I Had A Post In Mind.....

I really did.  A bunch of Random Thoughts (haven't done that for a while, thought it was time to reprise it) or, perhaps, a silly FlapJilly story, or a description of GRIN's Grandma's Garden project at Prince.... they were all rattling around in my head until I came home and watched the news.

Five people went to work in the morning.  Just a regular morning.  The sun came up and they got dressed and followed their regular, boring routines and ended up at their desks in the Capital Gazette.  They never went home.  They died on a regular day, doing regular things, with regular people.

How do we go on when shit like that keeps happening?  There must have been pissed off readers before 2018, readers who sued the paper for some reason or other.  Why does the world not come to a stop when a man begins executing other humans because he's angry?  When did this become okay?

I'm lucky.  I've already been shot.  I often tell people that the safest place to be in the world is by my side, because the chances of bullets finding my small self once again have got to be very small, indeed. 

But the rest of you.......I worry..  I don't know how you find the inner strength to leave your houses in the morning, knowing the chaos and craziness that might await you. 

I wondered last night if the time was soon coming where the only people brave enough to encounter others, randomly, in public, are those whose lives have already been violated by gunshots.  We've been there, survived that.

I worry about the rest of you.

It Was All Too Much For Me

First, the Supremes believed that The Trump Travel Ban was based, not on the President's stated objective of keeping all Muslims out of the USofA, but on specific security threats.  As Rachel Maddow pointed out, that was the same reasoning used in upholding Korematsu, the Japanese internment case brought during WWII.  Recent documents have shown that there was no real security threat (if one had existed it might be assumed that the other descendants of the Axis Powers - the Germans and the Italians - would have been rounded up, too).  Somehow, I think the same spurious reasoning will be found by future generations probing the archives behind the Muslim Ban.

Yes, there were restrictions on immigration from those countries when Mr Obama was President. Somehow we managed to stay safe for all those years without disgusting the rest of the world.

Then, the Supremes weren't impressed with racial gerrymandering at all - and decided it wasn't a big deal, that districts could be drawn at State Legislatures' discretion, racial insensitivity (or over sensitivity) be damned.  Congressional Districts can look like the lower intestine, serving to include and exclude with impunity. 

Sure, a District in New York elected a newcomer while ousting a long time Democratic pol, but can a Democratic Socialist agenda gain traction here in Arizona?  Is the DCCC, the election arm of the Democratic Party, worried?  They are putting their dollars behind establishment candidates (see Ann Kirkpatrick right here in Arizona) while ignoring the upstarts with bold ideas.  We have 7 of them competing for Martha McSally's House seat, fascinating humans with new ideas and bold visions and, for the most part, not a lot of baggage from the past.  Will they play well more broadly in our District?  It's 30-30-30, split between Republicans, Democrats, and Independents, a true swath of Americana.  I like a couple of the newcomers, but the Powers That Be aren't budging.

Gabby and Mark are behind Ann.  That adds to my burden of sorrow.

Then Justice Kennedy retired. I've already alerted my family that Justice Ginsburg can have any of my body parts she requires to maintain her health and her workload; she's the most important human on the planet right now.  I need her on the Court, not replaced by a person whose impeachment or indictment may well come before that same Court  

The thought of that foolish. orange, ignorant man (yes, I was reduced to ranting by my fear and loathing) appointing Supreme Court Justices put me over the edge.  I paced.  I ranted.  I watched High Society and admired Grace Kelly's jewelry (the real stuff, that Prince Rainier gave her, that she wore in the movie and then on in her real life as Princess Grace) and thought about Satchmo going to the newly formed Congo upon its release from Belgian servitude (when I was in 4th grade and wrote a report on it.... thank you Mrs. Kleiner for an assignment I recall half a century later).... and none of it helped.  I ate ice cream and a croissant and a banana and couldn't drown my sorrows and fears that way, either.

So, I went to sleep, hoping that the world would look better to me in the morning, that my fingers would take me to a better place for you, even if the post would be hours late in posting.  

Obviously, I managed to write something this morning, so the edge is off.  

Still, I don't feel very much better at all.

A Good Death

My friend, Marilyn Heins, is a pediatrician, parent, grandparent, great-step-grandparent, and the founder of ParentKidsRight.com.  She writes a twice-monthly column for the Arizona Daily Star, giving practical, meaningful, comfortable advice about parenting at all stages.  Her June 24th column was about the importance of having The Conversation - what do you want at the end of your life.  She began with the story of euthanizing her Cavalier King Charles spaniel.

When I think of my mother's death, I start with a pet, too.

I sat in JannyLou's kitchen, holding her as we wept.  She'd held her pooch in her lap as the vet helped him die.  We were sad, but it was a good end.  

And then, we laughed through my tears as we talked about my mother.  She was slowly fading away, aches and pains and memory loss making her alive but not really living.  How she would have welcomed such a comforting and comfortable end.

"We are kinder to our pets than we are to our people" has become our new mantra, as we watch our friends and relatives go through loss and pain and unnecessary procedures.  Somehow, we have gotten to the point where counting the days we have is more important than examining their quality. 

My family was lucky; I kissed my mom goodnight and she died during her sleep.  And, our last conversation was fabulous.  

G'ma hadn't communicated with anyone, except to say OUCH,with attitude, for a few days. That evening, as the aide put her in her Christmas nightgown (red and green plaid, it was December, I'm not sure the aide ever heard of Chanukah), I was, as usual, chatting up a storm, assuming it was as arrogant to think that G'ma didn't understand me as to think that she did.  

Pausing for a breath, offhandedly I said "You're not really here and listening, are you, Mommy?"

"Nope, I'm not," she replied.  The aide and I were stunned, but I jumped right on it.

