A Picture's Worth 1000 Words

And so, that's what you get today.

Include Thank You and Stickers!!! and 50 cents a cap among those words.

Include the definition of a cap (yes, it's the top of a water bottle, too), curiosity about the probability of monkeys in trees, and ferocious giggling as feet are stamped and fists are shaken and 5 and 6 year olds take delight in Grandma hollering about that peddler's caps.

The world is going to hell in a hand basket.
I take and create my joy where I can.
I can't make Harvey's waters recede, but I can take care of shoe laces and trips to the nurse,
making my corner of the world a better place, one pair of sneakers at a time.

The Shoelace Fairy

It made sense, after a while, to sit on the ground.  Prince Elementary School is haunted by a demented Shoelace Fairy; it's the only reason that every third child has at least one shoestring dangling.

Tying shoes is a skill not mastered by many kindergarten kids.  The one who could create the knot and twist the bunny ears and pull it all tight did so with quiet concentration and a self-satisfied look as I narrated every step.  Her classmates were fascinated by her demonstration, and then they lined up in front of Grandma so that I could tie their shoes.

Sitting, we were nearly at eye level.  Their shoes were pink and camouflage and shiny and lit up and those who had velcro closures stood in line anyway, just to show me their shoes.  Admiration finished, we moved on to the speedy and abridged version of Caps For Sale, the book I was toting.  Giggling, they ran away, making way for a bigger boy to ask me to start from the beginning.  I did, reading every word until he shook his head, emphatically requesting that I do it like before, FAST!
So, I did.

I read it correctly for Story Time in the third of the five kindergarten classrooms I'll visit. The children sat on the rug, I sat in the teacher's chair, and the teacher sat among the kids.  The story became a participatory experience, with all my little monkeys on the carpet mimicked the monkeys the book, shaking their fists and stamping their feet and tsk tsk tsking away.

They lined up to receive their stickers - one for the student and one for the teacher.  By the end of the line, Ms Boyd's flowing tunic top was covered in tiny round penguin stickers, each one applied by a tiny hand.  There were many thank you's and I love you's and too many smiles to count.

This is the best elixir, denizens.

Nicole/Nicolle Wallace - A Snippet

There are recurring characters on Law'n Order who tickle our fancy.  Larry Miller's Dobson is one of them; we take fiendish delight in watching his sleazy, nightclub owning,serial wife killing snark.  He's so awful, he's wonderful.

The other one is Nicole Wallace.  Brilliant, blonde, quick on the uptake and not shy about making her opinion known, this tv character is also a serial killer, with those who love her becoming, more often than not, her targets.

The problem is that MSNBC hired Bush 43's one-time Communications Director to host an afternoon talk show, and her name is Nicolle Wallace.  She's brilliant, blonde, quick on the uptake and not shy about making her opinion known.

I don't know why, but it bothers me.

See what I mean?

Lawrence of Arabia, 55 Years Later

I had to ask TBG to check my math.  I'd already subtracted in my head and counted decades on my fingers.  I'm still stunned.  Apparently, Peter O'Toole first smoldered his eyes into mine 55 years ago.  I don't know where the time's gone.

I remember being struck then as I was today by how white Omar Sharif's teeth are, by how blue Peter O'Toole's eyes are, by how vast and isolated and insulated it was.  Then and now I loved the costumes and the scenery and the grandeur of it all.

Today,  I was struck by how naive they all were.  When I was 10, I missed the nuance of the cultural divide.

The Loft has new seats in its new 70mm equipped theater and every one of them held a patron.  It was an old-time movie going experience; I was there and I was here all at the same time.  I laughed at G'ma in my head, whispering about bottles of ketchup spilled as scimitars and knives hacked at body parts on the screen and I winced into her shoulder.  Scarlett and I, nestled into our comfy padded chairs on perfectly spaced risers, before and aft, sighed together and laughed together and gasped together and were equally glad to see Intermission role around.

