The Burrow

A very nice man came to interview me today.  I had totally forgotten that he was coming.  I usually check my calendar for the following day before I go to sleep; last night I didn't.  I went to sleep thinking that I was meeting Miss Vicki for lunch and meditation, that I'd spend the morning finishing the boxes I created when I cleared off the desk.  Sitting at that desk, I watched a little white car cruise up the street, back up, pull into JannyLou's driveway, drive past my house, back up again, turn into my driveway and drive down one side and then around the bottom of the U... and not reappear in the window on the other side. In my nightgown, I went to the garage, opened the door, and asked if I could help him.  Ooops. He unpacked his equipment while I threw on some clothes.  Future generations may be interested to note that the blouse I am wearing on the tape I created for historical purposes should not be considered an indication of what a ...

I only saw it from the other side. When I wrote about seeing a holstered handgun at breakfast, all my questions were directed at him.  Was the world such a frightening place to him?  Were the eggs looking back in a threatening manner?  Was he fueling up for robbing the cashier instead of paying his check?  I never looked inside myself.  I assumed that I was right.  I couldn't understand how anyone could see the situation in any other way.  That's never a promising way to begin a conversation, but I wasn't trying to have a conversation.  My way or the highway, buster, and don't look back.  Then Brenda Starr wrote about our breakfast in her weekly newspaper column.  She expressed the same outrage and dismay you found in The Burrow.  She has a much broader readership than I; we both have a few frequent commenters who keep us on our toes.  There were some pieces of an ongoing conversation about the right to bear arms in S...

Miss Vicki came with me last Monday.  She'd tried to sit before, on her own, but found it difficult to concentrate.  Tempting her with lunch at Prep and Pastry  beforehand, she was willing to try Yogi Marsha and the group at UAMC. Over chicken and brie on focaccia and roasted beet salad, once we got the ice tea situation squared away we talked.  Her life is changing and, as always, I had an opinion on everything.  Luckily, she sometimes finds my opinions to have value; she always encourages me to speak openly. Yes, denizens, she's a brave one, indeed. When she told me that her mother had once said the same thing, we both took a moment..... and then we moved on.  As she drove us down to the hospital parking lot, encountering the first ever traffic jam at the entrance gate, she wondered what the group was like.  Settling, introducing, listening, sharing, meditating in the silence, first sitting, then sharing, then, usually, walking ever so slowly a...

They met when my friend joined the Board of a social service agency devoted to the needs of homeless women and children.  When she decided to move to Tucson, my friend put us together.  "You know I love connecting smart, Jewish women," was the final line of her email. It made me smile; I so rarely think of my friends' religious affiliations.... perhaps because so few of them have any to speak of.  My friend was right, though.  Five minutes into our first conversation, my new friend and I were sharing Yiddishisms and giggling at shared memories.  You can take the girl out of New York, but you can't take the New York out of the girl. We met at my favorite French café , home of the best tuna sandwich in Tucson.  I have always thought that finding the best tuna sandwich in a new town turned the strange place into home. Ghini's seemed like the logical place to meet.  The fact that she only had to get onto her main cross street and drive west added t...

"But how is your soul, sweetie?" It's wonderful to have someone to ask a question like that.  TBG was concerned.  I'd spent all day in court, listening to she did this and he did that and they weren't the other.  It's a friend's personal matter, and, though I offered a small amount of testimony and rebuttal evidence, I'm not the main attraction.  "Why did you stay all day?" he wondered.  I was finished by 10:30; I got home just before 6. I asked myself that question several times during the afternoon.  That which is so obvious to me must be proven, step by step, email by email, text by text.  I try to imagine myself as the judge, listening to strangers, trying to decide who is credible and who is inept lying. Yes, lying.  I had my illusions shattered when false testimony was given after an oath was taken.  Swearing to God ... for me it was a benign and meaningless reference, once I didn't mind averring.  It meant what it meant t...