"Where are you?"

"I'm not sure." (big smile)

"Is it okay there?"

\Her eyes roamed the ceiling.  She was seeing something, though I know not what.

"Sure.  Why wouldn't it be?" (bigger smile)

That is the closest I've ever come to hearing about what's out there after we leave here.  It's strangely comforting.

Then, dressed and comfy and tucked in, I asked if she wanted me to stay and chat or if she wanted to sleep.  She closed her eyes, turned her head on the pillow and pretend-snored.  She opened her eyes and smiled at me.  

"Okay, then. Be that way!"  I laughed, we kissed, we exchanged I love you's, and I left, crying my eyes out, much to the aide's bemusement.  

"Why are you crying?  If she goes tonight, the last words she heard were that you loved her.  And you heard the same.  Why cry?  That's beautiful."

We'd had The Conversation.  My siblings and I were on the same page. But I wish I had been there to hold her hand..

Getting an A+ in Parenting

She's about to welcome a sibling.

Her parents are realizing that the odds will soon be even - two on each side of the power divide.

And so, recent emphasis has focused on rewarding Excellent Big Sister Behavior.

The rewards are financial, deposited into a piggy bank.

Said bank was full on Sunday; FlapJilly was free to spend her earnings anywhere she wanted.

The Yogurt Shop. Claire's for baubles and bangles.  The cupcake bakery.  Target.

Nope.

She took her parents and her kitty purse and her cash to the library store, Barnes and Oble.

There she is, leaving with her book bag and her Dad, explaining the situation to him.

They've raised a not-yet-4-year-old who makes wise choices.

A+ 

These Days

Driving to our new favorite Mexican restaurant Friday evening,  the conversation turned to 23&Me's donation of genetic testing kits as a means of reuniting separated children and their parents.  Of course, issuing matching hospital bracelets would have accomplished the same thing, but that would have implied planning and forethought as opposed to a hissy fit to placate the base.

Too brown to be in town, TBG muttered, shaking his head, scowling, squinting his eyes in that way that signals Danger, Will Robinson.  The cruelty to children is driving him to distraction.  He's angrier than I can remember seeing him, and I've been seeing him for a long, long time.

We try to leave politics far from the dinner table, but we couldn't contain ourselves.  We were casting aspersion left and right, denying the humanity of those who were party to the awfulness.

Those children are already damaged - we kept coming back to that.  No matter what we do, they are different than when they arrived.  Eve  Sarah Sanders wouldn't take the podium to defend it; she had Homeland Security take her place.  Then she went out to dinner.

The restaurant freaked, called the owner, didn't know what to do. How could they profit from Sarah Sanders?  The owner arrived, polled the staff, and the Sanders's were asked to leave.

They were polite.  I wish she had made a stink about it.

Nasty is nasty, no matter if you are supporting the President or the Resistance. If you are open for business you are open for business, even if you are a couple of black guys who need to pee while waiting for a friend in Starbucks

Do unto others comes to mind, too,

But I always end up in the same place - what if she asked you to bake a cake for her wedding?

You disagree with her politics, think she is immoral, don't want her in your space.  You refuse her service based on her beliefs.  The Supreme Court agrees with you; you have nothing to fear.

But living in our separate silos has contributed to the sorry state of affairs in America today.  We are so angry with one another that we cannot be in the same room with one another.  That's no way to reach a compromise, no way to govern, no way to live.

I would rather have had the staff be salgubrious* with her, meeting her every need with a smile and good cheer  When the excellent meal and fine service is rewarded with a generous tip, one of the servers could explain that they can't keep her money, but that they will be donating all of it to RAICES, where it can do the most good.
*****


*salgubrious - overly friendly, often ridiculous or feigned (newly minted by TBG in 2010)

RAICES promotes justice by providing free and low-cost legal services to underserved immigrant children, families and refugees in Central and South Texas.  They are putting up bail money for asylum seekers.

I Tried Not To Do This

thefootballexaminer.com

I spent all afternoon and all evening and a good part of the night thinking about this image.

Ben's Bells is one of my favorite places in Tucson.  It's all about kindness.  Most of the cars driven by Tucsonans have one of these stickers on a rear window:

:

Kindness.  The notion has been rattling around this country as our President rips children from their parents and blames everyone but himself.  It's just not kind.  You know, that whole Do Unto Others business that the Bible, Mike Pence's bedtime reading material, talks about.  The What You Do To The Least of Us You Do To ME.

That ME..... am I incorrect to assume that refers to the Son of God?  Even Herod's minions didn't pull  him out of the manger and relocate him while his parents checked in with the government.

I know. I know.  They weren't checking in.  They were trying to move in.  They ran from chaos and instability to El Norte, where there are rules.  Yes, rules that they were trying to follow, except that the rules changed while they were en route and they must have missed the memo.

Yeah, the memo.  The one the Border Patrol got telling them to direct migrants to sections fo the border where they would be arrested and prosecuted as felons, rather than given a misdemeanor ticket and a request for appearance in the future.

And then?  Then those grownups would leave their little ones with relatives while they cleaned houses and bussed tables and dug trenches for irrigation lines in 117 degree heat.  How many chef's have chimed in, how many landscapers are reminding us that native born Americans don't want those jobs?  There are no government benefit checks coming their way; they live in the shadows, driving carefully, obeying the rules (ah, those rules), waiting for their day in court.

These aren't people who are crossing illegally.  They are people asking for asylum.  They are looking for shelter and safety.  Many, like the tearful 6 year old we heard on the smuggled tape, want to reunite with family, just like my grandparents some 100 years ago.

