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Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Tie-dyed fabric

   Sometimes leaders are placed in positions for which they are ill-prepared. Depending on how situations are handled on the global stage, tensions can escalate and the results can be not only frightening but costly in terms of human lives and resources. All humans are to be treasured, not only for individual talents but simply because they are.
*****
  27 August, 2018                                                                                                           

   White supremacist groups and their proponents have begun to complain about United States' "changing demographic." They are disgruntled because white people are becoming outnumbered by persons of color. Their core belief seems to be that whites should "dominate." Others of us maintain that American ideals are not about color, but decency toward all.
   Racists would have the populace believe that "foreigners" are destroying the fabric of American life. Is it not much more likely that these layers enrich United States? "Assimilation" should not mean having to deny one's heritage; just incorporate it into belonging.
   Have you ever been dining in public, especially at an establishment offering cuisine from a nationality different than your own? At such times, one might hear a language, other than what one speaks. There is no need to mumble that local vernacular should be spoken: it is simply quicker and easier to convey a direction in one's native language. The disgruntled murmurers should just enjoy the dining experience offered and not get their [individual and/or collective] panties in a wad. Of course, this doesn't just happen in restaurants but whenever or wherever it occurs, one need not get one's knickers in a twist. Here's an idea: if you have a burning desire to know what someone is talking about, learn a different language. It will expand horizons. Might also come in handy when doing crossword puzzles.
   One of my favorite memes on this topic is a picture of crayons in several shades: all are labeled "flesh." I remember "flesh-toned" band-aids too ... and thinking, "But everyone isn't pinkish-tan." Trust me: contrary to opinion of white-supremacists, there is nothing inherently superior about having pale skin. In regions that get a great deal of sun, it might even prove detrimental.
   Human bodies are beautiful and should be celebrated: not only in all their myriad forms, but whatever beautiful color. It is the soul - that indefinable essence, which matters. Seek serenity, find wholeness and joy, release the hurts and injustices that have been done you, so you can live a healthy and satisfying life. Those in your community need not look like you, any more than you need look like them. Embrace your own beauty, as well as recognizing that others are beautiful too: just maybe in different ways. Diversity keeps life interesting and should be embraced, not feared.
Blessed be - And wrap yourself in flamboyantly tie-dyed fabric.

Wednesday, August 21, 2019

Goodbye (but I'm not ready)

   Though I first put this story online four years ago, it may have been resurrected from my college creative writing course. It seemed time to share it again.
*****
6 August 2015  
Though telling a Twentieth Century story, some of these events and situations seem anachronistic. When my child was in elementary school, he asked questions like did my family have a car when I was little, because Teacher had said people did not have cars "in olden days." That's what happens when you tally up four or five (or more) decades: your early years become "olden days."
_____

   It was Tuesday night, third week of spring term. It had been a beautiful day, warm and sunny; after class, boys in Wing Two had played a quick game of touch football. At nine o'clock, everybody was studying, when the phone rang: long-distance call for Jimmy Christianson. He came out of his room and went over to the telephone. Putting receiver to his ear, he heard his mother's voice, "Hi, Jimmy." She sounded tired,  old, far away. The boy made no response. "Son, your grandfather is dying; he wants to see you. How soon can you get home?"
   But Jimmy hadn't heard her last question because his mind was spinning. Grandpa? How could Grandpa be dying? He was too old to die - he'd outlast the mountains! Besides, I just got a letter from him today, saying he felt great and was looking forward to our next fishing trip: Houghton, end of term ...
*
   Memories flooded Jimmy's mind. When Jimmy was four, Grandpa had made him a bow, using green willow wood, whittling slender branches for arrows. Then Grandpa had showed the boy how to aim, using a bale of straw for target practice. There was that hot July day when Mom was cleaning the back porch and Grandpa had salvaged some canvas. Using a leather punch, he'd made holes along three sides, sewed it together with a strip of tough cowhide. After supper that night, Grandpa had presented Jimmy a quiver. The boy believed it must have been just like Indians used to make, being hand-sewn.
   There was a strong bond between the two generations, evident even to casual observers. Jimmy and Grandpa had grand escapades - Mom would be overheard telling Dad she didn't know which of the two was worse - which amused and sometimes exasperated members of the middle generation. Mostly though, they were wise enough to see this time as a vital part of life.
*
  Joshua James Chrisianson had found numerous occasions to take his grandson fishing. Ten years ago, they'd gone to Carp River, where Jimmie had caught his first "keeper," a fourteen-inch rainbow trout. Proud lad and prize catch were captured on film, by equally proud grandsire. Asked if he wanted to have it mounted, or filleted for supper, logic told the boy hunger would not be satisfied by looking at a fish stuck on a hunk of wood. Besides, there were pictures.
   So Old Josh, as neighbors called Grandpa, took a filet knife from his tackle box and taught Jimmy how to gut, gill, and filet his catch. For a nine-year-old, the boy did pretty well. Mom and Dad were proud when the saw the snapshots and there was no need for stories about "the one that got away."
   At thirteen, Jimmy received his first gun. His birthday was in May and most of that summer was spent shooting at tin cans. Jimmy, Dad and Grandpa also went to the rifle range at least three times a month. By November, Jimmy was ready for deer season and got his first hunting license. Old Josh, his buddy Jake Watson, and young Jimmy, went to Iron Mountain for a weekend of hunting, "roughing it" in a hunting cabin. Only Jake got his buck, but the thrill and excitement stayed with the adolescent.
   Through the years, Grandpa was always there when Jimmy needed someone to talk to, help him out, or advise him. There was Summer 1973: Jimmy was a second-stringer on high school baseball team and Grandpa worked Grandpa worked with the boy every spare minute. Sore muscles paid off when Jimmy made first string and was recognized as Most Improved Player. He got his varsity letter that year. As a sophomore, Jimmy wanted to play football, and Grandpa talked his daughter-in-law into letting Jimmy try out for the team. He proved to be an excellent athlete. Old Josh loved sports, and also pushed his grandson academically, feeling a strong body didn't amount to much, without an equally strong mind. When Jimmy graduated in 1976, he was co-valedictorian and Most Valuable Player, both accomplishments testified to Joshua James Christianson's dedicated tutelage.
   To celebrate, Jimmy and Grandpa had spent three weeks in Washington State. Both enjoyed themselves immensely; Jimmy with youthful exuberance, Grandpa recollecting his own boyhood. Tall green trees, unbelievably blue skies, and clear streams brimming with fish. One rainy day, the two contented themselves just marveling at their surroundings. They smiled at a ladybug, making its way from tip of leaf to stem, set back, upon encountering a big drop of rain, going in opposite direction. They spent their last day canoeing down rapids, their small craft seeming almost insignificant on the vast waterway. Upon return to dry land, they had changed clothes and prepared a sustaining meal of bacon, potatoes and onions, and campfire coffee. One last night *away from the world,* under glittering stars, with sounds of crickets and bullfrogs. Tomorrow, they'd head home.
   It was a three-day drive back to Ohio. Sun, woods and river held a charm the two were reluctant to leave, but Jimmy needed to get back and prepare for further adventures in the world of academe. He planned to go to a community college, just to round out basics, then attend a trade school. Jimmy already anticipated a term break, when he could go hunting or fishing with Grandpa.
***
   Now, however, Grandpa would be going off alone, leaving Jimmy behind. Jimmy had enjoyed his time with Grandpa, made the most of every opportunity; in that, there were no regrets.
 *
   "Tomorrow, Mom: I'll go see the Dean after my test ... I'll catch a bus. Leave the light on. Okay?" Jimmy returned the receiver to its cradle without a word, went to his room and closed the door. Sleep brought dreams of Grandpa. The tears would come later.

