Musings on Sex and Power

Eric Swalwell was MSNBC's favorite panelist until he wasn't any more.  He vanished in an instant, withdrawing from California's gubernatorial race (and why isn't that governatorial?) amid allegations of sexual misconduct by numerous women.

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John Kennedy engaged in numerous acts of sexual misconduct during his presidency..... that we know of.  Were women too frightened to come forward then?  Or was he just so charming that no one could say no?  

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Graham Platner managed to defuse his tattoo disaster only to fall upon yet another allegation of rape.  Bernie Sanders, an early supporter, wants him to withdraw from the Senate race.  Seems like we'll be watching Susan Collins be shocked and surprised for 6 more years.

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Ruben Gallego, once a good friend of Eric Swalwell, now regrets their relationship.  Ruben used to be a regular on MSNBC, too.  We haven't seen him in a while.  Is the stain of that relationship souring his status among the Dems, or just the media?

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Bill Gates regrets his friendship with Jeffrey Epstein.... and where are those files, anyway?  

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Would Thomas Jefferson be allowed anywhere near our founding documents today if his children with Sally Hemings became known?  

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Time passes and mores change and most of that is good.  It's too bad that behavior doesn't change that much.

And The Beat Goes On

After ruining my 4th of July, FFOTUS decided to trash my World cup fun, too.

Was the red card an overreaction?  Do we like VAR?  They won without him with only 10 players on the field so maybe it doesn't matter?

All that was interesting to consider as we waited for tonight's match.  Then the Corruption Hotline fired up and our felon was talking to FIFA's crook and afterwards the red card disappeared.

Note: the rules say a red card cannot be overturned.

Note: the two guys on the phone have never, will never, can never play by the rules.

So now, instead of watching the US men triumph or collapse under adversity, we're faced with a match whose outcome has already been marked with an asterisk.

Everything the man touches dies.

What A Flop

America couldn't throw itself a birthday party.  Everyone seemed to lose interest once it became all about FFOTUS.  

There was no bunting.  

There were no American flags put out for the occasion (except ours, because he doesn't get to take that memory away from me).  

There were no 250th Birthday Sales.  Our Mexican restaurant did offer me a $6 margarita (which I happily accepted) and volunteered to change the tv channel (is that even a thing anymore?) so that we could both watch the soccer with ease.  We didn't inconvenience anyone; we were the only patrons.

For some reason known only to himself, TBG turned our television to Fox and invited FFOTUS into our living room.  God, Communism, and your beautiful 2nd Amendment later, he began introducing very old veterans who were to salute very old flags and then take their very old selves off FFOTUS's stage.  

Some of them didn't get the memo and seemed to overstay their welcome.  The crowd kept clapping.  FFOTUS's Thank you very much noise kept coming from the podium, sounding more like a command than a gratuity as the applause grew.

Such a small man in such a large space.

Then there was music.  The Joint Armed Forces Orchestra (who knew?) performed admirably.  The US Army band belted its way through explosions, accompanied by the lamest singers imaginable.  To make it worse, they tried to gyrate while wearing dress whites.  It left cringe-worthy behind before it really got started.  

The crowd seemed to love it, though, so maybe we're just old.  Or maybe we have better taste than people who will stick around for hours to listen to an old man ramble.

And then the fireworks began. 51,000 individual pieces, according to one of the talking heads on Fox (before I muted the sound) and I don't know where to begin.  I've tried for the last few minutes to organize a coherent train of thought.  But, like the fireworks, the details have gotten lost in the smoke.

There was so much smoke it looked like the War of 1812 all over again.

There was a pond near (I think) the WWII memorial that periodically sent up giant flares.

The director couldn't decide where to place the cameras.  There was no best angle.  It was an unholy mess.  Zoom in and the sparkles vanish into the smoke.  Zoom out and it really does look like the city is on fire.  

And really, it didn't make any difference.  Like most things associated with the man, his celebration was all sound and no fury.  There were no interesting configurations.  There was no red white and blue theme.  There were just balls of similar color, some occasionally twinkling. And it went on for almost 45 minutes.

It was finally over and the people who brought their babies (none of whom wore noise cancelling headphones) could now take them home and put them to bed where they probably should have been all night long.  It was a mostly white crowd, who seemed thrilled to be sharing their MAGAness with other likeminded individuals.  

But there's one more thing you have to know, and, like the savvy story teller I am, I've saved the best for last.  

There was not one person of color on the stage throughout the entire performance.  

Not among the veterans nor the orchestra nor the band nor the featured singers.  I'm not sure how he organized that feat, but I'm having a hard time convincing myself that it was happenstance.  

Among all his other crimes and misdemeanors and felonies and general repulsiveness, he hijacked what could have been a really fun four day weekend.  How many times can he spit in America's face and still remain in office?

Happy 4th of July

This is how I feel about America right now - droopy.  But there was a time when I felt hopeful, even enthusiastic about our standing in the world.  That's when I originally wrote the post I'm reprinting below the sad flag.  I'm going to let those memories take me back in time for the 4th of July.

And it turns out that I will put on our country's colors and not give in to the despair I feel.  I cannot let him take this away from me, too.

The sky is pure blue,  painted that way as G'ma said every time she looked up.  The occasional fluffy white cloud drifts by, and I'm hearing G'ma remark on that, too.  The flag in front of the house is swaying, the pole wedged between the base and the capital of one of the front columns, secured with thin, silver, crafting wire.  

It's an elegant solution to TBG's reluctance to put holes in his house;  I feel like Daddooooo every time I wrap another ring around the post.

Daddooooo was big on ingenious remedies to intractable problems.  He was also big on flags and the 4th of July.  We always went to the beach.  We always stopped at Custom Bakers on the way home, where the owners always let us go back and stick our fingers in the vats of frosting.

We always went to the Boardwalk in Long Beach, arriving as the sun was setting.  Skeeball and mechanical fortune tellers and the smell of the ocean, too black to be seen but too noisy to go unnoticed, occupied us as we waited for night to fall.  We practiced our ooohs and aahhhs; we were in fine form by the time the booms and the bangs began.

Through it all, the flags were flying.

There was a big one in the bracket beside the garage door, until the house was painted and further holes were frowned upon (is this some kind of male thing I just don't get?). A pole-holding-tube was sunk into the flower box, and while it was neither sturdy nor attractive, it did the job and as far as Daddooooo was concerned that was that.

There was always a plastic flag attached to the car's antenna, and all our bicycles had flags on the handlebars.   

I'm not letting the tradition fade away. 

I'll be wearing my red white and blue tie dye - the dress, the tank top, the even bigger tank top - as I go through my day. 

