Television - A Snippet

Paladin was on H&I, until it wasn't.  Now it's on in the afternoon, on something called INSP.

I laughed as my brain went to INSP Gadget, one of The Cuters' favorite tv shows.  TBG brought me back to reality; it seems to be shorthand for inspiration.

I couldn't tell you the numbers to press to bring it up.  I couldn't tell you how to get NBC or PBS or anything but 576, Turner Classic Movies.  For the rest, I talk into the remote.

Finding Netflix or Apple+ requires my husband's presence.  Apparently, they are apps and have their own special section of the guide.... I think.  Left to my own devices, I'd rarely turn the thing on.  I really don't care.

But there is YouTubeTV and other services that promise to give me freedom and free services, or at least less expensive services than I have right now... if only I could figure out if I have a Smart TV or if it's connected to Bluetooth or any of the myriad factors I need to consider.

TBG loves all his channels.  He has no problem navigating the system.  I'm sitting here wondering why I'm worrying about this at all.

Something tells me I need a break.  If this is all my brain could churn out for you, it's sending me a message.  I'm off to have dinner and a Simon Toyne novel.  I'll try to do better on Monday.

Unleash The Hounds

I've forgotten where we are going to war this week?  

Are we finished with Venezuela and those nasty little boats in the ocean?  

Greenland seems safe for the moment, FFOTUS having walked away from some meeting or other with a shiny object in his tiny hand.

That old staple, Iran, has been back in the news, but the absurdity of an American President with his own private police force cracking down on the Iranian government for going after protesters in the street has been too much for me to bear.  

I've been focused on local issues (Savannah Guthrie's mom; the RTA; what to replant and replace in Grandma's Garden).  I thought that the national issues could do without me for a while.  

Yesterday, I read several reports of Congressional leaders talking about the phone calls they've been getting.  There are lots of them and they are not happy and our representatives seem to be taking notice.  

Suddenly, I'm feeling quite guilty.  I haven't been making my phone calls.  

My phone refuses to sync to my car.  Without that connection, my drive to Prince or Pilates or mahjongg is not longer my place to vent.  I knew that the vehicle had to be stopped to press 1 to leave a message with Sen. Gallego or 2 to holler at Rep. Ciscomani; I dialed as the traffic lights turned red and made my point as I drove across town.  

This was an efficient use of my time.  It allowed me to vent my spleen and leave the residue in the car.  I really don't want FFOTUS or his minions in my personal space at home, but now, in order to be a diligent practitioner of democracy I have no choice.

I tried sitting in the driveway and talking, but it felt ridiculous.  I can't hold my phone while I drive because that's just not safe.  I really should figure out why the Bluetooth isn't syncing well with my hearing aids as well as the car, but until I visit the Verizon store that's just not going to happen.  

It's not a problem my usual fix (turn it all off and wait) has solved.  I'm going to have to bite the bullet and spew political venom all over my house so that I, too, can once again be counted in all those phone calls demanding that ICE lose their masks and their warrantless searches and their Director and everyone involved in this travesty.

Sigh.

Senorita in the Garden

She's been a regular in Grandma's Garden since she was in kindergarten.

She's taken on more and more tasks as the years have gone by; now she's the one offering assistance. 

Watching her teach her classmates - supervising the creation of just the right number of holes of just the right depth in just the right size pot - makes my heart sing.

She was the only one interested in filling the big black container with soil, refusing offers to use the hose or join a friend.  She chose one of the three varieties of carrots from our storage bin, and I left her with the packet and instructions - 3 seeds in each evenly spaced hole around the edge and one in the middle - and went on to other things.  

Soon she was by my side, a few round seeds in her palm, the left overs.  We went back to admire her work.  We used the trowels to cover her treasures with a fine dusting of soil, moved the container to the corner, next to the other carrot container, and watered it thoroughly.  

But before we got it settled in, she said I could take her picture, and asked if I could send it to her mom, even though she didn't know the new phone number.  Not to worry, Senorita.  A printed copy of this post will be in your hands this afternoon.    

418/419

If you live in the Tucson metropolitan area you have no doubt seen the sighs urging you to VOTE YES ON 418/419.  The signs tell you that you can fix our roads without raising taxes.  

That's not really true.  I know this because I am the person who reads every page of every Sample Ballot and Publicity Pamphlet that comes my way, in this case all 132 pages (the English version; the 280 pages include the whole thing in Spanish, too..... don't get me started on English as our common language).