Can we take everyone?  Why not?  There are swaths of empty land in our country, miles of distressed housing in Detroit that could be turned into an urban oasis if refugees were trained and put to work creating their own homes.  I bet Habitat for Humanity has a few ideas on how to engage them.  There are signs outside every care home in Tucson, every construction project, looking for workers.  Anybody who's walked hundreds or thousands of miles seeking refuge from kidnapping and rape and murder, who's carried a child looking for a better life over all those miles, certainly that person has proven to have perseverance and fortitude and desire.  Aren't those the basic qualities sought in an entry level position?  

Sure, we'll have to educate those children, but if their parents are allowed to pay taxes on the work they do then it ought to be a wash.  But they can't pay taxes if they sneak across, and those separated families were not trying to sneak.  They were trying to be saved.

Yes, unrest in their countries of origin is the bigger problem. Perhaps Mexico should secure its own borders so migrants cannot pass through, as DJT bloviated yesterday.  But I like thinking of the United States as a sanctuary, as a loving, welcoming, accepting, thoughtful, kind place.

You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one........

In any event, no matter if you agree with me or not about all of this, can you think of a better way to radicalize a 13 or 14 or 15 year old than caging him?  There is only one thing that might push that kid over the edge faster, and that's seeing FLOTUS announcing to the public how she really feels.

Seeing her sitting in front of a Kindness Matters sign made it all just a little bit worse for me.

Coming to America

My Bubba wasn't the person chosen to come to America.  Her older sister, Dora, was the one who was supposed to make the trip, to meet family in New York, to become an American.  But Dora was too scared to leave home, so Ida went in her stead.

Everyone who knows the details is long dead.  Piecing things together from randomly remembered bits of family history, it seems that my maternal grandmother, an accomplished seamstress, looked quite elegant when the steamship arrived at Ellis Island.  They lifted her eyelids with a button hook, checking for she knew not what.  They asked her name, and wrote a semblance of what she said in a big book, then sent her across the harbor on a ferry to meet her distant cousin, the one who sponsored Dora-now-Ida.

That was chain migration at the turn of the 20th century.  There wasn't a lot of vetting for terror suspects, unless you were an Asian immigrant held on Angel Island off the coast of San Francisco.  There had to be an anchor person on shore, someone who would guarantee to the authorities that the new arrival would have a place to sleep and a job to hold.  Without those two pieces in place, you couldn't come over.

Families sent the oldest, the strongest, the most resilient members to brave the new frontier.  Once established, they'd send for more cousins.  My paternal great-grandparents had 9 children; the oldest accompanied their parents,they brought the rest over, slowly but surely.  He sent my grandmother and her younger sister to London, but they refused to stay with those cousins.  Frustrated with their behavior, the unknown English cousins put the two little girls on a boat in the care of a stranger; they floated to America, 8 and 10 years old, alone.

There were quotas and there must have been paperwork, but that side of things is lost to history.  Titanic showed how Leo took the ticket he won and jumped on the ship without any vetting at all.  Somehow, our nation survived.

Then came World War II, and Roosevelt sending the St. Louis and her refugees back to Europe and certain death.  If my relatives could have swum across the ocean, they'd have fled the Nazis and begged for asylum.  There was no walking to safety for them.  They died because of American immigration policy.

But it is possible to walk from Central America to our southern border, and fear has a way of making the impossible possible. Can you imagine the strength it takes to bring a toddler across thousands of miles?  Can you imagine the hope and the longing for safety that impels young parents to undertake that journey with nothing but an image of a shining city on a hill at the end? 

What I can't imagine is the Border Patrol agents sending people away from the designated safe crossings.  What I can't imagine is officials referring people to stations they know will break up families.  What I can't imagine is how those people sleep at night. 

A worker in a detention facility was told not to hug the crying children.  Parents are being deported while their children are held here; I can't imagine how they will ever reconnect.  Where are the girls and the babies?  DJT says that Ivanka told him that this was not a great policy; I can't imagine believing him.

Friends went to represent me at Senator Flake's D. C. office.  They were treated with disdain.  I can't imagine a rude Congressional staffer; didn't he realize that he was talking to his employer? 

Coming to America means something different these days, whether it's on the border or in the halls of Congress, it seems.  It makes me very sad.

The Perfect Response

I finally found a spin bike that fits my frame, doesn't hurt my butt, and lets me feel safe.  I rode one morning, Fox News on the personal tv to get my blood going.  There are no toe clips on this bike; I have to concentrate on the upstroke in order to keep the ball of my foot on the pedal. On the downstroke, I have to remind my right knee that it has no business traveling off the mid-line.

Up and down, around and around, I was focused on feeling the bone moving in the socket.  The synovial fluid loosens up and starts to flow, blood nourishes the muscle, and real work begins to happen.  I was happily considering the delicious warmth in my hip when a friend stopped by.

Normally, I wouldn't take out my earphones.  I'd smile and wave and go back to my routine.  Serious gym rats understand and appreciate that; it's not rudeness, it's dedication to the workout.  But for her, I made an exception.

She's a world class athlete, an age group champion (more than once), and the leanest woman I know.  Her muscles are right there, proud and strong, and she's always been more than generous in sharing how she got them.  We met before I was shot, over the squat bar.  We've shared family stories and hairstylist recommendations.  It's never going to be more than a gym rat relationship, and that's perfectly okay with both of us.  What it is is quite enough.  She's a Before And After person; that makes her special, too.

So, when she stopped, I did too.  We hugged, sweatily, and updated our workout status.  She wondered about the bike, I told her I finally felt safe and comfortable on one and her response was perfect:  That's Great!

She didn't offer suggestions.  She didn't ask why I chose that configuration versus one that would more nearly approximate true bicycling, using the muscle to its utmost, making the most of my time (I had TBG for that when I got home).  She was thrilled that I was accomplishing something new, that I was moving, that I didn't hurt.