*****

I'm So Disappointed

I'm not in the mood to celebrate or look back on happier times.

I should have no problem with my closet this weekend.  I have a plastic tote filled with red, white, and blue tie dye, with flag adorned t-shirts, with sweaters fastened with patriotic buttons.  It's our country's 250th birthday party and we all should be celebrating.

But there's nothing going on.  No Happy Birthday America sales, no bunting, no flags, no nothing.

I feel somewhat awkward putting on any of the celebratory finery. 

FFOTUS has preempted America's birthday party.  He's crashed the event, made it all about himself, and in doing so ruined it for the rest of us.  It's hard for me to feel proud of America's exceptionalism when FFOTUS has smeared it with feces.

Take a look at these pictures Brother took on Tuesday afternoon at Trump's American State Fair on the National Mall in DC.

From Brother's accompanying text: The temporary buildings are synthetic stucco and canvas murals and air conditioned. The state and government departments are in 30 foot square rooms not connected. Go in look at the freebies turn around and leave.  Several sound stages with no performances.  No cows pigs goats or sheep or crowds of humans. The best part was the exit.

Sister wondered if there was food.  Doesn't look like there were many takers.

It looks like I'm not alone in my disdain.

I want to sing God Bless America at a neighborhood fireworks party.

I want to put my flag embossed pin wheels on my car.

I want to smile at the other people who are wearing USA colors and gear.

I want to feel good about America again.

November cannot come soon enough.

Really, Mr. Chief Justice?

John Roberts wrote both decisions.

In one, he says the President can fire anyone he wants, in any Federal agency, even those created by Congress to be independent of the political party in power.  Goodbye FTC Commissioner Slaughter.

In the other, he says the President can't touch the Federal Reserve Board.   Member Cook keeps her job.

Justice Amy Coney Barrett took him to task, pointing out the tension between the two rulings.

If you're still wondering whether the Supreme Court is acting as an independent body, beholden to the Constitution and the American people, I'd love it if you can explain this.

All I've got is that the money-ed class does not want the global economy rocked any more than FFOTUS has done already.  They are less concerned about big businesses merging and driving up prices while lowering competition and worsening the situation of those American people they're supposed to be serving.

My Congressman is running tv ads saying I work for YOU!  His office was unable to explain to me how this makes my life better.

A Conversation While Swimming

I find swimming laps to be unbearably boring.  There's nothing to read and, while my head is submerged, there's nothing to hear.  There are just my thoughts and me.  When I'm not thinking about using my muscles appropriately, I'm running ideas for The Burrow or wondering about my offspring and their offspring or the memories the songs on the speakers evoke.

Slow dancing in the twilight at 6th grade graduation parties.  Standing in the cafeteria line for breakfast during my freshman year in college.  The Beatles. The Stones. Grace Slick in all her configurations.  They each bring something to the party.

But yesterday I was flummoxed.  I ran the conversation over and over in my head until they played a song I didn't like and I got out of the pool and enlisted TBG in solving the problem.  He laughed, of course he knew what was what, and then he proceeded to stumble over it all just as I was.  So, for your confusion/edification/delight, here's the problem:

Everybody's talkin' at me..... can't hear a word they're sayin'.... only the echoes of my mind......

That's what I heard when I came up for air.  

I got as far as Ratso Rizzo, Dustin Hoffman, and Jon Voigt.  But the name of the movie escaped me?

Rhinestone Cowboy?  Certainly that fit with the naive young man's background and occupation.

Or was that the one with Robert Redford and Willie Nelson and Jane Fonda and the horse paraded in lights and rhinestones through the Vegas strip?

But it's in NYC, so maybe Urban Cowboy?

But there's the John Travolta movie where he rides the bucking bronco in the bar, and maybe that was it.

I was very confused.  So was TBG.  I resisted looking for the answer from the Google, but succumbed before frustration set in.

It's Midnight Cowboy, The Electric Horseman, and Urban Cowboy, in that order.  

And Rhinestone Cowboy, the title that started the whole situation?  It's just a song.

 

Somedays

There are times when I feel like a hero, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Today, I'm looking askance at curbstones.

I'll be back tomorrow, with thoughts. I'm not in a position to have many of those right now. 

An American Tragedy

I'm too worn out for original thought, though everything is going just as planned (for once).  Instead,  I'm giving you a link to why I think Mayor Pete's Sunday appearance with Joanna Mendoza here in Tucson was abruptly cancelled this afternoon.  

TBG and I planned to attend, had signed up on line, were waiting for the exact location to be revealed.  Instead, we received a this event is cancelled email with no explanation at all.

Later on, I opened Substack and read this, by my favorite Mayor and Presidential Candidate:

        A Terrible Thing Happened to My Family by Pete Buttigieg

Even in today's climate, there should be one fundamental principle everyone respects: whatever you think about someone in politics, you leave their kids alone.

Someone decided to hurt our family this week. I’m furious, and I want to share what happened.

Read on Substack.  There's the link.  There's no paywall.  You don't need a subscription.  

Read it and weep.

The NBA Draft

I cannot believe that I watched it.  I was enthralled, captivated, drawn in the way a good movie draws you in - slowly, the anticipation growing then the climax and then it starts all over again.  It's usually a dull, boring, repetitive process.  

Not this year.  This year I recognized most of the players.  This year I remembered the Iowa State games and the Houston games and how Arizona's Wildcats fared against them.  I had opinions on scoring and defense and attitude.

I could take issue with the talking heads about who should go one or two.  Lacking knowledge of the NBA teams' particular needs, I relied on TBG's somewhat greater insight, although he warned me that his information came solely from other talking heads.  Was Burries too short for .... where is Koa Peat..... Veesaar as one of Jay Bilas's prime picks halfway through the first round?

Tommy Lloyd's recruiting progeny are strewn over the college landscape, as NIL and the transfer portal become the highway to success.  For me, the follow one team and otherwise a casual fan, that resulted in a remarkably interesting Draft Day.

As the next day unfolded, Koa was chosen and Burries was traded and now, I think, all things basketball must be put on the shelf until next season.  I'm switching my sports calendar to the FIFA World Cup... USA and Cape Verde and Messi and Ronaldo.... does anyone know where I can get one of those long knit scarves?

In Case You Missed It

For those of you who were otherwise engaged in more substantive pursuits, allow me to share the highlights of the hours it streamed on my laptop as I watched the NBA Finals unfold.  

I tuned in after the right section of the scaffolding had been erected.  The work resumed after a lengthy rain delay, and those minions on the left are handing the metal rods onward and upwrd.