It is true that our taxes won't go up.  They will also not go down.  The same half cent sales tax (a totally regressive measure) instituted when the first RTA plan was passed in 2006 (the year we moved here) will remain in place if the voters vote yes on 419, the funding package.

We were thrilled that there was a regional plan back in 2006.  Single lane roads with unimproved shoulders suddenly became 4 paved lanes with cut outs for left turns and buses.  Some even had bike lanes, although only a few with curbs separating the cyclist from the motorist.  Tucson prides itself as being a biking community; protecting those on two wheels was obviously not that important to the planners.

Railroad crossings were made safer with overpasses and underpasses.  More of that is planned in the next 20 years, along with widening arterial roads to facilitate speeding through the city.  The 2006 major crosstown road reconstruction project (Grant Road) has been going on for a long long long long time and is still nowhere near complete.  Neither are several other projects from that election.  

There is some money reserved from the revenues collected to cover some of those costs, but some is not all.  The RTA pamphlet uses COVID and 2008 to explain this failure of revenues not keeping up with expenses.  I'll grant them that.  But there were cost overruns and miscalculations too.  

Tucson's pot hole infestation has spread alarmingly in the 20 years we've been here.  The plan allots 6.6% of the project's expenses to Pavement Rehabilitation.  Orange Grove Road, recently widened and repaved, is going to be widened again.  I drive across the area in question most days, at high traffic and low traffic times.  In 20 years I've never been in what I'd call a traffic jam.  

Sure, the road now has 4 lanes then 2 lanes then 3 lanes then 5 lanes but the cars flow smoothly and I rarely miss the lights because of traffic.  The same can be said for Ina Road and Prince Road, both of which are in line for moderniz(ing) existing roadway including bicycle, pedestrian, and associated intersection and drainage improvements.  Notice that there is no mention of resurfacing, or pot hole filling, or fixing the damn roads themselves for crying out loud.

We just spent $4000 replacing TBG's engine mounts and oil pan, victims of the potholes (and our excessive heat... but that, they said, was less of an issue).  Driving up to Dr K and Not-Kathy's house is an adventure in off-roading... only we're on the (supposedly) paved surface.  Where there used to be holes in the asphalt, now there are mounds.  It's a toss up which feels better when you're over them.

Counting on the RTA to make smart decisions is put to the test when considering what's been going on since 2006.  Grant Road is home to my hairdresser.  In order to return to my house, I need to make a left turn and drive west.  From the salon to the nearest available left turn is now a nearly 3 mile drive.... which brings us to air quality and environmental safety.

The Vote No Arguments in the pamphlet are peppered with bicycle, pedestrian, and transit advocates, all of whom wonder about the air we breath.  They wonder why transit related projects comprise only 27.1% of the expenditures.  Expanding the highly successful Streetcar to serve more of the city is nowhere to be found.  With Tucson's COVID era free bus service and the concomitant rise in unhoused and unruly passengers, riding the buses has become less safe for both passengers and drivers.  Yet only 1.9% ( $51,000) is allocated.

There are broader concerns about the structure of the RTA, the dissolution of the citizens' advisory committee, the disproportionate allocation of funds to the outer rim rather than Tucson itself.  The Yes arguments are from developers and realtors and builders and elected officials (although Mayor Romero's argument is signed by her, without her title).  The No arguments are from pedestrians and cyclists and health care advocates, Democrats and Republicans and Libertarians.

I read it all.  I've thought about it for a while.  My favorite argument is this one, which I will quote in its entirety.

I live in unincorporated Pima County.  Like most of us, I spend too much time in my car.  Everywhere I need to go is far away from me.  I had the same problem when I lived in the city.  New roadwork won't solve that problem

Pima County's best regional transportation plan, the updated version of our 2045 Regional Mobility and Accessibility Plan, looks at average daily travel times under "build" and "no-build" scenarios.  Under a "build" scenario, the average person saves 36 seconds of daily travel time.

The projects funded by Prop 419 will cost $2.67 billion.  There are about 430,000 households in Pima County.  That's $6,200 per family.  There are better ways to save 36 seconds a day.

I'm leaning towards a no vote. 

 

You Must Listen

This is the Bruce Springsteen - Streets Of Minneapolis (Official Audio) from YouTube.  

10 million plus views in 4 days.

MS Now says it's not a masterpiece, but it is enough.

