Spring-breakers gather to greet a police horse on Smathers Beach in Key West. Photo courtesy of the Miami Herald.
In the spirit of “we ain’t got the good sense God gave a goose,” we’re fixing to tar-and-feather poor “Jim,” the West Coast anti-gun guy who started that petition to allow folks to carry guns inside the arena at this summer’s GOP convention in Cleveland.
By the time Jim fessed up to being the creator, more than 52,000 people had signed the online petition, which Jim (he’s not giving his last name to interviewers) says was satire. Now everyone’s mad at Jim. The gun lovers are mad because Jim was poking fun at them. The gun haters are mad because, well, because they got taken, too.
Me? I think Jim’s wicked smart. He got a ton of folks exercised — and made it abundantly clear that geese have more sense than Americans when it comes to guns. The Secret Service stepped in and did a bit of face-saving for the Republicans by saying “no guns” inside the arena in Cleveland. That way the Republican National Committee and assorted candidates — gun lovers all — didn’t have to actually tell their minions to leave the guns at home, please.
The Democrats said they’d not planned on having guns anyway, which, I suspect, is not a surprise to anyone.
Why in the world are we mad at Jim? He’s just having some fun and making a point. Ought we not, instead, be wondering why our gun carry laws make absolutely no sense? States, including Florida, are working at breakneck speed with their beloved NRA to make it perfectly permissible to casually open carry or concealed carry weapons everywhere people go.
The Florida legislature missed by a heartbeat giving the go-ahead to campus carry this last session, despite the opposition of almost three of four state residents. But, don’t try to bring your gun to a meeting with those same legislators. They frown on armed constituents.
Here’s another good one from Florida. Back in 2012, when Tampa hosted the GOP national convention, the city banned masks, brass knuckles, clubs and water guns in the eight square miles around the convention center. But, as the Tampa Bay Times reported at the time, Gov. Rick Scott said “no way” when Tampa asked for a temporary gun ban in the same area. Bring your water pistol; go to jail. Tote your loaded side arm? AOK, as long as you’ve got a permit.
It gets crazier because the state and federal legislators make sure no one’s carrying guns where they happen to be, while they work their at getting guns in the hands of school teachers, on campus and in public gathering spots. You cannot bring a gun to the U.S. Congressional offices or the Florida legislative venues. Wouldn’t be safe. Bringing them to Key West’s Smathers Beach on Spring Break? Well sure. What could possibly go wrong?
Two more for instances of geese-have-more-sense:
Ohio, where the brouhaha started over the GOP convention, traditionally has allowed you to walk around with a “long” gun slung over your shoulder pretty much anywhere and anytime you want. You don’t need a permit or license. Just grab you favorite rifle or shotgun and strut your stuff. You cannot do the same with a handgun. You’ll need a concealed handgun permit to strap on that bad boy before you can mosey aroundl.
Except, of course, at the GOP convention. Apparently, you can stop in at the neighborhood coffee shop or saunter through assorted retail shopping areas, though we advise staying clear of schools, government buildings and places that sell alcohol.
In Pennsylvania, where the Democrats will do their thing in Philadelphia, as long as you have a permit to carry, you can wander the byways at will. It doesn’t matter whether you strap it across your shoulders or conceal it under your armpit. And, here’s a delightful quirk in Pennsylvania law: There’s no law specifically banning open carry of weapons. That means as long as you keep the guns where they can be seen, you don’t need a permit to carry and you’re free to wander.
Except, of course, at the Democratic convention because the Secret Service isn’t going to allow guns there, either.
Linda Grist Cunningham is editor and proprietor of KeyWestWatch Media, a digital media solutions company for small businesses. The last thing Key West needs is gun-toting drunks on Duval Street.
Hillary Clinton with Madeleine Albright. February 2016. Courtesy Boston Globe
The OMG moment tucked itself among the scone recipe, the adorable kitten video and the wing-nut screeds in my Facebook feed.
There it was: The account of Gloria Steinem’s and Madeleine Albright’s speculations that today’s young women were failing to show up for Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton because (a) they’d rather be where the boys were (Steinem); and, (b) they needed to get behind a woman candidate or face a special place in hell (Albright).
OMG. What were these icons of women power of thinking when they dissed Millennial and baby Xer women?
Actually, I know exactly what they were thinking. Steinem and Albright were thinking what I think as my 20-, 30- and 40-something women friends go all blase and eye-rolling when I tell them they ought be paying attention to legislation defunding Planned Parenthood because if PP goes, then so will go their taken-for-granted medical and prescription rights because what men-in-power give, men-in-power can take away, and said men-in-power consider women second class in every way, and…..
OK. That’s enough. You get the point. And, I understand the eye-rolling among the younguns. I did the same when the old women of another generation took to historical wandering and advising me accordingly.
There’s an entire cadre of us graying boomer women who, having fought the gender wars of the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s — with the likes of Steinem and Albright as standard bearers — are one-step short of taking to the streets bra-less again.
