I never met Rose, who was laid to rest in Pittsburg yesterday. I know nothing about her except she was a Jew, a great grandmother in her late nineties, who went to services at temple the last morning of her life while I was doing good to find the coffee pot and remember who’s children I was. One statement on her obituary I heard on Fox News struck me. She adored her family.
My family can be a bunch of contentious pricks. We can’t get along at Christmas, God help us at a funeral. With the DNA of Silas Witt, and Orin Porter Rockwell, we make good Master Chiefs, and very poor librarians. With all the finger pointing, scandals and accusations it’s little wonder we all live vast distances from each other, mainly in desert regions. We are the typical American family.
So, when I hear of a great grandmother who adored her family it gives me pause. I’ve heard that the shooter believed that the members of the temple supported children being brought over the border. He decided to save America by shooting Rose as she sat in worship that morning. As the prophet, Hank Williams Jr. once said, “I’d love to spit some BeechNut in that dude’s eyes, and shoot him with my ol’ forty-five!” But Rose wouldn’t have. She’d seen his kind before. She just loved children.
It’s almost a given that Rose and I would have been politically opposed as to immigration. As a Jew of her age she would have qualified her stand by memories of boatloads of refugees being refused entry to the US, and sent back to Germany. That was in her lifetime, not something she read in some book. Babies at the border are tar babies, and I wouldn’t have argued with her. Wouldn’t have done me any good. No matter what you think about Texans, we got “Yes ma’am” all figured out!” She was a national treasure. I would have just had tea with her and listened to a voice that wouldn’t have been with us much longer at any count.
As the troops head for the Rio Bravo to stem the flow of what some claim to be an invasion, we need to take a moment, reflect, and remember Rose. We need to remember the family that laid her to rest, the family she adored. Shalom Rose.
The Butcher Shop