Sunday, August 11, 2019

A whisper in the Universe

11 August, 2019
This is a story originally published in 2013 as "Across the miles of time and space:" it is something I wanted to resurrect from the archives and put forth anew.  jbd
*****

   In still darkness of a cold winter morning, somewhere on the North American continent, a person lay awake in the predawn hours, pondering Fate. While huddling beneath a layer of blankets, so thick it impeded movement, a prayer formed, and simple heartfelt words went forth from a sleepy mind, into the vastness of the Universe. "May the warmth of my spirit, joined with the fire of kindred souls, surround someone deeply in need, so chill may not end that life, but it might continue and the world may be a better place."
***
My beloved friend,
   It has been too long since we held each other close and I feel I have neglected you in not writing sooner. My reports to the Committee will not be nearly as extensive as that esteemed body may have wished: I find myself more or less confined to one continent on this planet. Not physically, mind you, but financially. Though not impoverished, neither is it possible to flit hither and yon on my current budget. Although I have not been able to access other continents, it is well that I have made my "home" on one to which a wide variety of individuals come. Regarding the physical aspect, I am going to try one of the less conventional routes: it is certainly worth a try.
   Have I ever told you about the Lady in the Harbor? An inspiring work of art and a thing of beauty, she proclaims: "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" (Sonnet titled The New Colossus, by Emma Lazarus, 1849-1887)
   Sadly, some have found the doors locked against them, the borders patrolled by snipers. Certainly border patrols should check for weapons, dangerous drugs and whatever else may threaten the safety of the populace. People are often "profiled" for the color of their skin or their lack of language skills. I think borders should be matters of geography only, not politics. But you know me, a pacifist who never met a stranger.
   Being where I am, I encounter a vast number of individuals from different cultures and countries. Detailed reports on those cultures apparently satisfy the Council of Elders, as I have been neither recalled nor chastised.
   You may be amused to know there are others like myself dwelling on this "third rock from the Sun." Sometimes I don't even have to go looking for them: they come to me. One individual who has come to my attention is Pharr-nah'um, though he now employs an appellation designed to help him blend in. Here on Earth, he has adopted "Frank," the name of his host body's original, or at least immediately previous, occupant. Only recently has Pharr come to the conclusion he has a Latino "heritage," so I may have to start calling him "Paco." It amuses me in a tender sort of way when he says, "I'm Mexican now." I told him simply, but matter-of-factly, we had an outpost *there* too. His eyes got big as he asked, "You've been there?" My sole response was an enigmatic smile. It's best not to tell everything one knows. So many times while in Texas, which is itself another world, someone would say, "You don't have to tell everything you know." I listened and took the advice to heart. Recently, I have learned the term "star children" is employed to describe/explain us. Perhaps, in time, we will be fully accepted into the populace and not have to disguise our origins.
   Frank came to Earth approximately a quarter-century ago. I should specify that is not one of our centuries, but Earth years: 365 days per year, 24 hours per day. Ever fourth year is Leap Year and they add an extra day, but you get the idea.
   He came from a little known region in the Outback of the Milky Way galaxy. We met during a holiday season, in a communal gathering place. With him were "his" wife and two of their grandchildren. He proved very companionable and occasionally, we would take a stroll and chat. Thus we learned we both had ties to Far North Country.
   After several months, he divulged his origins. I was astonished, but never doubtful. It is my belief he did so because he sensed not only a sympathetic soul, but a kindred spirit. When one has been a long time in a foreign land, among strange people, one seeks someone in whom to confide, with whom one can be oneself. Then again, it is entirely possible Pharr has been here so long he has simply lost his edge and his sense of discretion.
   I have yet to determine what brought "Frank" to Earth, and perhaps I will never fully ascertain the reason. It may be of no consequence to my ultimate purpose.  Maybe Pharr-nah'um was just passing by when the host body became available and he decided to drop in. Another possibility: he may be a fugitive from his home planet, which I won't divulge even to you, dear friend, in case he is a secret agent and would be in severe jeopardy if his cover were blown. Far be it from me to consciously compromise another person's mission, another being's life. Perhaps he ran away from home and simply could not find his way back.
   It is possible Frank is an exile or political refugee. What is important to me is his companionship. It is also a relief to have someone with whom one can "let down one's hair" as an idiomatic expression phrases it.
   As he divulges his secret to more and more people, I cannot help fearing for his safety. Insofar as it depends on me, I will protect him from ridicule. He's quite a scrapper and probably doesn't require any assistance or validation from me, but my presence will be available if and/or when, needed. I stand by my friends, sometimes to my detriment. A schoolmate once remarked on my propensity for collecting "broken" people. Truly, there is a tender spot in my heart for those whom the world has thrown away or deemed somewhat less than "worthy." Someone has to champion society's underdogs and since dogs have always appealed to me, it seems my destiny.
   Not so very long ago, Pharr and I went for a twilight stroll with two of the quadrupeds in his care. Overhead, lights were visible, signaling the presence of some flying craft. "How do you know that's not a spaceship?" he queried.
   Well, of course, I could not be absolutely certain but postulated if it were, those guiding the craft would be wise to keep on going. Some Earthlings are so smug and self-righteous and there have been a number of films which have portrayed these less-than-admirable traits. There are those who would murder and dissect other sentient beings in the name of their *God-given right* to know. It makes me so sad.
   It dismays and disgusts me that some people continue to treat other creatures, particularly other humans - but also non-humans, as if they own them! What do you suppose it will take to convince them the best relationships are partnerships?
   True, there are work animals - actually, we are all, in effect, "work animals," but workers are most productive if treated well and not exploited. I suppose we must live within the bounds of society, which decrees our "pecking order" to a certain extent, but there is never a justifiable reason for cruelty or exploitation.

