in Brooklyn, NY, still keep a fortune-writer on staff. Donald Lau held the position for thirty years and described it as one of the hardest jobs he’s ever had. He handed over the reins about eight years ago, citing writer’s block as his reason for stepping down.

“At his peak, Lau wrote maybe 400 fortunes a month. But the work drained him. He couldn’t meet America’s constant demand for good news.” – The Week

His job is now held by James Wong, whose uncle founded Wonton Foods in the early 70s. The company also maintains a database of around 15,000 fortunes and uses a third that many in the cookies it produces everyday.Outside of Wonton Foods, there were once just two other fortune-making companies in the country, one run by Steven Yang, the other by Yong Sik Lee. But, that was later—after the two men stopped talking to each other, and Yang stopped working for Lee, and instead became his competition. When he left to start his own business, Yang took Lee’s fortunes with him, literally and figuratively. He stole a stockpile of Lee’s messages and eventually beat him in business, too.

Lee, now in his 80s, is no longer working, but Yang and his staff of five are still cranking out tiny bits of wisdom, using nontoxic materials, just in case someone eats one. Over the years, fortune databases have grown as writers continue to refresh repositories with new messages. Of the three billion cookies manufactured each year, most are consumed here in the U.S. Keeping customers happy, it seems, is a bigger challenge than might meet the eye. I don’t have to tell you how readily Americans take offense or will decide they can do a better job than a trained professional.

Yes, my hubris has taken a nosedive. Now that I know more of what’s involved, I can’t imagine coming up with fortunes enough to satisfy even half the country’s cookie demand. A week on the job and I’d be hitting dusty anthologies of wise sayings and watching reruns of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood for creative inspiration.

My reality check is probably for the best. Recent news reports are upsetting. All too soon, it seems, the Steven Wongs of the world will be replaced by artificial intelligence. Staffers and freelancers, the likes of whom have created pithy cookie content for generations, will be relegated to churning out prompts for ChatGPT so that computers can tell us what our futures have in store. 

Something tells me I’m going to like those predictions even less than the ones I get now. Maybe I need to start my own fortune cookie company instead.

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story

Chicken Scratch: Speak to me of resilience and possibility (in the aftermath of Apalachee)

September 15, 2024 by Elizabeth Beggins
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I’ve been watching the hummingbirds, juveniles I assume, dancing among the late summer flowers like iridescent acrobats. The adult males have already made their way to Central America, where they are establishing winter territories, females following soon after. The youngest depart last.

I’ve been clinging to the glimpses of joy, tenacious and fleeting, delivered by these miniature winged messengers. They speak to me of resilience and possibility. I need that more than ever right now.

Student, Ethan Clark, texted his mom the morning of the Apalachee school shooting.

Every time I think about the recent Apalachee High School shooting, I lose my bearings. Not again. Have mercy, not again. And every time I hear myself think those thoughts, a surge of something putrid makes its way through my gut, a mix of contrition and impotence. How long will it be before I stop feeling this way? Until I forget to feel this way? How many have already forgotten?

Not the individuals who were there. The ones who lived are now reliving how it felt to be there on September 4th. Not the 383,000 students who have experienced gun violence at school since Columbine, the staff, the parents. Each time this happens, they remember anew. They remember what they lost.

Many will be unable to do much. For a while, there might be an uptick in activity, new cadres of individuals joining Moms Demand Action and Sandy Hook Promise. Well-known writers and activists will share pointed arguments bolstered with statistics. Small town former school librarians (like Rita Ott Omstead at Rootsie) will wrestle with harsh realities.

Some, like me, will pour over data and history, then write their hearts out in a futile attempt to make any of it make any sense at all.

It won’t ever make sense. The numbers are staggering, but we need to see them.