Then I put in my earphone, she hoisted her gym bag, and we waved goodbye.  She told me I inspired her.  I told her she gave me confidence.  Two perfect responses, two happy women, one lovely Father's Day morning.

Dear C J

I've known Rep. McSally's District Director since he was Gabby's Communications Director, back in 2011, when we were shot.  I smiled when I heard that he'd "gone over to the dark side," the phrase I used when I called to ask for a meeting.  Since McSally's election, we've met half a dozen times, alone and in the company of others sharing my political bent.  

He's always been open and honest and forthright.  He calls me on my over-reactions and I don't allow him to avoid the hard questions.  We agree to disagree.  

He knows that I don't feel represented.  He knows that I don't admire his boss.  He's a staffer, enjoying the workings of government without attaching a personal bias to his day job.  I'm fine with that.  He spouts the party line, the Congresswoman's inability to take a coherent stand on the issues tormenting and torturing his answers at times, but he's always tried to hear what I'm saying.  He promises that he conveys the messages upstream.

We've shared our love for America, a country that welcomed our recent relations as immigrants.  We've managed to laugh around our differences.  I hope that's still true after he reads these words, which I sent to him in an email Monday morning:

Dear CJ,

We've talked about the Brits and your people - the ones who were bullied and tormented and pushed aside, abused and sent running.

We've talked about civil discourse and respect and seeing the other side.

We've wrangled with the distinction between speaking truth to power and getting something done.

I'd love to have something to discuss about the Congresswoman's stance on separating families at the border, but, alas, there is NOTHING.

NOTHING.

This is the office that represents me.  This is the office that speaks for me in Washington.  This is my voice, and it is silent.

How does Ms McSally feel about this policy?  She was just at the border with Sec. Nielsen.  She knows her.  What have they discussed about this issue?  Where does my Congresswoman come down on this policy?

I'm not making any assumptions about her reaction.  That would be unfair.  Just because her home page is filled with pictures of her cozying up to the President and the Vice President does not necessarily mean that she agrees with everything they say.  I will give her the chance to prove that she can establish some distance between herself and the inhumanity that is besmirching our international reputation, that has gotten us a slap from the United Nations, that tears at my heart when I wake up and when I go to sleep.

This is NOT my America.  Is is Congresswoman McSally's?

Inquiring voters want to know.  I await your response.

Not My America

Among the benefits of getting shot (and yes, there have been benefits) are the connections I've made with people I would never have encountered otherwise - news people.

It started with Amanda, your friend at the Associated Press.  She started every conversation that way.  It made me smile.  She was writing the first draft of American history, and she wanted to get the facts straight.  Then there was Brian Williams, now semi-disgraced for embellishing a story but then very much in high esteem.  He was genuinely interested in us, in how we came to be the people we are, how the shooting dented that construction.  His questions opened new ways to think about The Event.

And then there was Sarah Garrecht Gassen.  She waylaid me in the hallway outside one of the first court hearings, identifying herself as a stringer for the New York Times.  Since the NYT had just printed an error filled article  (starting with misstating my age)  about me, I said No, thank you. I'm not interested in talking to the Times, and kept going.  I also represent The Star, she went on, and I stopped.  I'll always talk to the local news.

And so it began, an unlikely friendship between a short Jewish grandmother from New York and a blonde, small animal loving, tri-athlete from the midwest.  We found ourselves finishing each other's sentences.  She didn't mind lengthy answers and I didn't mind intrusive questions.  She quoted me directly and placed the quotes in context.  She never made me look like a fool.

That was 7 years ago.  We continue to have breakfast crepes at Marcel's even as we've stopped trying to improve our gait. 5K's were fun, but life gradually overtook our free time.  We discovered Bananagrams and now her journalism students are addicted.  She's gone from reporting to editing to becoming the Editorial Page Editor.  I read her columns and her editorials, laughing with her using my What's not to love? rant about Christmas (c'mon - babies, farm animals, love, stars, visitors with gifts - what's not to love?) and sagely nodding when she touches directly on the truth.

Sunday's editorial landed there, solidly, emphatically, with passion.  I liked the print headline better: 
Out of ideas, US leaders give child cruelty a try.  Using words like feckless, desperate, complicit, and traumatizing, the editorial agrees with me - Is this the United States we want?  We say loudly and firmly: No.  Taking on Jeff Sessions and Congress, the Star places the blame where it belongs (emphasis added):

The broken immigration system and the need for change are adult problems  Adults separate ourselves into countries, with borders.  All children know is they reach for their parents with the same heartbreaking, human cry.

Can't you see why I love her?

Something To Think About

Thomas Mullen wrote a one-off story, the first of his books that I read.  The Last Town on Earth has cut all ties with the outside world, hoping to quarantine itself against the flu epidemic raging through World War I America.  It doesn't really go as planned.

Several small towns actually tried this, with about as much success as Mullen's fictional burg. 

What happens when someone approaches?  What happens if that person needs help, or poses a threat?  Worse, what happens when the town runs out of liquor?  Amid musings on relationships and permanence and family and good and evil, I found something that stopped me in my tracks. 

It gave me something to think about.  I give it to you.

And even if so much was stripped away that you no longer recognized yourself, the thing left was the part of you that you never understood, that you always underestimated, that you were always afraid to look at.  You were afraid you'd need it one day and it wouldn't be there for you, but in fact it was the one thing that couldn't be taken away.

Flag Day

First published in 2015, upgraded in 2018. 

Today, Flag Day, June 14th, is Linda's mother's birthday; why I know that fact remains a mystery.  I've known Linda since first grade.  I know none of the birthdays of my other friends, from then or now, let alone their mother's birthdays.  