They got higher and the night got muggier and anyone who has ever had the misfortune to be in the District in the summer knows that the air is thick even when it's not between storms.

The moisture in the air must have made the support beams quite slippery.  I beame concerned when the workers got up to the piano keys.

Fortunately, most of them were tethered, as the arrows indicate.  But what about this guy out on the beam, way at the top on the right?  There wee no tarps covering the material that's being lifted, and the humidity was intense, yet he's hanging out on a board above concrete without a net.

And then it began to rain again and it was well after the court's deadline and it was tomorrow morning already so they exited, descending scaffolding left.  

I can't bear reprinting the shower curtain that appeared the next day.  This will have to suffice.
 

And Now It's Tuesday

And we're home and life is much better.

A hospitalist listened and questioned and followed him from the hallway to the private room (Be very grateful about this!) spending all the time needed to figure out what came next.  She was the first person to consider the why, to share the lab results and what they might and eventually did reveal, and to help us create a viable plan going forward.

There are still so many floating pieces, so many appointments and tests and treatments to schedule.  There's so much to understand.  We have insurance and the means to pay for it (and all its hefty deductible and co-pays).  We have no work or child care obligations.  We have smart and supportive family and friends, and we're not afraid to abuse them.  I am comfortable dealing with the system.

I've spent all day watching soccer and swimming and cooking and recognizing that I live a very privileged life.  A change in any one of those pieces would throw everything else out of kilter.  Two or three blips and chaos looms.

Most of America does live one kidney stone away from disaster.  I'm anxious and exhausted and living on the edge of overwhelmed and there's nothing I need that I don't have or can't get.  And I'm not most of America.

The Hospital is Full

We arrived at the Emergency Room yesterday about 2pm. TBG's pain and nausea were treated well and efficiently..... in the hall. 

There were 50+ patients waiting for beds in the hospital.  We were seated in the hallway 

******

That was the start of Friday's post, written Thursday afternoon, on my phone, still in the hallway. the patient no longer seated but able to lie down on a stretcher in a screen-divided, open to all passersby cubby.

Those hours, all eighteen of them in the Emergency Room hallways before a room became available, revealed the open wound that is America's health care system.  Without a curtain separating us from our fellow captives, we saw and heard it all.

Sir, are you living outside? 

The strong smell of urine as the bedraggled man struggled by us on his way to the restroom; and the lengthy clean up afterwards.

The EMT's from car accidents all over the county and beyond.  The Yuma EMT who explained their four hour drive to his gurney riding patient this way: The nearer hospitals are closing departments and now not all of them have everything you might need.  But this is a University hospital and they have all the bells and whistles. So, here we are.

Nurses doing yeoman's work on twelve and a half hour shifts, with a 30 minute lunch break.... unless it's overwhelmingly busy.  We felt well tended.  It took only a bit of my pushy personality to find TBG a place to lie down and at least pretend to be comfortable.  His needs were met almost instantaneously, since he was open to all the action and all the actors all the time.

This isn't how it should be.  

The uninsured are once again showing up at hospitals instead of clinics.  The underfed and untreated are not turned away.

Instead, our Medicare Advantage plans went up 30 and 40 percent, respectively.  No one in the hospital, from the cashier in the cafeteria to the hospitalist who solved TBG's problem, received a thirty or forty percent bump in their salary.

This isn't how it should be.

The bill from his last hospitalization was $121,239.50.   We have insurance that covered it all.  It's easy to see how the uninsured are one kidney stone away from bankruptcy.

This isn't how it should be.

On The White House Lawn

It happened on our lawn.

Not only was it tacky.  Not only did the grift include paying the fighters in the felon's personal crypto.  Not only were the military personnel (fit and clean shaven) used (illegally) for political capital.  Not only did the fly over shake buildings in DC and delay flights out of National Airport (without prior notification of the airlines, passengers, or air traffic control).  Not only were the lights bright enough to cause a pilot to file an incident report (because he couldn't see) with the FAA.

Nope, that's not all.  At the end, the winner decided to opine on Michelle Obama's gender.  The head of the UFC smiled.  There were cheers.  

All of this happened in front of the people's house.  A president created a situation that allowed (and appreciated) a foul remark about a woman to go unchallenged.  That woman lived for eight (exemplary) years in that house.  It was her lawn.  

On FFOTUS's birthday, he defiled it.  

If your neighbor's animal crapped on your lawn, you'd do something about it, right?  As Nicole Wallace pointed out, none of the corporate sponsors whose banners decorated the arena have spoken out about the outrageous behavior.  I searched and found that I don't patronize most of them - Ram trucks, Budweiser, Monster Energy (there were others).  But there was one place I thought I could make a difference - Scotts Miracle Gro.

I have a conflicted relationship with them.  I usually buy untreated (but excellent) soil and add my own amendments.  Especially for the school garden, it's the most cost effective way to grow.  I don't have grass, but Scotts line of grass related products is extensive and profitable.  

Their advertising is ubiquitous, featuring responsible, middle class, home owning family men, none of whom are shown shirtless.  I get the trucks and the beer and the energy drinks.  I don't get Scotts Miracle Gro, not one little bit. 

That this obscenity occurred on a lawn makes their lack of response even more egregious.  

I went to the computer, found the website, looked high low, clicked on all the links I thought would be relevant, and finally found  Send us an email.   Obediently, I clicked.  And, after several failed attempts to load the page, this is what I found:

            So sorry.
We're currently updating this site.

It won't take long, so check back soon.

We apologize for any inconvenience.

- The Scotts Company

There's a phone number I can call in the morning.  There's a land address to which I can send a (soon to be more expensive) letter or postcard.  Those are at the end of the post if you want them.  They offered a chat option, but this is what I got when I typed how can i comment in the little box:

Agent said  Could you tell me a bit more about what you'd like to comment on? Are you looking to leave feedback about a product, an article, your order, or something else? Let me know so I can guide you!

You said  corporate response to ufc fight

Agent said I’m sorry, I can’t help with that request.       

They really don't want to hear from me.     

But I needed to write about the cowardice of executives who do nothing when their advertising is used to promote the most vile of insults.  There's no walking this back.  Target lost $12 billion when they abandoned DEI. This fool insulted the most admired woman in America in front of the people's house and got paid to do so. 

Some of the money that went through FFOTUS's crypto company on its way to rewarding the slimiest (expression of freedom of) speech imaginable originated in The Scotts Company's coffers.  If they deplore such behavior they should say so.  

Actually, they should have said so already.  

Their silence speaks volumes.  I'm no longer conflicted.  I hate them.