***
   I find the efforts to communicate between peoples and species remarkable at times and woefully inadequate at others. There are numerable sources which do translations - which vary in quality and accuracy. There are also those individuals who care nothing about trying to understand any language but the one to which they were born, their mama-loshen or, mother tongue. There are even individuals who regularly communicate with non-humans. Unfortunately, the practice does not enjoy a great deal of credence yet. Many of us continue in our hope for future enlightenment.
   Language, spoken and written, is a fascinating device, is it not? The hominid bipeds dwelling here are born with the ability to produce all the phonemes of every [human] language, but lose many of those that remain unused, which causes different accents and is part of the reason older people find it difficult to learn a different language or speak it naturally. Languages engage the senses as well as the intellect. There are the sounds one hears as well as those one makes. The eyes are used to read, obviously, but some of the Eastern languages also delight the eyes with their fanciful curlicues and delicate brush strokes. The different tones employed by various tongues provide a rich symphony to accompany day-to-day life. The tone-deaf or xenophobic might use the term "cacophony," in the most derisive way possible, as it seems their habit to dismiss anything unfamiliar in disparaging terms. They relegate whole cultures to insignificance and irrelevance.
   Do you not find such creatures pitiable? They deny themselves much richness, at the same time thwarting the alien who may wish to share something of him/herself. Here is a planet with such rich diversity in languages, species and ideology - a veritable feast - and some would have us subsist on soda crackers and water, proverbially speaking.
   Mind you, some would consider themselves blessed indeed to have such meager fare available. It is truly unacceptable that any should go hungry amidst such plenty. Should one choose to fast or deny oneself in order to ritually purify the body or seek spiritual enlightenment, that is a matter of choice. But to insist that everyone starve because you have chosen to do without, is wrong. Yet there are fanatics who would deny not only themselves, but everyone. It is beyond my ken. In a world abounding in sensory delights, those who hunger and thirst, whether for knowledge or food, should have opportunity to sate themselves.
   Languages and species are becoming extinct at an alarming rate, yet some neither know, nor care. Early in the Twenty-First Century, the last native speaker of a lesser-known Scots dialect died. Just happened to catch that on the news, yet so many more pass completely unnoticed. It wounds my soul to know there are beings who pass out of this plane of existence with no one to mourn them. Some go unnoticed in death, as they did in life.
   I have now spent six [Earth] decades on this planet - half a lifetime in our world. One is amazed by how much there is to celebrate and how much to grieve! Do I have the words to tell you even part of the story? And if I do, shall my heart not burst in joy or break in sorrow at the telling?
   Where to begin? Might as well start with the people. They can best be summed up as a "beautiful mess." They are given these glorious bodies to inhabit which, even with so-called flaws, are exquisite, extraordinary marvels of design!
   For the moment, let us exclude the more tragic cases and address the "average" person. The male of the species stands, I believe, somewhere between six feet and two meters tall and carries on his frame roughly 190 pounds, abbreviated lb [one pound=16 ounces] to 100 kilograms, Kg. It seems overall,  men are quite content with themselves as they are. The female of the species is typically smaller than the male, and much less content, overall. [This dissatisfaction is encouraged by patriarchy, to diminish the innate power of women.]
   In ages long past, it seems to have been women who held governing power and they were revered as life-bearers. It is unclear to me what led to women being perceived as less worthy, less able, but it seems they are so considered.
   Political machinations aside, there is an even more pervasive threat against the well-being of the people. When it happened, I am not sure, maybe it has always been a factor, but some demented entity saw fit to appoint itself an expert on "beauty." Among the results: sex is used to sell everything from drain cleaners to auto insurance. A sacred mystery has been stripped of its beauty and dignity, for something as insignificant as monetary gain.
   "Fashion" comes not only from outside one's gender, but from within. Whalebone corsets were once all the rage and women have more or less willingly disfigured themselves through the ages. Who knows how many ribs were broken, trying to achieve "wasp" waists, or how many feet were rendered useless by binding? For longer than you can imagine, people have been told how they should look to attract a mate, get a job, rise in social ranks. Although both sexes are subject to these arbitrary standards, it seems women more readily accept them. Women are taught to be ashamed of the talents with which they are imbued, as well as their glorious bodies.
   Within the last few years, some director doing a guest spot on a morning show, said there had been a part open for a "nerdy" girl. Of those who auditioned, the best actress was considered "too pretty" - as if brains and beauty could not possibly co-exist in the same person - so he decided to "frizz her hair a little." This is one area where men fare only a little better than women.
   Intellectually gifted persons are most often portrayed as socially and sexually inept and somewhat undesirable. I have always found smart to be sexy. I wonder if the unflattering stereotype is perpetuated because some less-than-brilliant people have only their looks going for them? Though loathsome and pitiful, some find it necessary to demean others just to make themselves feel better.
   Generations of women have starved themselves into a false idea of beauty and some have died as a result. This has got to stop! It is gratifying that some bold, innovative people have rebelled and thereby reclaimed their bodies. It renews hope in the species. Make no mistake, they have so very far to go, despite their progress.
   Ah, mijn liefste, how I long to dwell once again among a people who revere their home, respect themselves and cherish others, regardless of race or species. What serene joy one would know, could one live a life free from fear. Yes, we were once a warring people, who very nearly destroyed ourselves and our planet. Thanks to the Source of Life, we denounced the madness of self-destruction. Obviously, the humours run high in some individuals and for a time our world regrettably allowed Might to become "Right." It seems that's where this world is. Pray the good which dwells within them, conquers the evil seeking to subject them. Some of these poor fools think compassion a weakness to be overcome. Alas, they could not be more wrong.
   There is so much promise, potential, they simply must wake up before they totally destroy themselves and this planet. Sadly, there seems to be no "device" that will force realization, rather they must come to it in their own time. I hope they do not run out.
   On the morning of 14 December, 2012, in a fairly quiet New England town, East Coast, United States of America, a gunman murdered more than two dozen people, about two-thirds of whom were elementary school students. This, after shooting his own mother.
   [Half-way 'round the globe, another madman, this time in China, attacked 20-some children with a knife. But at least the Chinese kids survived. This attack occurred within days of the other.]
   It boggles the mind: what kind of monster attacks innocent little children? Perhaps not a monster, so much as someone dreadfully misunderstood? Both these events will be analyzed for days, weeks, possibly years, to come. People will look at: issues of weapons control, some thinking more weapons to be the answer; treatment of mental illness, many treatment facilities being closed; even, incongruous as it may be, whether or not there is prayer in school - though this latter-most seems politically motivated and inconsequential to the tragedy.
   The real monsters are those with no sense of decency whatsoever, who perpetrate scams, playing on  people's sympathy, or exploiting their gullibility, for monetary gain. Despicable.
   Once again, people will tear their hair and ask, "Has the world gone mad?" And there seems to be no answer or, rather, an unwillingness to claim accountability. Pictures of the Connecticut shooter show a youth with haunted eyes. Obviously evil exists, but these people are made, not born. This boy in a man's body was once a child as innocent as those he destroyed. Was he denied parental love, was something short-circuited in his brain, did he use mind-altering drugs? The world may never know.
   It seems the media, claiming the people's right to be informed, glamorize these episodes. Sadly, they either cannot see or do not care that they are contributing to the destruction - of the species, the civilization, the planet.
   Should it come to destruction, I wonder if persons like "Frank" and myself will remember how to get back to our homes far away - if the violent shock waves spare our far-flung planets.
   As it is, Earthlings may be in danger of breeding themselves out of existence. Not content to let nature take its course, some can, for a price, add their "two-cents worth" to the gene pool, whether or not it is advisable. It matters not whether they will be fit parents, only if they have the money to afford the requisite procedures.
   There are now more than seven billion humans populating Earth. Population has more than doubled during my brief tenure here. And yet some two percent, yes you read that correctly - 2% - control upwards  of 85 percent of this world's wealth. Adding to the injustice, those with the money do not even bother to be "benevolent despots." If the haves even condescendingly cared for the have-nots, it might be considered a redeemable quality. Instead, it seems the ultra-wealthy want to starve the poor, not just into submission but out of existence - as though by eliminating a social stratum there will be more for them. Do they not realize goods don't just materialize: someone has to manufacture them. It's not as though they would be willing to get their own hands dirty. They probably think that is why *God invented Third World countries* - to be exploited.
   Being  just "middle class," at least in the United States of America, apparently isn't good enough any more. It seems most people there seem to think they have to be "super-rich" to matter. Other cultures appear more gracious and realistic. There is an adage: "Do not educate your children to be rich, educate them to be happy, so when they grow up, they will know the value of things, not the price." Would that more people adhered to this.
   This planet could sustain all its inhabitants, numerous though they be, comfortably; or at very least, adequately. When the One whom Christians refer to as the Christ [Greek: anointed] said "The poor you have always with you," I believe it was a challenge - issued in hopes humanity would prove the statement erroneous.
  Tell me, what do you think are their chances of learning the value of a life not based on a monetary system? My heart aches at not being able to convince more of them that one's value lies in being worthy, not in one's "net worth." I will have more confidence in this species when they learn to cherish one another, regardless of age, gender, income, weight, size, shape, sexuality or any other arbitrary or external difference.
   Often, it seems to me I have failed in my purpose. What difference have I made? Even among my nearest and dearest, there are those who do not grasp the concept of living within their means. The thing that keeps me living instead of giving up and dying, is hope. Whether or not the hope is justified remains to be seen, but as the tomorrows continue to come, this individual will be on hand to greet the new day and see what it holds in store, for as long as Sacred decrees.
   It has long bothered me that the United States, more than any other culture, seems to neglect their elderly, often to the point of abuse. One is aware that many cultures used to "cull" those who were weak or impaired, to maintain the strength of the tribe. It wasn't all bad. But to dismiss viable, productive people merely because they have crossed some invisible line and reached a certain age is absurd. People use the visible, the tangible, to determine worth, ignoring intangible values, such as spirituality, experience and intellect. When the value of spirituality and other intangibles is questioned, I ask the one posing the question to consider an existence devoid of art, music, literature or other diversions. Even so, there will always be those who cannot see merit in what they deem unproductive. Those poor souls are already dead inside and their bodies do not know it.
   Realization has been a long time coming, but I now know this is my last stop in the galactic journey and there are those I will never, in this life, see again. Although an "infant" upon arrival, I had to have been old enough to have experience "under my belt" to find my way here and make a go of things. My degree of success is still in question. Being away for so long has caused me to forget some things for a time, which is undoubtedly how that morsel of information eluded me until recently. I am now aware, and fully accept, this is the second half of my lifespan. I intend to live it to the fullest!
   There are no regrets, as this has been a rich and rewarding existence. So many extraordinary individuals have crossed my path, either in the flesh or by some other means. Among those in the former category are my family, of whom I must mention my children, David and Dawn. One I carried in my body, the other came into my life as an adult. They will forever remain in my heart.
   There are so many friends who have changed my life, but I would be seriously remiss should I fail to mention Angelina, John and Lynda, Delta and Debbie. It is no exaggeration to say that without their intervention, I may well have died.
   Those in the "other means" category are no less dear to me and now I cannot imagine a life without "Macc," who has himself become one with the cosmos, as well as Debra; a Judge in South Carolina; and oh so many others. Sputnik and his human are also part of my universe and I value the laughter and joy they have brought me. I have touched them and they have touched me. Well, Sputnik is not aware of my existence, but at least one of his humans is. My most cherished dream is to actually meet some of these people to whom I now feel so deeply connected. In recent cycles, orbiting Sun, that dream has been partially realized.
   I do consider myself fortunate to have found a family so accepting of the wide range of talents and personalities exhibited by my "siblings" and myself. For years, it seemed I was more like Dad's side of the family, but age has given me a stronger physical resemblance to my mother. Then came the stunning revelation that she did more than just give birth to me: she was the vessel through whom I entered this world! The extent of her sacrifices becomes clearer, humbling me.
   Even in her growing frailty, she possessed an undeniable, indomitable, strength. She awes me still, and I am proud, indeed honored, to be her firstborn. Each moment spent with her is etched on my heart. Since last we communicated, that lovely woman has departed this realm and is now part of The Eternal Oneness.
   The man who parented me and helped shape my values always stood as a larger-than-life patriarch, revered and respected not only by his children, but nieces and nephews - for two or three generations. Should my circle of influence spread so far, I would hope those affected would bless my name, as I bless his.Though he is bent with age, he remains indeed formidable.
   Time and again, it comes to me how fortune has smiled upon me. Every child should be welcomed into a loving home and have basic human needs met. All creatures deserve to be surrounded by love and beauty. Our home was not opulent but definitely more than adequate and the key element was love: our parents loved each other and us - as a family and as individuals. That love is an inextricable part of who we are and may well have affected our DNA.
   We should all aspire to leave the place looking better than we found it, that's what being a good steward means. If nothing else, may I be remembered as a good steward, a friend of the Earth, a friend of its inhabitants, a friend of the Universe.
*****
   Hopefully, this lengthy missive has not worn out my welcome with you. There were many other points considered, but it may be better to leave them for another time. This is not the last you will hear from me: there are too many words yet unwritten, unspoken.
   This will ultimately be finding its way to many who do not know me as you do, and for that I am thankful. For that reason, it has been designed not only as an intimate correspondence between myself and you, my very dear friend, but a love-letter to the far reaches of Time and Space.