  • According to the provisional CDC data, 48,117 people died by guns in 2022, an average of one person every 11 minutes. Overall…gun deaths are up 21% since 2019. ~Johns Hopkins Center for Gun Violence Solutions
  • Among 65 high-income countries and territories, the United States stands out for its high levels of gun violence, [ranking seventh overall]. ​Puerto Rico and the US Virgin Islands, two US territories, rank first and fourth. Washington, DC has the highest rate of deaths from gun violence in the United States. ~Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation
  • In 2020, the 10 states with the highest rates of gun deaths among children and teenagers ages 1–19 were Louisiana, Alaska, Mississippi, South Carolina, Arkansas, Kansas, Indiana, Kentucky, Missouri, and Alabama. All of these states received an “F” grade for their weak gun laws. ~American Progress
  • Guns are the leading cause of death among American children and teens. One out of 10 gun deaths are age 19 or younger. ~Sandy Hook Promise
  • Conservative estimates put the number of active school shooter incidents since the 1999 Columbine massacre at 131, with 222 fatalities and 351 injuries.  ~Security.org

The data amplify what we already know, but these aren’t just numbers. These are lives, children and adults with names, families, classmates and co-workers, pets, plans, stories that are forever changed because of guns and the people who pulled the triggers.

Names and ages. These are just the school shootings with more than 3 fatalities since 1999. There are hundreds more.

Still, remarkably—and because this is the only way I can generate the will to go on trying when I’ve been staring into the darkness—I can, just barely, make out a few pinpricks of light. I will offer, first, that I’m neither naive nor optimistic enough to think these are solutions unto themselves. As with all systemic issues, finding a way through the American gun morass will require profound cultural and regulatory shifts. But there may be a whisper of a signal, an aseismic event that is starting to take place.

  • In February, 2022, a settlement of $73 million was reached with Remington Arms for the families of nine victims of the 2012 mass shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Survivors of later shooting incidents, including those of the Uvalde school shooting, have launched more cases against gun makers and marketers.
  • Also in 2022, the bipartisan Safer Communities Act came through Congress. It was the first gun legislation passed in almost 30 years.
  • A 2023 Pew Research study determined that a majority of Americans (61%) say it is too easy to legally obtain a gun in this country.
  • In April of this year, Jennifer and James Crumbley, the parents of 15-year-old Ethan, who killed four people and injured seven at Michigan’s Oxford High School, were sentenced to at least 10 years in prison. While ignoring signs of their son’s eroding mental health, the Crumbleys purchased him a 9mm semi-automatic handgun as an early Christmas gift, then failed to secure it in the household.
  • In June, 2024, the Surgeon General declared gun violence a public health crisis.
  • Colt Gray, the 14-year-old Apalachee school shooter has been charged with four counts of murder. His father, Colin, has also been arrested on charges of involuntary manslaughter, two counts of second-degree murder and eight counts of cruelty to children because he, allegedly, purchased the AR-15-style rifle for his son.

(Left to right) Richard Aspinwall, Cristina Irimie, Mason Schermerhorn and Christian Angulo were killed in the Apalachee High School shooting in Winder, Georgia, on September 4, 2024. Photos: Barrow County School System

That this kind of gun violence is NOT typical in other high-income countries tells us that the same is possible here. Despite the cries of 2nd Amendment loyalists who suggest that tightened gun regulations would result in a great gun roundup across the nation, proposed interventions are actually far more reasonable. Researchers like the co-founders of The Violence Project recommend “measures that help control firearm access for vulnerable individuals or people in crisis,” like age and permit restrictions, background checks, and safe storage campaigns.

Of course controls like these require bi-partisan legislative action which, heretofore, is where the majority public opinion gets lost. Which brings us to our elected officials and the critical need for more voters.

A third of eligible voters didn’t show up for the 2020 election. This group includes some who wanted to vote but couldn’t. It also includes those who don’t like their choices, those fed up with the two-party system, those who feel their vote won’t make a difference, and those who just don’t care one way or another. When these people opt out of the conversation, their voices are lost, giving politicians the signal to maintain business as usual.