And yes, I promised to post the address and phone number but I've just spent five fruitless minutes searching for them, all to no avail.  Have I mentioned that I deplore them?

I Found The Joy

The World Cup was barely on my radar.  

Then it started. 

Suddenly I'm cheering for Uruguay and searching for the exact location of Cape Verde (which is now Cabo Verde and has always been about 350 miles off the coast of Guinea Bissau).  

I can type during hydration breaks and half times.  Otherwise, I'm mesmerized.

Almost like I was mesmerized on Friday night, watching the scaffolding, and the rain, and the workers outside The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.  

But that's a post for another day. The Iranians and the Kiwis are about to go at it again.  

Gotta go.

I Got It Back

Big Cuter learned about MJ in preschool.  He was a devoted fan until Jordan's last (championship) game with the Bulls in 1998.  His loyalty never transferred to the team.

We were living in Marin by then, and the 1990's Warriors were uninspiring, to say the least.  The 49'ers, on the other hand, were the winningest NFL team of the decade, and his fandom stretched to cover every aspect of his life except, perhaps, his underwear.  

He moved to the East Coast and took his 9'ers gear with him.  He was a regular at the neighborhood sports bar which showed their games.  He dragged us to one here in Tucson in what he said was a crucial situation.  Sunday game times were sacrosanct; call only if you wanted to talk football. 

We knew that Queen T was the one when he shared a photo of them hiking while his team was on tv.  Granted, they weren't playing that well and being disappointed had dampened his affections just a bit, but still.... these were his 49'ers.

I envied him his devotion.  I didn't think I had it.  I came to the Cubbies in my twenties and I love them still.  That's felt like my longest connection until this past week.  Once I heard the organ in the Garden I was transported back to my childhood on Long Island, when tickets for the family didn't call for a second mortgage, when Daddooooo or Uncle Abby chaperoned one or two of us into the city to see The Knicks. 

They were very good and then they were very bad and I had the Bulls and glommed onto Big Cuter's Warrior's obsession once they moved across the bay and I didn't miss the Kncks at all. Or so I thought.

I've spent the past ten days feeling every bit the New Yorker I am at heart.  Taos Bubbe and I text about it frequently, as does Sister.  OG Anunoby's Indiana University heritage creates a double whammy of affection, as proud alum Little Cuter delights in reminding me.  Big Cuter calls cheering for the Spurs and my New York snark joyfully fills the air.  

I am seriously thinking about investing in a championship t-shirt.  Turns out I do have a childhood sports connection.  It ust took 53 years to reappear.

I Understand It Now

He did it often.  It was commonplace.  Others of his species appreciated it and were willing to join in his enjoyment.  More than once.  It amazed me that he could find something new to see or feel.

There were times I could identify what was on the screen before entering the room.  Not always from the announcers' voices, but from TBG's moans, groans, and cheers of delight.  Watching and re-watching and re-re-re-re-watching certain sporting events made him inordinately happy.  

I didn't really understand it until now.  But I spent the better part of last night watching and re-watching the Knicks come from behind, erase a 29 point deficit, and triumph with 30 seconds of exceptional basketball to end the game.  It made me inordinately happy.

This morning I watched rabid Knicks fan Stephen A Smith tear up recounting his experience on his couch with his kids.  I never watch him willingly; today I awaited him anxiously.  Michael Wilbon called it the most epic collapse he'd ever seen in a championship series, and I enjoyed ever schadenfreud laden moment.  

I watched those last 30 seconds again and again and again all day long.  TBG tried to find something else to watch and I whined until he relented.  The last time I could name more than one player on the Knicks was 1970.  Listening to Let's Go Knicks chanted with the MSG organ's encouragement brought the fervor of those days right back.  

Sister texted me her memories, including specific point totals and players' actions.  She'll happily engage in a Was Game 5 or Game 6 more impressive conversation at the drop of a hat.  She doesn't recognize this new game, calling it football with jumping.  I suppose that's why she gave up and slept through the second half, a fact I plan to use when she goes on too long about her long ago devotion to the team.

And now it's time to watch the hockey finals.  I can't believe I'm watching and enjoying hockey.  As my life continues to expand in unexpected ways,  it's nice to find one that one of those ways amuses me.

 

And Now It's Wednesday

And that sports post is still awaiting ... lurking... hiding in the shadows of my draft folder and seemingly unable to escape.  There's another game tonight and another game tomorrow night (basketball then hockey... yes, hockey) so it will still be relevant if I ever finish writing it.

But it's hard to focus on The Burrow when I'm just feeling sad and overwhelmed and angry at the world.

FFOTUS doesn't think Stephen A Smith has the brainpower to be President.  Rolling Stone attibutes this to racism.  I think it's a doddering old man's go to response when he has no idea what he's talking about.  Whether the Orange Menace's presence at the 3rd game of the NBA Finals caused the Knicks to lose is debatable.  The fact that he fell asleep during the game is just unacceptable.

TBG's medical regime creates unbelievable tiredness and dizziness. This gets in the way of most everything he (or I or we) want to do.  Part of the reason my posting has been sporadic is because nothing is happening.  I don't like leaving him alone; falling is not part of the future I have planned.

It's triple digits and getting hotter here in Tucson.  It was too hot to plant seeds at 9am.  I tried to see The Kiss again last night (Venus and Jupiter touching in the sky.... not really, since they're zillions of miles apart, but to us here on earth it's pretty spectacular) but there were clouds in the early evening when they would have been visible.  My zip code is not being kind to me.

I'll try to recover my good humor and my sanity and anything else I'm missing so that I can be back on a regular schedule once again.  Thanks for your patience as my brain sorts out this new reality.  It's really no fun at all.

Monday, Monday

Are you with me here? The next lyric describes it all - can't trust that day. 

I slept until 9:30. I did the puzzles,  and the 30 minutes of doomscrolling i allow myself each morning, and there were house chores and laundry and a drug store run and suddenly it was 2pm and I had yet to swim (self care for today: 45 minutes in the pool and garden) orshower before TBG's appointment. 

Somewhere in there i was supposed to put the finishing touches on today's post.  That will now appear tomorrow. 

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

 Explicatory Bloviating

The Big Cuter thinks I should divulge more of myself because, in this medium ("New Media, Gasp" said Princess Myrtle one day) bloviating is encouraged. The Little Cuter is my first follower. It's nice to be loved and supported and mentored by those you've loved and supported and mentored yourself. Maybe that's what G'ma means when she thanks me these days.