I looked good when I woke up in the morning.  Bed Head was tamed into submission.  My favorite Fabletics yoga pants were clean and on top of the stack , my favorite black top was similarly situated.  My pedicure was still unchipped.  The outside was good to go. Inside, a combination of analgesics -aspirin, turmeric, Advil - and energizers - BComplex and caffeine laden green tea - had me gliding around the living room.  I was wearing sneakers, which always helps my gait, but there were internal changes I noticed as well.  Nothing was sticking or poking or prodding.  There haven't been that many days where all of this has come together; I was lighter than air.  I walked through the bagel store with nary a lurch.  I walked up the staircase to Pilates without pausing on the landing which accommodates the turn.  I wasn't holding on, either.  I held my head high and my back straight and my sacrum reaching to the ground.  I ...

Ever since I left Chicago for California, I've had an ache in my heart.  I look around me for the red and gold and purple leaves on the trees... and I see none.  I inhale deeply, and while the scents are fresh and clean and geographically specific, there is no desiccating mustiness in the air.  Daddooooo would gather the leaves in the bag attached to the lawn mover, letting me stand between his hands as the detritus swirled around my feet and legs and chest.  He'd lift me out, then dump the bag over my head.  The more he swept, the bigger the pile grew, and the more neighborhood kids arrived to jump and fling and bury ourselves underneath, jumping out to scare the littler ones. Cactus paddles and mesquite's spiky branches just won't lead the a similar experience. ***** One of the barrel cacti keeled over and died last week.  I noticed it while going out for the morning paper.  Lying on its side, spiritless, empty, weighing nothing, it is harborin...

Home alone in the early morning.  Sitting at the desk, catching up on emails and looking for strappy black sandals to wear to a wedding next month.  Watching the walkers and the puppies and the bicyclists and the garbage trucks.  Feeling content. A white mini-truck drives by slowly.  Backs up. Disappears behind the corner of the house and then reappears, even more slowly.  Repeats this maneuver again and parks.  There's a small sticker on the door panel; the words are too tiny to reveal his affiliation.  Out of the truck, he's cruising my front yard.  Eyes downcast, he's very interested in the ground beneath his feet.  Sticking a long metal pole into the planting holes of my opuntia, he carefully retrieves it and moves on to the mesquite tree. I can sit no longer. Galumphing to the closet, I find shorts and shoes.  Rushing is still beyond me; I thrust my feet into dressy slip-ons because they were the easiest foot coverings cl...

Ronni Bennett writes on aging over at Time Goes By . She's the standard by which I judge elder blogging, and she sets a high bar.  On Monday, she wrote about aging in place, rounding out the conversation with the notion of Naturally Occurring Retirement Communities. It's a lovely concept: high rise apartment buildings in NYC where the residents have aged in place. Everything can be delivered in NYC, at any time of the day or night.  Public transportation is readily available outside the front door; there's no need to have a car so it is no disaster when you're unable to drive. Repairs are handled by the building management. Everything is familiar, because you've lived there forever.  Neighbors see newspapers in a pile outside an unopened-for-a-few-days-door.  A faltering step on the way to the mail room might prompt a comment by the doorman to a visiting relative.  It is community in the fullest sense of the word; un-intrusive but observant, ...

Little Cuter has about had it.  FlapJilly loves books, loves the turning pages, loves the feel of the cardboard in her hand, loves the bright pictures, love the closeness with her mommy... but Mommy is getting a little bit tired of the insipid verbiage accompanying all that wonderfulness. I listened.  I commiserated. I nodded sagely, even though she couldn't see.  And then, I began to recite: On buses ... and in cars... people come to the airport.  They come to ride in big jet planes. She laughed. It's a foundational story in our family, the afternoon the infant Big Cuter had a runny nose, and I gave him a double dose of Dimetapp, and, afraid that if he went to sleep he'd be so drugged that he'd never wake up, I read "Airport.... by Byron Barton" over and over and over and over and over for hours and hours and hours on the sunny couch in the living room.  A bibliophile even as a baby, I was confident that the kid would stay awake as ...