I think it's our new anthem for protests everywhere.

Listen with the sound on.

A Blast From The Past

The librarian left bright red papers in our mailboxes.  What was your favorite book as a child? 

I loved my illustrated copy of Washington Irving's tales, even though most of them scared me silly.  The Headless Horseman's cape flying behind him as his horse raced through the darkness was only tolerable because I was surrounded by my stuffed animals.  Why I thought it was a good idea to read myself to sleep that way remains a mystery to this day.

I loved Nancy Drew, and the little blue bound biographies at school, and A. A. Milne's poems and Pooh.  If pressed, I can recite Disobedience, another terrifying tale. Again, a lost mother is not the best notion to take to bed.

But this one,

The Pink Motel, a 1960 Weekly Reader Book Club selection, was the hands down winner.  

Miss P. DeGree, who owned poodles.  Miss Ferry, the artist.  Marvello, the magician.  I read and reread that mystery, taking the characters and the plot with me into adulthood.

All my blogonyms?  Miss P. DeGree started me off.  Mysteries?  My go-to genre.  And Miss Ferry's notion that meals should start with dessert is the reason FlapJilly remembers the breakfast we ate the day her brother was born.  Who could forget whipped cream and sprinkles?

So I Googled the author's name - Carol Ryrie Brink - and filled in the librarian's form, and I've spent the day walking in the sand on the Florida beach in front of that pink motel.

Teaching to the Test - A Snippet

Every few years, I am asked to teach the 5th graders plant science.  I have a lesson plan, handouts, and two different experiments in my tool kit.  The scholars are respectful and attentive, for the most part.  After all, Grandma's out of the garden and in front of the classroom; that's enough to grab their attention.

And, I must admit, I have a lot of laughs built into the presentations.  Some are silly jokes, and some border on the uncomfortable for these tweens.  After all, sex is a big part of plant life (the birds and the bees play an important role) and thinking about sex is a big part of fifth grade life, too. 

Today, though, something changed.  The teacher coordinating my appearances started out by asking if I'd help them with the test.  

The test?  What test?  She promised to send me more information about it.  

But all of a sudden my foray into the classroom has real life consequences.  I thought I was extra curricular.  Turns out I am integral to measuring their performance.

I'm just a little bit more anxious now.

Really Good Medical Care

A surprising headline, right?  But after a month of utter frustration with the medical system TBG and I were the recipients of really good medical care.  

We love the practice.  The lobby is cheerful and has fabulous poster art on the walls.  Checking in is painless and simple.  They rarely run late, yet everyone always has as much time as we need.  These days, that alone makes them a unicorn.

Blood pressure and temperature and all the what's wrong with you today questions were handled with sympathy and concern, efficiently and thoughtfully.  Her He'll be in in a minute turned out to be inaccurate; the door had barely closed before TBG's Family Nurse Practitioner walked in.

Old enough to inspire confidence, he reinforced our belief that doctors are not really the people we need in our lives.  We need FNP's and NP's and PA's, all of whom have far surpassed most of the physicians in their offices in terms of time spent and connections made.  Every one of them could be described the same way - they are agreeable.

Not that they aren't challenging, if necessary.  But they share a real acknowledgment of the human sitting in the patient's chair that medical school seems to have beaten out of physicians.  That was certainly in evidence today.

We've spent the last month in limbo, waiting for the specialist to return calls, watching the situation deteriorate.  I'd go to the office, but there is no office.  The practice dissolved and the doctor went to the hospital's department and all one can do is leave a message and hope for the best.  This is not optimal care, especially when conditions change and advice is needed.

Today, FNP Marvelous gave TBG advice, encouragement, explanations, suggestions, a useful prescription, and a change in another that ought to alleviate most of the problem..... which is about as good as it gets and is a totally manageable outcome.  

He did all that calmly, sympathetically, and efficiently.  He texted in the prescription while he was telling us about it.  He had a brochure right at hand, the pictures accompanying his explanation.  He wasn't typing as we spoke.  He was listening and watching and didn't make a big deal of my tears as I watched TBG's shoulders relax for the first time in way too long a time.  

If TBG has another problem, he can call FNP Marvelous, not the specialist.  If he has questions, he's to call FNP Marvelous.  

The appointment was the most delightful encounter I've had with an adult in a while.  It's nice to have a person you can trust with your health.