Let's be clear, denizens, this movie begins with 10 minutes of music (the London Philharmonic performing Maurice Jarre's Oscar winning score) which commands your attention before the curtain goes up and the story begins, and goes on and on and on and on for 3 hours and 48 minutes of dazzling photography (it really did need Super Panavision and70mm) and manly men acting in manly ways with manly weapons on a soft and unforgiving desert.

Behind all that was Peter O'Toole, wondering along with Lawrence, who he was.  Frightened and exhausted, exalted and exultant, he was confused and he knew it and that, in itself, was fascinating to watch.  I was wondering along with him.

There was more, like  Jose Ferrer's Turkish officer, who was menacing in a sexually disturbing way I hadn't noticed when I was 10.  The quicksand was almost-but-not-quite-as horrifying, although I worried about it enough  to make it almost be true. Riding a camel full speed still seems like a terribly uncomfortable but eminently practical way to cross an uncrossable desert.  And, as I knew then and know now, colonialism (do we call it nation building now?) stinks.

The movie is wonderful.  The story is sad but (almost) true. It's worth investing nearly 4 hours to see it on the big screen.... once every 55 years or so.

Belle

I crocheted a blanket for FlapJilly.  Her mommy bought the pattern, which I'd seen but rejected because I'm cheap.  I bought the yarn at Michael's and, with all my coupons and their sale pricing, I spent less on the supplies than I did on lunch that day.

I made it five times; the instructions were more than a little unclear.  *I started, examined the results, pulled the work apart and started again* repeating the pattern between the *'s over and over and over again.  The mistakes only became clear as the garment grew.

It's worked with two strands of yarn at a time, which made unraveling it unnerving.  Tangles make me nutty, untangling reminds me of Tom Sawyer in drag, yet over and over I toiled, getting it right... or right enough.

And right enough it was.  Little Cuter had opened the packaging so extricating my gift was simple.  Folded in half, looking down at the roses, FlapJilly told her mother than It's a Belle one! as her father helped her put her arms through the holes.  It's open in the back, because it's a blanket, designed for snuggling, but for my favorite 3 year old it was the entree into Beauty and the Beast's world, complete with Dancing with the Daddy, not in his arms, but with Belle leading, holding her skirts, flouncing and twirling and doing just what she does in the movie.

I had the warmest cockles, denizens, the warmest cockles ever.

Because

Because you had that red convertible.

Because you took me on the best first date ever.

Because your mother talked to me about grandchildren when I first visited you at home, while your brother was fascinated by the thin braids I'd woven, framing my face while the rest of my hair hung to my waist.  Because it felt as if I'd been coming to your house forever.

Because you explained the games you watched,  rather than excluding me due to my ignorance

Because we lived near and then far, apart and then together and then apart again, and I was always glad to see you.

Because you take the right things seriously.

Because I know you will never, knowingly, put me at risk.

Because ordering pizza is fine, even though a home cooked meal warms the cockles of your heart.

Because you think that your old polo shirts look adorable when I wear them around the house.

Because of that and because of this and because I can't imagine it any other way... Happy Anniversary, TBG.

Here's to 42 more years, because why not?

Phoenix and A Memory

I was 18 when I joined the Mobilization Against the War in the March on Washington, D.C.  Four of us drove from Ithaca to the home of a professor friend of a friend who welcomed a dozen or more of us, strangers in need of a free bed, into his huge home.  We sat in his backyard, under the stars, and tried to articulate our need to be there.

Because it was a need.  Our friends were being drafted when their grades fell.  We played cards with a friend who ate next to nothing, avoiding a 1-A classification by being too thin.  Bombs were being dropped on innocents and Communists alike, awful bombs raining napalm and Agent Orange on a country that wasn't threatening us for any reason other than we were there, threatening them.

There were some principled legislators, elected officials who made a difference.  I was in the audience when Sen. Frank Church spoke out about the war, making a case I could understand and repeat to Daddooooo, who took the other side.  Allard Lowenstein, who spoke truth to power, gave me a front row seat to his reelection campaign.

I listened.  I learned.  I grew.  I saw the impact one person could have. I had to be in Washington that April evening.  I had to be heard.