Flag Day, though, has always been Linda's Mother's Birthday.  Just ask TBG. He doesn't know Linda, but he, too, celebrates her mother's birthday.

*****

timesofsandiego.com

This is the weekend, in 2015, when Gabby Giffords helped to christen the US Navy's newest littoral combat ship (designed to patrol in shallow waters), the USS Gabrielle Giffords.  Two years later, Little Cuter and I helped her celebrate the Commissioning.

At both events, she was gorgeous and happily wind-blown, leaning against her handsome husband.  I know the effort behind each one of the steps she took, from the bow to the stern.

It's not only the doing which inspires me, it's the attitude : There is no yesterday.  There is only tomorrow.  Be bold. Be courageous. Be strong.

*****

Which has gotten me thinking about the The Star Spangled Banner. 

I've never liked it, as music or narrative.  Then, Col. Bill's wife sent me a video from Smithsonian Magazine which told the story of the very real night when the continued proof that our flag was still there meant the difference between the survival or failure of the fledgling United States of America.

I'd still rather sing America the Beautiful or God Bless America.  

*****

Daddooooo was quite annoyed at the American flag patch on my jeans shorts, back in 1970 or '71. He felt that using the flag to cover my tush was the height of disrespect.  

Of course he was right; the Flag Code prohibits such behavior.  Then again, it also prohibits all the machinations the NFL puts it through in the name of patriotism.  I wonder what he'd say about that.  

Back in 2015, though, I wondered how he'd react to soccer fans, with their flag capes

and their flag faces

futboler.tv

Kindle vs Hard Back - The Argument Continues

I read a new-to-me series on an e-book loan from the library.  Thomas Mullen's David Loogan struggled with identity and loss and truth and justice, while I spent three days complaining about reading on a screen.

I never knew how much further I had to read before I found out who dunnit.  There was no shifting of weight in my hands as I made progress.  I had to make a conscious effort, stop concentrating. click twice, then readjust my eyes and  oh, wait, where was I?

Worse than that, opening the download brought me directly to Chapter 1.  The device didn't need to ease me into the book, to let me feel the pages (Dick Francis's bright white, Joan Didion's vellum like ecru), have me get used to the font.  Furthermore, it decided that I didn't need to see the cover, didn't have to read the copyright material and the dedication and the chapter headings.  It decided I wanted to start reading.

If There Are Words, I Will Read Them could be embroidered on my pillowcase.  I read cereal boxes.  I read the Chipotle bag.  I read the warrants in the School Board Meeting Packets every month, even before I was elected.  I read No Parking signs down to the code numbers in small print on the bottom.  I also read the ISBN information and the publishers' and editors' imprints and the other verbiage in the front of the book.  Apparently, I'm an outlier.  The Kindle app doesn't recognize my pattern at all.

And then there's the end of the book.  I watch the credits - did you walk out before the end of Robert Altman's Nashville?  You missed half the movie.  Did you watch them in Black Panther?  The real ending occurs in the middle of the rolling credits.  There are nuggets of information - stars' children in cameo roles, the real names of the animals used - that make me smile, that would be lost if I walked out before the words were finished telling me stuff.

Apparently, Kindle disagrees.  Before you can get to Acknowledgements, the app switches to the Rate This Read page.  It's a pop-up. Instead of sitting quietly with the closed words cuddled in my lap, I'm jarred out of my reverie with a demand to tell others how I feel.

It's not a book club, for crying out loud. It's me, alone, enjoying the moment.  It's reading for pleasure, for my own sake, without being connected to anything except the words.  Again, Kindle does not agree.

I love the convenience of downloading the books immediately.  I love being able to read on my phone while waiting for a prescription to be filled.  I love looking up unfamiliar words with no more than the touch of a fingertip.  I love making the type ever larger as my eyes tire at night.

Still, I'd rather read a real book.

Best Road Trip, Ever

"Mama, don't you want to come with me?"

I'd offered to cover all the expenses if SIR, then merely her best friend, would drive with her from IU to Marin.  Her new-used-car had to get back to California, and he was a better mechanic than I was.  Plus, he was there, in Bloomington.

"But, Mama, don't YOU want to come with me?" 

And so I flew to Indianapolis, landed near midnight, checked into the airport Marriott and tried to sleep.  Little Cuter packed herself up and met me the next morning at the hotel..... and once we managed to get out of the parking lot (lost before we started!) we were off.  

My job was simple - take a photo of every Welcome to (Insert State Name Here)! sign.  I managed to get Illinois and Iowa and Wyoming, but we stopped for those.  The rest I missed, fumbling uselessly with her Canon.  This was 2005; cell phones were telephones not cameras and computers back then.  Her little SLR was more than I could successfully manage, aiming through an open sunroof, trying to frame it perfectly, and, more often than not, failing spectacularly.  

Illinois to Iowa, where Little Cuter got locked in the bathroom and had to be bludgeoned out by a maintenance worker with the world's biggest hammer.  Passing an open Adult Bookstore in an otherwise shuttered outlet mall on Mother's Day, trying to find something to do (and failing) in downtown Lincoln, Nebraska, running into two of her classmates at a random gas station in Cheyenne, Wyoming..... the little things were our Big Events each day.  

I drove in the morning, she drove after lunch.  She held onto the keys.  We all have our strengths.

I called ahead for reservations ("Hello, Chamber of Commerce.  What's the newest hotel along I-80 in your town?)  We stayed in chain motels that still smelled of fresh paint, the first ones in newly finished rooms.  We wandered around the University of Wyoming and an Ace Hardware in Laramie - it was the only thing open on that Monday evening in May.  

