Having Trouble Getting Started

It's Tuesday.  There's an election in Georgia, there's an attempt by the Arizona GOP Chair to throw out my ballot, and the anniversary of my perforation is coming up.  There should be lots for me to write about.  

There should be.  But I'm having a hard time getting fired up about any of it.

I wrote my postcards and letters to Georgia Democrat leaning voters.  Watching the televised nonsense isn't moving Ossof or Warnock closer to the finish line, so I've given that up entirely.  I've done what I can and I'm moving on, in keeping with my resolution to find peace and enjoy it.

The radio isn't helping much in this endeavor.  I can avoid the talking heads on tv by leaving the room, but my car radio and NPR are inseparable; I have to remember to change to KXCI, our community radio station, before I am bombarded with voices purporting to know the unknowable.  Once the thought is put into my head, I'm doomed.

Kelli Ward lost an election, got herself selected to the top of the AZ GOP pyramid, and has proceeded to quash any hope that her party will be seen as anything more or less than obstructionist goons.  There is no valid argument, and yet she persists.  My fury is unabated; my vote should count whether she likes the result or not.  The nerve, the arrogance, the temerity, the audacity --- this, too, is getting in the way of my inner peace.

January 8th could have slipped by unnoticed this year, and I wouldn't have minded a bit.  There's no Stroll and Roll on CTG's path due to pandemic precautions.  There's no ringing the fire station bell downtown, either.  There's a memorial dedication, but I was always planning to skip that.  Scarlet offered to stand 6' away from me at the Safeway, showering virtual hugs on my standing alone self as I placed a stone on the memorial they erected one year after the bullets flew.  I demurred.  Without a physical hug, she'd be just another reminder of all we've lost this year.  I'll be sad enough without adding COVID 19 to the pile.

That Safeway memorial is the only part of typing this post which made me smile.  It cost very little, it happened quickly, it's in the right spot, and it conveys the right message.  There are 6 big rocks for those who died, and 13 stars for those who took bullets sit below the explanatory plaque on the largest boulder of all.  Stuffies and candles and prayer cards and flowers adorn the site over the course of the year; I've stopped there every anniversary to do my commemorating and my crying.

This is the 10th anniversary.  The local paper is doing a podcast and running some articles.  I'm grateful that the pandemic has kept the national newshounds away from my door; I've been dreading rehashing the experience since last year.

Getting started on 2021 has been difficult not only because of the sorrow, but because it really doesn't feel any different than 2020.  Even this post is more of a retrospective than an expansive view of the new year.  I ought to have some thoughts that look in that direction.  Unfortunately, I don't.

A Productive Week

I spent Sunday packing all the holiday boxes except the tree's ornaments and lights,  

after spending the previous week organizing 

and repurposing and recycling and donating.  I found myself with empty shelves where there had been chaos.

The green box on the floor contains books that must find space on a bookshelf.  Its resting place is temporary, low enough that I can reach the contents without straining, and meets Queen T's exacting standards for space in A Finished Closet.

She grew up cleaning out the old year and starting the new year fresh, her space reflecting the way she would like to live every day.  It was Marie Kondo and my father rolled up in a helpful young human who shlepped and lifted and shifted and wiped and swept and did all the things that a deep clean requires, all the things that my shattered hip aches just thinking about, all the things that have kept me from starting these projects on my own.

She was up and down without holding onto anything else.  I can't remember the last time I clambered up a step stool or got down onto the floor like that.

She was ruthless but kind.  Instead of Daddooooo's what do you need that crap for? Queen T's when was the last time you used this dusty, out of style, whatever it is? felt genuinely interested, if somewhat amused.  

She was not totally heartless; she understood that I wasn't ready to give up G'ma's purse..... not yet. 

I only emptied it this summer, more than six years after she died, a little teary as her Revlon lipstick and powder stuck to my hands, refusing to be thrown away. It's washed and could be donated if it weren't so yucky inside. For now, it's living with me.

The laundry room, the game closet,

the cleaning closet, and the two under the sink cabinets have been stripped bare and will now live regimented lives, each with its own set of rules, all of which make sense to me.  

The candles are in an upper shelf that's easy to reach from the floor, as long as what I'm grabbing isn't too heavy.  A 6" beeswax and soy pillar fits the bill perfectly.  I no longer have to push away the recycling bin

to find my more awkwardly shaped candleholders and bases.

I spend an inordinate amount of time opening doors and staring at the wonders they conceal these days.

Hello, 2021

Some things have not changed at all.  

DJT is still trying to undermine our democracy, still behaving as if he is untethered from reality, still in charge of the nuclear codes.  I am neither more nor less frightened than I was last Sunday night, even having read the entire transcript between our President and Georgia's Secretary of State.

I'm still delighted by those who wonder about the political future of a man I am certain is going to prison.  I still wonder what Javanka are telling their children about Grandfather, what Baron hears about Daddy at school, and what Kimberly Guilfoyle is doing on anybody's radar.