And now, the President is bringing the fight to my neighborhood.  I'm not 18 any more.  I've been perforated.  Advice on treating pepper spray is less comforting than horrifying.  That's why I'm sitting on my couch right now, passing up an opportunity to peacefully, publicly, protest that which is reprehensible...... although the opportunity to punch a Nazi in the nose was almost enough to put me in a car, with some friends, to walk and chant and then sleep on a friend's extra bed before heading home in the morning.

I'm there in spirit.

We do what we can do.

Random Thoughts on the Eclipse

I chased around Tucson on Sunday afternoon, looking for the appropriate eye wear, dogged, once again by procrastination.  You'd think I'd learn.  You'd be wrong.

I bought my National Parks Old Person's Lifetime Pass this week, just a few days before the price goes from $10 to $80.  I've known that the price would increase since I qualified at age 62.... three years ago.

Really, you'd think I'd learn.
*****
After a phone call revealed that the cupboards in the library were bare of the free viewing glasses (again, advertised for weeks), I was directed by Sarah, my local librarian, to Lunt Solar Systems.

2500 and something Coyote Something, off Grant, west of the I-10... her directions were more precise than my memory proved.  It became obvious that I was not the only one searching (for what turned out to be 2520 N Coyote Drive, Suite 111) when I joined the stopping-and-starting parade of vehicles wending our way through the (very empty) light industrial park that looks like every other light industrial park in America, on a random Sunday afternoon, when nothing but the place with the $4 each viewing glasses is open.
*****
They have special hours this Sunday, Sarah told me.  They were very special, indeed.

It was a cash only salesroom, with two lovely people behind the counter, taking dollars and marking the sales in a notebook, with a pen, cross-hatching every fifth one handed out.  Nothing electronic, including the glasses themselves.  Cardboard and special filtered papery protective lenses and a cool design on one side, all the information one needed on the other.

Yes, he said, you can look directly at the sun with these glasses.  He said it.  He didn't growl or roll his eyes or have any snark at all. His co-worker was handling similar questions with equal equanimity.  It was a very Tucson experience, very special hours indeed.
*****
I walked outside a little after 9:30 this morning, after proving to myself that the last piece of wisdom from Lunt Solar was true - I could see absolutely nothing unless I was looking directly at the sun.  That is to say, I put them on in the hallway and stumbled into the wall before removing them carefully if forcefully.
*****
I looked at the sun.  It was amazing.

Then, I drove to Amphi Middle School, careful, once again to protect my eyes, changing the sun visors at every corner.
*****
In the lobby, after another long look, two students who've never known their campus without me approached, silently, smiling, proprietarily.  We hugged.  They are big girls now, but we walked around their playground when they were very, very little, and we all remember that time.

We wondered what they made of eclipses before there was science.  I smiled, thought of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, and, before I got too far into how predicting an eclipse saved a man's life, I thought to make sure that they'd heard of Mark Twain.

They hadn't.

Channeling Tom Hanks, I wondered aloud what they weren't teaching kids these days.  On the drive home I decided to read Huck Finn aloud to anyone who wanted to listen during lunchtime.
*****
Did I mention that I paid close attention to the warnings?  Did I mention that I checked the certification numbers on my viewing glasses?  Did I tell you that I asked, even though I knew, if I could look at the sun?  Did I tell you how worried I was about burning my retinas and losing sight in the middle of my visual field?

Did I mention that these warnings were everywhere?  That it was impossible to pick up a newspaper, listen to a radio, and, most important to this final rant, I couldn't find a channel on television that wasn't telling me this, in bold, in italics, sternly, definitively, absolutely DO NOT LOOK AT THE SUN.

With his aides shouting that which we'd all heard everywhere all day across all media, there was this:

Res ipso loquitor.

(The thing speaks for itself.)

Minor Annoyances

There was a dead baby bat floating in the pool this morning.  

It's not unusual for us to find fallen beasties there; birds capture prey and are often unable to transport them back to their nests.  We find tiny mice and ground squirrels, not often, but more than rarely. That's why I'm filing them under Minor Annoyances.

