Irene was the subject of my radio interview today--
or was it Florence? We kept mixing the names up.
Here I
go again, probably preaching to the choir. But I am struck again today about
President Biden’s strength and what he has accomplished—jobs up, covid deaths
down, international reputation back up, and a lot of smaller, less
headline-making stuff. Today it’s the death of the Al Qaeda leader who was
responsible for so many American deaths—a targeted take-out that did not kill
any civilians, including his own family. When Biden pulled our troops out of
Afghanistan, many vilified him, ignored his statement that there were better
ways to fight that enemy than losing men and money in an endless war. This
weekend, his theory came home to roost, without much fanfare. Because that’s
the kind of guy he is. Low key. Quietly getting things done.
I see
so much on Facebook about how he’s the worst president we’ve ever had, he’s too
old, he’s tearing the country apart, etc. Where were these people during trump’s
four years? A post today compared him to Jimmy Carter, who was labeled another
poor president. It was meant to be derogatory, but I think the comparison is
right—they are both quiet, low-key men who feel no need to blow their own horns
and who don’t want to play the loud-mouth political game, but they accomplish so
much for America. Too many Americans are blown away by the bluster and
braggadocio of someone like trump or even Bush or Clinton to see real quality when it hits them in the
face. I think that was a problem with Obama, and it's a problem wth Biden. I read today, with gratitude, an article that explained that Biden is not
too old. Compared to “the former guy” in everything from policy to athletic ability
to weight and health, he’s light years younger than the man who is actually two
years younger. The article concluded, “Biden has a history of being counted out until he sweeps away the
alternatives. It's too early to count him out.”
And those people on Facebook who post about ageism
and worst president? They are inevitably so angry. I cannot count the times I’ve
been told I need mental health help. Today I suggested I would welcome healthy
discussion and was met with the wide generalization that all Democrats are
corrupt. Does that mean Republicans are lily white? I see signs across the
country, glimmerings of common sense and hope. I think the mid-terms will be most
interesting.
Meantime, back at the cottage, Sophie is still
sick—or she’s mad at me—or a bit of both. I tried, on someone’s suggestion, to
crush pills and mix into her food. This was yesterday at noon. Big mistake. She went on a
hunger strike and did not eat again until late morning today when, after
consultation with the vet, I shredded some chicken in broth. She ate two helpings
but ignored all other offerings.
Tonight, with neighbors here for happy hour—an event
that usually enlivens her—she just lay around. As if to prove my theory, she
refused to come to me when I encouraged her but jumped right up on the couch by
Jordan. I just cooked a bit more chicken in broth, but I may be creating a
monster who will never again eat dog food. Jordan made her a turkey sandwich,
mayo and all, but she tried to hide pills in it. Then, at Prudence’s
suggestion, she put it at the edge of the coffee table, so Sophie would think
she was getting away with something. She moved one quarter of the sandwich but
ate none. If she is still refusing to eat tomorrow, I’ll ask Mary to take her
to the vet.
For me, it was another day of no writing,
except what was going on in my head. This afternoon I had a one-hour radio
interview with the city cable station in San Marcos. The interviewer, Priscilla
Leder, had sent me questions in advance, and I spent all morning crafting answers
to them. It was time well spent. If I hadn’t done it, I’m afraid my answers
would have wandered into vagueness. As it is we did get off topic some, but it was all good
conversation. I hope at least two people heard it. That’s the way too many days go—I do
things related to writing but little actual writing. Except in my head at three
o’clock in the morning, when I wrote volumes about both Helen Corbit and Irene
in Texas.
Perhaps tomorrow will be a nice calm day, except
my Jamie is coming over, and I plan—shhh!—to surprise him with squash casserole
which he loves. He asked for a family dish, green noodles, for supper, even
though he doesn’t like mushrooms, which are essential. “If they are sliced real
thin,” he said, and then, with a big grin, “let’s make it together.” So my knives
are sharpened—thank you, Lisa—and I’ll let Jamie slice the mushrooms.
Stay safe and cool, everyone.
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