We’ve spent the past decade watching federal and state legislators chip away at hard-won laws that protect and support women, children and families. Our hearts break as our daughters and granddaughters tell us of workplace discrimination that is as debilitating in its subtle intransigence as was the “get my coffee, girl” sexism of our youth.
We have no Equal Rights Amendment. We are left only with legislation, a piecemeal, patchwork effort to create laws that protect and defend women. And, we know laws are as ephemeral as smoke rise.
We are haunted by the idea that a half century of women’s rights will perish if we don’t fight the entrenched male power structure, if we don’t coalesce around strong women. We remember our grandmothers who could not vote, who were ostracized, beaten and jailed in the slug fest for the final ratification of the 19th Amendment in August 1920.
So, yeah, I totally get what Steinem and Albright were thinking, and why they are discombobulated that young women are chanting for Bernie Sanders rather than choosing solidarity with Hillary Clinton. Steinem and Albright are old enough, too, to not give a fiddler’s dam about whose feelings get hurt when they speak their minds.
They, like all us crones, have earned that privilege. The younguns with the hurt eye-rolling and faux outrage ought just sit down and respect their elders.
And, yet. I am proud of these younguns. They’re making real choices, choices based on personal values, unencumbered by the anger and despair of those seemingly ancient gender wars.These young women are exercising their freedom to choose political candidates for what they say and do, and not for how they once sat a horse.
An email from a 20-something shared with me by her graying uncle says it well:
“The older woman calling ‘young women radicals’ is ridiculous. Young women aren’t radical and don’t ignore sexism. It’s just that younger generations understand that women aren’t the only people who are oppressed by the white, male Republicans. Like older generations seem to focus on their singular problems and not realize that this selfishness and ignorance is why my generation is ‘so radical.’ We’re the first generation where the majority cares about all issues and equality for all not just one group at a time.”
We graying boomers raised strong young women. Let us be wary of allowing our righteous indignation to blind us to the incredible women who follow our paths. We did good. They will, as well.
“Me. Me. Pick me.” “No, pick me. Please.” “Me. Not him. I’m the real one.”
Oh, dear Mary, Joseph and the wee donkey.
We’ve got a splendid island kerfuffle over who gets to be the official “Key West Ambassador to Cuba.” The school boy romp is playing itself out on Facebook, across the front pages of The Citizen, Key West’s local daily newspaper and, quite likely, in cocktail conversations among the political cognoscenti.
The rest of us are doing eye-rolls and betting on the next round of this grown-up version of Red Rover. Not that there aren’t a solid half dozen better things to do. Workforce housing, illegal vacation rentals, land use development, protection of the reef and the marine sanctuary, services for the homeless, air quality and street repairs to name but a few.
For those paying zero attention, here’s the recap. Last week, city commissioner Billy Wardlow announced he’d award an official “Ambassador to Cuba” certificate to outgoing commissioner Tony Yaniz, a one-termer who was soundly defeated in the last election. Yaniz asked Wardlow for the honorary title, which brings with it — and $3.95 — a cup of coffee and teensy doughnut, maybe. In short, said ambassadorship does not exist and if it did, the President of the United States might take umbrance over the usurping of his prerogative to name an ambassador first.
Key West mayor Craig Cates was having none of this Ambassador Tony Yaniz stuff. Any Key West ambassador to Cuba is a representative of the mayor, Cates told The Citizen, and by-gosh-darn Yaniz doesn’t represent the mayor. The mayor and the former commissioner are political archenemies and the two have wasted no opportunity over the years for political one-upmanship.
Cates wasted no time appointing his own Key West ambassador to Cuba. Knowing he was leaving for the annual U.S. Council of Mayors meeting in D.C., and knowing that Wardlow was presenting Yaniz with the title at Wednesday’s commissioners meeting, Cates announced his own ambassador at City Hall Tuesday morning. So, there. The mayor got his ambassador named first.
His pick is long-time Bob Harvey, commodore of the Key West Yacht Club. On Saturday, Harvey, Cates and Jose Miguel Escrich, commodore of the Marina Hemingway in Havana toured potential sites for a Key West ferry to Havana. One of those sites the U.S. Navy has pretty much said “over our dead bodies,” and thus is an unlikely, though photogenic, contender, but that’s a story for a different day. Escrich was reported to have been Harvey’s house guest for the weekend.
Key West is closer to Havana than to Miami. One can make it there and back easily in a day by plane, and with good winds by sail. The two islands’ histories are of the same cloth. Family ties are strong. Though there is a “we’ll wait and see” attitude among Key West’s Cubans — those with generational roots on this island and those who are relative newcomers — there’s little doubt that re-establishing diplomatic and economic connections will be welcomed in Key West.
A little political rivalry isn’t unexpected, nor is it much out of line. And, it provided a week’s worth of chuckles. This kerfuffle over an honorary ambassadorship ought be a reminder, though, that it’s well past time for Key West’s business, governmental and political leaders to stop the theater and figure out how best to re-unite these two islands. Before Marathon and Miami kick Key West back to the 1970s.
