Halloween 2023

As I have for the last 41 years, I'll be wearing my green hair.

In one picture, Honey Bunny looked like this

and then, she looked like this

and then there are some in the pumpkin which we are keeping within the family for the sake of modesty.  You'll have to trust me on this, but she's an adorably chunky pumpkin.

There's a Taylor Swift and a Mandalorian in Indiana.  Today at Prince there were kitty ear headbands and several sports stars and lots of orange t-shirts with various Halloween iconography in black or sparkles and sometimes both.

The real event happens tomorrow.  There are announcements taped up all over campus.

Welcome to Halloween 2023.  

No weapons allowed.

The Afghan twins don't need to be retraumatized by their classmates' accesssories.  

And apparently the grown ups need to be reminded to leave their weaponry at home, too.  Even at 8 in the morning.

How This Came To Be Written

I finished Dr. Zhivago last night, the ponderous translation almost but not quite ruining what must have been lyrical wonderfulness, overflowing with passion, flowing, one word into the next, to paint the pictures in the original Russian. A quick search of the interwebs found this fascinating deep dive into the three translations into English, which I think is brilliant because I agree with every point the author makes.  

But as flat as the language was, there were morsels of wonderfulness that are percolating in my brain.  We're supposed to watch the movie before our first class on Wednesday.  I'll have more to say about it all after that. 

Taking advantage of the breezy temperatures in the 70's, I treated myself to new plants and potting soil and was happily digging and replenishing and discarding and planting and carrying and kneeling and doing all the things I used to do and feeling pretty good about myself until all of a sudden I was tired.

I cleaned up and plopped on the couch next to TBG and his football.

Do you have lots of bad tv to watch tonight?

One game left.... definitely a good time for you to miss it and blog..... I might take up blogging tonight, too.

And we laughed. 

I thanked him for this post, wrote it while Red Zone (a real time capture of highlights from all the games in the land) wrapped up, and now we can have a lovely dinner and watch Gun Crazy, one of our favorite film noirs.

Life is good right now.

Paying for Reading

I've been following a number of interesting writers on Substack.  It's a platform hosting blogs with emails to readers and a way to monetize the writing by offering paid subscriptions.  I can't imagine asking anyone to pay for my random scribblings, and I understand the Blogger interface (finally) so I feel no need to switch.  

Joyce Vance and Sherman Alexie and Robert McFaul write often and intelligently and I don't have to pay to read their words.  They do offer subscriptions, often with the encouraging note that it helps me make the time for writing to you.  

I've always found that Joyce Vance makes sense out of chaos.  I paid a subscription fee of $50 mostly to thank her for that. Occasionally, five written questions and answers with someone important are available to subscribers only.  I ddin't find them that fascinating, and they certainly weren't worth $50.  

There's one part of the dilemma - I still enjoy her writing, and I'll read whenever she posts (which is often), but I'm not going to pay for it any more.  She's offering it for free.  Why do I feel guilty?

Sherman Alexie shares a poem or two or five several times a week.  Often there's a short story. His emotions are raw, his insights are profound, his language makes me misty.  He offers everything for free.  I feel privileged to read it without having to search for it.  It arrives in my inbox and on my Substack feed.  These are new, original, gorgeous pieces I'm reading for free.

There's another piece of the dilemma - I feel like I'm stealing his words.  He offers a subscription, with no extra perks.  He's tossing his words out into the ether, and I'm taking them in.  It seems that I should send him something.

Robert McFaul is brilliant.  He's also employed.  He has a government pension.  I don't always finish everything he writes, but I always leave informed.  I'm on the fence about sending him my dollars.

I pay taxes for the library, and anyway Ben Franklin wanted me to have books to borrow at no cost so I feel that I'm honoring a Founding Father when I grab books from the shelves.  I buy the books I need for class, and resell most of them when I'm finished.  Dr. Zhivago (all $12.99 of him) lives in the Kindle, the funds unable to be recouped.  

I winnowed my library every time we moved.  These are what I've saved.

In a house with few walls (lots of windows and niches, though) shelving is hard to create.  I do reread what's on the shelves (COVID was great for that).  But adding to my treasures doesn't bring me as much pleasure as it once did.  

I don't have any answers, just questions.  And in the end, isn't that what literature is supposed to do?

Random Thoughts

It's Random Thoughts because that's all I can manage right now.  Jet lag and altitude and age are a wicked combination.  