We live our lives out loud. For years, social scientists wondered how to extract personal data from the general public; it never occurred to them that their subjects would volunteer that information if only given the chance.  Even private communications can be widely disseminated.  There's no need for history to comb through stacks of legal papers to recall Adrian Peterson describing his son's wounds; the texts are sent 'round the world with the click of a button. I'm still reeling .  Both Steven A Smith and Skip Bayless, morning ESPN commentators who normally make my skin crawl, said this morning that they each were beaten with belts and switches by their fathers.  Neither one of them thought it was appropriate discipline - then or now. I found myself in the uncomfortable position of agreeing with those I usually abhor. Sunday NFL Countdown is a collection of older and wiser talking heads.  Except for Mike Ditka, who was, as usual, clueless, t...

Big Cuter is appalled.  He's having a hard time justifying his love affair with professional football in America.  His Sunday-on-the-phone-talking-football-with-Dad call was tinged with sadness.  The Carolina Panthers allowed Greg Hardy to practice with the team this week, after a judge found him guilty of domestic violence, Sure, he's appealing, but right now he's a convicted felon... how can they let him play? How can his 49'ers allow Ray McDonald to take the field when there are pictures of his pregnant fiancée's bruised arms and neck all over the internet?  "Pay him and sit him out, but don't put him out there....." There was pain in his voice. Sports aren't supposed to showcase the ugly underbelly of society this way.  Not in such a concentrated period of time, with such abhorrent, visually revolting, morally repellent actions. Adrian Peterson's abs have been the source of much sighing. The notion of him standing over a screaming 4...

There is so much going on in the world, in my world, in my head right now that I can barely see straight.  Most of it is good, some of it is challenging, all of it requires reflection.  My plate is so full I can't finish one post before I get distracted by another.  I have three partially written essays awaiting my return. I'm procrastinating by thinking of G'ma. Her own biggest regret after losing her own mother was that there wasn't another woman who wanted to see her grandbaby's pictures as much as she did.  I'm feeling her pain right now.  I've switched my screen saver to FlapJilly doing a push-up (yes, she is only 6 weeks old; haven't I told you that she is extraordinary?) and I can get lost in her eyes and her smile for much longer than is productive.  TBG comes by and smiles, but then he goes off to do other things.  G'ma would, I know, sit by my side for as long as I wanted to smile back at the image on the screen.  We'd have talk...

I saw 9 To 5 yesterday.  I didn't like the movie when it debuted in 1980; it felt like a heavy handed way to make an obvious point.  As a fundraiser for Arizona List, a committee dedicated to electing pro-choice, Democrat women at all levels of governance, it was brilliant. Today's news has more on the former President of Pima Community College, who left his job after the sexual harassment complaints against him became more than anyone could stifle. Monday night, a friend reported that a female Fox newscaster suggested that Janay Rice should have taken the stairs. Women still earn less than men doing similar jobs. In-house day care is a fantasy for most employees.  I'd have been depressed, but Beautiful Annie is wonderful company. ***** I was on the playground at Prince this morning.  It is a much mellower place at that time of day.  Everyone is clean and almost all shoes are tied and no one has had time to aggravate ...

Miss Vicki and I went to see Mavis Staples on Friday night.  The whole thing was completely glorious. There is free street parking after 5pm in downtown Tucson, a fact the street person resting under the bank awning noted as I examined the parking meter.  He complimented Miss Vicki's new Subaru, agreed that Tucson is very visitor friendly, and then asked if we could help a brother in need.   Having spent the afternoon testifying in Amster's custody suit, I felt the need to right the karma in the world.  The ten dollar bill on top of my wad of money went from my purse to his hand, both of us agreeing that it was his lucky day.  In a world where grown ups lie under oath, a random good deed helped to straighten my outlook.  Miss Vicki was worried that we'd forget where we left the car, but the library building, one block south of our parking space, was an excellent landmark.  Leaving her tenderly cared for vehicle on the street, we walked to 47 S...

"I always thought of him as a good guy. " TBG, my go-to-guy for all things sports, said that in February, when the video of Ray Rice dragging an unconscious woman out of an elevator hit the airwaves. The woman was his fiancée, they were both drunk... it was another example of "Nothing good follows 'Late last night...'" As background, for you denizens who rely on The Burrow as your sole source of sports information, in May, Rice was suspended for two games by the NFL.  After much hue and cry, much of it comparing Josh Gordon's season long ban for marijuana use to Ray Rice's slap on the wrist, Commissioner Goodell admitted that he didn't get it right on domestic violence.  A new policy was implemented.  Ray Rice was a good guy, so he apologized.  They held a press conference. There he was, all 5'8" of him, a running back for the Baltimore Ravens, apologizing to the team owner, the coach, the fans, the kids... but never once apolo...

