Lincoln and Washington and Their BIrthdays

 

I first published this in 2011; only Lincoln's age has changed.

 It remains one of my favorite rants.

I remember when THIS was the most aggravating thing our government did.

Sigh.

*****

Mary Ball Washington gave birth to a boy child on February 22, 1732. Unlike many of the stories surrounding this man (think cherry trees and coins across the Potomac and standing up in an open boat as it crossed the Delaware) this is an indisputable fact.

Mary was not in labor on the third Monday of February.  She produced her child on a specific day - the 22nd day of February.  His birthday didn't move around with the vagaries of the federal holiday calendar.

Nancy Hanks Lincoln met her second son, Abraham, 217 years ago today.  Like Mrs. Washington before her, she was not in labor on an indeterminate day sometime in the middle of the month.  It occurred on a certain day, a day formerly commemorated by school children and mail carriers alike.

Alas and alack, these fine gentlemen have been conflated into Presidents and their birthdays combined into a generic celebration designed primarily to afford employees the opportunity for a 3-day weekend in the middle of the winter. What was wrong with the old system, I wonder?  As an elementary school kid I looked forward to those random days off in the middle of the month.  One day, breaking up the routine.  One celebration for each president - pennies examined on the 12th, leadership and lying (not) on the 22nd.

There was no time for a weekend away (not that G'ma and Daddooooo could have afforded to take us anyplace anyhow) and there was no competition between students for who went the furthest and had the most fun.  It was an opportunity to go sledding at Bethpage (the Black Course was used for many things in my youth; this was the best of them) or to meet friends at the bowling alley and then walk to Smiles (our precursor to a 5-and-dime) where we cruised the aisles until our parents picked us up.

It was grilled cheese sandwiches with bacon on the side, eaten on paper plates and accompanied by the admonition Don't Tell Daddy since the bacon was not exactly kosher and he cared a lot more than did G'ma.  There were snow forts to be built, snowball fights to be fought, snow men to be built. The entire neighborhood roamed from front yard to front yard, creating and tumbling and finding warmth and drinks and the occasional bathroom in whichever house we happened to be in front of when the need arose.

And now?  Now President's Day is always an event.  It's a long weekend for which plans must be made.  It has no intrinsic meaning, no relationship to George or Abe or any of their colleagues.  Their faces are used to advertise white sales and car sales and furniture sales and The History Channel runs back to back episodes of The Presidents but that's about the size of the historical component.  What began as tributes to great men has devolved into spending opportunities for the masses.

Am I bitter?  You bet.  A day off followed by another one 10 days later.... what better way to combat the winter doldrums than that?  A random day, a day to cuddle under the blankets with your sweetie or to do all that laundry that interfered with your weekend plans and so still sits in the basket, mocking you.  A day to explore the neighborhood and have lunch in that place you've driven by 100 times before..... a day just to be.

Sometimes, when I was a girl really was better.

Silly Names

I've always respected the work but I never gave much thought to the physical effort involved in being a teacher.  But having spent eight hours over the last two days reading and gardening with the Prince scholars, I am a physical wreck.

Two cups of robust English Breakfast tea provided the fuel; I didn't yawn all day.  But when the pre-K teacher asked her student to go back to the classroom and tell Mr. S that nap time was over, then smiled at me and said, sotto voce, So I don't have to get up off the floor, I completely understood her situation.  I was pretty comfortable on the tiny chair beside her; the walk to my next class was a distant 10 feet away.

So, denizens, forgive me if my only original thought is why do female skiers have silly first names?

Okay, a Google search revealed only the two I already knew, but I think the question's still valid.  

Breezy?  Who names their kid Breezy?  Apparently, the Johnsons.

Picabo Street's parents called her Baby Girl before she needed a passport and thus a real name.  Picabo was a neighboring town in Idaho.  It was also Baby Girl's favorite game - Peek a Boo.  Still.......

Feel free to ruminate on this bit of insignificant trivia.  It's all my brain can handle right now.

Love of Reading Week

We were asked to send our schedule to the coordinator.  We provide the availability, she would assign us to the classrooms.  All we had to do was bring ourselves and the book(s) we chose to read aloud to the appropriate classroom at the appropriate time.