We don't know if it's noon or nine or three up here, where the air really is thinner.  A regular deep breath doesn't fully fill my lungs, and my body is noticing it.

*****

It seems that the Lying Liar got spanked in court today.  Like the petulant man-child that he is, he didn't like what he heard so he stormed out of the room and said mean things about the judge.  

Unfortunately for him, the law is more powerful than anything he's encountered before.  He sat where he was told to sit and listened as he was told that he was a lying liar and that there were financial damages to be paid.  

I wonder what his poor brain is doing right now.  His world is scrambled eggs.

*****

Yesterday it rained for a while, just enough to release the creosote smell and the ionization.  

It was breezy and in the 70's today, 51 when I walked outside this morning.  Of course, the sun was out.

I didn't mind bundling up in a sweatshirt or wearing my car coat or hustling to the car through raindrops when we were in Indiana, but it's nice when the weather is an enhancement.

*****

In that same vein, Tucson is the only place I've lived where temperatures in the upper 70's are considered cool.

The main sign that summer is over, though?  

We've turned off the heater in the pool. 

*****

I searched for TV Series To Binge Watch and found LUPIN on Netflix.  It's a story within a story, or it would be if I had read the books.  The homage is explicit.  The writing never lets you feel antsy without a dollop of sweetness following just in time.  All the actors are absolutely perfect.

And if you have never seen or heard Omar Sy 

you are in for a treat.  

Watch it in French with subtitles.  The dubbing sounds like the Hallmark Channel.  The French is mesmerizing.

*****

Going to Hell in a Handbasket

I'm too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to focus on the heartbreaking situation in Israel and Gaza.  So, I'm finding it quite delightful that the Republicans have given us so much to think about and for the talking heads to talk about.  I was making headway into Dr. Zhivago on the airplane home, but that energy has passed.  

Instead, I'm having fun watching Ali Vitali doing fan fiction about the future of our democracy.  As the clown car containing the Republican Caucus careens down the road to destruction, I had to laugh along with Joy Reid.  She threw the papers on her desk high in the air as she gasped for breath - it's both hilarious and disastrous.  

I can't do anything but contact my Congressman, which in our case is an exercise in futility.  There are those in the Caucus who, I am certain, are happy to break the government into tiny little pieces.  Certainly, the Lying Liar is of that ilk.  But I cannot believe that there aren't three or four or more Republican members of Congress who are willing to work with the Democrats so that they can govern.

Democratic Whip Katherine Clark once again nominated Hakeem Jeffries, and then addressed her Republican colleagues.  Here's her not-tweet:

“Take. Yes. For. An. Answer,” Whip CLARK tells Republicans of the still-open offer to re-open the House in bipartisan deal fashion.

 Apparently, there are no grownups over there.

And then there's Kevin McCarthy, who threw his hat into the ring.  But rather than follow that abysmal trail, I can turn to Mark Meadows who, according to ABC, struck a deal with the DOJ that will keep him out of prison.  

All the commentators, from Cassidy Hutchinson to Adam Schiff, agreed on one thing - the man has no spine. His relationship with the truth is also suspect (sus?) He wrote a book full of lies (he admitted it), and now the toady will incur the wrath of his master.  

I'm not overstating the case.  The Lying Liar now says he doesn't know Jenna Ellis.  

Then again, he didn't recognize his wife in a photo so, who knows.

It seems like the country is going to Hell in a handbasket, and I'm not enjoying the ride.

Saying Goodbye

Giblet could not do it.  

FlapJilly was able to hug, but her face reflected what we were all feeling.  

It's hard to say goodbye.

Nobody cried.  Little Cuter reminded us that we'll be together again in two months and a few days.  That wasn't enough to satisfy the littlest one.  He buried his face in a pile of blankets and whispered that he didn't want us to go.

We don't want to leave, either.

The leaves are turning here. There are fields of cornstalks, harvested or waiting for the thresher, everywhere you look.  It's cool enough to go outside.  Four of the people we love the most are here.

It should be hard to leave.

But their lives are busy and there's not much free time to hang out with grandparents. If we lived closer, we could drop in for a quick kiss before soccer practice. Instead, we will rely on video calls and written love notes sent through the mail.

And we'll count the days until we meet them at the airport.

It's hard to be so far away.

Still Not Doing My Homework

Dr. Zhivago is still in the Kindle.  (On the Kindle?)

My Indiana family are delightfully attractive nuisances.  

