A short meditation on being a stay-at-home.

 

I go days, even weeks these day without leaving my own property. It’s not a problem, and I am perfectly happy. I am fortunate to have family just a hundred feet away, a loving dog for companionship (and nagging, demanding behavior), and many friends who come for happy hour or a light supper. I am also happy with my own company, have plenty to keep me occupied, and sometimes find myself longing for a bit of solitude. So all that is of my own design and is a good thing.

Still, I find I miss restaurant dinners. I keep up with reviews and announcements of new restaurants, I drool over menus, I crave the sociability and atmosphere (though I often find the food at home is better), and I should probably make a list. Tonight I went out to dinner with three friends who try to dine together more than occasionally. We went to a new restaurant (in a jinxed location) that I had suggested, and it was a medium success. I had sliders and Caesar salad—sliders were good, not great, a bit dry, but the Caesar salad was terrific. Not tossed like most salads, but served the way Caesar was originally meant to be—individual romaine leaves loaded with dressing and grated Parmesan. Two of my friends had had pasta alla carbonara and enjoyed it thoroughly. But, alas, the fourth had eggplant parmigiana which looked to be a small if artful serving. She reported however that the dish was too salty and the eggplant tough. You have to work hard to make eggplant tough. At our urging, she told our waitperson, but nothing ever happened. I would think they would have sent out a manager to apologize, comp the meal, etc. but nada. That doesn’t mean we’ll write the restaurant off, but none of us will order eggplant again.

But what I learned, just for me, is that going out so changes my thinking so that I spend the whole day in anticipation. Not anxious, none of that stuff, just a different sense that I am going out that evening, and I am waiting for it to happen. With the result that I don’t get as much done in a day. I don’t buckle down to any serious, big work, because, you know, “I’m going out to dinner.” All that means, of course, is that I should go out more often, but I find when the opportunity arises, I often say, “Oh, just let me cook.” And that’s partly because I do enjoy cooking and feeding friends and family, but also partly because I don’t want to gear myself up to go out.

That of course leads me into a bit of guilt or angst or a case of the “shoulds.” I really must get over that, I tell myself. I must make more of an effort to get out. But then another voice in my head asks, “Why?” It’s not as though I am miserable and lonely. In fact, I have plenty of company, and I am in many ways more content than I have ever been in my life.

This is one of life’s dilemmas—granted not a major one—where I guess the answer is in the middle of the road. So I’ll continue to go out occasionally and to enjoy folks in my cottage more often.

Sigh. Tomorrow, I have to go out for medical appointments. Now that’s a whole different thing!

 

A good/bad day for TCU and some voting news

 

There was much joy among TCU fans today as the Frogs pulled off an amazing victory in double overtime to beat Oklahoma State 43-40. A capacity crowd in Amon Carter Stadium cheered the victory, many rushing onto the field. On Facebook, ecstatic fans reported exhaustion, hoarseness, bliss, surprise, all kinds of joy. Some confessed they had reservations about the hiring of Sonny Dykes but now they are fans. For the Frogs, so beleaguered in the last couple of seasons, it was truly a triumphant day.

But there was sadness—Dr William E. Tucker, chancellor from 1979 until 1998, passed away today. For many of us it was an unexpected shock. This kind and gentle man felt like a personal friend to any who had met him even once. When I first went to work on the administration side of things (TCU Press), coming from the classroom first as a graduate student and then an occasional adjunct, I had no idea who this slight but friendly man was that I kept meeting in the stairwell. Soon enough, I learned it was the chancellor. Thereafter, I saw him and his lovely wife, Jean, at church. They always knew exactly who I was and greeted me as though I were a close friend. When Jean’s health failed, Bill often came to church alone. I had retired and suffered some health problems, and he would stop to ask how I was doing. He was that kind of a good man.

In the next few days, obituaries will praise his many accomplishments as an ordained minister, the dean of Brite Divinity School, president of Bethany College, and, finally, chancellor of the university, the position from which he retired. There’s no need for me to list his record, but as one who worked for the university during his leadership, I just want to say the world is a little bit less bright tonight.