My schedule arrived, then arrived again with the classroom numbers included, then didn't arrive which I didn't know until I showed up 4 hours earlier than expected in a 3rd grade classroom and that teacher printed out the revised version.

I'm not complaining.  The new schedule allowed me a break for breakfast bagel sandwich at a nearby cafe.

Fully fortified, I gardened and read and realized, once again, that not everyone has had the same upbringing as I did.

For the first graders, I read Pickle Things, a sure fire winner with its rhymes about pickle things you never see.  The third graders were treated to the d'Aulaire's verbiage and illustrations of Greek Myths, the fifth graders dove into an illustrated copy of The Odyssey.  

The younger ones learned about Hermes boring Argus of the 100 eyes to death, marveling at the notion that the eyes they've seen at the zoo on the peacock's feathers were once attached to an ancient human and that the notion of being bored to death had its roots in ancient stories.

The fifth grade was treated to a picture of Polyphemus the Cyclops king with a sharpened, heated, wooden spike being driven through the eyeball in the middle of his forehead.  Crafty Ulysses's hug the bottoms of the sheep so we can escape the cave ruse was somewhat less impactful.

Everybody got poems, too.  Billy Collins on Turning Ten was a little too ephemeral for the 10 and 11 year olds in 5th grade.  Ogden Nash's Who wants my jellyfish/ I'm not selly-fish missed the mark entirely, as did The Lord in his wisdom made the fly/And then forgot to tell us why.  Word play that resonates with my grandkids landed with a thunk at Prince.  

A fifth grader wondered if the myths were fiction or non-fiction.  Roll that question around in your brain for a moment before you jump to a conclusion.  Did the ancients consider them to be literal truths, non-fiction in this student's view?  Without science, perhaps they did.  Now, though?  I was flummoxed, the teacher smiled but offered no assistance, so I punted.

It's like Aesop's Fables... you know Aesop's Fables, right?

Their blank looks astounded me.  I've already come to terms with the fact that little ones are no longer read nursery rhymes at bedtime, but being unaware of the fables and their morals?  This was news to me.  

Missing out on silly rhymes about the Black Death (Ring Around the Rosy) or the British monarchy (Jack and Jill) doesn't seem like much of a loss.  But the fables are a shorthand for morality and consequences.  Sour grapes, slow and steady wins the race, the list goes on and on.  Those morals were the underpinnings of my ethical education, though I didn't realize it at the time.  

What are my scholars using instead?  Does Bluey fill the gap?  

In any event, I know what I'm reading to everyone next year.

Tucson in the News, Again

The FBI is ringing doorbells, asking for any video surveillance of the street and permission to search your yard.  

There are news crews trying to find something to report.

The sheriff admits that releasing the house back to the family before the FBI arrived with its forensic magic might not have been a great idea.

There are tearful pleas for information and contact, heartbreaking in their honesty.  

Friends and relatives and relatives of friends have reached out to be sure I'm okay.  TBG was anxious about my Saturday foray to Grandma's Garden; being alone, even behind a gate I'd be sure to lock behind me, just didn't seem safe to him.

Ransom.  Kidnapping.  

It's a hell of a world, denizens.  

Television - A Snippet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unleash The Hounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

Senorita in the Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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

418/419

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm leaning towards a no vote. 

 

You Must Listen

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

10 million plus views in 4 days.

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

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

Listen with the sound on.

A Blast From The Past

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

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

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

But this one,

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

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

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

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

Teaching to the Test - A Snippet

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

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

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

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

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

I'm just a little bit more anxious now.

Really Good Medical Care

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therapy For My Soul

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

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

So.

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

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

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

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

People stop and stare.  

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

*****

Now, don't you feel better?  I do.

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

What They Are Saying

 

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

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

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

That's their description of the event.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

US Senate Switchboard:  202-224-3121

Luck in the Library

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Different Approach

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

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

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

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

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

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

teepublic.com
they are in stock!

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

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

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

I'm stickering and that feels fine.

A Moment in the Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They Won

At the beginning of the season I had TBG explain the whole betting thing once again.  Math challenged as I am, it took me but a split second to understand that if I put $100 on Indiana University to win the National Championship, at the odds of 100-1 I'd have $10,000.