Isaac Saul, who writes Tangle, a brilliantly balanced newsletter, puts it like this: “The politicians that you loathe and that duopoly system you are deriding — they depend on your apathy. They need it to succeed. They need you to believe what you believe in order to stay in power and to maintain the status quo. Quite literally, one of the only ways you can fight them—in a tangible way—is to vote.”

If saving lives really matters, it’s time to help encourage someone beyond ourselves to the polls. Canvassing, phone banking, postcard and yard sign campaigns all have purpose and potential. Haven’t we been asking for more than thoughts and prayers? Don’t these victims and their families deserve it? Don’t our communities deserve it?

Say what you will about the gun lobby and the futility of past efforts. You won’t be wrong. But nothing comes from nothing. A little over thirty years ago, we were still flying on smoke-filled aircraft and drinking in smoke-filled bars. Few people then foresaw the eventual tipping point for the powerful tobacco lobby. Some, driven by matters of principle and survival, pressed forward to success.

Toward the end of every summer, following a feeding frenzy that nearly doubles its body weight, the North American ruby-throated hummingbird sets off for Central America. Depending on its starting point, it may travel distances of more than 2,500 miles. When it crosses the Gulf of Mexico, it will fly close to 500 miles, an average of 20 hours, non-stop. It will achieve what seems impossible.

Photo by Pete Weiler

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: 3 Top Story, Spy Highlights

Chicken Scratch: Make Way – Losing What We Have, Gaining What We Need

August 24, 2024 by Elizabeth Beggins
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At first, the sirens were unremarkable. When you live just a few blocks from the volunteer fire company, you grow accustomed to the bleating and wailing as engines speed past. By the same token, you also recognize when the customary becomes extraordinary.

The longer your senses are assaulted by the noise, the more you notice that this is not a typical response. One minute, three minutes, seven, twelve – how long can they continue coming?  You send up a prayer for whoever is on the receiving end of that much help. You selfishly hope your loved ones are safe. You try to wrangle your racing thoughts into submission. And then, the phone rings.

Minutes after it began, a raging fire of suspected electrical origin claimed the life of a 90-year-old barn at Pot Pie Farm. It was a summer holiday week and the owners’ family, from both coasts, had come together to celebrate. Five children under the age of ten, the oldest of whom managed their own meanderings on the nine acre property, were among those gathered.

Thank heavens no one was injured. It could have been so much worse. These were the lifelines to which everyone clung in the aftermath of the event, even as they reeled from the magnitude of what had happened.

When he called me that afternoon, my husband knew I would be devastated. For thirteen years we’d lived at this farm. It was our daughters’ first home, where their earliest aspirations took shape. They appreciated every bump and tumble place, every high and mighty place, every cool and silent place. We all knew the barn so well that any one of us could navigate it in the dark. Sometimes I’d play a little game with myself and do just that, even when I could have turned on a light, because it reminded me that there was nothing to fear.

Fifteen years earlier, the structure had been extensively renovated. Modifications made under the direction of previous farm stewards had weakened its integrity, causing the sidewalls to cant precariously away from the roof.  It needed an intervention to go on living. After the work was completed, it seemed ready to stand for another century.

“She was a beating heart.” ~Robin Bowman — Photo credit: Jaime Windon

One of the upgrades included the addition of a cement pad in place of the compacted earth which had previously served as its only floor. Our girls, two- and four-years-old at the time, pressed their tiny hands into a corner of the wet concrete, leaving a lasting impression. Another print, the size of a four-egg omelet, was laid down at the same time, dwarfing theirs. It belonged to Luther, a man just shy of 80, who had served as the farm’s caretaker for more than 50 years.

Though still strong as a mule (and nearly as stubborn), pictures of a more robust Luther had hung inside the barn, from back when dairy cattle and sheep were among those making use of the space, and when the upper reaches of a Loblolly pine along the lane might not have been so high as to be beyond the reach of a nimble, climbing child.