Ashleigh Burroughs has been with me since college, when I realized that I was never going to write the great American novel but that, perhaps, Ashleigh would. It's good to have dreams and it's awful when your dreams make your reality seem paltry in comparison - especially when your reality is a good one. Giving Ashleigh her own persona cured that problem lickety-split. Like her namesake from Gone With the Wind, her intentions are stronger than her actions. But that's ok. She's been waiting for just this occasion to shine.

The Edgar Rice Burroughs Martian series kept The Big Guy sane during boring summer jobs in his youth. He read them aloud on Carribbean beaches and at Floridian pool-sides and they prompted a 7 year old reluctant reader to become a literary junkie. Inspiring, exciting, provocative -- I'd be glad if the Burrow meets that standard.

When I really really really like a book I'll try to make it last by rationing the chapters I allow myself to read in one sitting. Herman Wouk's The Winds of Wargot me through my first lonely weeks in graduate school that way. The Hobbitkept me company on a cloudy week near Disney World, and Sam Gamgee and Bilbo Baggins (also great names) have been by my side ever since.  Bilbo loved his burrow home, and never wanted an adventure, and fit right in with the community and his friends and went out and DID SOMETHING SPECIAL anyway. Home should be like that, I think - keep you cozy and toss you right out.

Ashleigh Burroughs is a great writer's name. A burrow is a great place to live and to leave. Living up to the name and enjoying the adventure - that's the challenge. Welcome to Ashleigh Burroughs in the Burrow.

Apologies

Looking back to the very beginning, in April, 2009, I made a promise to post every week day.  Almost all of the 4,463 of them since then have kept to that standard.

Age and caregiving have caught up with me.  I've been sloppy lately.  The Little Cheese has stopped emailing that my screed hasn't posted today; she understands all too well how hard it is now to fit everything into a day that used to have large gaps of empty spaces.

I'm not berating myself.  What has to be done has to be done and it's really not that difficult at all.  It's the always piece that's tearing at the edges of my life. 

I'm lucky to be taking care of a person I love.  We have the resources, financial and familial, to withstand everything they've thrown at us so far.  I have the brains and the bandwidth to coordinate the pills and appointments and protein intake and all the rest of it.

I stop every day and wonder what those without are doing right now.  It didn't take a masters degree, but it did take two hours and several iterations before I came up with the first medication/dosage/time/purpose/end date chart.  And that was once I figuired out that I couldn't possibly keep it all in my head.  

But I was able to think clearly and sort it all out and now I'm on the 7th version of that chart.  I have answers to all the nurses' questions at my fingertips.  I have little paper cups with hours, am and pm, in purple marker outside and the appropriate medications inside.  When he's taken them he turns the cup over, so that we both know what he's done anytime we want to look.  

I've gotten really good at tempting his tastebuds; G'ma's stuffed cabbage was a big hit last night.  Costco chickens keep me easily fed and provide plenty of other culinary opportunities.  Sometimes is chicken on pasta, sometimes it's chicken salad, sometimes it's shredded chicken on one of the bags of salad that have become staples in my kitchen.  

It's all interesting and amusing and exhausting.  

I'll try to post daily, but sometimes I might have to resort to oldies but goodies.... like tomorrow.

Abdulrazak Gurnah

He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2021.  That would be enough to scare me off had Theft not been sitting on the Large Type shelf (so I could read it under improper lighting, ie my living room), in paperback (so it's not too heavy to hold), with an engaging picture on the front cover.  

I'm still working out the deeper meaning(s) behind the title. 

The obvious one is obvious, obviously. (Sorry, I couldn't resist)  

The others have something to do with love and loss and betrayal and mostly hope and confidence and a generally upbeat sense that life has a purpose and a meaning even as reality tries to smother it.

It's an easy read, even if he's left off the quotation marks.  If I were starting out, I'd create a series of family trees to help me remember who did what to whom, and when, because the prose is so inviting that I read so quickly to see what was coming next that the plot got lost in the rhythm.  

It's a glimpse into modern day Africa, something I don't encounter in my everyday life.  Some of the characters are slipping into my thoughts in the few days since I finished it, carrying on the conversations we started when I had to reread a few chapters to pick up the thread once again.

That didn't bother me.  It gave me a chance to admire the verbiage once again.

Happy Birthday, Sister

Today is Sister's last birthday before she enters the decade her brother and I have inhabited for a while.  She's never stopped reminding us of the fact that she's the spring chicken in the family. 

She claims to have stopped enumerating the years after she turned 39.  You're only as old as you feel makes a lot of sense to me.  It's how I've tried to live my life - hanging on (with my fingertips, at times) to the energy and enthusiasm, tempering it with the comforting knowledge and experience garnered over the years.  

 Act as if you are 17 again just makes me anxious.  I have no interest in going back to my teenage years.  I'm happy to have left the angst and uncertainty and insecurities far behind me.  Adulthood has suited me just fine.

Sister, on the other hand, has had a harder time.  I'm sure 17 feels relatively uncomplicated for her.... if anything in her life can be said to be or have been uncomplicated.  She's a survivor, a rationalist, a self-sufficient human being who has a harder time accepting help than anyone I've ever known.  I finally hit her sweet spot with a Whole Foods after knee surgery delivery of ice cream, chocolate syrup, and vodka.

Of course, I only found out about the surgery after the fact.  Did I mention that she doesn't like asking for help?

She's been the most entertaining person I know and the most aggravating.  She's brilliant and can't seem to get out of her own way.  She's demanding, insistent, and usually right when it comes to everything outside her family.  

She's an activist, taking personal credit for the election of Andy Kim to the Senate (not much of an overstatement, actually), displaying anti-FFOTUS signs in her red neighborhood, flooding our siblings WhatsApp chat with gift links to the NYTimes' political screeds.  

She's complicated and annoying and funny and probably the book-smartest of the three of us.  Here's wishing that the world sends her peace and smiles and more world travels.... and that she comes to realize that her 70's might not be as scary as she imagines.

Happy Birthday!

It Hit Home This Month

Gas prices keep going up and up.  I miss the Prince scholars, but I'm not unhappy saving the twelve miles of traffic to get there.  I've been filling up at Costco, whose membership fee has already paid for itself.  Twenty cents a gallon times twelve gallons times twice a month and we're talking real money here.  

Fabletics adds an individualized tariff expense to each item.  I have no choice but to pay it.  Those tariffs were/are illegal and the money will be refunded. To me?  The one who explicitly paid it?  Hardly.  If it goes anywhere at all it will flow straight to the companies.  Will they then replace the money in my account?  Probably not.