He did not agree with me that doing so would be wise.

I'm sitting here this morning, mourning my financial loss.

My team, Little Cuter's team, Sir and FlapJilly and Giblet's team, pulled out a win despite the best efforts of the University of Miami to thwart them.  There was a blocked kick run in for a touchdown.  There was an interception that saved a game-tying win.  The quarterback ran for a touchdown, extending his body over the line in a leap of faith and pain.  

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He got hit from all sides, but stood up grinning.

I'm glad that everyone is happy.  I know that I am too.  I know that I'd be a lot happier if I had that $10K in my pocket right now.  

Oh, ye of little faith........

MLK Day

There's no school.

The trash pickup is delayed one day, and so is the US mail.

I was driving home after lifting with Amster (in her fully equipped home gym, the result of living with her 20something health and fitness freak eldest son), wondering how one celebrated this holiday.

Used to be that Washington's Birthday, February 22 for the young, signaled the annual winter White Sales, when bed linens and towels and comforters were with our financial reach.  Memorial Day and Veterans' Day and 4th of July have parades.  

But this National Holiday, I remembered, can be a day of service, as President Obama suggested.  I had fond thoughts of the Obama's at food kitchens and classrooms and I smiled when I realized that my go-to-good-deed place was closed, too.

Haven't heard much from the administration about this particular three day weekend.  I suppose there will be golf and deception and deflection and, perhaps, an assault on another foreign land.  

I kinda doubt that any good deeds will be done.

I Just Didn't Have It

Pilates was killer hard, testing my balance and my damaged right quads.  My classmates are thirty years younger than I am, and those three decades of flexibility were on full display this morning.  Modifications for my injury made little difference.  Sometimes, age is the determining factor.

I drove down to Prince only to find all three kindergarten classrooms engaged in story time... and I wasn't reading the story.  

I looked at the playground, I looked at the front door, and I realized that I just didn't have it.  

There was nothing I could summon to make me walk across to the garden and bring a smiling attitude along with me.  So, I said goodbye to Miss Mercy at the front desk and took myself home.

It's dinner time now and I still don't have much to offer.  I'm going to take the night off and avoid thinking about the Insurrection Act.  I'm sure I'll be able to muster my thoughts by Monday's post.  

Going to Hell in a Handbasket

 .... and I'm not enjoying the ride. 

FFOTUS wants to own Greenland because it's way better than leasing or renting it.  There's a difference between diplomacy and real estate.  Would someone please tell him that he's in The White House and not Trump Tower.  

The DOJ has opened a criminal investigation into the chairman of the Federal Reserve over cost overruns on the renovation of their Washington, DC headquarters.  No one is amused, but Chairman Powell is now on the hook for legal bills in order to defend himself.  Before he was FFOTUS filing a lawsuit was his go-to tactic when he was displeased.  But now he is, unfortunately, in charge of our government, so our tax dollars are being used to screw around with one of the pillars of our republic - the separation of the Federal Reserve from the political process.  Would someone please explain Alexander Hamilton's rationale for this to him. 

Our military deposed another country's president, but left his henchman in charge.  Our Secretary of State and National Security Advisor and I'm-Running-Venezuela guy hasn't been able to articulate a plan for what will happen going forward.  Exxon/Mobil told FFOTUS that Venezuela is un-investable and he responded by threatening to exclude them from any deals going forward.  Would someone tell him that they don't want to be included in those deals anyway.

The EEOC has asked the University of Pennsylvania to identify all the Jews on their campus.  They want membership lists and faculty lists and student rosters and there's no sense of irony in their request.  They say that they are trying to identify anti-Semitism on campus, but they aren't asking for lists of Nazi's or ultra-right organizations or Turning Point USA members.  Think I'm overreacting?  Read this from About the Holocaust

In territory occupied by Nazi Germany or its Axis partners, Jews were identified largely through Jewish community membership lists, individual identity papers, captured census documents and police records, and local intelligence networks.

When I used to worry about them coming for me I was able to push the thought away; I live in America, that won't happen here.  Now, though, I'm not so sure.

I'm afraid to join organized protests; the other side has guns.  

I felt obliged to go back and edit Tuesday's post.  When published, it was possible to read through the blacked out section to the words below.  I don't want my friends injured because I'm blogging.  