We've been shopping for books and clothes and tchochkes. We've been to the ice cream parlor.  We've played 100s of games of Uno. We've been to the zoo and to Little Cuter's office under Notre Dame's golden dome. We've gone to the indoor trampoline park.  We've laughed ourselves silly playing wiffle ball in the backyard; running grandparents were the source of much hilarity, even as the grandparents were inordinately proud of themselves for doing it at all. 

Boris Pasternack requires more concentration than I can muster with all this love in the air.  I've fallen asleep on the same page twice.  The other book I brought,  The Leftover Woman, is depressing, and that's not a space I want to occupy when grandkid love is all around. 

So when FlapJilly asked if I wanted to read the book she'd just finished, I jumped at the chance.  She came downstairs with the first book in the series, too. 

The narrators are animals.  Their feelings are quite human. Loss, abandonment, freedom, responsibility, love and cruelty are neatly woven into the animals' stories. 

It's not that big a leap of faith to believe in the inner lives of apes and dogs and elephants.  This weekend they are more accessible than over burdened Russians.

A Travel Day

After much too much time, TBG and I are finally in Indiana with the biggest grandbabies.

We are awash in grandchildren, with, as Little Cuter pointed out, one at every stage of wonderfulness - a big kid, a little kid, and a baby.  For a woman who couldn't wait to be called Grandma, this is heaven.

Lots of lengthy conversations and giggle fests and snuggles will mark our days.  Adventures on FlapJilly's Fall Break may be the title of our next Shutterfly book.

For now, I'm going to take tonight and tomorrow off from posting so that I can revel in the love.

Have a wonderful weekend.  I know we will.

Language Arts

Little Cuter reacted to yesterday's post before I rolled out of bed this morning.  Here are her text messages, slightly emended for privacy

High School Nephew taught us all about drip last Christmas-.  It's cool clothes/ style. You can have drip, but you're NEVER drippy. Because that's gross. Apparently.

Also noteworthy:

RIZZ- charisma

No cap- for real, I'm not joking

Sus- highly suspect/suspicious

Snatched- fit/ in shape, sexy

Cheugy- basic, out of date, trying too hard

Bussin'- awesome

Recognizing that I would need context, she didn't leave me hanging:

For example, I sound cheugy when I call something sus, no cap.

I rsisted the urge to be reminded of what basic connotes today.  It's been explained before, and seems like a synonym for cheugy, but don't quote me on it.   Because, no cap, no matter how much RIZZ I bring to the table, my use of these bussin' words will always be sus.

Sad But True - A Snippet

There was a commercial on Monday Night Football.  The young people (they were all young people), tattooed with wild make up and hair dyes, were wearing NFL logoed clothing.

They seemed happy to be wearing the hats and sweaters and sweatshirts.  They were smiling and there was music playing.

And then there were words on the screen.  

The Drip is in The Details

I looked at TBG.  He looked at me. Neither of us had a clue.

What we did have was the immediate recognition that this was yet another way the world was telling us that we are old.  

Except for medicines, clinics, and incontinence products, we are of no interest to advertisers.  

And then I remembered Daddooooo trying to teach me The Lindy in our living room and my indignant response that no one was doing old fashioned dancing any more.

Sorry, Daddooooo.  I should have recognized your pain.

Were You In The Path?

Taos Bubbe and I took our low chairs 

to the Mall at the Uof A, along  with hundreds of others,

for an Annular Eclipse Watch Party sponsored by the Flandreau Planetarium.  

There were scientists to answer questions and a long line to look through the fancy Flandreau telescopes.

Most of us took advantage of the $5 glasses with protective lenses.  There were instructions printed inside the left ear piece; one of them cautioned against more than 3 minutes of continuous use.  

I tried putting the glasses over the camera's lens in my phone; it registered a black screen.  So I put on the glasses and held the camera in a spot somewhere in front of my nose and clicked.

These two photos were taken at 8:31am, just as the moon was beginning to block the sun.

At 9:26am, the eclipse was about as complete as it was going to be.

We weren't privy to a full eclipse; ours was about 7/8ths .  It never got very dark, although it did get cooler, with no breeze or cloud cover to account for the subtle change.  

There was a scientist nearby, wearing a lab coat and an official looking badge, and I could have asked him if the temperature really did drop.  But I walked in the other direction, enjoying the mystery, wondering what the ancients thought as the sun began to disappear, and flashing to Bing Crosby using it to his advantage in Paramount Pictures' version of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.

It was a lovely morning.

Really?

A few thoughts on Hamas, the Palestinians, the Israeli's, terrorism, and war.

