The Burrow

It's my fault. I've been complaining that the news has to focus on Trump tweets because nothing new is happening. Then a policeman knelt on George Floyd's neck. This is not what I had in mind.  I was prepared to read about Disney opening theme parks. I wasn't prepared for policemen calmly watching as their colleague cut off a suspect's air supply.  I thought I was anxious before, as masks began to deepen the separation between us.  But this.... this....

It was too hot to enjoy my walk from the mailbox.  The sun is at that screeching into your eyes like the high pitched whine of a cranky toddler point .  The heat is bouncing off the pavement and scorching my shins.  I bet you don't think much about your shins in the sunshine, do you?  The yellow season is over.  The sweet acacia and the mesquite and then the palo verde have each shed their blossoms, in their own time, on their own schedule, unaware that their presence creates a pandemic situation for the pool filters, which bit the dust because their services were overwhelmed with the task presented.  Skimming the pool is the equivalent of social distancing and wearing a mask.  The system was overwhelmed when steps were not taken; management of the spread protected the patient.  That is a good thing, since the temperatures are predicted to be over 100 for the next few days, precluding any other outdoor activity after 9 o'clock in the morning...

I finished Dana Stabenow's Kate Shugak series and her Liam Campbell series and after 26 books in a row I was left bereft.  I tried to fill the gap with mah jongg on-line, and the mental nimbleness required kept me distracted and stimulated.  But there are so many hours in a day when you're sheltering in place, so many, many hours.  And Scarlet has a life to lead and isn't always available to amuse me.  A  book is a friend you can count on, there when you need it, as long as the devices are powered up. It's not that I needed to rely on the Kindle app, and Amazon Prime's monthly free downloads, and the vast collections available to me on-line from all sorts of libraries all over America.  I have a library filled with the best of what we've collected over our lifetimes - actual, physical, bound books. But I've been staring at those shelves since March.  I've been doing Pilates in that room since March, often distracted by the titles.  But non...

Big Cuter and I have finished the Coursera Covid-19 Contact Tracing  on-line training.  We earned our certificates. The course consisted of modules covering transmission and incubation and isolation, giving us the tools to determine how long someone has been/will be infectious, how long someone should quarantine/isolate, and how to gather the information while respecting privacy/confidentiality.   There was some jargon (the difference between a sign and a symptom) but mostly there were facts.  Big Cuter's suggestion to speed up the teacher's voice made it less time consuming, and, after a while, I fast forwarded so that I could read the verbiage and move on the practice test.   I learned a lot.  I passed the test with a score of 94% (the arcane distinction between rephrasing and reflecting caught me).  I filled out the form to register for my certificate. And then I read this: By checking this box, I acknowledge that I provided my l...

The first iteration of this post appeared 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. 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 behi...

Written in 2012, updated as time has passed There's a lot to love about my little girl.  Just ask her husband; he'll be glad to share.  So will her in-laws..... and her brother.... and her co-workers....and I. Watch her childrens' faces when she enters the room and you'll see what I mean. In first grade she came home flummoxed and out of sorts.  The girls in her class had made up a list to take the guess work out of who would get to sit next to Little Cuter at lunch.  Another child might have been flattered; my girl was annoyed.  Why?  What made them think that she was special? She hadn't done anything to merit such attention. And anyway, didn't she have a say in the matter? I smiled, remembering TBG's oft repeated advice on how to be cool -  just act as if you don't care.  Her trick was that she really didn't care.  She didn't keep score.  She was friends with everyone. Nothing had changed by middle school.   "Mom, why ...

It's usually a 1 hour assembly, with group singing and dancing. This afternoon, it was a 1 hour car parade, with signs and balloons and horns and tutus.  Not all the families had cars, so parts of the parade were on foot.  The joy was palpable.  It was bittersweet to see the teachers and staff from a distance. The kids were either delighted or perturbed. It was a valiant attempt to end the year on a happy note. I left when Lilly ran up and hugged her teacher who was standing a respectful more-than-6'-distance from me on my decorated stool. I have promised my children to be extra vigilant. I took my masked self back to my car, across the parking lot, and blew my paper horn in tribute to those who are being lauded by every other commercial, meme, and post - teachers. I hope they stay safe.