And it’s Saturday night. So what does a grandmother, single and in her eighties, do on a Saturday night? Why, address envelopes for those Beto letters I so carefully formatted on my computer, of course. My handwriting has not improved with age, so addressing the envelopes loomed as a great chore. Writing by hand is like a lot of other things—if I can do it automatically without thinking about it, I’m pretty much okay; but if I think about trying to write perfectly, I mess up. Today I only had to scrap one envelope—it was a complicated Polish name, and my first attempt was a disaster. And I had to reprint one letter because I had made the salutation part of the recipient’s name in the address. I looked at it and thought “Dear” was a strange first name, but you know people have a lot of unusual first names. Then I realized what I’d done. Tonight, I’m relieved and a bit proud to have finished.

I still get those emails begging for money, telling me I’ve been chosen, implying that my vote is the one thing that the entire election hinges on, and why won’t I say how I’m voting. But I am also getting pleas to help—specifically to be a poll watcher. Lord knows, with the rumors about voter intimidation going around, we need poll watchers. So, these emails make me feel a bit guilty, but I can’t respond to a form letter and point out that I am mobility challenged and cannot possibly do that.

The Act Blue donation site has been down again—at least it won’t talk to my computer (several sites won’t, and friend Mary thinks it’s me). Anyway, not that I am able to contribute that much but there’s another reason for my guilt. Tonight, it appeared to be working so I sent modest checks to the DCCC and to John Fetterman, because I hate that Dr. Oz and Tucker Carlson and others are broadcasting disinformation about his stroke recovery. Fetterman, admitting recovery is hard, said it best: In January, he’ll be better, and Oz will still be a fraud.

And I filled out my mail-in ballot today, being careful to meet all the new requirements. My ballot was rejected in the primaries, and I by gosh want to be sure it’s counted this time. Straight blue ticket, but I noted that the ballot no long offers you the option to vote a straight ticket. You must go through and laboriously mark each box.

Hooray! I get to read the rest of the evening. I’m reading a manuscript sent me with a request for comments. It’s a PI thriller, not my usual reading, but I’m hooked and biting my nails a lot. When it’s published, I’ll alert you all.

Sweet dreams and positive thoughts!

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 winter doldrums

 

January and February are, to me, the months of the winter doldrums. I love the way that word sounds like what it means—a period of calm, depression. It’s a seagoing term, from an area near the equator where the winds sometimes stop, marooning wind-powered sailboats for days, even weeks. It’s as though the world comes to a stop.

And that’s sometimes the way life feels in these winter months, even here in sunnier climes. Today for instance though chilly was sunny and pretty, enough to cheer the soul. But still I felt becalmed.

In the doldrums I sleep a lot—long winter naps that are both addictive and refreshing. Today, for instance, I got up, let Sophie out at her request, and when she came back inside, crawled back to my bed for another hour. I didn’t sleep, but I dozed. To my great joy, I had the glimmer of a few ideas.

I’ve read several posts from writers in recent days complaining about writer’s block, the inability to make themselves write—anything. The traditional cure of course is to write—anything, something, just write. It is of course easier said than done. But recently I’ve seen other advice which essentially advises “get yourself out of the way.” The more you worry about what to write, the less likely you are to have a clue. If you relax, stop fixing your mind frantically on the problem, and get out of the way, you might just find ideas coming your way. I think that’s part of the virtue of napping and dozing a lot—you kind of turn off your mind and thereby open it to ideas.

Not that I’m had a brainstorm—just a glimmer. But it’s enough to make me face the coming week with a tad more enthusiasm. Perhaps I can take that glimmer and twist and turn it into a plot—oh, oops, there I go again, getting in my own way.

In the cycle of life, I’m sure the doldrums have a purpose. They are not aimless, drifting, empty periods, but times of life designed to help us pull back, regroup, refresh. All that napping is healing, curative, ultimately stimulating.

It’s easy to feel guilt about doing nothing. I’m a past master at that. IF I’m not doing something productive what am I doing? And yet that very thought is as self-defeating as getting in your own way.

I guess it all comes back to those naps, that ability to be becalmed and accept it because it is a phase that will pass. The best advice is to get out of the way.