And then there was Salt Lake.  Speeding down the mountain, 8-lanes-in-each-direction, everyone racing home after work on a Tuesday, needing to be there immediately, ignoring the speed limit, passing our little Honda with impunity, me behind the wheel begging my map-impaired child to figure out where to get off the highway.  It was terrifying.  My thighs were sweating.  

Our reward was a fancy Marriott downtown.  The problem was getting there.  No Left Turn.  No Right Turn.  No U Turn.  We were not in the mood for Salt Lake City that afternoon.  Finally arriving, valet parking the car, checking in, Little Cuter headed for the shower.  Her hair in a fluffy towel, her body wrapped in a luscious bathrobe, she plunked herself on the bed with the tv remote in one hand and the phone in the other.  While I worked out in the fabulous gym, my daughter struck up a close personal relationship with the Room Service Order Taker.

The next day started out bright and sunny, until it began to snow.  Visibility was next to zero.  We were dressed for May - flipflops and shorts.  Crossing a mountain pass in a blizzard was no fun at all; we hunkered down in a gas-station-cum-diner until the worst had passed.  Then it was off through Nevada's miles and miles of nothingness to our final stop - the Resort at Squaw Creek, in Tahoe.

We were just a few hours from home, but we deserved pampering.  A candlelit dinner with white tablecloths and pressed napkins, massages, clean mountain air and tall, deep green trees - we were back in California at last.  We zoomed, stopped for lunch at an outdoor cafe and met the motorcyclists we'd been following down the mountain, with their tiny chihuahua in an even tinier cut-off t-shirt.  

Then we were home.  2,358 miles.  7 states.  4 nights.  5 days.  0 arguments.

That's right. 0 arguments.  No grumbling, no snark, no pouting.  Just two people in a car, moseying across America.  

Well, That Didn't Happen

I had great plans.  A new header.  Updated sidebar.  Revamped labels.

They never came to fruition.  Instead, I swam and visited with friends and read two novels.  I went out to dinner with friends, had lunch with friends, dined at a gala with friends.  My fingers and toes are freshly painted.  The cupboards are stocked with fresh and healthy foodstuffs.  There is soft and gushy bread from the bakery on my counter.  I have everything I need for dinner preparations. 

I printed out our tickets for RBG at The Loft today at 2:45.  Perhaps we'll stop at Smashburger for milkshakes on the way home.  I have time for another swim before dressing for the movie.

It's summer in Tucson and that usually means laziness.  There is less to do.  Being outside is impossible unless you are in a pool or up the mountains.  Indoor activities take precedence, and that's what I had in mind when I promised you a new look. 

I didn't think that everyone I knew and loved would be back in town and wanting to visit this weekend.  I didn't know that the library books would be so enthralling.  But, mostly, I didn't know that I wouldn't have the energy to tackle the tasks I'd assigned myself.

That's been happening a lot, lately. 

I've been working on my clothes closet for a month or so, weeding out everything that doesn't fit (and never will again) and that I don't like.  Some items still had tags, but I was ruthless, rooting out the Give Away's and the Garbage and the Send to (Insert Name Here)'s.  I still have one shelf left to investigate, the one with my jewelry and tchotchkes. 

I haven't made a plan or stated a commitment out loud regarding my anticipated end date.  I find myself working on it at odd times - after putting on my pj's at 11 o'clock at night, just before I take a shower after a sweaty workout, while changing into hang out clothes in the late afternoon.  It grabs me and I act. 

If I don't feel the lust to act, I ignore the chore..... and that's what happened to The Burrow this weekend.  I was busy.  My energies were directed toward other activities.  What seemed like fun on Friday morning remained firmly planted in my To Do's; it never moved to Being Done.

Truly, I have read other books and seen other movies and watched other tv shows (currently bingeing Killing Eve).  I have merely neglected to inform you, my reading audience, of their existence in my life.  Perhaps the urge to update will hit me when I'm not so busy.  Perhaps not.  For now, all I can do is apologize.

Overhauling The Burrow

I had a plan.

I forgot about it.

I had some ideas.

I lost them.

Then, I forgot to write the post at all.  Yesterday was an odd day, indeed. 

I want to update the sidebars.  I want to make the labels more relevant.  I want to figure out how to make a word salad picture of the topics I cover and I want to find a lovely spot on the page to place it. I want to have more fully developed skills. 

I'm singing my song to myself..... I can't always get what I want, and I'm peeved.

Rather than drone on about nonsense, I'll reprise an oldie but a goodie for you right here and then get on about the business of cleaning up The Burrow.  Prepare for a new look on Monday!
*****
Friday, June 15, 2012

When Did I Get Old?

When did my legs start to look like my grandmother's legs?

There I was, catching a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror in our suite at Canyon Ranch, asking that question out loud. 

"Did you ask me something?" TBG called from the bed down the hall.

I suppose I did... but it was more of a question to the gods in the ether, the ones at whom I direct my rage when the ground squirrels nibble up all my portulaca.  I know why it happens... I'm not looking for facts.... it's my younger self exclaiming that it's not fair.

It's not that I didn't like my grandmother's legs. They were just as wrinkly as her chest is in this photo of me rejecting ginger ale from a straw in the summer of 1952. 

She was in her 60's then, but to me she was just old.   I thought her wrinkles were the prettiest wrinkles anyone ever had.  They were everywhere, as I recall, on her arms and her legs and her bosom.

Looking at this picture, I see that she was less crinkly than I'd remembered.  Is there a lesson there?  At the time, they looked sunny and healthy.  My grandmother loved the beach, and her skin showed it.  She and her sisters and brothers took bungalows at the shore every summer, carting children, swimsuits and lounge chairs and not much else.  Daddooooo described it as two-suits-and-pajamas summers.  They needed nothing more. 