This isn't my America.  I want that on the record.

I Love My Husband's Girlfriends

Really, I do.  

TBG has been an avid cyclist for decades.  He had his custom measured titanium Hincapie frame in Marin, riding around Tiburon and Belvedere with colleagues who also happened to be on the US Postal Service's professional biking team, or neighbors who took him on unexpected 60 mile jaunts to Point Reyes and back, but mostly he rode by himself, feeling fast

Then an unreplaced sewer grate on a newly paved and very narrow and twisty road snagged his front tire, throwing him ass over tea kettle past the handlebars, cracking his helmet and his bending his bike in the process.  

37 stitches in the face and a warning from his superiors to go home and not come back anytime soon -  his Frankenstein look was scaring the new recruits - made it clear to him that his days of outdoor cycling were over.   

He had a gory tale to tell when asked why he was in spin class instead of out on the road.  He didn't have to worry about the weather.  He met Miss Nancy on the bikes and soon she and I were hiking every weekend.  He was happy, getting in the miles and not worrying about another fall.

We moved to Tucson and found a gym and changed our licenses and got library cards before our furniture arrived.  I found likeminded adults in the weight room and the yoga and Pilates classes.  He found The Girls.

He takes the same bike in the same corner near the door every time.  He arrives to class half an hour or more before it begins to warm up.  The same women sat around him, coming early to warm up and chat.  I figured this out when the same names kept coming up in our conversations.  

Lady One and Lady Two were telling me that.....  explaining that they shared a first name so he'd come to identify them by number..... and I didn't ask how he decided who came first.  

There have been joint replacements, not all of them going as well as they should have, but he and The Girls were there to cheer on the patients when they ventured back to the bikes.  The power of their friendship to inspire courageous performances made him happy.

Pictures of their grandbabies and travel adventures peppered his chatter when he came home.  When one was missing he was concerned, when there was joy to be found he came home elated.  When one died (suddenly, in her home, right after spin class) the sorrow hit him hard.

I began to wonder about these women.  

You know them from the gym... from yoga.... and it turns out he was right.  Our Yogi (also one of The Girls) began teaching classes outdoors at Tohono Chul and there they were.  Of course we knew one another, but, like so many gym friends, names were secondary to the connection.  Suddenly, I had a new group of acquaintances, but I still didn't know them all.

That changed when he came home befuddled.  There was a lot of whispering going on that did not include him.  The Girls were making lunch plans and not inviting him.  Was he somehow off putting?  He wasn't angry, he was confused.  

Finally, here was something I could fix.  I mentioned his quandary to My Yogi and she laughed out loud.  The whispering wasn't about him.  It was about another classmate whose company they wanted to avoid, despite the tenuous obligation they all felt toward her.  All of a sudden, my husband had lunch dates.

The Girls celebrate birthdays and holidays and they are always giving things to one another.  They recruited me to bring him to a surprise birthday party at one of those lunches.  While he did receive gifts, so did everyone at the table.  

When I asked if we should bring a dish to a dinner party, I don't speak that language... what did the text say? was his response.  It just had time or place, but these are his friendships and I decided that it was his responsibility to find out.  We went with a hostess gift; they laughed - a lot- when I explained why we were otherwise empty handed.

All of them were teachers - even at Prince.  They are witty and smart and interesting.  Other spouses were at that dinner party and they were pretty wonderful, too.  All of a sudden, my husband is providing a friend group.  That hasn't happened since we were in Chicago, and we left there in 1992.  

It's one of the more fabulous things that have happened since we moved to Tucson.  I love that TBG is in the middle of it.

Finding The Happy

We found gigantic radishes in the garden on Thursday.  

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They popped out of the soil all at once, all of a sudden, solving the problem of how will we know if they're ready?

They were very tasty and there were so many of them and Grandma Suzi said they could eat as many as they wanted and that led to some hilarity.

They were too fast for a great picture.

Friday morning, I won three games at mahjongg, a rare and wonderful occurrence to start the day. Taos Bubbe and I had a lovely lunch at Teaspoon, catching up on our lives since November.  I've seen Little Cuter more often than my college roommate who lives across town.  Sometimes life really does get in the way.