The people living in Gaza have been under occupation for nearly 2 decades.  They cannot travel freely.  They have no place to go - no one wants them.  

What seems to be missing from the conversation is that the travel restrictions are not only from the Israeli side.  Egypt holds one border and thus far has not even opened a humanitarian aid corridor, let alone provided safe passage and a path to citizenship somewhere in the Arab world for the poor, benighted Palestinians.

And benighted they are. They are under-educated, over-populated, and seemingly without a credible voice on the international stage.  Hamas, like ISIS, feeds ravenously on the easily manipulated passions of teenagers who've never lived an un-enclosed life, of the young adults who remember life before the fences. 

The opportunity to go paragliding and then kill your oppressor must be irresistible. 

I'm not condoning it.  I'm trying to get my brain around living with the hatred that led to such evil.  

A woman representing the United Nations' relief programs in Gaza was on NPR this morning.  Her description was heartbreaking. No opportunity, no food, no supplies, no reliable electricity, hospitals running ut of water ... on and on, with no context but lots of detail... and then she made me scream out loud.

After painting a bleak picture of Gaza's vulnerable civilians coping with the impending incursion of the IDF, threateningly massed at the border, she paused for dramatic effect and then exploded my brain with this:

After all, there are rules in war.

Rules?  The Israeli civilians murdered, raped, kidnapped, paraded naked through the streets were not being used as human shields.  They were concert goers and parents and grandparents and peace activists.  

What rules are being followed by Hamas?  Beheadings and rapes are war crimes.

Hamas has no agenda other than the extermination of the Jewish people.  Hamas does not believe in the right of the state of Israel to exist.  There is no political framework beyond that, no plan for improving their little corner of the world.  

They just want to hate. 

That's not in the rulebook of any civilized society.

Really.

Happy Birthday, Daddooooo (I think)

 A somewhat altered version of a previous post or two.

It has always been confusing - was his birthday the 12th or the 14th of October?  One of them was Columbus Day and the other was Herb's Day and to this moment I'm still not sure, especially since the bureaucrats moved Chris's Day to the generic second Monday.

He was a confusing person, so this is not surprising.  I never knew if I wanted to hug him or throttle him.

Deaf-as-a-door-nail, hearing aids with their batteries constantly squealing or dying or the devices resting comfortably in the breast pocket of his plaid wash-and-wear shirt, he monopolized conversations so that he would know what was going on. That works well until your audience hits second grade or so; after that, it becomes a full fledged "Herb Attack."

I know this because I have been guilty of them, myself.

His tales were fascinating.  If the facts weren't really facts, well, they should have been.  He went to City College with Richard Feynman.  He lived down the block from Jonas Salk. He knew every cobblestone, every cornerstone, every brick and street sign in Manhattan.  Serving as tour guide in The Big Apple made him about as happy as anything else I can imagine... and I've been sitting here thinking about it for a while.

Surrounded by his grandchildren-of-a-certain-age, those who were sentient but not yet sarcastic, he could sit for hours, regaling them with stories about the chickens his family kept for pets and eggs on Hessler Avenue; about the boat he and his brothers built one summer, the boat that almost floated; about the time it rained frogs; and about all the times he got into trouble at school, because he just wouldn't stay still.

He was infinitely curious. We moved to California and he took a class on earthquakes at City College, just to be sure our new location was safe.  He checked with the professor's detailed map, and was glad to tell us that if our house ended up across the bay, the ground beneath it would have moved, too.  

He sang opera to himself.  He read the obituaries in the NYTimes every morning, checking to be sure that most of those listed were older than he was. He could ice skate and ride a bicycle and fly a kite.  He could not sit still through an entire game of Scrabble.

He probably deserved a diagnosis or medication; born in 1916, he was "just being Herbert."  A report card from elementary school which I recovered when I cleaned our his desk describes him perfectly - A's in all the academics, F's in all the deportment categories.

He continued being just himself, sui generis as I called him in the obituary I wrote for the New York Times, until the very end.

He died at home, between the first and second commercial of the 10 o'clock episode of Law and Order on the Saturday night before Thanksgiving.  Once again, there's some confusion.  Since the hospice nurse didn't get there to sign the death certificate until early Sunday morning, he died on Saturday but the paperwork says Sunday.  Like his birthday, I need cues to keep the date straight.  Like most things Daddooooo related, this is not now nor has it ever been easy.