Loblolly pines now much too tall for climbing.

Local lore indicated that the barn was built around 1920, and from that time forward, it anchored the property through numerous owners and offspring. Also on its walls were pictures of the farm’s owners, their children and grandchildren, my children, generations of people who’d been held in the bosom of that space. The barn was the nerve center of the farm, the congregation point for weekly harvests and wedding parties, dinners and dedications, free-range youngsters and unhurried conversations.

In a river of activity, there was an eddy at the barn where beautiful moments whorled around and lasting memories settled out. It pulled people in and somehow, inexplicably, left them feeling more complete than when they arrived.

One might attribute the transformation to any number of factors—the gentle energy of animals, the constant supply of the most delicious food, the box seat views of both sun- and moonrise, the distinctly measured pace—and certainly these were part of the experience.

But there was something more, something magical, something sacred. Emanating from the walls of that barn, mingled with the seductive scent of dirt, and sky, and history, was the essence of potential.

No doubt, you can identify places of equal merit in your own life, sanctuaries that bring you back to yourself, connecting you to the past, coaxing you toward the future while simultaneously, wondrously, anchoring you to the now.

For a small, working farm like Pot Pie, the barn and its contents were invaluable, the lost historical records irreplaceable. When it was safe, I searched the rubble hoping the find a remnant of the handprints, but the intense heat had left the cement blackened and crumbly.

Fire cares nothing for legacies. But neither can it devour spirit. The pulse of a place is not so easily destroyed. Emerging from the promise of possibility, there is resolve. There is hope.

This essay, in its original form, was written just weeks after the event, a decade ago. Like the fire itself, it could not be contained. It billowed out of me from a place of deep knowing and deep loss. Revisiting it now, I still instinctively curl inward as if to shield myself from the intensity. It’s hard to read, but it’s not the end.

Two years after the fire, a new barn with a smaller footprint was constructed on the former site. It didn’t replace the original—nothing could—but its walls now gather in their own stories. Rehabilitation is a process and, when it comes, notable. To rebuild is to rise and, to once again, make way.

As it happens, this farmland is now in another phase of transition. Ann and Charlie Yonkers, guardians since 1991, have just handed the keys over to a new family, the 14th recorded stewards since the late 1700s. Before that, the Choptank, the Nanticoke, and scores of native peoples who, like all of us, came there for community and sustenance.

The barn fire at Pot Pie Farm occurred as those who loved her best converged to celebrate Independence Day. I can’t help but see the political challenges of our time reflected in the crisis.

Historic structures are storied, precious, and vulnerable, and our efforts to protect them troubled by expected and unnatural forces. Many decay. Many fall. But there is a vitality, a pulse of energy felt from within, that endures. From there, I believe it’s possible to to recreate form and function. It may not look like it once did, but it carries on.

Photo credit: Carol Bean — another who loved the place well.

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: Spy Highlights

Chicken Scratch: He’s Never Really Been Small by Elizabeth Beggins

August 3, 2024 by Elizabeth Beggins
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From the author: This essay is one of a developing series called “Men Who Mow” that begins here. 

_______________________

People call him Chub. He spells it with one b. For reasons he’s never understood, others use two. At some point, he just let that go. His real name is Edgar. Edgar Leon Thomas, Jr., after his father, but he’s been Chub since he was small. To hear him tell it, though, he’s never really been small.

“I was a fat little baby,” he laughs. “That’s how the nickname got started. And now? Well, I’ve got a mean sweet tooth.”

A younger Chub.

Chub is unassuming but not shy, his voice deep, subdued, rounded. He’s 6’2” and, best I can tell, his heart is pure gold.Though I can’t pin it precisely, I’d wager we’ve been crossing paths for 20 years. We met when he was part of a mowing crew that serviced the property where my family and I lived. Guys on high-speed machines buzzed around like antagonized hornets with little regard for my two youngsters, who were apt to zip across a patch of lawn nearby.