Therapy For My Soul

I renewed my faith in humanity by visiting with the scholars at Prince today.  The woes they shared were within my ability to heal, with fresh cut aloe or a hug.  It felt great.  

I needed a dose of pure intentions.  Everything I considered writing about made me sad.  I didn't and I don't want to dwell on the Pretti's anguish; it's too close to my own.  Outside in January, participating in democracy, not expecting to die.

So.

Instead of going down that rabbit hole, I decided to show you the big fat cactus in my front yard.  

It's a true survivor.  After about 100 years, before being decapitated when the palo verde collapsed. it had just begun to sprout the buds that would have grown into statement arms.  

Instead, all that energy went into the stump it left behind.  There was obviously a lot of energy.

The main trunk is now 5' tall.  There are a few more baby arms on the other side.  

People stop and stare.  

To me, she's a sign of resilience, of harnessing what's available and doing your best to make it work.  I really should give her a name.  

*****

Now, don't you feel better?  I do.

Self care is crucial.  This week is testing us all.  Take care.

What They Are Saying

 

ICE says violent mob helped criminal escape and left ICE agent permanently maimed

That's the headline on Fox News website Sunday at 5:17pm.  I went there out of curiosity.  The videos are clear - Alex Pretti was shot to death while lying on his face on the ground.  The assailant stood over him and pumped bullets into his back.  

According to Homeland Security officials, Pretti approached Border Patrol agents while armed with a 9 mm pistol and "violently resisted" when agents attempted to disarm him.

That's their description of the event.

As for the permanently maimed agent?  Someone bit off a piece of his finger. 

DHS thoughtfully put checkered blurry things over this photo they released of the poor fellow.

Digging further, clicking a link or two, I came upon some fairly sympathetic content.

The family said they did not know about the shooting until they were contacted by a reporter and couldn't get any information from Border Patrol or local hospitals.

.....his parents said they had not heard from any federal law enforcement agencies as of Saturday night.

"The sickening lies told about our son by the administration are reprehensible and disgusting," the family wrote in a statement obtained by the AP. "Alex is clearly not holding a gun when attacked by Trump’s murdering and cowardly ICE thugs.... 

My positive impression of the site quickly vanished when I noticed this between those quotes:

BONDI BLAMES MINNEAPOLIS LEADERS AFTER ARMED SUSPECT KILLED, UNREST ERUPTS DURING ICE OPERATION

I spent some time thinking about alternative facts and character assassination and The Ministry of Truth and then totally lost it when I remembered the headline JannyLou showed me before she drove home this afternoon:

Minneapolis shooting: Judge rules DHS can't destroy scene evidence

This is Fox's interpretation of the headline she read to me.

We said the same thing at the same time - DUH!

I think I'll go on believing in the Constitution and the rule of law and what I see with my own eyes even as my country sinks further and further into disastrophe.

Call your Senators.  Have them remove the DHS funding piece from the spending bill.  Let the business of governing continue while voters can consider their representatives' opinions on masked murderers roaming our streets.  There need not be a shut down.  There is a way around it.  Make the calls.  This cannot be allowed to continue.

US Senate Switchboard:  202-224-3121

Luck in the Library

There were no books by authors I recognized on the open shelves in the library's lobby.  There's a New Mysteries bookcase and a Large Print bookcase and New Fiction and Non-Fiction and Children's bookcases and nothing there caught my eye.  

I took a chance on the only mystery which didn't have another in the Detective So-and-So series on the cover.  I don't like picking up the backstory in the middle.  When I've chosen a book in the middle of a series I wonder about the minor characters who are referenced as having done something notable two books before.  

It turns out that The Busy Body is the first of three novels by Kemper Donovan.  

I liked it.  Didn't love it but found myself thinking about it after I turned the last page.  Went to return it to the library and there on the New Mysteries shelf was Loose Lips, book 2 in the (so far) 3 book series.

These aren't my usual fare.  The author is an Agatha Christie junkie, and these are cozy mysteries with over the top characters.  The narrator is unnamed; for the first 50 pages or so of The Busy Body I wasn't sure what pronouns to use to refer to her.  That was annoying until it became obvious that this was one of the tropes of the series.  

It's called The Ghostwriter series, because that's what she is.  She's the literary brains behind other people's stories.  Anonymity is her gift.  There's a back story alluded to but not yet revealed.  There's catty dialog and great attention to tiny details;  I can describe every hair on every head of every character, every ingredient in the dishes served.  Those aren't details included in most mysteries, but they are crucial to these.