The waiter said Welcome back! when I joined Taos Bubbe at the table.  I'd been there twice before, with Amster and various parts of her entourage.  Amster always pays, and she tips very well, so it wouldn't surprise me if he remembered her, but all the rest of us?  

After a few days of cogitating, it hit me that I was older than everyone at all the pushed together tables we occupied, in one case by 70 years.  The rest of them were in their 50's and 40's and 20's, and I was certainly the only one with grey hair.   

Of course he wouldn't forget Grandma.... or Great Grandma.

Friday afternoon, Little Cuter and SIR's Indiana Hoosiers and their Heisman Trophy winning quarterback (who turned down Yale for Cal then UofA) trampled the Oregon Ducks in the Peach Bowl.  That puts them in the national championship game next week.  TBG summed it up best - it just makes me happy to watch it, any and every minute.

That night UofA basketball proved to the nation that they are the team to beat this year.  True, they are boys, and their attention wanders at times.  But there are 8 potential starters and nobody seems to mind coming in off the bench.  They are big and strong and not afraid to assert themselves, they are well coached, and they tell reporters that they really like one another.  

That this game was accessible to our multi-channel-and-still-not-enough cable package was an extra added bonus. Smiles came easily.

After I spent Saturday afternoon filling new plastic containers with the Xmas-When-You're-Going-Out-Of-Town decorations, Dr. K and Not-Kathy came over to watch the Bears.  Like Taos Bubbe, too much time had passed since we watched sports together.  We ate, we talked, we sat outside, then went in to watch Dr. K's Bears put on a performance for the ages.  That won them the right to move on to the next round in the gazillion team NFL playoffs.  

With that and the Wildcats and my new clear storage containers I went to sleep happy.

Big Cuter's 49'ers get to move on, too.  They filled Sunday afternoon with texts and phone calls and exclamations of surprise and delight between TBG and his boy who was playing catch with his boy and a Nerf football.  What goes around comes around, and I went to sleep happy again.

And now it's Monday and I'm trying to hold on to the happy.  I'm trying not to panic a friend writes that she's signing up for more ICE watch shifts.  I omit her name to protect the social justice warrior from governmental retaliation as I try to hang on to the happy.  

I watch my Senator sue the Navy and my heart breaks for him as TBG turns from the talking heads back to a football game.

The happy is hard to find these days.  I'm going to pick up an old Robert Crais book and lose myself in a fictional somebody else's problems, problems which are certain to be resolved in a way that will leave me happy.  

If I have to orchestrate the joy, I will.

Writing Saves Me

I sat with the keyboard all day.  My fingers tried to make sense out of Minneapolis and Portland and ICE agents making up the rules as they went along.

I finished three different posts, intending to make my initial stab at publishing on Substack .  I lurk there every day.  I began to comment last month; I am tickled when the algorithm tells me that someone liked what I wrote.  I thought that the confluence of the murders of Renee Good and Christina-Taylor Green would be an easy segue into the forum.  

People who didn't know my story could hear it from me, first hand, if they clicked through from my comment to my post.  I thought that the similarities and the differences might make a difference for someone.  I thought I had something worthy to share.

I liked the first one I finished.  It had my voice and CTG's voice and the voices of all of us who are still reeling from January 8th.

I left it on the computer and ran some errands and left a stone on the memorial outside the Safeway where it all happened.  I came home to televised images of people leaving flowers in the snow by the tree where it all ended for Renee Good.  I held back my tears, reread the post, and watched, stupefied, as the interwebs gathered it up and lost it forever.

I tried to post it and notify those who follow me (all six of them) and Substack ate it.

I groaned.  I laughed.  I sighed.  I railed against the universe.  I sat down to write it again.

This one was tighter, less emotional, more concrete.  I didn't like it as much, so I left it alone while I made dinner.  I changed a few sentences, added a quote or two, and, once again, watched it disappear.

My aggravation was obvious to TBG.  As always, he tried to fix it.  There was no fix.  The post went from preview to nowhere.  He suggested I try again.  Agreeing that the site would not win this battle, my fingers flew over the keyboard.  The result was drier, less reflective, more outrage than anguish.  

I wasn't thrilled, but I didn't hate it.  Besides, third times the charm, right?  