Grace and Peace,
J.

Sunday, August 4, 2019

Hostage crisis: Set the captives free

   "Women's rights" is, not understandably, but definitely undeniably, a controversial subject. Maybe it's just my liberal mindset but I cannot comprehend why any person/group feels the need to deny basic human rights to another [already born] human being. That one must specify "already born," to stay arguments from the deliberately obtuse, is sad and ludicrous. But the persistent attack of "conservative" U.S. legislators on Roe v Wade is of growing concern to women - particularly those of reproductive age, and their allies. Some people used to define themselves as "fiscally conservative but socially progressive." It seems the oppressive faction has commandeered the name and folks are just expected to buy into it; or at least not to challenge it. It seems to be what Trump is banking on, as he continues his attacks on four freshman Congresswomen, and now, Elijah Cummings: that [white] conservatives will overlook his xenophobic, at best, and outright racist, at worst, behavior and comments. Listening to NPR recently, I heard a short clip of Chris Cuomo asking a guest, "If Donald Trump came right out and said he was a racist, would you [still] support him?" Cuomo was taken aback by his guest's hesitation; the guest said he would "have to see who was running against him." So there we are.
   Here are my 'two cents,' making America (United States) - or for that matter any, country "great," starts with: providing a living wage; ensuring the welfare of women and marginalized populations; and actively seeking ways to end armed conflict. Problems will still exist, even after those issues have been addressed: that will be reason to branch out.
   "Power" has been [deliberately] misconstrued and misrepresented, to mean the subjugation of others. Only evil is capable of devising torture and weapons capable of destroying the planet. Dictators make every problem worse. In this first twenty years of Twenty-First Century, so many countries are adopting right-wing governments. Strength comes from making alliances. What makes people embrace cruelty? How does fear overpower reason? Why is there enough for some, but not for all? Knowing we live in a world of finite resources, does it not behoove us to encourage slow growth rate among the populace? Zero Population Growth (ZPG) should have been a global goal from at least the beginning of the Industrial Age, if not always. Maybe that would have at least postponed the dilemma the planet currently faces.
   Much of the global populace is being held hostage, in one form or another. There are those who reside in countries under dictatorial regimes which, in my opinion, includes those nations under the questionable leadership of "strong man" governments. For the life of me, I cannot fathom what is so attractive about this push toward hard right wing politics. North Korea, for example, has its detention centers, filled with political dissidents; those interested in democracy. United States, for all its lofty language about "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" has a prison population which is vastly disproportionate with that of other countries. Many of those held are unjustly- even if "legally"-  incarcerated. Listening to Snap Judgment on NPR, I heard a story of a man imprisoned for a crime he did not commit [no surprise, he is a person of color] and a guard helped him escape. He made his way to South America, ending up in Suriname. When militia ousted him and his family from their home, commandeered for a military outpost, he, his wife and their numerous children took refuge in a cement bunker, which had no sanitation facilities and no running water. After a while, he told his wife he would turn himself in and in exchange for his return to prison, would ask that his family be brought to United States. Long story short; U.S. reneged. They do that a lot. His wife had a mental breakdown and died. An older son, from a previous marriage, eventually got his siblings Stateside. Twenty-one years after returning to prison, for what should only have been three years remaining of the original term, this man finally received parole [after fourteen denials] and saw his youngest son - who was a toddler, when his father left South America. In areas where so-called "right to work" policies are in place, many are held captive by lacking the freedom to leave one job, in pursuit of better options. In a country such as the United States, which claims to value education [but makes it difficult for poor people to obtain], student debt can virtually cripple an individual. And then, there are the victims of gender and racial biases. Even when there is ostensibly a nondiscrimination policy in place, many people find themselves in untenable situations: threatened with loss of position for "making waves." Despite the Me Too movement - or maybe as push back, there is a whole lot of gender bias in the workplace.
   Referring back to my opening paragraph, there are countries - allegedly civilized nations, in which a woman is denied the right to govern her own body. This might mean a woman needing permission from a male family member to go out in public. Did you know a married women used not to be able to get a credit card in her own name? She was seen merely as an extension of her husband, not a real person.  Currently, there is a seriously demented faction in U.S. working/plotting to make it nigh unto impossible for women to get abortions. They have sadly succeeded in a number of places and the ensuing burdens are largely borne by women of color and those in economic straits. These legislators cannot seem to comprehend the fact that making birth control available and abortion safe and easily accessed, actually reduces the number of abortions. There is no other way to put it than to state plainly: stripping away a person's autonomy, is slavery. The United States "pro-life" cult should label itself Pro Birth, because the majority of their energies are focused, solely on denying a woman's right to choose. The least of their ideological contradictions is the ability to not see the death penalty as anathema to their allegedly pro life "convictions." To put truth behind a pro-life stance, one must be concerned for all life: for the flora and fauna disturbed/destroyed by fracking; for the girl children abandoned, in countries where sons are prized above daughters; for families torn apart, when factories relocate to countries with slave labor; you get the idea. Quality of life is at least as important as the drawing of breath. In a world that is overcrowded, being conscientious about population growth and sustainability, is of utmost importance.
   Injustices abound and the subject could be talked to death; but that wouldn't accomplish anything. Let us each focus our time and energy on improving life for [ourselves and] those around us. Kindness and generosity - whether of money or of spirit, go a long way toward making life better.

