Human nature

My family and I went for a long bike ride this weekend. One of our stops was the recently re-opened Farmer’s Market in down town Olympia. A beautiful place, buzzing with people taking in the mid-day sun. The smells of apples, and peppered meat, jasmine and lavender are in the air. My women love it, and I love that they love it. 

As we were walking past the apple stand, manned by two dudes, flapping open paper bags for the buyers, I noticed a well dressed, late middle aged women heading towards the booth. She wore expensive sandals, had on a broad-brimmed, straw hat and designer sunglasses. Her silver hair showed from underneath. A cursory glance would suggest she drove a lexus and needed for nothing. She had a green fabric grocery bag slung under her arm. She could be someone’s grandmother. She looked at ease, strolling for a day’s shop. 

As she approached the booth, she swooped in close, laid her hand on a crystalline rock that was used as a paperweight for the brown bags, and in one quick and slight motion, dropped it into her green bag. At first I thought she worked there, but then, as she circled again, it became obvious that she had no intention of stopping and simply walked off. She had just kiped the stone. Brazenly taking what was not hers. 

She did not know I was watching her. But, the way she did it was so precise, so smooth and uninhibited, that it was surely practiced. She does this, a lot. But, why? It was a pretty rock, but of little value other than that fact. But she risked being caught, and labelled as a petty thief. Perhaps, for the thrill. The existential moment when she feels power, and the secret that she has done something that moves outside of the expected, the normal pattern of her life. Maybe she wanted to feel something, and risk is her meaning. 

This weekend a man in Auburn murdered his five children, then shot himself in the head. He was angry that his wife was leaving him for another man. His oldest was sixteen. She reportedly fought back while he fired bullets into her body in the family bathroom. He had spoken with his neighbors earlier the previous day about his troubles and seemed encouraged by them, according to their report. But he made a decision later that night. Crimes of passion have been around forever, but the victim is usually the cheater, not the children. An act of enraged jealousy over a true betrayal is one thing; cold-blooded murder of offspring as a means of attacking the cheater is animal.  

This week’s edition of Newsweek announced the end of Christian America.