Camp Casey, PTA

Making the decision to go to Crawford, Texas and visit Camp Casey was easy -- it's just a two hour drive from my house in Austin, and the stubborn righteousness of Cindy Sheehan puts to shame any weak excuses I could make. I made the decision about a week ahead of time, assuming that protest conditions would remain more or less static.

I was wrong.

During the course of that week, Sheehan was suddenly pulled from her vigil by her mother's stroke, taking most of the media with her. But strangely enough, Cindy's departure didn't slow the momentum of the demonstration, which was, after all, about more than a single woman's question -- it was about Bush's refusal to take responsibility for this war that is being paid for, one way or another, by all of us.

Of course, what emboldened the anti-war protesters more than anything was the chance to change locations from the side of the road to the ranch of Crawford resident Fred Mattlage, whose cousin Larry had gained a bit of notoriety when he fired his shotgun near Camp Casey to, as he put it, prepare for dove season. The move protected them from passing traffic and enabled them to spread out more.

And spread out they did. My traveling companion had gone out to Camp Casey last week and was blown over by how, in the past week alone, the influx of assistance and donations has managed to turn a makeshift operation expanding from one woman's tent into, well, something much bigger and much more organized.

The first inkling we had of this growth was at the Crawford Peace House. On the drive up, my friend remarked on the humor of watching a few people try to feed the dozens arriving at the Peace House on the previous weekend, at one point even pitching in to make the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches required to feed the arrivals. This time we were greeted with tables of food, much of it honest-to-god hot meals and cooler after cooler of soda and bottled water.

Camp Casey II has used donations to upgrade the camp with a large tent and a small stage where people sing songs and make speeches to pass the time waiting.

We got there early and it wasn't hopping yet, but tons of cars were already there. In order to make the entire thing less of a strain on the people of Crawford, the Peace House organizers were putting volunteers to work driving shuttles down the narrow roads out towards Bush's ranch. So we parked our car, got a snack and then grabbed a ride with a shuttle volunteer and another visitor to Camp Casey.

We arrived to find that Camp Casey was actually in transit to a new location. Shuttle drivers insisted that visitors stop at one and then the other. As we approached Camp Casey I, it was hard not to sympathize with the cops' request that this entire circus be shut down, as it was a traffic hazard. The roads out there are narrow and Camp Casey has turned into a snarl of cars, tents and people standing in the middle of the road staring at the long line of crosses representing the dead.

My friend noted that last week it had just been crosses, but people have been adding things like American flags, handmade dolls, handmade coffins, flowers and photographs of the dead, which made some onlookers burst into tears. The baby pictures were especially moving. The memorial was so engrossing that I didn't even notice the two counter-protesters across the street, and was genuinely shocked to hear that they were there at all.

A resident of Vidor, TX, our shuttle driver had decided to go to Camp Casey after hearing about it on Air America's Randi Rhodes show. We had the typical conversation liberal Texans have in these situations, which is to mock our fellow Texans who bought this war hook, line and sinker.

He told me he got into an argument with a 19-year-old co-worker who supported the war. When he asked her why she didn't enlist and go fight if she was so gung-ho, she piously replied, "God has other plans for me." He responded in standard East Texas fashion, involving some blaspheming and a whole lot of cursing, which may have shocked the more gentle member of our group. I'm afraid that being a liberal in Texas does teach one to use the F-word frequently and with enthusiasm.