The dichotomy of a nothing day

 

Some days there’s just nothing to say. The world at large goes on—the violence and destruction in Ukraine continue to break our hearts, Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky and his resistance troops continue to amaze and inspire. Another covid variant surge looms on the horizon, supposedly less lethal but much more contagious. Political ideology and disinformation continue to divide our country—most of you know where I stand on that, so I won’t belabor the point. The supply chain is still iffy, predicted to get worse because of Russia’s invasion and another round of covid. Food shortages are expected throughout the world as the Russia/Ukraine war destroys crops in the breadbasket of Europe. Gas prices increase, but before you moan about that look at what they are across the rest of the world—of course in England, for instance, they are not driving the tremendous distances that we in Texas are.

And when the news comes to Texas, we are now worried about wildfires. Much in Eastland County has been destroyed, and new fires have appeared around Cisco. To the south, evacuations are now being ordered in Lipan, as there is a spreading fire on the border between Erath and Hunt counties. Further south, fires are reported near Huckaby, which I’ve never heard of, but which alarms me because it looks too close to Tolar, where my brother’s ranch is.

The world picture is not pretty. But at home, it’s been the most quiet of days. We had, as I’ve posted, twenty-four hours of lots of company and good food and hilarity, including a welcome if brief visit with three of the four Tomball Alters. Today we’re apparently recovering. I have had only sporadic visits from Jordan and spent most of the day putting together the April edition of our neighborhood newsletter. Who knew when I asked for pictures of spring break trips, I would be inundated with so many? I’m not complaining at all—it will make for a more interesting newsletter.  

Tonight, having expected Christian to fix one of his delicious Asian meals, I instead had a dinner of scrambled eggs. It wasn’t bad at all—I fried some bacon and sauteed the tiny potatoes, left from my corned beef dinner, in the bacon grease before I scrambled the eggs. Made a most satisfactory dinner. So now. My stomach full, my soul soothed by a couple of glasses of wine, I’ll toddle off to my comfortable and safe bed.

And therein lies the dichotomy. I am not alone I’m sure in feeling almost a bit of guilt that I am so safe and content and happy while half a world away people are dying, desperate, sending young children away by themselves, hiding in shelters and wondering if they’ll live until morning. Much as we hear about the contrast between the two worlds, it will never become a hackneyed image. What’s happening in Ukraine is too terrible—and too inspirational. The courage of the Ukraine people puts me to shame for whining about an eye appointment and a root canal—both on my calendar this week.

I want to do concrete things to help, not just sit here at my computer and moan. I have contributed to World Kitchens and ordered a blue-and-yellow sweatshirt and contributed a book to Authors for Ukraine, but it all seems too petty. And, of course, I’ve prayed a lot. But one of our ministers recently said we must never think we’re a step ahead of God. When we pray for peace in Ukraine, God doesn’t throw up his arms and say, “What a great idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” He is ahead of us always; his eye is on the sparrow—and on the big war.

I don’t know that any of this makes sense, but these are the thoughts that go through my mind these days. How about you?

PS: If you want to know about Authors for Ukraine, check out their Facebook page: (13) Authors for Ukraine | Facebook. An auction, March 29 through April 12, will offer books by over 150 authors (including yours truly). All proceeds benefit Ukraine. It’s the least we can do. I still feel I ought to be over there across the Polish border cooking huge quantities of food under the watchful eye of Chef José Andres.

The oxymoron of war.

 

In many nations tonight, people are outraged that Russian planes bombed a maternity hospital in Ukraine. One case made headlines—a young mother-to-be, in labor, who died, along with her baby. The cry is that bombing such a civilian facility violates the rules of war. This heartbreaking case is classified not as a casualty of war but as a violation of the rules.

The idea of rules of war has always struck me as an oxymoron. We’re not talking about a chess game here—we’re talking about deadly combat in which lives are brutally lost. Who sets the rules? And who says whether you follow them? According to Wikipedia, violations of the rules of war include intentionally killing civilians or intentionally killing prisoners of war, torture, taking hostages, unnecessarily destruction of civilian property, deception by perfidy, wartime sexual violence, pillaging, the conscription of children in the military, committing genocide or ethnic cleansing, the granting of no quarter despite surrender, and flouting the legal distinctions of proportionality and military necessity.”

Thos rules leave little leeway for what you can legally do in a war, but Mr. Putin seems to have violated most of them. Who is going to say, “Tsk, tsk! You know that’s against the rules.”? If you’re hell-bent on killing people and conquering another nation, why should you listen to rules? I’m sure authorities from the Nuremberg trials had a good sense of what to do and some success. I am less hopeful about Putin being brought to justice, and yet he is just as inhumane as the Nazi officers tried at Nuremberg.

Walter Cronkite, the late, great newsman who fought in WWII, once wrote, “War itself is, of course, a form of madness. It is hardly a civilized pursuit. It’s amazing how we spend so much time inventing devices to kill each other and so little time working on how we might achieve peace.”

One of the most poignant clips I’ve seen recently showed a young woman, dressed in outdoor gear, in an apartment clearly destroyed by bombs. The camera panned to show the extent of the damage, and it was horrific. But she sat, pulled protective blanket off a piano, and began to play an excruciatingly beautiful piece. The caption was something like, “One Last Time.”

We are horrified and yet helpless. We contribute to various welfare agencies—I sent money to the World Kitchen recently since Chef Jose Andres is feeding the thousands of refugees who stream across the Ukraine border into Poland. We pray, beseeching whatever god we pray to, to spare the Ukrainian people, recognize their courage, deliver them from evil. Our country supports them in every way possible, short of igniting WWIII, which no one, except perhaps Putin, wants.

And yet, we are helpless. Decisions are made by governments, and we can either support or condemn. My personal take is that it is a time for us to pull together, to condemn aggression and to support the best efforts of our president and his advisors, both in and out of Congress and the military. Others choose to disagree and blame him for weakness, for the high price of gasoline, for everything but the weather—and they may get around to that too. Many who carp and complain can’t seem to get beyond themselves to see that we are all in this boat together—what happens to democracy in Ukraine will eventually make its way to our shores. Indeed, we had a close call last November in the election and ever since while we combat the “Big Lie.”

To me, it’s foolhardy to grieve for what’s happening in Ukraine but take comfort in the fact that wars will always be fought on foreign soil, never make their way to the U.S. I wish I could feel confident about that. I may be in my twilight years, but I have grandchildren to whom I leave the world—and I want it t be a world of democracy.

Meantime, life does go on. Friend Subie took Jordan and me to the Fort Worth Club today for a pre-birthday lunch for Jordan. I couldn’t help myself. I sat there in elegant surroundings, eating a sophisticated lunch, enjoying the company of two of my favoirte people, and thought, “People are dying. They are hiding in subway stations and basements. They are dying in maternity hospitals.” I remembered seeing an old woman in Ukraine who said they just want us to pray for them, and then they want us to go on and enjoy life. I did what she said—it was a terrific, happy lunch, full of laughter. But always, these days, there’s that little cloud hanging over us. Or maybe it’s a big cloud.