As a child, visiting my paternal grandparents always involved sand and surf.  In the winter we bundled up and brought our kites, in the summer we'd run back to the half-a-house they shared with the landlord for snacks between swims.  My grandmother was at the stove, creating the world's most delicious hamburgers ("Sure, they're delicious.... she uses ground steak," was always G'ma's reply) and always willing to accept a hug... a hug around those wrinkly legs.

Now, they are my legs according to that mirror and I want to know whose idea aging was, anyhow? 

I don't want a face lift.  I want a leg lift.

Fifty, for me, was the downhill slide of life.  Anyway I look at it, it's at least half over.  That's neither sad nor surprising nor a cry for pity or help.  It's merely a fact.  I can handle mortality.... it's the mirror that's giving me trouble.

The concept of good years has always troubled me.  G'ma's idea of a good year isn't one I'd like, at least now.  But she is happy in her recliner-which-she-refuses-to-recline, watching The Weather Channel and Law'n.  Will that be a good year for me when I'm nearing 90? Who knows.

I remember being appalled that I'd be 48 in the year 2000.  That was nearly 50.  Mr. 9. back when he was Mr.7, remarked with horror that in two years I'd be 60.  The urge to shield me from such a fate oozed from his every pore. 

I know, age is a state of mind.... I'm doing great for any age let alone being 60 and having been shot three times.... 60 is the new 40..... I know.... I know.....

For right now, though, I still want the answer to my original question:

When did this happen to my legs?

Hope

TBG sits beside me on Douglas, willing his Cavaliers to victory.  They are up by ten right now, and he's filled with hope.  Can one extraordinary man defeat a talented team led by The Splash Brothers?  He's filled with hope, but he is a realist.

I have been trying to find hope in the larger sphere. 

I can't worry about Melania sightings; lots of moms are busy with their kids at this time of year and she did just have surgery.  I'm infuriated by the NFL owners' tone deaf response to players kneeling for social justice, I'm inspired by the mutual respect shown in the NBA, but mostly I'm annoyed that the flag, which is supposed to fly free and never be held flat, is venerated while being insulted. People are still driving with a full load of stupid, but there are fewer of all of us so it's mildly less annoying.... although it's really too hot to be annoyed at anything. 

But I'm not fighting annoyance, I'm struggling with despair.  My country is in peril and I am feeling powerless.  My Congresswoman is a regular on Fox News and in Presidential photo-ops.  One of my Senators resigned and one is too ill to cast his votes. 

I took that mindset into Beyond Bread for tuna fish and a vague thought of losing myself in the less than thrilling thriller I'm reading.  I settled myself comfortably, taking in my surroundings, and I smiled. 

There were four of them, three women and one man, their hands and faces lined with experiences of campaigns past.  Large white buttons proclaiming a love of democracy and a promise to vote pinned to their hips, they shared papers and smiles and plans.  Their food was an after thought. It was the work which brought them together.

They were still going strong when I left, and I read several long chapters over my salad. 

They served me hope for dessert.

105 Degrees - A Snippet

It's a scorching of the skin, a burning in the eyeballs, a thick stillness of the air.

It's waves of heat rising from the pavement and mirages appearing half a block down the road.

It's tank tops and sandals and sweat.  It's light skirts and flimsy dresses and sweat.

It's clouds teasing me, hovering over the mountains, white and wispy and useless if for rain or shade.

It's the irrigation running three times a day, and still the roses wilt.

It's waking up early to walk on Christina-Taylor's path and realizing that 7 is not early enough.

It's 105 degrees and it's hot.

Pardoning, Impeaching, and Process

Apparently, Rudy and Don have decided that being President puts one above the law.

Trump's more reprehensible than Nixon.  Nixon knew he was a crook; the newly transcribed Haldeman conversations have him acknowledging his culpability and eventual resignation 18 months before it all crumbled around him.  He'd already paid hush money, tried to involve the CIA in quashing the investigation, and committed several other crimes and misdemeanors.

Trump's done all that and more, yet he wonders why he would have to pardon himself since he's done nothing wrong.  It's a partisan witch hunt determined to find what is not there.  He's an innocent, persecuted because he's not politically correct.

The saddest part is that the man believes it's true.

There's a lot of pressure on our process right now.  Obvious breaches of protocol - Nunes sharing information with the White House and the DOJ providing information about an on-going investigation to the person being investigated are just the first two that come to mind - are nibbles around the edges of our democracy.  It's an old democracy, a big and diverse democracy, and it's understandable that changes over time would stress the fabric.

But there are so many layers, so many stressors, so much division that I worry, for the first time, about the stability of our form of government.

I don't believe the Russian efforts to subvert our electoral process have abated, yet we have done nothing to protect the integrity of the November, 2018 elections, just six short months away.

Lapses and firings and clearance issues, revelations of secrets and meetings with dictators, golf vacations and decision making in public - any two or six of them would have brought down any other administration.

Is it dislike of Mike Pence?  Is it fear of political backlash?  Is it lack of moral fiber?  Is it that no one cares?

I need to read more history.  I want to find out if our nation has been so riven before, and what was done to right the ship.  I thought that Vietnam was tearing at the moral center of our nation but I never worried that we might not be all right at the end.  I'm a lot more worried right now.

Turning 35, or How I Grew Up and Learned to Take Care of My Own Self

We rented out our first condo when we bought our first house.  Then we sold the condo.  The closing was March 1st.  The heavy duty cleaners were coming on February 28th.  Between the paperwork and the decision making and the scheduling, the 27th was the only day available for dealing with the mess the renter had left behind. 