The funeral home attendants gave G'ma a moment in the hallway before they wheeled him out the front door.  She leaned over, kissed him, and then admonished him, one last time: "Behave yourself, Herbert!  Don't give them any trouble."  The paramedics were bemused.  My mother looked right back at them.  "If you'd known him, you'd understand."

Happy Birthday, Herb, you strange and singular father of mine.  Happy Birthday to YOU!

What To Do?

 A friend and I exchanged a series of emails about the Hamas/Israel situation.  We are bereft. 

The conflict will, no doubt, be a foundational myth for all concerned for generations to come.  Where could we put our faith, our hope?

I remembered President Obama holding my hands in the hospital when I asked him the same thing.  Look to our better angels.  This is not what Americans are or want to be.

As I listen to Republican leaders lie as they blame President Biden for funding this terror  instead of calling out the anti-Semitism which is driving it, instead of recoiling at the barbarity of beheading babies, I know not to look for a united American response.

She agreed that the search will not be easy.  We agreed that it seems like a sensible way to try to get through the storm.  Then she sent me this.

I hope she helps.

Football, War, and Words

Unranked Arizona took #9 USC to triple overtime before failing to make a 2 point conversion and losing.

The 49'ers stomped the Dallas Cowboys in a performance that should quiet Brock Purdy's critics forever.

Hamas stormed out of the Gaza Strip and into Israel, wreaking havoc and kidnapping innocents.

The WORDLE was tricky and annoying and SPELLING BEE left me just short of Genius all weekend long.

I ought to be able to make a post or two out of all of these events, but my heart is rent open by the carnage and I can't seem to find the words to express what I'm feeling.  Despair, fear, surprise, disgust..... kidnapping teens and grandparents,  raping women while their families listened to the screams over the phone... these people want to destroy my people..... I can't figure out what to write. 

I've tried all afternoon to put something together about this, and I've failed.

Forgive me.  I really tried.  Perhaps tomorrow will bring clarity, or a different topic on which to rant.  For now, I'm going to try not to wallow in the muck.

Choices

Just look at that stack of wonderfulness.  

That's four or five days of unabashed joy, racing through stories to find out who's who and what's what.

Colson Whitehead may take a bit more brain power, but it's easily accessible.

Then, there's this

sitting on the eReader gifted to me by Dr K and Not-Kathy.  It's the text for the class I'm taking in November.  I loved my experience with this teacher in the past, I've never read the book before, I want to start to learn in a classroom setting again, she suggests we finish it before the class begins.

Those are all good reasons.  This morning, I read the first nine sections and could feel myself getting drawn into the sprawling mass of characters.  I was wondering about the politics behind the words.  I was lulled by the lushness of the verbiage (and I'm glad I searched and found the translation she suggested) and could feel myself sinking into the chair, ready for a marathon day of not watching football.

But then I looked over at the stack of brain candy just waiting to be devoured.  And, like schoolkids everywhere, I balked at doing my homework.

I laughed at myself as I turned off the device and opened a real book.  I'll zip through what's at home and I won't bring any more back from the library until the good Doctor is finished with me.  But not right now.

So Angry

Something happened.  It's the MacGuffin in the story.  The situation resolved itself and everything turned out okay in the end. A little bit of harm, no lasting foul.

But in the moment, I thought my head would explode.  I could feel my eyes bulging out of their sockets, something I thought only happened in Loony Toons. 

I was totally focused, in my head and in my body.  Every fiber of my being, tingling from my toes to my hair, was intent on what I was hearing, on what I could or should or shouldn't do or say.  

In the moment, I knew that I wanted to remember what I was feeling.  Not the angst associated with what I was hearing and seeing. That was quite unpleasant. It was the single-minded-ness, the intensity of unusual dimensions, that I wanted to capture. 

High amplitude situations produce surprising results. 
 

Science in Grandma's Garden

One of the fifth grade Garden Leaders wanted something special to do.  She's usually content to spray herself and her friends with the garden's hose, but I forgot to bring the handle to turn it on.

No, I don't leave it available for any miscreant to reach over and turn it on to douse one and all without supervision or permission. The handle comes and goes with me, in the bag I left in my trunk.

She was mildly disappointed, but willing to try the secateurs (The WHAT?? They are scissors.)  I didn't have gloves to protect her hands, but she figured out how to grab the end of the desiccated aloe vera and reach into the depths of the plant to cut.  

I watched for a while, making sure she was safe.  That gave me time to notice the only other scholar in the garden.