Monday, July 29, 2019

The Phroebe Chronicles - a doggy tale

   Beloved pets, like other family members, deserve to be eulogized. During the time I was seeing Jeff, he was also kind to my dog. I wrote to him often and thought he would enjoy letters from Phroebe as well.
*****
3 August, 2016  
   In 1994, I adopted a dog from a shelter and she was with me through fourteen and a half years. Phroebe and my grandson grew up together and she was very tolerant of his baby rough-housing. In 2005, I introduced my dog to my then boyfriend. She liked him so much, she wrote to him too. She was so crazy about him, furry little hussy even wrote that if I wasn't good to him, just let her know and she would *be his bitch.* When I retrieved the letters after our breakup, I found these. The return address read N.C.O.S. [Not Canine Obedience School]
*****
[To be read in best Jack Webb voice:] This is the city, Eldorado - City of Gold - golden fried chicken gizzards that is. My name's Phroebe, I'm a dog.
02 FEB 2006
Dear Uncle Jeff,
   I don't think Mommy knows I am writing you this letter, although she may wonder why I have a stamp stuck to the end of my nose. Those self-adhesive little boogers are a lot of trouble. It's a real bitch not having opposable thumbs.
   I took your advice and asked Mom why she's so cheap. Being an intelligent member of your species, I'm sure you are aware we canines possess keen auditory sensors and are very receptive. In fact, I can almost hear you thinking, "Little bitch talks just like her mother." Oh well - deal with it. Anyway, when I asked, she made some lame excuse about being *high maintenance:* Mom figured if she were going to be cruising 190 West two or three times a month, she'd better have a more reliable vehicle. Now she's driving a 2006 Taurus with less than 10,000 miles on it, but we've had to sacrifice gizzards for car payments. It's so unfair.
   I think Mom wanted to surprise you about the car but I have no qualms about spilling my little doggy guts.
   So I guess my junk-food consumption is on hold until Cloud invites me over again. Do you suppose that is what is meant by "A dog's life"? Don't get me wrong: Mom isn't all bad. I get a nosh now and then - kernel of popcorn, a grape, some scrambled egg, or a nice piece of gristle. So when Mom says her before-meal prayer, I say mine too. After all, God is dog spelled backward.
   And Uncle Jeff, I'm pretty sure Mom cashed that reality check you sent. You know, the one where you told her it wouldn't do her a damn' bit o' good to call Schlumberger. 'Course there's no telling how she'll spend it, but I'm gonna telepath pork rinds.

Your friend's dog,
Phroebe

p.s. Woof-woof. [That's for Cloud.]


03 MAR 2006
Dear Jeff,
   I'm dictating this letter to my secretary (Mom), who's had a couple of wine spritzers. However, since she is the original *NO SODA-BUYING BEE-OTCH,* they were made with vodka instead of lemon-lime carbonated beverage or seltzer.
   Anyway, I wanted to thank you for a wonderful time; it was really cool cruising the barrio and checking out the vatos. I also appreciate you trying to set Mom straight on the whole alternate sources of protein thing. She did give me some baked chicken, Sunday night. Maybe it's one of those "You say poTAYto, I say poTAHto" deals: I say grease *facilitates elimination* but she says fried stuff makes my poop slimy and lacking in form. Moms - go figure. You have one of your own so I'm sure you know what I mean But we love 'em, don't we?
   We were out walking a few days after you left and I saw an opportunity to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone: I could make polite conversation with one of my doggy buddies AND drop a not-so-subtle hint. So we're ambulating along the sidewalk and I see a pal of mine and I kinda brag on you, right? Very nonchalantly I say, "That Jeff is one gizzard-giving dude!" And just like that, Mom gets all snippy and says, "C'mon Baby Girl, I have to get back to work," and we go marching back to the apartment. What'd I say? Take  it from me, for a two-legged s.o.b. you're alright!
Your friend,
"Phrebes"
xxx
     (Here, I felt compelled to say something in my own defense: Well, I'm not saying I agree completely with everything Phroebe has alleged but I did have those two *spritzers* so we'll just let any difference of opinion slide. jbd)
04 APR 2006
   Gizzard Man, you have no idea how lucky you are Mom and a pair of scissors didn't get near your head: I've got your haircut on a bad hair day. I tried to escape but that woman just strong-armed me - kind of a reverse Jaws of Life thing - and started whacking hair off in great clumps!
   She musta felt guilty though: I'm still getting meat with every meal. Thanks Man.
   No doubt about it, you're the greatest.
Phroebe
***
   Jo Ann here: The correspondence ceased; about 15 months later, so did the relationship. When Phroebe died,  I wrote a eulogy.
Phroebe
Jan. 1993-Oct. 2008
   To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven; a time to be born and a time to die, a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time for gathering in and a time for letting go. (Ecclesiastes 3: 1-2a, 4a, 5a)

   I was not present at Phroebe's birth but I held her as she breathed her last. I wept for hours afterward and I know that I will do so again from time to time for the rest of my life. And yet I know I will laugh again. I gathered her into my arms to bring her home those many years ago and did so once more when it was time to let her go.
   Born some time around Jan. 1993, Phroebe came into my life June 4, 1994 when I adopted her from the San Angelo Humane Society pound. She made her last public appearance Oct. 4 at The Blessing of the Animals, celebrated at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Brady, on feast of St. Francis of Assisi. This blessing served as her Last Rites. (What can I tell you? My Roman Catholic roots run deep.) Phroebe died in my arms, Oct. 7, 2008. One of my co-workers told me it would be easier if I just said "goodbye" and let her go. This wasn't about doing what was easy, it was about doing what was right. Phroebe had been my loving and faithful companion for 14 years, four months and three days; she deserved to have me present when she died.
   I don't recall the exact day, but I was in Glennon Mays' veterinary clinic and some woman had a very sick animal that probably was not going to be made well. I knew at that moment that when the time came I would eulogize Phroebe. And why not? All of our beloved dead live in our memories and we share those memories with others who are near and dear to us so that the departed might not be lost in oblivion.
   Phroebe was a great dog and if I choose to believe that her spirit roams in the fields and halls of Valhalla (the Vikings seeming particularly fond of their hounds: I mean, even Hagar the Horrible has a dog) who is to say I am wrong? What makes anyone think there isn't a doggy heaven?
   Dogs, as we know, are descended from wolves, and though thoroughly domesticated, Phroebe evidenced that wolfish protectiveness that applies to one's cubs. She also had a wide streak of lupine playfulness and after enduring my grandson's youthful exuberance and heavy-handed attentions, she exacted her toll once he learned to walk and was [literally] on his feet - she'd bound against him and knock him onto his diaper-padded rear end and administer slobbery doggy kisses.
   I'll tell you another story about Phroebe's playfulness. We were visiting some friends in Indiana and had Skaar and Phroebe with us.  Now Skaar, though older and male, was about a third smaller. After chasing around for a while, Phroebe grabbed and mounted Skaar. He was bemused but definitely not amused and I'm not certain he ever totally forgave that affront to his dignity. (Though with Skaar, "dignity" was a relative term: but that's another story altogether.)
   My youngest sister, who in adulthood has become one of my best girlfriends, once inquired as to Phroebe's well being. I gushed, "Ooh, her is the goodest widdle girl (two-and-a-half to three syllables; g'year-rehl) in the whole world (also at least two syllables)." Lynn asked, "Why do we talk baby-talk to our pets but not to our kids?" I told her it was because we were not too concerned that the pets would pick up poor speech habits.
   I believe that "death with dignity" is the right of all living creatures. It had become obvious in the past several months that Phroebe was afflicted with a canine version of senile dementia - doggy Alzheimer's, if you will. She would stand in the kitchen, her hind legs trembling and if I'd had to guess at what was going through her mind, it may have been, "If I stand here long enough maybe I'll remember what to do next," or "If I just concentrate on standing, maybe I won't fall down." And, my gosh, the endless circles!
   Anyone who knows me understands that humor, though often dark and sometimes bordering on the demented, is my primary defense mechanism. Within 50 hours of the appointed time, I was taking Phroebe out for her pre-breakfast stroll and as I held the leash, I thought, "Dead dog walking... and flopping on the ground and rolling in the grass."
   The decision to let Phroebe "go gently into that good night" broke my heart, but so did seeing her so feeble and frail in mind as well as body.
   Come the day, we are T-minus 4 (hours) and counting. Sometime shortly after 4 a.m., I was wakened by Phroebe's soft whimper. I took her outside where she offered her ablutions upon the earth. Then the circles: not just three-times-'til-I-find-the-place, but "to poop or not to poop... wait, what was the question?" circles. We returned inside and I put her back to bed but within the hour we were up again. Six o'clock and I'm holding her on my lap while she eats breakfast. Then I look into her cataract-clouded eyes and know that I have made the right choice but it does not make the execution of that decision any easier. I wore patchouli that day; it was my sister Teri's signature scent and I figured it would help Phroebe sniff Teri out when she got to the other side. After getting dressed I set Phroebe's cage out on the back porch, offered my little girl one more drink of water and at 7:45 called my sister who would accompany me to Dr. Pace's. There Phroebe was weighed to make sure there was a sufficient dose of the lethal injection and minutes later she was at peace: no more running into things, stumbling about blindly, having to have her head placed into the water to get a drink. We took her to my sister's where I wrapped her in her burial shroud, (a tapestry vest done in sunflowers) and lovingly placed her into the grave prepared for her. No life should go unsung, so I chanted a Hebrew song of farewell and shoveled in enough dirt to cover her, then my sister took over.
   Si Dios quiere, I will love again. Whether man or beast, solo El Senor lo sabe.
   Some of you have already been through this wrenching experience and perhaps wondered if anyone shared your grief. Some have vowed "never again" and some will follow where the heart leads, even if it is to another hurt. While the heart feels, (pain or joy), one is alive. So mourn and dance, weep and laugh, embrace and let go - all in season.
Shalom.