Mexican restaurants all over town are suffering as the price of tomatoes rises.  I'm no longer blanching as I put Egglands Best eggs into my grocery cart; $7 feels reasonable these days.  I fill my basket with all the fruits and melons and berries that appeal to me even though the price tags make me wince.

But what stopped me dead in my tracks was opening this month's bills from Blue Cross/Blue Shield for our Senior Security plans.  My monthly premium went up 30%.  TBG's went up 40%.  

It had to be a mistake, right?  Not so, said the kind woman who answered the phone on the first ring.  "What I've been told is it's the overall industry and rising costs."  

No matter what they tell me, I refuse to believe that the cost of supplies associated with the medical profession has risen 40%.  I know that the professionals and paraprofessionals and uncredentialed but essential staff are not looking at paychecks that are 40% fatter. 

Profits over people.  This is what Daddooooo would call out as HIGHWAY ROBBERY.

When he felt that way, he'd stick it to the man by installing yet another illicit, unauthorized, cheating the phone company outlet.  By the time I left for college, I could make a call from every bathroom and almost every closet in our house.

The older I get, the more things seem to spiral out of control, the more I understand the impulse.  

They Heard Me

I complained and something happened. 

One day after I posted about the absence of signs announcing the Democrats' congressional candidate I saw these all over town:

They are big and cheery and say Arizona; see our flag referenced?

The Democrats in my legislative district are encouraging alternative signage. 

I'm open to suggestions for what I should write. 

Oops

The days get away from me, sometimes. 

I'll be here tomorrow. 

Who Is Running Against Him?

Six long months before Election Day, the Republicans have come to town.  

In the median strips along every major artery, at every intersection with a traffic light, the northwest side of Tucson is awash in cardboard.  Mayoral, congressional, town council, gubernatorial wannabes have their names in red and blue gigantic fonts screaming in my face.

One street has Believe in Peace signs in the median.  Those calm me down after being reminded of all the FFOTUS Followers (Andy Bigg, Juan Ciscomani) trying to attract my attention.

Are there Democrats or Independents or Libertarians or Democratic Socialists vying for my gaze?  Nope, not a one.

In their infinite wisdom, the DCCC or DNC or Ken Martin himself chose Joanna Mendoza to run against Ciscomani for my seat in the House.  No one I know has ever heard of her.  In fact, no one I know even knows of her existence.  Who's running against him? is the typical reaction.  In my post about the rally where Mark Kelly introduced her to invested voters I didn't mention her at all.  

I imagine she's qualified beyond being a Marine veteran and a lesbian activist.  She left a bland impression on those of us in the audience.  I see no mention of her when the local rags (can I still call them that if I read them on line?) write about community events.  

In one of the most vulnerable races in the country (the DCCC moved it up from 5th to 4th) the Democrats' candidate is absent.  According to The Sentinel's coverage of a Conservatives for America poll,

Ciscomani was viewed favorably by 32 percent of those surveyed and unfavorably by 36 percent and had a name ID of 83 percent.

Mendoza, a Marine veteran who previously ran unsuccessfully for the Arizona Legislature in 2020, was largely unknown by those who were surveyed, with only 23 percent saying they were familiar with her name. She was viewed favorably by 6 percent and unfavorably by 3 percent.

I'm going to do everything I can to oust the current occupant of that seat.  I just wish the DCCC were doing the same. 

AI Failed Me

I try to avoid the AI results at the top of the Google search.  Anything that has "there may be errors" as a concluding statement is specious enough to make me question to information. Although the algorithm that sends me the links is also an artificial intelligence, somehow it feels less creepy to find the answer from an original source.

But last night it was raining and I was tired and it was Sunday which meant that the garbage cans needed to be at the curb for our Monday pickup, if Memorial Day was a Waste Management holiday.  My pool company takes only Thanksgiving and the week between Christmas and New Years as vacation days.  Was trash collection on the same schedule?

I picked up my phone as TBG was turning off the inside lights, preparing for bed.  Waste Management Memorial Day pickup was my prompt, and AI told me right away that WM didn't really care about honoring the fallen.  My cans needed to be at the curb.  I was obedient, and we dragged them out under cloudy skies.

I woke up this morning feeling smug.  Ours were the only cans along the street.  Everyone else in the neighborhood thought it was a holiday.  I had done the research.  I knew I was correct.  I drove to Amster's, worked out in her home gym, and drove home to find that our cans had no friends.  No one else had dragged their refuse from the garage or backyard enclosure outside.

My confidence was failing.  Before I began this post, I Googled the same prompt on the laptop.  This time, Waste Management Tucson was the first link, appearing before the AI review finished AI'ing itself onto the screen.  A quick click revealed that, indeed, Waste Management does care about those who lost their lives defending our freedom.  Pickup is delayed one day.

All of a sudden, my cans don't feel so proud of themselves.

All of a sudden, I'm feeling foolish for believing the AI answer.  I know better.

Memorial Day

   First posted in 2009.  

I used to march in the Memorial Day parade. I was dressed in my Brownie uniform, and then in my Girl Scout uniform - replete with those embarrassing anklets. I wore them because the troop leader said we couldn't march without them, they were part of our official uniform.  Marching was too cool to pass up. I wore them and bore the scorn.

All the school bands marched too, and the moms on Benjamin Road provided the materials and the labor to make the capes the high school kids wore. There must have been a military presence there, but I didn't pay enough attention to notice. I was marching and I knew that, all over America, other kids were being Americans and marching, too.

I belonged to something bigger than my family, my school, my town.  

Belonging means different things in different places. In Marin, the Memorial Day parade was always good for a controversy or two. Or three. Should the anti-war protesters walk alphabetically in the main march, or have their own march, or walk 50 yards behind the official march? I especially liked this discussion: should weaponry be allowed?

That was fairly disingenuous even for Marin.

There were bands at this parade, too, and with Bobby Weir as the Grand Marshal you know the music was worth hearing, especially at the picnic in the park afterwards. Not exactly your typical VFW-sponsored event, but no one was complaining. It was Memorial Day; there had to be a parade and a picnic and a coming together as Americans.

I've got the flag G'ma bought us for a housewarming present, which replaced the one Dadooooo got us in Chicago.  I'll wear the tie-dyed tank top the Cuters and I made early one July.  I'll remember the fallen and recommit to doing everything I can to make this country worthy of their sacrifice.

We have a long way to go, but I have confidence in the future.

Yawn

I have no energy to comment on the recent rash of rational actions by certain Republicans.  

Caregiving is hard work.  It's a good thing we like each other. 

I'll be back on Monday. 

Grandma's Garden Farewells

Today was the last day of school.  