That alternate reality

Words and phrases that seem bandied about a lot in these critical times are “alternate reality” and “distanced.” I was acutely aware of the alternate realities in my world today. Woke to yet another thunderstorm, though it did “fair off” nicely and was sunny and warming up by noon.

But what got me was the distance between my reality and our world. I am isolated here in my cottage, reminding myself uncomfortably of that young boy who lived in a bubble back—when was it?—the ‘70s? I am quite comfortable, feel safe, have the company of my family, and am fairly content. My fear is that complacency will overcome me, though when Jordan brought in ground meat from the grocery tonight, I did chastise her for not separating touching the wrapping and touching the meat. But in general, I feel safe. She is inordinately careful and takes good care of me—and I am blessed.

Still, there’s always a bit of guilt with the feeling of being so comfortable when others are suffering. That feeling spurred me to make my annual contribution to my church last night, even though this is a difficult time for all of us financially.

On the other hand, I turn to my computer and realize the horror in the world around us. The number of cases of COVID-19 rises exponentially, as do the deaths. People are in desperate circumstances, hospitals are stressed beyond endurance, and the world is in a general mess. Suffering and loss and heartbreak that I cannot wrap my mind around. And here I sit, like a little princess. I am acutely aware of that distance.

I am also acutely aware of my temporary inability to concentrate on my work. There is a lot I could be doing, but in this time when the ordinary world is suspended, I don’t feel the urgency that I usually do. I can fiddle away the day, listening to videos that as Jordan points out only tell me what I already know about the disease. But the idea of doing research, picking up the threads of my professional life sometimes seems daunting. Shoot! I had to make myself clean off my desk-top greenhouse and clean my desk. Ulterior motive: we will go to church—or at least I will—in my cottage tomorrow. Jordan last week took a picture of my computer with the service, and I realized what a mess my desk was. So I have resolved to clean it before tomorrow’s remote service. And tonight I did do a bit of research reading.

Back to reality: Jordan and I made grocery lists tonight. In an uncharacteristic burst of planning, we listed meals for the coming week and then planned what we needed. Then, with computers at the ready, we crafted orders for Central Market (mine) and Tom Thumb (hers). But it was a discouraging experience—ordinary things were not offered, like Monterrey Jack cheese or a Boston butt pork roast. How can we make carnitas?

And when I went to submit my Central Market order, I got the message that no time slots are available. I’m a big CM fan, and I have sensed that HEB was doing a better job than most, but Central Market really disappointed me.

Besides, Jordan and I had anticipated a holiday dinner all week. We ordered a turkey breast and were going to make turkey and gravy, dressing, green bean casserole—the whole nine yards. When we picked up groceries today—ordered ten days ago—there was no turkey breast, no substitution.  Hard times for all of us.

And yet I hate to whine. See where I’m coming from? I am so much more comfortable and safer than most, that I have no right to complain. Something that came into the conversation last night as we enjoyed happy hour led Jordan to say, “Those are such first world problems.” And that’s where my conscience is. With a lot of prayers.

And no, I don’t believe the pastor who says this is God’s wrathful vengeance. My God is not that harsh and unloving.

Having a pity party

It’s fashionable these days to style oneself as a victim—trump does it all the time, and so do his thug followers who are now crying about the process they wrote in the House rules. So I’ve decided today to call myself a victim, though I can’t quite identify the evil  villain.

Surely, it’s not the nurse who gave me two shots yesterday—flu and pneumonia. She’s someone I’ve known and respected for years, and her injections are always smooth. She said one in each arm, so I asked which one would get less sore. She said pneumonia, so that one went in the right arm. Wrong call.

About midafternoon both arms ached at the injection site, but by early evening those aches had faded, only to be replaced by severe pain in my right shoulder. I probably would have decided in a panic that my arm was about to fall off if it weren’t for the friends who had come by for a glass of wine. He said he’d had the same thing—and it was all in the shoulder, not at the injection site. Thanks to Phil for suggesting heat.