Obviously not, because that one was lost, too.  It seemed that my attempt to join the Substack community was doomed from the outset.  I'm not looking to get paid for my writing.  I was looking for a wider, perhaps more diverse, audience.  Perhaps it's not meant to be.

In the end, it's become a funny story: Ashleigh Burroughs vs The Internet.  I can't let it aggravate me; there's no more room inside for that.  Instead, I'm taking it as the world intervening in my recovery. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote all day, and when I stopped writing I realized that my head wasn't pounding quite as hard.

My fingers let the anguish out, one tap at a time.  I was forced to think about and examine events and thoughts which were crazy-making and turn them into intelligible verbiage.  In doing so, I found that I had soothed my soul.

I'm still raw, just not as raw.

I'm still furious, but without the white hot anger that fueled my first attempt.

I'm terrified and sorrowful and wondering about the next steps.  But I am also reminded that I have an outlet, right here at my desk.  When all of that becomes too much, my fingers seem to pave the road to salvation.  I didn't need an Ativan.  I just needed to write.

Thank you, denizens, for being here to read it all.  

I Took The Day Off

Sometimes it's just too hard to write.

I miss my little friend.

January 8th

My son and I operate on our own frequency sometimes.   As I was thinking about calling him, but worrying about disturbing his work day, Big Cuter called my cell.  Had I been watching the news?

He was troubled, deeply troubled, by the morning's events in Minnesota.  His worry wasn't about me or for me but for what might have been me and for what our country is.

I told him that I'd been rethinking my plans to protest when the ICE Detention Facility opens nearby.... and that's just what they want me to do.... but I have to weigh the risks.... but.... aieeeeee.

I wasn't doing anything remotely radical 15 years ago, although was definitely antifa.  Fascists don't meet their constituents outside a grocery store, ready to answer questions from all comers.  I know this is true because my own Congressman, a proud FFOTUS loyalist, has never met with his constituents without charging a fee.  

We were standing in the shade on a sunny Saturday morning and we were shot.

Renee Nicole Good was in her car on a snow plowed street and she was shot.

Mental illness and gun safety vs paramilitary thugs unchecked in their authority.

Our shooter was flattened by onlookers and arrested at the scene.  Her shooter got back in his official vehicle and drove away, protected by his boss's boss's boss' boss' description of the lady warning her neighbors that ICE was around as committing an act of domestic terrorism.

I'm sorry.  Masked men with badges and weapons opening fire on a city street should sound like Mogadishu, not Minneapolis.  Exercising her first amendment rights should not have killed her.  Were they unhappy that she was blocking the street?  They could have followed the other cars passing by her. They could have called the local police and had her removed or cited or done anything but shoot her as she was turning away from them and driving away.

I did nothing wrong when I took Christina-Taylor with me to shake her Congresswoman's hand.  I was being a good citizen.  Renee Good was being a good citizen, too.

Used to be, that meant something honorable.  Now, it seems, it's likely to get you killed.

Christina-Taylor Green would be 24 years old right now.  I like to think that she'd be manning the barricades beside me. 

Enough calling for briefings.  How about impeachment? America can't wait another year of this. 

 

A Respite From The World

I need some self-care.  It's just too much for me right now, what with Greenland and pardons and vaccines and all.  So, if you're in the mood for fluff, revisit our trip to see the Cuters and the Mini Cuters. 

There was dining out.

Focused on savoring every last morsel.

There was dining in

and cleaning up.

There was New Year's breakfast

with a touch of silliness.

There were contemplative moments,

and there were giggles.

There were moments of connection.

Jr and IV

There were books to be read.

and explanations to be given.

No, sweetie, you don't need to watch Elsa on Daddy's phone.

Birthdays were celebrated

and manicures were given.

Basketball was played 

and parks were enjoyed, 

the rain just an extra added attraction.  

The Ferrari store with Grandpa was on Giblet's bucket list,

and Indiana's decisive victory was icing on the cake. 

I-U Hoo Hoo Hoo Hoosiers!

I could go on and on, and in fact that's just what I've been doing all evening as I worked on finishing this post.  Scrolling through the shared family album had me giggling out loud which put a smile on TBG's face.

Suddenly the world isn't such a bad place at all.