I called TBG as Miss Vicki pulled out of the parking space downtown, last Friday night. "Checking in?" she asked in a neutral tone; if there's judgment she's never oblique. "Just letting him know when I'll be home." "Call and let me know how late you'll be" was the kind of request that drove me over the edge.  Come with me if you need to know.  I'm a big girl.  What, are you my mother?  I'm not saying my responses were rational or correct or worthy of my otherwise impeccable status as a grown up.  I'm just telling you what they were. Then, I almost died. Suddenly, what was cloying and smothering was less about me and all about him.  Calling home with an approximate ETA, then calling back to say that plans have changed and we're going out for dinner is no longer a burden.  It's not intrusive; it's expansive It's a gift I can give. It can unwrap the PTSD knot that still haunts him.  I was a snarky New...

It used to be education.  To my naïve heart, equal access to quality instruction seemed the obvious solution to all the world's woes. If we understood how things worked, if we saw the historical path which led to our current situation, if we held philosophers close to our hearts, peace would reign. Oh, to be 15 again. In college, reproductive rights pushed schooling aside.  I was enjoying freedoms, but there was a dark cloud hovering overhead. Birth control was available, but abortion was do you know someone and how much cash do I need?   Then, as now, I was appalled that men in positions of power deemed themselves worthy of deciding how my body should spend nine months.  No one asked the father of the unborn to carry that same burden.  It was that unfairness which spoke loudest to my late teen self. Crossing the threshold into adulthood and self-support, the minimum wage begged for my attention.  Sexism in the workplace reared its ugly head, and, onc...

Is your neighborhood covered with them?  Mine is.  Every corner is awash in cardboard.  I can't see if there's on-coming traffic because Ethan Orr has decided that getting reelected takes precedence over my ability to drive safely.  It's election time, and the posters are everywhere. TBG pointed out last month that it is impossible to tell who belongs to which party.  Except for my friend,  Randy Friese , everyone has his or her own take on red, white, and blue.  There is an occasional elephant on the bottom line, barely visible unless you're stopped in front of the sign itself and looking for an identifier.  I suppose that the lack of labels is a good thing.  We are trying to raise children who see beyond affiliation and into character. Unable to reflexively attach Mr. Orr to either party, I'm free to rail at him as an individual as I inch out of my neighborhood, gingerly placing myself in danger so that he can exercise his right to...

We had lots of rain this monsoon.  I turned off the irrigation; it seemed redundant.  And then, it wasn't.  The rains stopped and I forgot to turn it back on and now the containers which are on the main system are looking quite raggedy. I'm embarrassed.  I'm not taking pictures. The well-established plants in the front and the back yards are quite happy.  They are drying out, acclimating themselves to the cooler, drier autumn.  Though the temperatures are still in the triple digits, it's not that hot.  Oxymoronic?  Not really.  Just very hard to describe. The gardening guides in the glossy magazines designed to entice tourists to return again and again tell me to prune the dead canes of my roses and to replant my containers.  They use phrases like rip out and replace .  That makes it easier to deal with the detritus which was once zinnias. I'll go to the nursery and see what looks beautiful.  I'll prune befo...

One of the GrandFarkles was reading Crime and Punishment in JannyLou's kitchen last night.  TBG and I had been invited to join the family for an end-of-the-summer dinner, even though summer's end had been heralded for their grandchildren by the start of school several weeks ago. One high schooler was writing a paper on the day bed in the picture window.  The college student was busy; though his education takes place a just few miles from his ancestral home, he's away-at-school and couldn't join the rest of the crew on the ride down to Granny's. There are serious students in JannyLou's family. Crime and Punishment was frilled with small post-its, each one a reference to a point to be made, an essay to be composed, a thought to be completed.  Talking to smart young people is such a joy for me; their first introduction to works I've studied never fails to put a smile on my face.  The gymnast granddaughter, arms wrapped in healing tape to protect her rubbed-r...