I had my shoes on, so I could walk across the gravel and retrieve the pool skimmer.  There was another Minor Annoyance. I secured the skimmer behind the equipment wall before we went to the Midwest last month.  I usually go barefoot on my fabulous deck surface; it's never too hot or too cold or too slippery or to scratchy.... it's just right. But bare feet do not mix well with natural desert surfaces, and there was a lot of natural desert surface between the deck and the skimmer.  The pool sat, unskimmed, swimmable but somewhat leafy, until this morning, when I removed one Minor Annoyance from the list.

*****

I sat at my desk to type this, and my eyes fell on another Minor Annoyance.  The Assistant Principal sent me a spreadsheet.  I printed it out and deleted the email.  Now, I want to add to the information I already have, but the electronic version is gone.  I could ask for another (embarrassing) or I could retype the whole damn thing.  I could prevail upon Big Cuter to do this for me, but he's done it for me twice before and (embarrassing) I can't find either of them.  Idiot Work, Daddooooo called it, and Idiot Work it will be this afternoon when I retype that which annoys me.

Minor problems, but there, nonetheless.

*****

I have six beautiful mailing boxes to my right, on my desk.  They are pristine, elegant in their simplicity, and totally useless to me.  Yet, I cannot bring myself to throw them away.  Like MOTG, I am a hoarder of containers which may, someday, be useful.  I know that I will want them the moment I deconstruct them and recycle them, which is why they have sat on the desk for a month.  

I can feel Little Cuter rolling her eyes right now, wondering how I can work in such a cluttered environment, perplexed as to why I don't just get rid of them and the nagging they cause at the back of my brain.  I can't explain it.  It's a Minor Annoyance.

*****

And why am I concentrating on such nonsense?  Perhaps because someone I love posted something I hate on Facebook and I don't know what to do about it.  Ignore?  Educate?  Writhe in angst?  

Honestly, denizens, focusing on the Minor Annoyances is all that's keeping me sane right now.

Curated Random Thoughts on Recent Events

This morning, I thanked Little Cuter for sharing her family with us last night and before I could finish she sighed and said she understood, that she walked into her house and took a deep cleansing breath,, leaving Recent Events outside.

It was easier for me to do that when FlapJilly and SIR and my daughter were there to distract me.
*****

Valerie Plame Wilson, one of my heroes,  posted this on Facebook, citing @CelesteHeadlee:

Want to make sure you all saw this photo.

It's the line of people in Durham waiting to turn themselves in for toppling the Confed statue.

Only 9 of them were answering warrants, the rest were channeling Bible stories... you know... I am Spartacus! ... I am Spartacus!.... I am Spartacus.

*****

Neither Robert E. Lee then nor Robert E. Lee V now, neither the great-great-something grandsons of Stonewall Jackson nor the direct descendants of Jefferson Davis think the statues of their relatives should remain standing in public spaces.  A museum is where these anachronistic pieces should reside; they don't represent us or our parents, said the Jackson kid on CNN.

I think family should trump anybody else when it comes to a physical representative of a relative. Drape them with weatherproof cloth tonight, and make plans to move them tomorrow.  The kids are against them, and their views are dispositive.

*****

Can the Republican Party expel the President?   I bet Sen. Bob Corker wishes it were so. 

USA TODAY's headline says it all: Republican Sen. Bob Corker: Trump has not shown 'competence' needed to lead.  TBG says that's not an impeachable offense; it's neither a high crime nor a misdemeanor.  There's the 25th Amendment, but President Pence makes me nauseous as I look at those pixels.  I'm heartened by the separate and equally disgusted individual statements made by each of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; they understand the character of this nation, using Sen. Corker's words.

*****

The Jewish Daily Forward was a staple of my Bubba and Zada's kitchen table.  They were Wobblies, Socialists, refugees, new Americans with ideals who marched and had opinions; this was their  newspaper. It was a big deal when it began to be published in English, leaving the original Yiddish behind.  

In the 21st Century, its great-great-something offspring,  Forward.com, is an interesting place to visit.  Today, Yael Reisman restored my faith in humanity.  She describes the response of the organizers of the March for Racial Justice, who did not realize that September 30 was Yom Kippur when we were factoring in these and other considerations and applying for permits.

