The Burrow

I couldn't watch the news.  Every channel had pictures of a drowned man and his toddler daughter.  I couldn't look at it.  I just kept saying to myself, over and over and over again, This is NOT my America. I know it is my America.  It's FDR's decision to turn away the St Louis  in 1939.  It's The Trail of Tears.  It's internment and red lining and SCOTUS sanctioned voter suppression.  But that image was just too much for me. I had to do something.   So, I shopped.  I took $100 and went to The Dollar Store and bought 50 pairs of flip flops and 10 boxes of crayons and 10 small pads of paper and 10 little toys.  I bought toothbrushes and small packs of tissues.  I filled my trunk with the clothes waiting to go to Goodwill, with the brand new sweatshirt that fits no one in my family, and with 4 bottles of Dove Body Wash, just because.   I drove to the former Benedictine Monastery, which owner Ross...

I have proof. In the time it took me to hang the rest of the not-in-the-dryer basket this blouse  went from damp to dry. I came inside, wrote the verbiage for this post, and came back to add this picture because in the time it took me to write the rest of this for you, it, too, could be hung, dry, in my closet. I may have to water my containers twice a day, I may have to contend with pack rats nesting behind my pool's heater, I may never get to wear all my wonderful winter clothes, but the truest truism of all is Kartographer I've just given you the proof.

Brenda Starr and I walked some more of the Rillito Park Path this morning.  We wore tee shirts. The wildflowers are blooming, and my yard is ablaze with random, disorganized color. I spent the afternoon re-potting and installing and pruning and straightening and cleaning the containers. It wasn't too cold to be in the shade in the courtyard nor was it too hot to be potting roses in the sunshine out back. I have a stack of large print mysteries on the bookshelf, books that my library always seems to have on hand.  I can drive twenty-some minutes and be on campus for a class or a lecture or an exhibit or a recital or downtown for a concert or a great meal..... and there's always parking and it's usually free. Did I mention that I was outside all day today?  Did I tell you the part about the tee shirt? I have to keep focusing on these things, denizens, because this state is in the hands of people who are turning it into something unrecognizable, something which...

G'ma doesn't remember that she broke her leg last week.  She has no cast, so there's not a visual cue to start her memory churning.  She is not in pain when she's not moving, which is most of the time, so there's not a physical cue to remind her.  She doesn't notice that anything is different at all. The problem is, she is not allowed to bear weight on that limb for five more weeks.  She can touch her toe to the ground for symmetry and balance, but 99% of her body weight must be borne by her left leg.  Should she put too much pressure on the damage leg, the plate and screws securing it to her soft bones will not hold. She has to grow more bone over the hardware. That thought has not made it into the permanent memory bank. The orange discoloration from the betadine washes has faded.  The bandage covering the incision on her thigh is comfortable.  There's no reason to fill her with sorrow as she contemplates the failure of yet another body part. ...

I am beat.  Exhausted.  too pooped to pop.  Bunionella is here from Cali, driving me around and doing my laundry.  We went to lunch and stopped in at the Philabaum Gallery, hit the grocery store and came home.  All I want to do is nap.  Hopping with my walker, paying attention to every step, every crack in the sidewalk, every teeny downhill slope is more tiring than I'd ever imagined it could be. So, forgive me, denizens, if this post is short and (not-so) sweet.  I've known all day what the topic would be, but I can't come up with much to say about it at all.  It flummoxes me.  It disturbs me.  It annoys and embarrasses me.  I love Tucson, I love Arizona, but this stuff makes me nuts. SB 1610 in the Arizona State Legislature reads: The Colt Single Action Army Revolver is the state gun. Words fail me.  We are The Grand Canyon State.  Our state flower is the white blossom of the saguaro cactus.  The green palo...

We're back from Sedona, Amster and I.  I'm not sure that we were influenced by the Birth Mother rock formation which loomed over our spa destination   but we are renewed, body and soul.  I'm in a quiet, reflective, at-one-with-nature place right now.  The sky seems bluer and my breath feels lighter.  I'm not saying that the presence of the vortex is with me, but something's sure going on. We drove up I-10 to I-17 and turned off at the Oak Creek/ Sedona exit and it was stunning.  Less than 100 yards from the exit the road turns and there they were red rocks (sedimentary formations filled with oxidizing iron ore which "rusts" and turns red) right in front of the road.  And to the left. And to the right.  And we could have stayed right there and been happy for an hour or so.  But we continued past the round-abouts and the galleries and the crystal shops and the psychic reading salons and, with the red rocks accompanying us, we wound our way...

I received an email from "The March of the Monahans". It rang no bells in my head, though it sounded vaguely Tea Party-ish.  My spam filter is generally pretty good, so I tried to recall if I'd joined a Facebook group or followed a link while researching something else but I came up empty.  Even after reading the main text and glancing at the links, I can't remember how I got on their distribution list.  But it's sparked this post, so I suppose I should be grateful. Corporate Personhood seems to be the basis of the trek these brothers are making across the USofA.  They are trying to drum up support to amend the Constitution to end corporate personhood, saying that the Supreme Court  " made people second class citizens to corporations." I've been trying to understand the nuances of the phrase. Knowing 2 law mavens (one retired, one studying) I have access to some fine legal thinking.  The issue has been dissected in the Wall Street Journal and t...

I'm a blue girl living in a red state and I'm very confused.  Apparently, I am not the only one in this predicament.  Nance is wallowing in the same morass, and has offered to guide the winner of her "more names for shades of red" contest through the parts of South Carolina which delight her.  I've always been a fan of re-labeling, but I don't think she's going far enough.  I think we need a whole new paradigm. I walk the aisles of supermarkets surrounded by people who are all shades of brown.  Some find their color through tanning booths ( our newest addiction - I am having fun considering the treatments..... sunburns? long trips to Chicago in the winter?) but most seem to have been born that way.  I am hard pressed to determine ethnic origins as I pass them near the frozen foods; we're all shivering in our tank tops as we retrieve Popsicles and peas and pizzas.  Goose bumps are goose bumps no matter how colorful your skin might be. We have a lar...

It's 109 degrees outside and it's 7:25pm. My brain is as fried as my flesh. I love the heat and the sun and the smells of Tucson's summer, but usually the monsoon rains cool things off in the afternoon. We're in a dry spell right now, though, due to issues with high pressure systems over Mexico. Or New Mexico. It was already scorching hot when I read the paper this morning and as I said, my brain is fried. So, random thoughts today: If I were stuck on a desert island with only one artist/group's music I decided it would be Paul Simon. ************** Some people should not be allowed to drive - the ability to see over the top of the steering wheel should be mandatory. Of course, here in Arizona your driver's license is renewed when you turn 65. Til then, you're good to go. As my Boston First Cousin warned me upon hearing of our move to Arizona : Be careful of the tarantulas, the scorpions, the javalinas and the elderly. ******************* Why does a ...