I gave the kindergarten teachers their end of year, for their personal libraries, gift book.  They each had Caps for Sale; this year they received The Lorax.  One is moving back home to raise her baby-due-in-December closer to her family.  That was a hard goodbye for me.

She's the one on the left. The one on the right left last year.  They were joyous.

The kindergarteners were acting like the first graders they will be.  They waited politely until I arrived at the garden gate, they lined up without prompting to take a turn or three on the umbrella's handle, and they dove right into the storage bin to find what I'd hidden away.  A little mischief is welcomed; invading my personal space demands a conversation.  

I settled them down with white paper plates and markers, then proceeded to give away the painted ceramic pots to any and all who wanted them.  My usual friends stopped by to talk about their summer plans and to hug me.  The hugs were the most important part of the visits.

Some are moving away.  Omaha, Nebraska felt very far to the Garden Leader whose family was relocating.  

Some are going next door to middle school, often without their best friends who've been switched to another school amidst the District's round of school closures.  

There were tears.  There were reassurances - I won't let you feel lonely! I'll defend you! There was excitement about starting a new chapter.  Miss Stella is thrilled that she will exist in a world with scholars taller than she.  

I signed yearbooks and t-shirts and sweaters I'm not sure were parentally approved for Sharpie signatures.  Every plant in the garden has been adopted and is not living in a new home.  Only the tomato bush and the mandarin orange tree remain, both with ripening fruits.  

It's a good thing summer school runs through June.  

And Then There's This

Yesterday's post was full of joy.  Allow me this moment to rant.

*****

If one more person says he's more likely to get hit by a bus than die from what ails him,  I am afraid that violence may ensue.  

As one lovely (really, a kind and decent soul) human followed up with this: After all, you've had more opportunities to be hit by a bus than someone who is 30.  

Hey, we know we're old.  We aren't feeling young-ish right now.  We don't need the reminder.

It's comforting to be told that you don't need to rush to a lawyer and put your affairs in order, but, as another kind and decent soul said after looking at the two of us, that's because you probably already have that taken care of.

If that is to be our fate, then we'll go out as G'ma wished for herself - to be hit by a bus run by a solvent municipality.  I promise to be laughing all the way to the pavement.

Feeling the Love

This is just some of the love coming our way.  

I had forgotten how good it felt to read letters and cards from friends and strangers and strangers who became friends (I'm thinking of you,  Lolly) after my perforation.  The mail carrier has something to put in our mailbox that isn't trying to sell me something. 

Funny, sincere, thoughtful, personal missives arrive almost every day.  It's not only texts and emails from our circle.  We're surrounded by love at the treatment facilities, too.

It's everybody we encounter, from the valet parking ladies with the sparkling smiles and reminders to wait in the shade; through the scheduler who called late in the day to say he wouldn't have the information until the morning, but he didn't want me to go to sleep thinking he'd forgotten about me; to the clinicians and technicians and the people behind desks who smile if I should happen to catch their eye.  

It makes everything a lot easier.

We have one plan.  We are preparing to plan for a second, contemporaneous plan.  While serious, there are relatively benign yet effective plans to treat what ails him.  

I'm not jinxing anything by typing any more, and I'm closing the comments because I feel your love without them.

What I will say that Victor Wembayana is a very tall, very talented, young man, and watching a closely contested, double overtime, playoff game is a fine way to raise one's spirits.

Fauna in the Neighborhood

Two brothers purchased the 12.5 acres across the street, saving us from staring at 152 one and two story, cookie cutter, single family homes.  They have landscaped what was untended overgrowth into a lovely, liveable space.  There are two houses behind the old, rusted, fancy gate with its ironworked mural, the gate that clanked for years until they arrived and dealt with it.

They cleaned up the low lying plants and tree branches that swept the ground, and in doing so removed habitat that had lain undisturbed for the two decades we've lived here.  We would see coyote parents and their young carefully crossing the road, Dad blocking passage and alert for any danger, Mom bringing up the rear of the pup parade, on a regular basis.  

Not so much any more.

There were lots of bunnies munching on my rosemary and lantana and crepe myrtle before the electic saws and power blowers got to work, clearing out their habitat.  My plants are uneaten, and that's a good thing.  But I miss the critters twitching their noses on the rocks outside my window.

The javelina are still roaming the countryside, leaving their footprints behind in the rocky ground cover.  The lizards of all shapes and sizes and colors are everywhere, as are the bats and the wrens and the mourning doves.  

The hawks ride the air currents looking for snacks.  The giant, hooting owl lives in the eucalyptus tree next door.  He's surprised many a visitor with his I'm-right-next-to-you-and-I'm-very-loud notifications of his existence.

And the newest fauna I've discovered is our currrent next door neighbor, an anesthesiologist.  I met her husband, a contractor, a year ago.  It's taken that long for them to renovate and move in and for us to become acquainted.  

For every thing there is a season.... that feels apropos right now.

Garden Leaders

They come in all shapes and sizes, from kindergarten through fifth grade.  They show up and learn and help and sometimes they find treasures.  

One of them found a ripe tomato hidden under the leaves, resting on the soil, just begging to be sliced and eaten and shared with friends.  

They organized the loading of the painted pots onto the playground monitor's three tiered cart (oops.... she thought it was lost and gone forever) and gathered friends to navigate it over the bumpy grass, up and over the edge of the paved walk, up to the door near the staff mailboxes.

I chose the three in the front, who joined me in putting a pot in each cubby, right on top of the cards with flowers on one side and A snapdragon for you from Grandma's Gardeners sticker on the other.

It was a lovely way to spend a sunny morning.  

It's impossible to be sad while being hugged by little ones; I get so much more than I give.  

How Is He Still In Charge?

Taking a break from the medical scene, I'm going to let myself rant a bit about FFOTUS.

The man slurs his words so badly that there is no way to understand the ends of most sentences.  MSM is finally showing photos of him sleeping in meetings on the nightly news.  They aren't pointing out the fact that the Commander in Chief is taking a nap while surrounded by visitors, cabinet members, and Congress people.  I suppose they are relying on the viewer to make the connection.

Cowards, one and all.

His plan for his boring war is No Plan, I have no plan, no plan at all.  Meanwhile, he and Hegseth are pursuing Mark Kelly (once again) for pointing out that we've depleted our military stock to a danger point.  No, Mr. Secretary, that wasn't classified information.  You said it in a hearing. 

I'm not too worried about my senior Senator.  He has $25million in the bank and more coming in every day.  But Jon Ossoff, Sherrod Brown, the governorship of California --- they all have me worried.