Chub was the only one who noticed, always making time to idle the mower long enough to offer a cheerful greeting, his gold teeth glinting out from a giant smile. Even now, when we see each other, the first thing he wants to know is how the girls are doing.

Men who mow.

No matter the temperature—and our summers can be brutal—he wore a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. I couldn’t fathom why he’d cocoon himself into such heavy clothes, and I remember feeling a little featherbrained when he explained, simply, that it kept the grass out of his ears. These days, a pair of noise-canceling headphones offers a cooler solution.

For a few years, during the mowing season, I saw Chub weekly. When we moved from the farm, I saw him only occasionally, but always with the same big grin and interest in how the kids were faring. The only predictable encounter was when I stopped to pick up barbecue.

Oh, the barbecue! Before I get to that, and it’s so very worth getting to, I want to tell you how Chub came to be part of this community. Like me and my husband, he didn’t start out here. Locals have another nickname for people like us. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve lived here, if you weren’t born here you’re a “come here.”

Chub came here from Reddick, Florida. His parents were seasonal workers for a gladiolus farm run by a man named Gus Schlag. They worked in the Sunshine State, and when the operation expanded, they traveled north to do the same thing in a new place. In the early spring of 1966, possibly during a stay in Wittman where the Maryland farm was based, Chub became a glimmer in his mama’s eye. He was born down south the following January and continued making trips back and forth with his parents throughout his childhood.

When he was 28, he relocated here for good, continuing to work for Mr. Schlag. Seven days a week, eight hours a day, for $5.15 an hour, he and others handled thousands of gladioluses destined for markets in Washington, D.C. and Baltimore. Every spring they prepared fields, planted bulbs, tended plants, and harvested flowers. Every fall they dug, cleaned and stored bulbs. They slept and ate in a former schoolhouse, often enjoying fresh vegetables and locally caught seafood. If they worked straight through for six months, without a day off, they were given a bonus.

The old schoolhouse where the flower crews lived.

Not too long after settling here, Chub met Pat. In fact, she made a point of meeting him, asking people she knew about the guy she’d seen across the street. He was 31. She was 44. He told her she was robbing the cradle.

He proposed, once, and she laughed him off, suggesting he’d had too much to drink. He never asked again. But over the years, he’s bought her five rings, at least one of which set him back a mighty pretty penny. As fate would have it, every one of those rings was lost, but the relationship has remained in place for 26 years. Her health isn’t what it used to be, on account of a battle with cancer, but they press on together.

Chub describes himself as a jack of all trades, master of none. Before the flower farm, he worked with horses, helping break as many as 400 mares a year. Later, he took up landscaping and handyman work. What he enjoys more than anything else is his food business: Chubbs’ Grilling on the Move.

He operates from a roadside setup that includes a large, mobile grill, a folding table, a pop-up tent, a few coolers, a camp chair, and a radio. Most weekends, locals and travelers can find him behind Carroll Motor Fuels, a small gas station and car wash on the south end of town. The only signage is a relatively new BBQ flag out front. This is not a business with an advertising budget. It relies entirely on word-of-mouth referrals and on Chub’s reputation for reliably flavorful food.

Chicken for a party.

On weekend mornings, he arrives early to get the fire going, giving the heat time to moderate. When the coals are ready, he loads the cooker with seasoned half-chickens and racks of pork ribs. Instinct tells him when to turn them and when to take them off the grill. Pulled pork, from shoulder cuts cooked long and slow, is started the day before and either sold in containers or piled onto individual buns. No matter what meat is selected, two sauce options are offered on the side: a thick, sweet commercial type, and a thin, vinegar-based, homemade type. That’s the one I prefer.

This March, a tree fell on both his and Pat’s vehicles, hers just 10 days old. Chub had been hoping to buy an enclosed trailer to store his gear and offer him a place to get out of the wind in winter. Instead, he’s making payments on a new van.