Friday, July 19, 2019

July 2015

July 2019
   It has been amusing and even insightful, to go through old material; to update and edit. With all that's going on these days, going back in time offers a respite.
*****
1 July, 2015
   Here in United States, folks are gearing up for Fourth of July weekend: three days of fireworks, parades, barbecues, trips out of town, and get-togethers with family and friends. Certainly, one does not need an "occasion" to relax in presence of good company, and here at the apartments, a few of us will gather on back patio and fire up the grill. Surely, in back corner of refrigerator freezer is a hunk of dead animal, which will make a suitable "burnt offering."
   Stateside, many of us are rejoicing over passage of marriage equality and affordable healthcare, which I believe has people around the world smiling and nodding in a *there, there, that wasn't so bad was it?* sort of way. Oh, to be sure, there are plenteous naysayers - but they will always be there, and focus should be on things that are Right, not Wrong. So if you have a grumble, I shall turn a deaf ear.
   Two of my as-yet-unmet Facebook friends have proposed a Morning Happy Hour, as an alternative to over-abundance of mad, bad, and sad, news. It has been proposed that I serve as agent. My two primary queries were: 1) What are duties? and 2) Can they be handled remotely? Was informed 90% of manager/agent job would be supplying coffee, plus publicity, "And the pay is baskets of rolls and a percentage of whatever income we can generate through Kickstarter." My response was Kickstarter funds could go directly toward keeping them in coffee, but I would be glad to supply publicity in form of blog piece. Hence, this letter.
   It was fully acknowledged that entire operation would have to be done online, as we are all several miles apart, being in Michigan, Virginia, and North Carolina. My partners have met and we are hoping at some not too distant, but unspecified, date, to unleash our combined positivity on a world greatly in need.
   Shall keep this short, as we all have things that must be done - just wanted to touch base before weekend.
2 July 
   These "letters" have become a staple of my writing, and I hope they entertain you as much as they do me. Having lunch with high school companions recently, heard sentiments which warmed the cockles of my ink-stained heart, "I just love reading them. You should have been a writer." True, other than submissions to newspapers, my work has not received widespread publication.  In fact, have been blogging a bit over three years, and have yet to hit 15,000 page view mark. I remember another freelance columnist, now deceased, who said all he ever got paid were smiles and compliments, and he counted himself rich. Indeed, kind words are vastly rewarding.
*
   Some time ago, decided my *job title* should be Minister of Merriment, and I take pride in my "work." For the record, what I am "full of" is bonhomie. Though it can be depleted by negativity, sharing it with others causes it to expand, not shrink.
   As I woke this morning, contemplated Seven Deadly Sins. [What, doesn't everybody?] Knew a fellow who remembered them by mnemonic *plagues* except he spelled it P-L-A-G-G-E-S, for Pride, Lust, Anger, Greed, Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth. Personally, I replace "gluttony" with "usury."
   It has long been my contention that Greed is vilest of all, baddest of the bad, progenitor of all other sins. Certainly, it can be construed a factor in others: Pride is greed for recognition, Lust is greed for carnality, Anger can be a spewing forth of hatred when Greed is stymied, Envy is greed for what others have, Sloth is greed for idleness. Then there is my substitution of Usury, for Gluttony, for which I shall give my reasoning.
"Gluttony" generally relates to ingestion of vast quantities of comestibles, that indeed may bespeak a greed for food, to the point where need of others is denied. "Usury" relates to money, specifically "loan sharking;" the charge of ruinous interest. Those of you with credit cards know this to be true. Then of course, there are student loans. Seems more despicable than someone who bellies up to a buffet bar one too many times, but maybe that's just me.
   Not long ago, a comrade and I discussed "conspicuous consumerism:" spending money just because one CAN. There is no need, nor even, oftentimes, satisfaction of any particular desire. As my companion observed, those people may as well stand on a street corner and burn money. [To which my unvoiced response was, 'Except for city-wide burn ban.']
   Within hours of Letter 40 [no longer in existence, jbd], there was encouragement to embark on Project: Positivity - because the world is in desperate need of something uplifting. Yeah, yeah, I have heard it before, "Bad news sells." But guess what? It won't sell if people refuse to buy it. You have power in your hands - take it. No need to buy into hatred, divisiveness, and derision, you are better than that. Trust me, you are worthy. Go feel good - you deserve it; and I will gladly do what I can to help. [mirthfully yours]
9 July
   You are such a sweetheart, inquiring about my *social life* and well-being, which is one of the reasons I love you so. Alas, your question regarding a significant other must remain unanswered, as the role is unfilled. [Have that lovely 'casting couch' but no one to audition. Tsk-tsk.]
   So, will tell you of day trip to Put-in-Bay, Ohio - an island in Lake Erie. Tuesday began when I woke a few hours before alarm was to go off. Managed to doze a bit, then got up, dressed and breakfasted. Picked up ladies riding with me, went to meet bus.
   Bear in mind, had only signed up - after I was assured there would be no significant walking (arthritic knees you know) - so there would be enough people for travel agency to not cancel trip. As adage goes, "No good deed goes unpunished." At least we had decent weather.
   From bus, there was a goodly hike to ferry, then we were herded up steep narrow stairs. I saw a few people on opposite side remaining on lower level; kept muttering "Nobody said nothing about no blankety-blank steps!" Slow going, but I made it. During crossing, travel rep found me and apologized profusely, saying she would make sure I could remain on lower deck going back. If I had just been more assertive in first place, would have likely received due consideration: damn parochial school manners. Anyway, after twenty-odd minute crossing, disembarked. Golf cart transport was provided up incline to tram, and our group took a pleasant and informative one-hour tour around Put-in-Bay.
   One of sights was original schoolhouse, dating from 1800s, about size of an apartment living/dining room. Attached lean-to at rear, provided lodging for bachelor schoolteacher. There were perhaps a dozen students on island, but they were never all there together, having to work at family businesses of farming and fishing. We also learned wineries were once prominent, vineyards having covered ninety percent of the island. Only forty-two acres remain in production today, recent harsh winters and natural disasters having taken a toll.
   Then we were dropped off, given meal vouchers and tickets to board bus back to ferry, and turned loose for a few hours to mill about, dine, and spend money on over-priced touristy stuff. For people who ooh and aah over romanticism of getting away from it all, harsh realities of isolation do not usually factor into their visions of quaint island life. All they see is glamour of hustle-bustle happy tourists and *picture postcard* shops. Our guide told us Put-in-Bay now has resident doctor, for first time since 1930s, when last doctor met his demise, trying to aid someone in need of his services. I believe he broke through ice.
   Having lived in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, and spent some time on Sugar Island, am a bit familiar with island economy. Ferries run on schedules which are drastically limited by weather conditions and demand. Costs are of course affected by availability, which is controlled by different factors on an island, as opposed to mainland. Island winters can be cruel, cut off from the world, when waterways are frozen and ferry cannot cross. Many islands have at least one or two small planes available, but they are sometimes incapable of getting off ground.
   Some of my neighbors were in lobby when I finally got home and asked if I'd had a good time. Told them I was not sorry to have gone, but all things considered, would have rather spent the money on a new tattoo. (Signed, Island Girl)
14 July
   There will be somber notes in this missive, which may not be conducive to a night of peaceful rest - but perhaps you will not see it until morning anyway. It has been quite a day, and passage of time has seemed somewhat inconsistent, since last we communicated. I told you someone known to me had been injured and in hospital; good news is, by time you get around to reading this, release to outside world may well be a fait accompli - not a bad way to mark Bastille Day, n'est-ce pas?
   Because of how my thought processes function, this put me in mind of another captive, about whom I have recently heard, by name of Christopher Thomas Knight, born on December 7, 1965. In 2014, Michael Finkel submitted a story about Mr. Knight, titled The Strange & Curious Tale of the Last True Hermit. For the better part of three decades, this man had lived apart from other humans, in woods of central Maine. He survived by stealing, committing approximately forty robberies per year.
   We have all heard of, maybe even known, individuals who "fall through the cracks." In this flawed world, it cannot be stopped altogether, but as *safety net* social programs are increasingly curtailed and eliminated, it will happen more and more. Passing a few moments in conversation with an old family friend, wondered why some people cannot grasp that taking care of those persons incapable of providing all their own needs, is an investment in the well-being of all humanity, including themselves. Geez, people, stop thinking with your wallets, and use your senses.
   I do not know what fate ultimately befell Christopher Knight, but have not we all seen displaced persons? They are under bridges, in tent cities, in cars at the edges of large parking lots; sometimes there are whole families in these straits. They often move about furtively, to avoid detection which might break up family or result in prosecution. The gulf between those who have plenty and those who have less than enough is nothing short of unacceptable. Treating poverty like a crime, diminishes everyone. How is it some remain oblivious to that fact? It makes me weep.
   Cannot end on this note. Surely there must be some cheery news to impart? [*Think, think.*] Oh, I know! Orchard Terrace, apartment complex in which I reside, had annual potluck picnic, for which housing board furnished meat. It was much better attended than last year, which pleased staff and residents alike. Not surprisingly, everyone ate too much and there was plenty left over. There were five or six guests in attendance, which builds good community relations. One guest, who also takes part in Tecumseh Senior Center activities, introduced herself, and said her friend had liked the birthday letter I sent. It has been a pleasure to hear how much these have meant to recipients. One lady even wrote a letter for my birthday. Wasn't that sweet?
   Okay, think I can sleep well now. Last night, I had rumbling percussion of thunder, which worked into dreams as dark rolling waves off eastern seaboard. Wonder what awaits tonight?
15 July
   Have just come from Tecumseh Senior Center which, in conjunction with Cambrian - a geriatric residence, Tecumseh Place assisted living facility and Tecumseh District Library, hosted A Wee Bit of Scotland, featuring Michigan bagpiper Kim Johnson. Piper Johnson talked about her clothing, instruments, and history thereof, to an attentive crowd. In addition to participants of sponsoring entities, were members of the general public. Nearing conclusion of her program, Johnson asked if anyone would like to try airing up the pipes. One brave lassie, named Nadia, gave it a go and actually provided enough air for piper to play a measure of "Scotland the Brave." Everyone applauded the young lady's efforts and a representative of Fourth Estate interviewed her briefly.
*