They went on to demonstrate how to write a real apology:

Choosing this date, we now know, was a grave and hurtful oversight on our part. It was unintentional and we are sorry for this pain as well as for the time it has taken for us to respond. Our mistake highlights the need for our communities to form stronger relationships.

We made a mistake.  We didn't think.  It's on us. We should have apologized sooner.  Let's work together so this doesn't happen again.  

As she titles her post, The March For Racial Justice Just Welcomed Jews Back Into The Left.  My grandparents are smiling down on us right now.

*****

I'm smiling about James Murdoch's email to his friends

I can't even believe I have to write this: standing up to Nazis is essential; there are no good Nazis. Or Klansmen or terrorists.  

I'm giggling as I watch snippets of this week's SNL Weekend Update.  In true Second City fashion, former cast members are reappearing.  You must stream it.

I have to stop watching and typing and obsessing because I'm losing my giggle.  Anyway, I have my own personal commentator right here on Douglas the Couch.  Hours before Michael Beschloss referenced it on CNN, TBG was talking about Seven Days in May.

Feeling smug. We're done.

Today's Terrifying Thoughts

The day started with the best business people dropping out of Councils that had been disbanded because who wants to host a party that no one will attend?

I watched Nicole Wallace, Communications Director for George Bush and McCain/Palin, wonder who resigns over this?

I found out that there is a uniform for white supremacists: a white polo shirt, tan khaki pants, and a red ball cap, aping Donald Trump's leisure wear.  I found out that the Nazis and the Klan (and the other groups whose names and websites I don't want to know about or promote) are recruiting on college campuses, looking for clean cut youngsters who are willing to climb into the clown car.

I began to compose this ad:

WANTED

Very Nice People

who participated in the Unite The Right rally in C'ville.  

You know, the one whose poster featured all those white nationalists, Klansmen, Nazis.

(Added bonus if you can articulate a nice reason for associating with assholes.)

My President tells me that you exist.

Please bring your unicorn to confirm your identity.

I began editing aloud.  I watched TBG laugh, then pause, then frown, before begging me to avoid attending any counter-demonstrations in the near future, That tipped the scales; now we were both terrified. 

ENOUGH!  

I turned off my brain and delivered a nice long dose of this

jpetersenphotography.com

and this

https://www.facebook.com/JPetersenphotography/

via FaceTime.

It was a much better place to be.

It's Nazis, For Crying Out Loud

I thought there was one thing everyone could agree upon - Nazis have no place in the USofA.

It seemed like a gimme, a simple thing, say Nazis are Bad and move on.

Instead, our President invented an entire movement and accused them of attacking those peacefully protesting white guys who really really cared about a statute of Robert E. Lee.

I'm waiting for the Republican Party to disassociate itself from this man.  I'm wondering what the Kushners' rabbi has to say about all this.  I wonder how my Breitbart reading friend can justify the false moral equivalencies his President draws.

But mostly, I was really confused about the whole alt-left thing, never having been asked to join and wondering who amongst us had the secret password to this hitherto unknown cohort.  All became clear when Big Cuter shared this tweet from @Scott_Gilmore

Alt-left, violently coming at the alt-right, circa 1944.

'Nuf said.

A Sorbet

I've spent two days thinking about Nazis.

It's an ugly place to be.  I don't do ugly any more.  I take care of my little piece of the world, and I try not to dwell on the terrifying, the horrifying, the grotesque.  They'll be there whether I obsess about them or not.

So, this morning, I snuggled into a comfy chair with my fully charged Kindle, and picked up Killing Grounds, number 8 of the 22 Kate Shugak novels I downloaded as a present for myself a few Christmases ago.  There's a 23rd one out now, after a long hiatus, and in its honor I'm rereading them all, from the beginning.

Alaska is as much a character in the series as are The Handsome State Trooper and the half husky half wolf house-companion and the salmon and the mountains. They are much better company than the talking heads.  They are, by magnitudes unfathomable, better company than Donald Trump.