Redistricting while elections are being held is absurd.... unless you are a Republican legislator who wants to curry favor with FFOTUS.  The voters in Virginia made their wishes known only to have a court tell them NO.  My County Clerk sent a Important Message urging everyone to check their voter resgistration status asap.   

There was a woman in a 45-47 decorated ball cap sitting at the counter when I picked up our lunch today.  I was tempted to approach her and ask her WHY???? but I kept my cool.  The thing is, I was really interested in her why.  Is she seeing the world through a different lens than I am?  

I drove home thinking about my latest act of political rebellion:

I'm leaving my mark.  It is all I can do.

Home, At Last

Yesterday was a whirlwind of pokes and examinations and consultations and then his Ticket To Ride (seriously, that's in the header of the order for transportation) arrived and, after a stop at the pharmacy for 6 prescritions) Sam wheeled him out to the car.

It was 102 degrees.  My car had been sitting in the sun for 6 hours.  The air conditioning did its best, but standing up was a challenge for my sweetie.  We got home and put him into his own bed - ahhhhhhhhhh - and filled his nightstand with Diet Coke and iced tea and Smart water and graham crackers.  

He'd have ensconced himself on the living room couch if the television had been working, but for some unknown reason it refused to connect to the cable box.  I have to say it felt like the world was conspiring against us.  Or, as the Golden Gopher put it, if he didn't have bad luck he'd have no luck at all.

It took me an hour to make a chart with the names, doses, times and what it's for.  6am, 10am, noon, 2pm, 6pm, 10pm, and midnight are the times for the regularly scheduled drugs.  Should he need the oxycodone, that's a whole other timeline.  We napped through the noon dose and hoped that his body wouldn't notice that we were an hour late.

We're managing several diagnoses at the same time.  Everyone wants to be sure we understand all the directions and parameters and contraindications; as long as I'm taking notes to review later I'm doing fine.  

Now we're trying to reschedule the appointments we missed while he was hospitalized.  This is harder than one might imagine; one phone was busy from 8am until I called the main switchboard at 3pm and the lovely receptionist somehow managed to get me through.  I'm waiting for the doctor to talk to the scheduler who will call us back on one of the three phone numbers on file.

Sigh.

We've spent the day wondering how those without our particular set of skills and free time manage any of this.  I'm grateful for good insurance (even with that there's a $2000 co-pay for one drug) and money in the bank and family and friends who support us emotionally from near and far.  

And we're only just getting started.  

Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile pasted on my face.  We'll get through this together... and by that I am including all of you who've left loving comments on The Burrow.  Please understand if I'm too tired respond as I usually do.  

Onward and upward, as Daddooooo would say when life struck another blow.

Perhaps Today

Infections are nasty things.  

Lightheadedness and white blood count and creatinine and pain.... we spent another weekend in the hospital, coming close and then failing to being discharged.

This morning we'll give it another try.  

There will be posts about FFOTUS's boring war , he of the attention span of a toddler.  There will be a garden post or two, along with an end of the school year retrospective.

But now, I must dress and go, once again, to sit by his bedside and wait for others to make decisions about our actions.  To say that this is disconcerting would be the understatement of the 21st century.

Thanks for hangin in here with me.

And Still...

Some numbers go up, some go down. Mostly they go in the direction of health,  but that's usually followed by something else to worry about. 

The physicians are alarmingly young. The only grey hair to be found is on the patients. 

The staff is an interesting collection of Americans from all over the globe, all respecting the particular hierarchy of their niche.  Techs defer to nurses.  Fellows defer to Attendings. We've only been visited by one student, and that only after her supervisor asked our permission. 

That's all I can think of.  Hospitals are exhausting, even for visitors. 

Well....

We're still here.  He's feeling better but there are still meds to be given via an IV so we are literally tethered to the institution. 

Home tomorrow, we hope.  I'll have more to say then. 

We'll Talk Tomorrow

TBG and I are spending some quality time in the Emergency Room.  It will all be fine,  but writing will have to wait   It's hard to write with all the beeps and pokes and questions. 

Thanks for understanding. 

It's May

 As Guinevere sings in Camelot, it's a month when everything goes blissfully astray.

There are two and a half weeks of school left.  There's not much learning still going on, although the teachers are making a valiant effort to educate while their students are counting down the days until summer vacation.

The Amphi High School seniors held their Grad Walk on Friday.  Dressed in caps and gowns, they marched through the first floor and the playground, high fiving and smiling.... at least the ones without earbuds.  

Standing next to Miss Stella, currently the tallest 5th grader, I mentioned that she probably might not be the tallest student in Middle School next year, and that she certainly wouldn't be the tallest student in high school.  We don't know what they are feeding those kids, but they were BIG.

Attendance in the garden always slows down in May.  I don't know why.  The tomato plants and the mandarin orange tree have many green blobs (they don't look much better than that) which are taking their own sweet time ripening.  Apparently, they are not clued in to the school calendar.

One Garden Leader, talking to no one in particular, opined that the garden was her favorite place in the whole school.  No one fights.  You can plant.  And you can be quiet.

It seems that, for this year at least, my work here is done.

A Delightful Surprise

The BEYOND! t-shirts were a big hit as smocks in Grandma's Garden last week.  So that others could use them, I asked the scholars to take them off before they left. 

Two girls ran away, laughing, with their smocks over their t-shirts.  

I didn't notice that, but the other scholars did.  I looked out over the playgroound for the miscreants, to no avail.  I shrugged it off.  They've been sitting in my garage for 15 years; I have 2 huge boxes still there; the girls were laughing and that's always my goal; and I couldn't remember who they wtere, anyway.

A few minutes later, they came back, slightly abashed.  T  They couldn't return the smocks; they had removed their original t-shirts. Nudity is not encouraged on our campus.  I reminded them that they had misbehaved and that I was not thrilled with them..... but they could keep the BEYOND! shirts.

There were doctors and surgery and more doctors this week, so Thursday was my first day back in the garden.  While I was setting up the day's project, the two naughty third graders suddenly appeared before me.  

We're sorry we took the shirts, Grandma.  We're really sorry.

They came on their own.  They were properly abashed.  Their faces were really sorry, as they met me eye to eye, confident and diffident at the same time.  

I almost cried.  Instead, I told them that I was proud of them.  Everyone makes mistakes and does dumb things and I know that I did  (pause for a painful memory or two to flash across my brain) and the fact that they took responsibility for their actions and came back to repair the damage impressed me a whole lot more than their absconding (yes, I said absconding) with the t-shirts had depressed me.  

No, they didn't want to stay and paint. We shook hands and they went on their way.

It was a good day in Grandma's Garden.