“Both cars!” he repeated, shaking his head. “How does that even happen?” And then he laughed.

“How does that even happen?”

Chub works until all his goods have been sold, or until the selling feels done, whichever comes first. With advance notice, he fulfills orders for parties and events. Otherwise, it’s just a day’s worth of eats on the grill, rain or shine, Friday, Saturday and most Sundays. He gets especially busy right after church lets out.

He’s not a church goer himself. He had his fill of that in childhood. His grandmother was a minister, his mother a devout Baptist. He was in church every day, some days all day. Once, he asked why people who claim to be ‘saved’ seem like the first to ones to put down the less fortunate.

He sounds a little wistful as he recalls his mother’s answer. “Chub, a lot of people in the streets are going to heaven. And a lot of people in church aren’t.”

“For me,” he says, pointing to his barrel chest, “Church is in your heart. It’s how you treat others. I pray for everyone. Don’t matter who. My church is right here.”

He’s learned to keep his distance from people who make him angry. He considers himself lucky to have five true friends. Though his mother passed away in 2018, his father (nicknamed “Satch”) still lives nearby. He’s in touch with his remaining siblings. He keeps up with a daughter from a former relationship, and a niece who completed her college degree this spring, despite losing her grandmother (Chub’s mom), her mother (Chub’s sister), and her only brother as she made her way through school.

The last time Chub and I sat down to visit, I stayed nearly two hours. I bantered with people who came looking for grilled goodness: a woman disappointed she’d missed the pulled pork two times in a row; a man who manages the gas station and loves ketchup to the point of putting it on pizza; another man named Albert who caretakes on a property a few miles away, at the age of 94.

While we talked, Chub moved around his work station with ease, helping customers, telling stories. He strikes me as someone who knows exactly what he’s doing and how it needs to be done. He strikes me as a master of his craft.

When I finally stood to leave, I apologized for staying so long.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said. “Sometimes it’s nice to hear something besides the birds and that radio.”

Edgar Leon Thomas, Jr. (Chub)

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: Spy Highlights

Chicken Scratch: Do Not Go Beyond This Point by Elizabeth Beggins

July 5, 2024 by Elizabeth Beggins
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If there is a single characteristic that distinguishes Americans from people of other countries it is our fierce fidelity to individualism. These boots are made for walking, and we’ll do it our way, thank you very much (hat tip Sinatras). We want what we want and, for the most part, believe we deserve to get it.

I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with any of that. I’ve been the strident citizen, the person who stood my ground in defense of what I felt was right. So, what is it about so much of today’s agitation that I find objectionable?

I wish I had answers. I don’t. But I do have a few ideas.

First, I think we’ve heightened individualism at the expense of community. We’ve lost not just the mechanisms to support each other—like neighborhoods, civic clubs, church families and extended families—but also the will. For decades, we’ve been warned that something or someone was on the verge of taking away our hard-earned freedoms. Apply yourself, they said. Hustle, they said. That’s how it’s done. Later, we learned we’d given too much of ourselves away. Set personal boundaries, they said. Practice self-care, they said. That’s how it’s done.

It’s me and me against the world, isolating and transactional. Where, in these models, are collaboration and community-building? Where is there opportunity for mutual progress? Where is the health of the whole?

I also think we’ve elevated the merits of moral outrage while suppressing the call for personal responsibility. It goes like this: Look at me! I am incensed. With these words, I’m signaling alignment with my in-group, folks who are equally upset. Therefore, I am virtuous.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks (hat tip, Shakespeare).

Contrary to what we might want to believe, science tells us that indignation on behalf of others is more self-serving than it is altruistic. By pinning blame on third-parties, we assuage our own guilt and shore up our identity as good people. It’s worth noting that social media algorithms drive the proliferation of righteous indignation, because they are designed to reward posts with such content. Suffice to say, surprise! It’s still all about us.