Like most cozies, they are short, hovering around 200 pages.  Unlike most mysteries, I didn't race through them.  The prose is dense and satisfying.  The characters are memorable and their words are often hilarious, though their actions are less so.  I've spent a fair amount of time today imaging myself on the Loose Lips' cruise ship; it's been a long time since that's happened.

There's one more book in the series.  I'm hopeful that it will show up on the shelf when Loose Lips is returned.  I'm feeing lucky.

A Different Approach

I know I've made the right decision when Sister goes out of her way to agree with me.  These occasions are few and far between.  I treasure them.  This time, it helps that we are on the same side in America's ongoing battle to regain its democratic footing.  

I'm still coming to terms with my decision to pull back from attending marches and rallies and demonstrations.  A private company will be running an ICE detention center not too many miles from my house.  I stopped following the plans to present a peaceful presence outside..  I had to. Thinking about it made my heart race.  

I'm working on an op-ed for the local paper, and that helps.  But the need to actually do something in the world is part and parcel of who I am.  Being thwarted, even if I'm doing it to myself, does not sit well with me.  

Then, Penzeys came to the rescue.  With every purchase of the eponymous spice came a sheet of these stickers.

Ten little stickers to subtly announce my presence.  I leave them everywhere.  On grocery carts, on No Parking signs, on the edges of trash cans and recycling stations.  Each sticker feels like an adventure.  Subtlety is the key.  I'm sure that some are removed by the close of business, but I like to believe that my little reminder to the rest of the world is making a difference.

It's reminding me of the red raised fists that showed up on random storefronts and stop signs in the late '60's and early '70's.

teepublic.com
they are in stock!

We wanted to end the draft and end the war and we were, as Taos Bubbe always reminds me, loud and colorful. We forced a sitting President not to run for reelection, we tormented another, and I do believe that the unhappiness and the unrest and the persistence of it all had a lot to do with ending the war.

My little stickers aren't loud, but they are flashy.  I love the verbiage in the middle - typewritten, just as it would have been in the '60's.  It's a throwback to Gilroy was Here ... we are everywhere... or so the polls are beginning to show.

Will the voters turn out in November?  Will the Cabinet step up and invoke the 25th Amendment?  Will Congress impeach him?  Will there be just one too many stops at Mickey D's?  I'm done putting my hope in others.  I'm done putting my body at risk .

I'm stickering and that feels fine.

A Moment in the Garden

I was just biding time until the kindergarten's whistle blew.  I was admiring the worm the boys dug up in the yes, you can dig there raised bed when I felt a presence at my side.  That's not unusual; my arms are often found embracing someone in the garden, often for no reason at all.

But this was different. She was a 4th grader.  She was the only big kid and she was not happy.  I sat back on the bench, and so did she.  She agreed with my assessment of her face - she was sad.  Four classmates decided to say bad things about her mother.

I didn't ask what they said.  Instead, I asked her what she hoped would happen.  Her English wasn't adequate for all of her feelings; she's an Afghani refugee still picking up the pieces, one by one.  I gleaned most of my information from short questions using small words. Did she want them to leave her alone or to be her friends?  Did she want an apology or just to be respected?  

We agreed that they were not the kind of people whose words should be able to hurt her heart.  They weren't kind.  

The whistle blew and I hustled the little ones out of the garden, leaving her alone with her thoughts in the most peaceful place on the playground.  She watched me walk over to the swings where her assailants were slowly swaying.  She watched me put my hands on my hips, look over at the garden, then begin my chat.

What did we dooooooo? didn't get very far with me, nor did It wasn't me.  Their faces said it all - they were miscreants and they'd been found out..  I talked about kindness and the Prince family ethos.  I asked them to look in their hearts and see if they found the person who'd been so mean, or if their hearts were telling them that I'm sorry might not be the worst outcome here.

I left them swinging.  The Assistant Principal stopped me as I walked between the soccer goals.  Was everything okay?  Did he need to talk to those girls?  I assured him that their chastisement had been sufficient, but that the lonely kid in the garden could probably use a hug.

I turned and watched it unfold - his tall and lanky frame loping across the grass, ready to offer succor where it was needed, while the Mean Girls, sure he was coming to them, watched the attention switch from their behavior to the one who had been wronged.  

I went on to read Bear Despair to eager 5 and 6 year old faces, too young to taunt and hurt one another.