   Arriving home, recalled letter sent out before going to lunch and began gathering my wits for this cyber missive. As mentioned in that pen and paper communique, had thoughts about society doing more to take care of marginalized individuals. Some folks feel uncomfortable in hands-on situations; either because previous encounters have been traumatic, or because of something in their "hard drive." I fully realize there is a 'lead a horse to water' aspect, but it is imperative "water" be available. Regarding those whose circumstances or choices put them outside polite society, would not kiosks of personal care items offer a solution? Toothbrushes, bars of soap with a washcloth, razors, incontinence pads, feminine hygiene products, razors, are all needed and could be dispensed unobtrusively. Persons who opt not to go to shelters, should not be forced into illegal or dangerous activities, to provide for themselves and/or loved ones. Donating products to individuals or to facilities are preferable to donating money to *name brand* organizations, because much of the money going ostensibly to charity, is used to pay some bigwig, instead of helping people in need. Many churches and civic organizations have pantry drives to collect sundry items. If you are in a position the throw money at a situation, do a little research first and make sure it lands where you think you are throwing it. [Author's Note: In past few years, I have seen a number of "Blessing Boxes," which address these needs. jbd]
*
   Because everything and everyone is ultimately connected, decided to also tell you about another story, encountered via Facebook. In 2013, trees in Melbourne, Australia were assigned email addresses, for purpose of reporting problems: branches on power lines, broken limbs, what have you. Whether on someone's whim, or out of need to communicate with another living, if not sentient (at least to human understanding), being, there started appearing correspondence of a conversational nature. The program promotes caring, pride in well-being of city's assets.
   It would be wonderful if we looked on all living being as global assets - not to be exploited, but nurtured, thereby improving the health of all. *What  if?* everyone were exposed from a young age, to music, art, other cultures, other languages; what if every person knew love and acceptance; what if everyone had clean water, enough food, a bed?
   I would invite you to do some random act of kindness within your means, abilities, comfort level: read newspaper to someone who has diminished sight, visit a nursing home, take a package of moist towelettes to a daycare center, write a letter to someone, or email a tree. Opportunities to be kind abound and costs are within most, if not all, budgets. Thoughts count, backing them up with action, is priceless.
17 July
   Friday night recap: Here I sit in recliner, lap-board propped against my knees, having opened living room window to evening breeze. Sunset has ushered in another Sabbath and I am sipping blueberry tea, while composing this missive. This has been an eventful week - and weekend shows promise of continued festivities. Have been invited to come throw a hunk of meat on the grill and hang out with neighbors. Sounds like a good time.
   Had late lunch in Saline this afternoon: my friend in Ann Arbor figured we could each drive to halfway point and I must confess, way home felt so much shorter. Saline also has a more varied population than Tecumseh, so their Busch's deli offered Mediterranean food, not available to me locally. Picked up wine and dark chocolate, so may have the ladies over some night.
   Elle asked what was new and exciting in my life, so told her about a couple blog posts which had racked up a couple hundred page views each. For me, that amounts to going viral. Told her it's kind of like getting a "turkey," three consecutive strikes, in Wii bowling: doing it is wonderful but I have no idea how to duplicate it.
   Glad to have received your letter and learned your significant other has not yet driven you completely round the bend. I understand moving is not an option, and pray you have the grace to ride out this *perfect storm,* as you call it. At least your basement didn't flood. [Just tossing in a little levity, darling.] Glad you enjoyed envelope made from tea box; figured it would amuse you, as you said you always think of me drinking a cup of tea.
   When I was leaving to go to Saline this afternoon, Old Man queried, "What's in Saline?" Did not answer, other than coquettish smile. This evening, he was in lobby again, and asked if I had behaved myself, and I hinted at being released on my own recognizance. Keep 'em guessing, don't ya know.
   I suppose I really should write a few more pen-and-paper letters, even to those who are disinclined to respond in kind. Would not want them to think receiving mail is totally dependent on reciprocity. That said, I am ever so glad of your faithful correspondence and it is fair to credit you with benefiting others, so Thank You. Shall wrap this up and get it sent off.
20 July
   This is the twenty-ninth of fifty-two Mondays, in the year 2015. I can tell you are astounded by this revelation. Would say that I am feeling a nameless melancholy, but I cannot pass that untruth by you, my trusted confidante, for I know precisely and all too well, what is bothering me. I miss my erstwhile lover. Actually, "lover" confers a significance that was never there; it was a dalliance and nothing more. Now it does not exist. Do not believe those who would tell you a person cannot miss something that was never there. One can long for the illusion, and that may be just as bad.
   Twice in past week, I have been called "prolific," with regard to volume of writing I produce. Of a person who asked what it is like to be prolific, I might well query, "What is it like to be married to same individual, for more than half one's life?" Marriage of great duration is a success that has eluded me. C'est la vie. I say that a lot anymore, but what else is there to say? Some ventures are eminently doable, while others strain the boundaries of credulity. Best to recognize the difference and move on.
   Recently enjoyed two episodes of great popularity, having two blog posts reach over two hundred views, within a day of being published. I used to email a link to several people. Unexpectedly, that device failed and had to be discarded. *Shameless self-promotion* has never been my strong suit, though it would come in handy. Maybe I will acquire more followers? Meanwhile, shall continue to write my little letters, hoping the tangible ones get answered and cyber ones get read. Realistic and simple. Probably not a recipe for fame and fortune, but I do not aspire to world domination: I would just like to amass a few hundred thousand page views. Is that too much to ask?
   When phrase "Je ne sais quoi" came to mind, the part of my brain given to word-play quipped, "Jenny say what?" Oh dear, what ARE you going to do with me? All I can hope is that you will continue to love me and put up with me - hopefully because you find me charming and amusing, rather than pitiable.
   Among the mundane tasks to be completed this afternoon, is writing a check to pay next six months of auto insurance. No use grousing; it must be done and that's all there is to it. Today's mail also brought a letter from Brother, which shall be read after supper, while sipping evening tea. Am looking forward to tomorrow, when I will have lunch with a couple of former schoolmates. That is pretty much all the news that's fit to print, so shall bid you adieu.
24 July
   Muy buenos dias; Today I am cruising, sans passport. This week has been the usual hustle-bustle - and then some. So much so, I woke with knowledge it is Friday, yet somehow believed it to be Tuesday. Oh yes, and I spoke French. Of course my lexicon contains words and phrases used by everyone: oui; s'il vous plait; je ne sais quoi; and a few others - but I am by no stretch of the imagination, "fluent." Anyway, believe the notion came from knowing a friend was listening to language recordings, hoping to learn subliminally.
  On Thursday - just yesterday(!) - Tecumseh Senior Center observed National Cruise Day. Kim Otto, center director, is just wonderful, devising ingenious activities, keeping area seniors young at heart. We were welcomed 'aboard' (cue "Love Boat" theme) and festivities began. Buffet line served chips and salsa, while bar supplied us with "mock-aritas" (no tequila). There were mariachis, five octogenarians who wanted to play before an audience,  prior to their performance at Lenawee County Fair, a week hence.
   After lunch, there was a piñata to be broken, and we played Mexican bingo. Piñatas are apparently not of the same durable construction as when I was a child, and one good swing with a plastic bat, brought this one down. 
   Mexican bingo evoked childhood memories, as it was part of numerous baby showers, attended with Mom, her relatives, and comadres. Players are given cards with sixteen different pictures, arranged in four rows of four. Caller uses a deck of cards, printed with various images: la dama (lady), el soldado (soldier), la sandia (watermelon), la muerte (death), el borracho (drunkard), and so on. Am uncertain how many images there are, but noticed there are now numbers in the upper left-hand corners, which probably make it easier to use the game as a learning tool. Prize for cover-all was a sombrero and four scratch-off lottery tickets. Three of us bingoed, played another round of regular bingo, and I won the showdown. Amount won is not enough to *keep me in the style to which I would like to become accustomed* but will cover price of a box of wine.
   Monthly Orchard Terrace bingo was Thursday evening, and I bingoed once. Must have expended my quota of bingo luck, for the day. Thinking of what all I could put in this letter, realized it was just this past Tuesday, when friends and I had gone out for Chinese food, and Wednesday when I started reading a sci-fi book about space colonies - extensive travels, indeed. Affordable "ticket" puts this within most budgets. 
29 July
   Do not know why I felt compelled to write, when it has only been a few hours since we parted company. Maybe just needed to share my thoughts with others and trusted you would not mind.
   Day started rather strangely, when I woke at four o'clock. Restless, could not go back to sleep, so by 5:30, was in the shower. Had not recalled any dream details and wondered if there would be any dreams to blog. While living in Texas, studying massage therapy, I found if I woke during the night, showered, and returned to bed, I had more vivid and memorable dreams. Such proved to be the case, on this occasion.
   Yesterday, at Tecumseh Senior Center, told my friend, with whom I usually ride on Mondays and Wednesdays, that I would drive separately, as I would be having lunch with you. The plan was to come in for Knitting Club and stay for Scrabble. You know the adage about best laid plans.
   So, after my "middle of the night" shower, I slept and dreamed, and did not wake until office assistant called at 9 A.M, asking if I was up and ready for maintenance man to reinstall cabinet. Oh, forgot to tell you: when I came home from center Monday, apartment did not look same as I had left it. Not only was kitchen dark, but cupboard drawer was on living room floor. Knew it was not robbery, as it was too orderly. Moments after I walked in, there was a knock on door; maintenance man there to tell me neighbor had reported a leak, which had been traced to faulty water heater in my apartment. There was a message on answering machine, which I had not yet heard, apprising me of situation. So, that's how Monday went.
   Tuesday was Wii bowling tournament at senior center, Tecumseh hosting Adrian. Of their eight team members who came over, only two have averages under 200. Our top guy has an average of 185, with most of us being in 140-160 range. All I can say is, thank goodness for handicaps. Everybody had fun and is looking forward to Tecumseh going to Adrian in August.
   That brings us to Wednesday, and I really enjoyed not only burger and beer, but two-hour visit. It was great hearing what is happening in your busy life and I am excited for you, over coming grandchild. When I got home from lunch, there was a message on answer machine from one of the neighbors, wanting to know if we were still on for burgers at VFW, this evening. I knew how much she was looking forward to it, so called her back and said sure. Had it fixed a bit differently, and skipped fries.
   Got back at 7:55 P.M, figuring I was in for the evening. Called another friend, having not seen him for over a week, concerned how he was holding up to heat and humidity. Asked if I wanted to go out for shortcake, I again gave affirmative response. It has been an eventful day.
   Thursday, will be going to Lenawee County Fair, to listen to dulcimer players, then will help out with sing-along to harmonica music - same group who played for our "Mexican Cruise."
   Sort of hoping Friday turns out to be a slow business day, with run-of-the-mill activities: Veggie Mobile and Wii bowling here at Orchard Terrace. Friday night is usually a night for playing cards, but it would not hurt my feelings in the least if I had to skip out on that, to spend some quality time with an out of town friend.
   That seems as good a place as any to wrap this up. Dropped a postcard to next-door neighbor in mail slot, on my return from having shortcake. Not much else to report.
***
May all your challenges be surmountable,
Jo Ann