The 27th was also my birthday.

My girlfriend called TBG and ripped into him, big time.  How could he allow this to happen?  How could I possibly spend my birthday this way?  Her outrage filled his head, an outrage that doubled and tripled and quadrupled in size as her rant went on and on.  She was calling him out, demanding that he take better care of his wife, implying that she was more concerned with my well-being than he was.  He told her to mind her own business, hung up the phone, and called me.  

"Are you okay doing this?"

I'd considered it, of course.  I love my birthday.  I always want it to be special.  I relied on friends and family to make it so, and they rarely disappointed me.  But that year there was no choice; the work had to be done and I was the one to do it.  We no longer owned two homes... as long as I could get the dessicated Christmas tree out of the bottom floor without ripping the molding off the door frame.  Pouting would get me nowhere.  This was adulthood - real life screwing with my birthday, a girlfriend adding to the bordering on toxic mix.

I decided to put myself in charge of every aspect.  After arming myself with all the cleaning tools in the land, laden down with all manner of bags and boxes and brooms and ladders, I drove to the bakery.

Yes.  The bakery.  The woman who decorated every birthday cake for every child I'd ever feted was ready for me.  YOUR birthday?!?!! It will be gorgeous!!!  I reviewed my plan for the day - dust and schlepping and garbage and rubber gloves - and she replied "Followed by a bubble bath and champagne!"

And there it was.  The perfect plan.  Hard work, necessary work, family supporting work followed by total indulgence.  With my strawberry shortcake birthday cake ordered, I drove to the condo, our first Own Home, and cleared out the detritus of a rental gone bad.

If there is a prettier site than neatly bundled trash outside a newly stripped to the baseboards two story apartment I don't know what it could be.  I stood there, in the alley, under the gloomy clouds, in the freezing wind, and admired it for a lot longer than one would imagine it might have been able to hold my interest.  But it did. It was a gift I'd given to myself.  I sang the birthday song and went to pick up my cake.

She'd decorated it with a bathtub, a champagne glass, and lots of bubbles.  I toted it carefully home, kissed the kids and the babysitter, took the wine out of the fridge, and lowered myself into the tub, bubbles up to my neck, a flute of Schramsburg in my hand, soft music on the radio.  A long soak later,I put on my softest, comfiest clothes, opened the door to the dinner delivery (in 1987 this was a BIG DEAL), and put out the prepared food on the fanciest plates we owned.  

It was the perfect birthday.  I had to rely on no one else.  Everything happened on my schedule.  All the foods were those I liked.  All everyone else had to do was stay out of my way and let me celebrate.  

That birthday set the tone for all the ones that followed.  I didn't worry that no one had read my mind, figuring out before I did what I wanted, how I wanted it, where and when I wanted it.  I just asked myself and made it happen.  I didn't need a friend to motivate me, although shutting her up was certainly in the back of my mind.  I didn't need someone to save me and my birthday; I did it all by myself.  

So Much To Do, So Much Time To Do It

The snowbirds are gone.  School is out.  The temperatures brush up against triple digits.  Tucson in the summer is slow.

There is very little traffic on the roads, but that doesn't stop people from driving poorly.  When did it become acceptable to slow down blocks before the red light, tooling along in the left lane at 25 miles an hour?  Today's major offender wasn't even driving a Prius.  I was late, she was slow.  I kept my outrage in check, although with some difficulty.  After all, it's summertime and I have very few Must Do's on the calendar.

#RedForEd has morphed into #InvestInEd and the meetings keep happening.  I took on a few assignments, and spent the early afternoon driving up and down Oracle Road to accomplish them.  I added in REI for a high school graduation gift, the bank to fund further adventures, the library, and a few random don't forget the.... items.  The afternoon stretched out in front of me.  Not Kathy and Scarlett are out of town, Amster is working hard, TBG had a doctor's appointment - all my usual suspects were unavailable to amuse me.  

I stretched out those errands for as long as I could.  I reminded myself of G'ma.

Summer after freshman year, home in early May after protests closed Cornell early, I offered to do all the housework and errands for G'ma, who was still working.  Her smile lit up the kitchen.  I took notes as she listed all that was needed.  I dropped her off at work, took her car, went to the bakery and the fish store and the butcher and the dry cleaner and the grocery store and the fruit market.  I mailed the mail at the post office.  

I was home by 10am.  There was nothing left to do but clean.  I ran the vacuum, emptied the dishwasher, fluffed the pillows, swept the kitchen floor after wiping down the counters, and checked the mailbox.  

It still wasn't noon.  There was so much to do, and so much time to do it.... and I was done.

I read a lot that summer, between my job as a Day Camp Counselor, babysitting, and doing the errands.  By July, I was totally flummoxed.  How did she manage to make that work last all day, before circumstances required her to return to the workforce?  Finally, I asked her.

"You don't do them all at once, honey.  You go out, come home, put stuff away.  You go out, pick stuff up, come home and cook it.  You go out, get the kids, take them places, come home, and feed them.  You make everything its own adventure."

Turns out she knew when her librarian would be free to chat, when the butcher wasn't busy and could cut her the exact piece of brisket she desired, when the fish store unpacked the freshly delivered chests of ice packed swordfish and salmon.  She kibbitzed. She met friends and acquaintances. She examined the shelves.  She made the mundane a source of pleasure.

She missed that when she went back to full time employment.  Her spare time became precious.  My offer to run errands gave her time to read again, to garden, to sit on the swing in the backyard and just be.  I never learned to stretch those errands out to cover the whole day, but I did learn to find joy in the everyday.

And now, home before 2, post written, chores finished, errands run, I am done for the day.  Time to take a book into the shade and, once again, become my mother.