A trowel is a feeble weapon when faced with the hard pack that is the ground beneath our feet.  Yet he persisted.  This was no random flinging of soil, he obviously had a purpose, even if it wasn't obvious to me.  My usual rule is No Digging except in the 1st raised bed, but there was something that made me ask why before reminding him that he was old enough to remember the rules.

I walked over.  With a big smile, he informed me that the river and bridge and pool he'd created the day before seemed to have survived the evening.  Even without water, he could tell that the path would still be functional when you remember to bring what we need to test it out.

Who knew that picking up the wrong bag would have such consequences.  A budding civil engineer had to use his imagination.  He wanted to demonstrate in real time that deep water takes a while to evaporate, and it can even move soil on its own, creating its own path, like it did the last time, when I had the water going through the hose.  

The hole he's excavating is not in the main walkway.  Soon, a tree will occupy that space, in a hole dug much deeper than his trowel could manage.  So, for now, I'll let it be.  

The garden always manages to amaze me.  It offers so much to so many in so many different ways.

That's A Squash

Yes, it is.

From the garden center at Lowe's to Grandma's Garden at Prince, carefully planted and nurtured by the upper grades, Tuesday's surprise was waiting when I opened the garden gate.

Kindergarten and first grade were all about the digging and the planting of Toota-Toota-Tube seeds

           one seed per toilet paper tube

to notice it, but that all changed when the big kids arrived.

Several of them were gathered around their raised bed, peering closely at what they planted in September. I walked over as the scholars discussed the squash they had growing at home, in their own grandma's gardens, and how good they are to eat.

Others looked on in amazement. 

That little flower,


those little buds,


will turn into a big squash?

That flower will be a tomato

or a bell pepper?


Yes.  They will all mature and grow and become more delightful and delicious with every passing week.  And then, we will eat them.

Farm to table is getting closer all the time.

All These Shots

We had appointments for flu and RSV and COVID injections late on Friday afternoon; we blocked out the weekend in anticipation.  The last time our physicians advised us to protect ourselves, it took two days to recover from the protection.  

Our emails and text messages informed us that afternoon that they didn't have the COVID vials.  They told us not to come, but to call if we wanted more information.  Of course, I called.  

Turns out that corporate CVS allocates the vaccine supply, and the individual pharmacies never know when or how much they'll receive.  Call back on Monday and check and see was the best she could offer.  

We're traveling to Indiana in a couple of weeks.  We don't have time to call back and take a chance.  I checked on the Walgreen's website, but they weren't scheduling anything at all.  Then, I went grocery shopping.

They have a small sign encouraging vaccination at their pharmacy.  The lovely pharmacist was happy to help.  There were several people ahead of me, so I did my shopping and got back just in time to slide into the chair.  Two jabs in one arm and two band aids later, I was on my way after making an appointment for TBG on Wednesday.

I was worried that I'd be overwhelmed with antibodies.  I planned to spend the weekend moaning on the couch.  But with Advil and Aspirin every 6 hours I was completely functional.  My arm hurt, a little.  I had a bit of gastrointestinal distress, but only a bit.  I was tired, in a body fighting to maintain equilibrium way, but I never felt really sick.

I fell asleep in the nine o'clock hour Friday and Saturday, and slept hard both nights.  But I can't say that I had much of a reaction to all this healthiness, not much at all.

Is my body so used to the COVID virus vaccine floating around in my cells that it welcomes this new iteration as an old friend?  TBG asked if I needed my COVID shot sheet; the thought hadn't crossed my mind.  The hard copy must be somewhere; CVS's computer and the picture on m phone could be used as evidence, it anyone cared any more.

The RSV serum stung when the pharmacist pressed the plunger.  I had to apologize for my language.  But that was the only really awful part of the whole thing, and it only lasted a few seconds.  

This staying healthy stuff is getting a little out of hand.

More from the Butterfly Experience

 Not only did they have butterflies,

  

Butterfly Wonderland had fish.

There was a giant koi pond in the butterfly experience

and a room filled with fish inside.

shark

sting ray

odd white fish with even odder strings 

This is not a Disney character.  There wasn't a sign telling me what/who/why this looks like this.  I leave it to your own imagination.

They also had insects and reptiles

but this is as far as I got.  There was a big, hairy tarantula in a cage at the entrance to this section.  JannyLou and I sat at a table while Not-Kathy indulged herself in the slimy, creepy, crawly creatures.

The Artist's Mother and I were happy to sit and remember the beauty her son had created.