Mark Kelly and Gabby Giffords continue to inspire, ten years after our lives collided.  My hip hurts about the same as it did a year ago, but I'm much more flexible and spry, able to be on my feet for more hours before I collapse in a heap.

Tucson, although too far from the world's sweetest grandchildren, is still the perfect place for our aging and aching bones.  The friendships we've made in our dotage are as deep and delightful as those we have kept from our youth.  Sitting outside, under the stars, wrapped in warm blankets, is a lovely way to finish up a holiday evening.  We are ever grateful to have made this choice.

And choice is what I am taking with me into the new year.  

My resolution to compliment the good when it happens has brought me joy and will, once again, be renewed.  It's being enhanced by an emphasis on gratitude, on noticing the wonder around me and taking stock of that moment, pausing to be present, to observe, to feel.  

Stopping this morning to notice how big that new-to-the-neighborhood-just-passing-through bird weighing down the branches of the crepe myrtle outside the library window, I added on a thank you for his visit and a smile.  

I'm choosing to be hopeful, to be grateful, to be aware of the good as I acknowledge the bad.

I'm leaving a toxic political environment behind, with great expectations for leadership that believes in science, in vote tallies, in the rule of law.  There is a woman in the second chair, and that bodes well for our future.  My state has two US Senators who reflect (for the most part) my values.  Our democracy has withstood 50 plus challenges to the will of the people, and is still standing.  

These are all wonderful results of a terrible presidency.  In my 2021 frame of mind, I'm going to be grateful for where we are, and have positive thoughts for the future, and try my best to focus everywhere but on the past.

Except when they get their just desserts.  Then, I'm going to revel in it, being grateful that I have survived to see it, thanking the courts and the process and the USofA for struggling and coming out the other side.  

I didn't say I was going to give up my snark or my anger or my disgust.  I'm saying that I'm going to enjoy it, entirely.  No one gets to stomp on my democracy without paying a price.  

2021 will bring a vaccine (eventually) and hugs and the last year of my 60's.  My roses will grow bigger and stronger and I vow to take better care of them.  After all, they bring me joy, and I should show my gratitude in tangible ways.

This is going to be a good year....  a year filled with radiant health and inner peace and the sense to enjoy it.

At least, that's the plan.

Happy New Year's Eve

I'm taking the weekend off.

I'm in no mood to review, project, or analyze.

The sun is out and so is the moon and it's 8:21am.

There's probably some pithy comment about beginnings and endings and everything all at once and Mother Earth bringing her children, moon and sun, together to cosset the beings who inhabit her surface, but I'm not in the mood to theorize or speculate or cogitate.

I'm going to revel in the fact that, despite the odds and inconveniences and foolishness of others, my immediate family is safe and happy and ready to take on 2021 with renewed vigor and enthusiasm.  We have goals and expectations.  

We'll consider them on Monday.  

Hot Pants

It's really hard to avoid commenting on the (can't come up with a family friendly word so) clusterfuck that is vaccine distribution in the USofA.  Do the Trumps have financial ties to Moderna? Heather Cox Richardson thinks so, and she's my go-to person for current events.  Were the states prepared for shouldering the entire burden of distribution? Will there ever be a place for honest COVID information that is readily available to the public (asking for a friend)?

But I'm not going there.  I have one more week of self-imposed exile from the political fray, and I'm trying to indulge without worrying that I'm missing the big picture.  Luckily, Big Cuter and TBG are addicted and affixed to their devices (tv and phone and computer) so nothing really gets lost.  If I need to know, they tell me.  I allow myself HCR's morning posts and then I move on.

Yesterday, I was pruning the gonphreda, which had long ago gone to seed.  The tall wavy stalks were shedding pink and white mess all over the yard; though the wind blew it away, the plant itself needed help.  So I took my pretty purple Xmas present gardening gloves out for their first foray, sighing over the sorry condition of my pruning shears.  The sharpener is at the Farmer's Market, and there are too many humans breathing the air there for me to feel comfortable getting to his back corner.  

Soon....... soon.......

But, I digress into sadness.... and I retreat just as quickly.

Back at the tall planter, gathering all the stems and cutting carefully above any new leaves that had sprouted, I began to snip.  I moved to my left, and bumped into a sleeping pig.

(Not a sentence many of you could type, right?!?)

LiLou is camouflaged when she reclines; her coloring matches the desert rocks and ground cover stones.  She certainly wasn't obvious to me, even though I was standing right next to her.  

My excuse for such ineptitude on my part?  I was looking at the bright blue sky and the brighter white clouds scudding across the horizon before I turned my gaze to the planter.  I missed the ground entirely.

But LiLou knew I was there, and she snuffled and snorted and moved away when I inadvertently nudged her hip.... quite ungraciously I might add.  

She's my Grand Pig, and I want her to love me, so I bought my way back into her affections with a treat - the stems of the plant that I'd just beheaded.