Linda Grist Cunningham is editor and proprietor of KeyWestWatch Media, a media marketing company. She admits she rolls her eyes along with the rest of the community that doesn’t move in the Key West cognoscenti circles.
You know how polite people invite house guests to come stay a while? And, how polite people smile and say “sure” and never show up?
That’s not Key West. Nope, invite house guests to Key West and they actually come. As Ed and I tell each other, “finally, we live in a place where people will show up.” We’ve got this refrigerator magnate that says: “Life on an island: Expect company.”
We made Key West our full-time home in 2012, fulfilling a dream that began with Ed’s simple and completely unexpected 2007 proposition: We ought to buy a house, renovate it and move here.
We sold the Rockford, IL, life, packed up the four cats and did it. Our house guests followed.
We like house guests, though we do have some rules. Family and fast friends are welcome to food and lodging for a week; after that they chip in. No maid service. We don’t cook much, but you can use the can opener. There’s always a fresh pot of coffee. Entertain yourselves; Ed and Linda still work for a living.
Use inside voices even outside. We don’t want problems with the neighbors who disagree with your politics. Oh, and the three cats stay; bring your antihistamine.
We’ve learned five lessons this first full year in Key West:
Expect iguanas in the bathroom occasionally. Along with ants and palmetto bugs (Yankees call ‘em roaches.)
Neighbors frown on excessive Christmas decorations. Tone ‘em down. You can keep the lighted flamingo with Santa hat.
Yes, it is OK to wear shorts and flip flops to work and church. Keep your tuxedo and evening dress; Key West adores dress-up parties.
Have a calendar handy. Because the seasons don’t change, you’ll have no idea what month it is. Although, it is nice to mulch the plants in December. July is a bit sweaty.
You cannot convince your family and friends that you didn’t retire. On the other hand, you can take a swim and admire the palm trees after work.
To friends — old and new. To family. May the sunrise bring you joy and the sunset peace.
By most accounts, including his own, 95-year-old Uncle Billy of Clearwater doesn’t need the cane the Veteran’s Administration health care folks insist he use. Until, that is, he did. That’s where I come in. He’s my great uncle, a man I may have met but a couple times decades ago. He’s my mother’s only living relative on her side of the New Castle, PA, family and she loves him dearly. She called me early in December from her home in Harrisonburg, VA. “Lindy, I can’t find Uncle Billy. He’s not answering his phone. I’m worried. He’s all I have left of my mother’s family. Do you think something happened”? OK, let’s see how this is going to play out. He’s in Clearwater. She’s in Virginia. I’m in Key West. We have his address and phone number and not much else except some sketchy details on his sons’ names and last whereabouts. This is a generation not much given to Facebook and Twitter posts or Instagram snapshots. Scattered, extended families lose contact. Names change. Folks move. The old ones who glued the far-flung kids together die. There’s not much left except those faded sepia photos with names like “Uncle Billy and Donna” scrawled on the back. Maybe — or likely not — with a date and location. This was going to mean cold calls. I hate making cold calls. I knew that when I was 12 and suffered extraordinary anxiety if I had to call the local grocer and ask what the store hours were. I became an editor because reporting meant cold calls. Clearly, I wasn’t cut out for advertising sales, either. But, this is my mom. Cold calls it would have to be. First, though, I did the database searches. No obituary and no record in the Social Security Death Index, so he probably wasn’t dead. Still owned his house. Telephone still connected. I mapped his house location and all the churches around it and started calling. Gratifying how genuinely helpful was Debbie Kohnle of Countryside Baptist Church, the church closest to Uncle Billy’s home. She didn’t know him, but she gave me a list of phone numbers and instructions on whom to contact. Thank you, Miss Debbie. Then there were calls to the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Department, who sent me off to the Clearwater Police Department, who checked the EMT logs (no calls to his house and none to the neighborhood since 2008). And, then this wonderful stranger said: “How about we go around there and check? We’ll either call you back or we’ll make sure he calls you.” And, they did. Right away. And, he did. And, all is well. Well, almost all well. He’d had a small stroke, had been in the VA hospital getting checked out (hence the unwanted cane), was staying temporarily with a friend. He’d returned home that evening to pick up a few things and found the note from the Clearwater police asking him to call me. I’ve edited countless stories over the years about the struggles in those law enforcement call centers around the country. Many of them less than flattering. The Pinellas County sheriff’s department and Clearwater police department folks were compassionate, helpful and professional. They took me seriously, though I must have sounded a bit unfocused. I am grateful. My mom called Uncle Billy that night — and updated her contacts database with names, email and snail mail addresses and phone numbers of his sons and friends. Pretty sure that removes me from the cold call business. She’s happy and I got some “good daughter points.”
Here’s another good one from Florida. Back in 2012, when Tampa hosted the GOP national convention, the city banned masks, brass knuckles, clubs and water guns in the eight square miles around the convention center. But, as the Tampa Bay Times reported at the time, Gov. Rick Scott said “no way” when Tampa asked for a temporary gun ban in the same area. Bring your water pistol; go to jail. Tote your loaded side arm? AOK, as long as you’ve got a permit.