This next thought dawned on me the other day and felt a bit like being smacked in the head with a protest sign: I think some of our perceived best efforts at speaking up for worthy causes are actually making matters worse. Here’s a recent experience to help illustrate.

The farmers market had just ended. Volunteers and vendors were bustling about, breaking down tents and tables. Someone moved an orange traffic cone a bit prematurely, tempting new arrivals to vie for recently vacated parking spaces. A car approached the barrier just as someone moved to put the cone back in place. The driver was met with a diplomatic but firm no.

“You can’t come through here. You’ll have to go around the other way,” he was told.

Never mind that the alternate route was no more than three car lengths to the left, the announcement set off a strong reaction. Though the car windows were shut, and I stood some distance away, the anger was evident. Mouth wide, arms flailing, fingers pointing, engine revving. The man throttled the car forward, compelling folks in close proximity to step back and opening a corridor for him to blast through. A fellow across from me flexed, ready to rumble. By now, the car’s windows were down and choice words flew back and forth.

For a few seconds, I thought about engaging. I had no plan of attack and no means of defending myself should things turn ugly, but in that moment, my cowboy boots and ‘how dare he’ attitude were enough.

Fortunately for all of us, the driver sped off before anyone could act on more impactful impulses, but we were all gobsmacked by the injustice that had occurred. Someone violated what felt like a reasonable request, and we were powerless to stop him.

At a basic level, there were two forces in play here—them what makes the rules and them what breaks ‘em. By ignoring the appeal to take a different route, the driver exercised control. Rule makers hold the power. Rule breakers get it back, fleetingly or not, through acts of rebellion.

Generally, rules make our lives easier and we obey them because, generally, they feel justified. Despite recurrent socio-political pleas to burn it all down, humans don’t actually thrive in chaos. If the law instructs us to drive on a particular side of the road, there is strong motivation to comply and significant risk in doing otherwise. Still, faced with policies we deem unfair or the apparent inability to achieve our goals, we balk.

And let’s be honest. We’ve all had our moments. Exceeding the speed limit. Jaywalking. Parking in a fire lane. Underage drinking. Tax evasion—not the big kind but the kind that looks like not declaring your tips while paying your way through school. Sneaking in. Sneaking out. Sometimes acts of defiance are just our way of sticking it to the man, reasserting our power, and emphasizing that we can’t be told what to do.

For a moment, let’s pretend that the farmers-market-crasher represents our current out-group, people whose views don’t align with our own. And let’s say the orange traffic cone and the directive to take a different route is our moral outrage. What happens when all that converges in the random parking lots of life?

Bolstered by American individualism and a fear of lost freedoms, our indignation makes the out-group more determined than ever to get where they’re going. When they succeed, we’re left feeling powerless and that a grave injustice has taken place.

Are we supposed to step aside? Let renegades run rampant while we stand back and suck in their exhaust? Well, that’s one option, but there are others that feel more balanced.

–We can apply ourselves, yes, and practice self-care. But we can also throttle back the competition. Assume good intentions, help others get ahead. Compromise and success are not mutually exclusive. We get what we give, and when we aim for common good, everyone benefits. More importantly, we cannot thrive when we refuse to see ourselves as part of a much larger whole. For better or worse, our actions are reciprocal.

–We can seek out solutions as often as we find problems. If we fracture our femur, the last thing we want is a group of people standing around on two good legs lamenting the brokenness of ours. We need someone who will call the paramedic, someone who can stabilize the injury and get us closer to healing. We can’t do everything but we can do some things, starting with deliberate efforts to engage in problem-solving.

–We can work on cultivating curiosity in place of judgement. Listen. Ask questions. Try a different approach. Be willing to be surprised and open ourselves up to possibilities. Sometimes, a shift in perspective is all that’s needed to bring about a better outcome.

For most of us, changing the approach to how we see and experience the world is new and therefore terrifying. What terrifies me more is what happens if we don’t.