The wispy flowers were ignored in favor of the greener leaves and the crunchy stems.  She chewed and chewed and chewed as I moved the plants around so she could reach her favored treats. Her ruff went up straight - a sure sign of happiness - and then there were the hot pants.

Pants as in panting, not the short shorts you were imagining.  

It's a deep in the throat, guttural hoo hoo hoo that was terrifying until Queen T told me that, in pig language, those hot pants mean I LOVE YOU.

The way to a pig's heart is, obviously, through her stomach. 

The Real World Keeps Trying to Intrude

There are health scares all around me.  A Play Group kid is a COVID long hauler.  Fast Eddie is aching from head to fingers.  Dr. K and three other spouses are dealing with medical issues that just won't go away.  I can't even look at the number of Americans who have died under this President's inability to manage the most  basic duty - to preserve and protect.

But I'm bound and determined to stay focused on the sunny side of life until 2021 arrives, so I'm not waxing eloquent on sickness and loss today.  I'm pulling my brain away from DJT's temper tantrum and focusing on the good, like this view from my kitchen table,

 with happy fans yelping from the couch, and this

memory of cocktails on the patio.... with a Navajo healing blanket keeping them warm... and this

giant kiss from our hearts to yours.

It's a challenge, keeping a smile on my face when there is so much suffering.  It's worth the effort.  

And, when all else fails, take a moment and imagine my delight when LiLou devoured a latke..... the enormity of the absurdity turns frowns upside down.

The Dybbuk

There was a dybbuk in the house last week. Things were going missing, and there was no other explanation. We sat at the table discussing it over a rousing game of Uno.

Queen T:  I lost my glasses.... where have they gone?

Mom:  I lost my book.....where has it gone?

Dad:  I lost my youth..... 

(group devolves into hysterical laughter)

My 12th Merry Merry

                                             

I first published this in 2009.  33 people read it.  Thank you to everyone who was here then and is here now, to those of you who found me through Time Goes By, or after 2011, or from real life.... real real life from 7th grade or the neighborhood or blood ties, and to those of you who stumbled in and never left.  The Burrow is my gift to myself.  I love that you share it with me.... that is the best gift of all.

So, here, as always, courtesy of Daddooooo and Newsday's comics section and my own lusty if off-key memories, is.....

                     ...... my all-time favorite Xmas carol, courtesy of Walt Kelly and Pogo. Sing loudly and lustily to the tune of Deck the Halls.....

Deck us all with Boston Charlie, Walla Walla, Wash., an' Kalamazoo! Nora's freezin' on the trolley, Swaller dollar cauliflower alley-garoo!

Don't we know archaic barrel Lullaby Lilla Boy, Louisville Lou? Trolley Molly don't love Harold, Boola boola Pensacoola hullabaloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly, Polly wolly cracker 'n' too-da-loo! Donkey Bonny brays a carol, Antelope Cantaloupe, 'lope with you!

Hunky Dory's pop is lolly gaggin' on the wagon, Willy, folly go through! Chollie's collie barks at Barrow, Harum scarum five alarm bung-a-loo!

Dunk us all in bowls of barley, Hinky dinky dink an' polly voo! Chilly Filly's name is Chollie, Chollie Filly's jolly chilly view halloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly, Double-bubble, toyland trouble! Woof, woof, woof! Tizzy seas on melon collie! Dibble-dabble, scribble-scrabble! Goof, goof, goof

 (Picture is from Robert Sabuda's The Night Before Christmas Pop-Up Book)

There Are No Words

Just lots of love,

from my manger to yours.

 

Girlfriends and Children

In the Life Is Good column, we have this:

 Prepared by my son, presented on a beautiful, sturdy, seasonally appropriate paper plate, clean up and

dishes done by Queen T and TBG while I sat outside with my beautiful, sturdy, seasonally appropriate paper plate and talked for an hour to The Ballerina in Arkansas, catching up and dishing dirt and remembering Colin Powell and soccer and sisterhood.

Two takeaways:

1. This was a reason to have children.

2. You share a very special bond with the women you raise your children with. 

Outside My Morning Windows

I turn the blinds and get a glimpse; I slide them to one side and there it is, smiling, right outside my bedroom window. 

When the window's been open all night,  I can smell it before I see it. 

Outside the shower is a giant, square window.  Outside the window is this:

Yes, it is December 21st. Yes,  Jupiter and Saturn were visible as The Christmas Star just over the horizon.  And yes,  roses bloom in Tucson.

Feet

My holiday decor is old.

It has not always been stored in optimal conditions.

Pieces have deteriorated.

The airman's goggles have lost their elastic strap, and now sit perched upon his head.

My panda needed an arm glued back so that he could hug the branch.

But the most prevalent problem is feet.

One foot, two feet

reindeer feet,

they are at the bottom of every box I unwrap.

Why?  

Who knows.

It makes me smile so I'm sharing it with you.

And Why Not?

Dinner tonight,  the last night of Hanukkah,

because I have 5 pounds of potatoes and really,  why not?