Friday, July 12, 2019

Sauntering through summer

12 July, 2019 
Dear friend,
   Summer seemed to take its time coming to Michigan but is now well and truly arrived. Since sidewalks around my neighborhood are treacherously uneven, I load my walker and go to a nearby, a couple miles away. It is a delight to walk amid flora and fauna. There are occasionally goldfinches to be glimpsed, showing brightly contrasted to a bobbing head of thistle. Bunnies of varying size sit  unblinkingly still, or scamper down the path, like advance scouts. One morning, a rabbit scurried on the north side of the trail, as a small patch of red caught my right eye. At first, I mistook the brilliant glimpse for a male cardinal. Closing the distance between myself and what had caught my eye, I discerned the red came from sun shining through a small rabbit's thin ears.
   On two consecutive days, I viewed deer, in about the same area. One morning, a doe and fawn bounded across, traversing south to north. Next morning, I had just made my turnaround, when a head poked out of some shrubbery on north side of the path. My progress was observed for maybe as much as a full minute. Apparently I was not deemed threatening and the doe stepped out, two fawns in her wake. It seems late in the season for such "hatchlings." One can only hope there will be none born as late as September or October; lest they freeze.
   Moths, butterflies and wildflowers - both familiar and unfamiliar, add bountiful color, making exercise more enjoyable. Some of the abounding fauna is tiny, but not quite microscopic. There are biting flies, of course, and itty-bitty bugs, smaller than a match head. My stroll is often accompanied by a chorus of frogs, which inhabit a marshy pond, near west end of the section I walk. This particular stretch of blacktop is used by several people, whose ages span decades. One morning, I saw saw a young woman on roller-blades, pushing a stroller, and a couple bicyclists, who were [likely] in their seventies. I have received encouraging kudos and dare to hope my example may lead younger folks to hold me up to their parents. *You can do it; why, there's a lady out there every day, using a walker!* I know some people are embarrassed about looking "old." Age is no cause for shame - despite what a youth-obsessed culture may say. So, rock on with your bad self.
   Dew-washed raspberries and mulberries are a treat; sadly, my footing is no longer secure enough to go more than a few steps off the trail, in search of fruit. Some days, the wind is just right and floral fragrances waft toward me, delighting olfactory sensors. Sure, every now and then, one gets a whiff of something dead and detects a circling buzzard overhead: that's what nature is all about.
   As it is wont to do, reality intrudes on this idyll - but it doesn't disrupt me walk too often. In fact, in the seven weeks or so I've been using the trail, only one ambulance has been seen. There are definite advantages to living in a semi-rural hamlet. (I won't say that too loudly; some folks have delusions of grandeur. wink wink)
   The peaceful pace of retirement, has prompted me to share some of what I see, via illustrated envelopes. Recently, one was sent to my only canine correspondent. Andy is so special, I have a packet of stamps used for his letters: Scooby Doo.
 
Hope this brief missive, finds you well.
Yours truly,
Jo Ann