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Filed Under: Spy Highlights

Chicken Scratch: Angel, Soft by Elizabeth Beggins

June 1, 2024 by Elizabeth Beggins
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I should have known. These were unprecedented times.

That’s not entirely true, but we’ll go with it for simplicity’s sake.

At any rate, I was lucky to find it at all let alone in the very first location. I guess that and the elation from having my 92-year-old mother back home, having survived a series of terribly unfortunate events and nearly a month of isolated medical care (but no Covid) had my hubris humming. A 12-pack of single-ply Scott rolls, the most dreadful excuse for toilet paper ever created in this part of the world, was not what I was hoping for. It might as well be a 4-pack, seeing as we’d have to use three times as much to get the job done.

I turned the package over in my hands one more time before digging my heels in. Nope. I could do better.

A real photo of a product that pretends to be bathroom tissue, taken May 12, 2020.

The shelves in store number two had been picked clean and store three was bare as bones. By now I was across town from the scene of my rookie mistake. I detoured to buy the fried chicken mom had requested for lunch. When the young woman at the drive-thru window asked if there would be anything else, I quipped, “Any idea where a girl could score some toilet paper around here?”

She laughed one of those cashier laughs designed to distract people like me from the involuntary eye rolling, but then she changed course and offered the idea of a discount store just up the road.

On it like a bonnet!

It didn’t take long to navigate there and make my way to the correct aisle, where I found a cavern of emptiness. On both sides. How could I have been so foolish?

Dejected, I grabbed a bag of chocolates I’d not planned to purchase and headed towards check out. On my approach, I glanced down. There on the floor, and very nearly in my path, was a multi-pack of Angel Soft. I stared at it for several long seconds before looking up to check, carefully, over both shoulders. I fully expected someone with overfull arms, who’d dropped it without realizing, to rush in and reclaim it like a fumbled football. There was no one. I picked it up.

In the line ahead of me was a sunny woman with socially distanced celebration supplies—poster board, markers and such. She wore a bright yellow top, black polka-dot pants, and coordinating shoes on tiny feet. Across from her, a child and a man with a basket of groceries were checking out. Behind them, another youngster with a soda and a bar of candy. The woman paid for everything, hers and theirs. I’m sure I was smiling when she looked my way. How could I not? We exchanged pleasantries.

It occurred to me, as she walked away, that she was a shiny soul in conventional clothes, there for the sole purpose of doling out happiness. Angel, soft.

Events like these are familiar, whether or not we choose to see them as anything more than a fluke. Bathroom tissue might seem a low-watt miracle, but in that moment it was precisely the gift I needed to be reminded that grace doesn’t have to be glamorous. When you miss the accident by mere moments, when you don’t miss the accident but survive, against all odds—that’s metamorphic. A pandemic toilet paper find not so much.  But it’s these we are more likely to encounter and these, because they are so banal, we may be less apt to notice at all.

Photo by SHVETS production

There are times I flounder beneath waves of my own uncertainty, as a writer and otherwise, and am buoyed by occasional comments that blow me away. I don’t think people know that some days, and there is little rhyme nor reason for when or why, their words are the difference between pressing on and giving up.

And here, at last, is my destination today, the place these thoughts have insisted I revisit. You see, I believed this funny pandemic experience was about appreciating the marvelous even when it’s unsophisticated. I thought the moral of the story was to look for the enchanted in the everyday, the metaphorical toilet paper in the aisle.  It turns out, it’s not that.

Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Of course, I ought to notice when things like that happen, to expect them even. But all this time, I’ve been overlooking another angle: the angels.

What do I know? Maybe it’s gotten too expensive for the more experienced ones to travel. Maybe some of them have retired and their positions haven’t been filled. Or maybe they’ve lobbied successfully for fewer hours and more vacation time. Hard to blame them. But really, who’s to say someone like me–or her, or him, or you–isn’t exactly right for the job?

The point isn’t to look for the angels and the light they shine. The point is to be one.

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

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