I’ve treated myself with short periods on the hot pad (my physician brother advises against extended heat) and Tylenol and wished I could take aspirin. I think I felt two tiny, tiny twinges at the injection site of the flu vaccine and nothing in the other arm. But my shoulder is still unbelievably sore and sensitive. Makes is really hard to function, so I just kept going back to bed. Perfect day for it, with the cold wet weather that makes you want to burrow in the covers. At least I don’t have to remind Jordan to water the new grass seed—that irritates her, and it’s getting watered by the heavens today.

One minute I tell myself I’m being a wimp and to straighten up. Then I remember that I was pretty stoic about severe hip pain before the doctors decided what to do about it, so my pain tolerance must be okay. Not my imagination--the shoulder really does hurt. I also tell myself I am not one to have those vague “I don’t feel well” days—going back to bed throughout the day is unusual for me, so my body must need the rest. Isn’t it funny that we feel guilty about not feeling well?

Sophie, probably affected by the weather and maybe sensing I’m not myself (dogs are pretty good about that), has slept all day, after one brief trip outside early in the morning. I just invited her to go again by opening the door, but she stood immobile and stared at me.

I am reminded of my sweet mom, who throughout my childhood had migraines—infrequent but severe. And she took to her bed for the day. When anyone asked about her, I would cheerfully tell them, “She’ll be all right tomorrow.” And she always was. So that’s where I am—I’ll be all right tomorrow and get back to the work I meant to do today.

Testing My Faith

Church this morning was a test of my faith. I attend an established, traditional church, a Disciples of Christ congregation. I like to think our theology is liberal, even if our congregation is fairly gray-haired, older, and conservative. This morning, we sat toward the front, in front of the pulpit. A young, Middle Eastern man slipped into the pew directly in front of us. He was cleanshaven but wildly curling black hair poked out from an unusual knitted wool cap that was a cross between a beret and a sac and totally inappropriate on a June day. Thin and a bit rumpled, he carried a backpack that he set on the floor and immediately rummaged in, pulling out what appeared to be a worn Bible. Was it my imagination or was he breathing hard? Was his cotton shirt sweat-soaked as it looked? My nose thought it answered the last question, but maybe he’d ridden a bike to church. When he turned a bit, I saw huge dark eyes, wide open.

I am not happy to confess that my radar went up. Throughout the service, he read his Bible, ignoring what was going on in worship. He didn’t pray; he didn’t take communion. Why was he amongst us?

A bigger question I asked myself was if I’d have had the same reaction were he blonde with pale skin. I think the answer is that I would still be concerned, but perhaps to a lesser degree. My thoughts raged from faith to instinctive caution. As a liberal progressive, I despise racial profiling and like to think I accept people individually based on who they are. But this young man set off something instinctive in me, a fear I could not deny. In our church, all are welcome at the table, and we believe God teaches us to love all his children, no matter skin color, clothing, whatever. And the other hand, as a woman, I’ve been carefully taught to pay attention to my instincts. If I sense something is wrong, I’m urged to take action to protect myself.

Nothing happened in church, of course. The young man may well have been lost, lonely, and afraid. When the hour of greeting arrived, I shook his hand and welcomed him, and he nodded appreciatively, those wild (honest, they were) eyes looking directly at me.

I’m left wondering what God thought of my dilemma, and, more importantly, what I think about it. Conscience or caution? I still don’t know the answer. I do know that for a moment there I was reminded of the first lines of a novel I just finished writing, “Susan Hogan thought she was going to meet her maker that March day. Her first thought was irreverent. ‘Really, God? In a grocery store in Oak Grove? Haven’t you got this wrong somehow?’” My thought was, “Really, God? In church on Sunday morning?” But I also felt strangely safe, as though I knew it would all be all right.. Perhaps our lives are going to be filled with that dichotomy in these fear-ridden, uncertain times. Fear certainly is a catching disease.

The day didn’t get immediately better. Washing dishes and my favorite cup, the one I drink tea from every morning, slipped out of my soapy hands; the handle broke off, so now it’s relegated to being a small vase. It was given to me by a close friend who has since died, so it has sentimental value, making the loss that much worse.

Dinner with friends tonight soothed my troubled soul. One of my wimpy friends and her gentleman friend ate on a patio, because it’s in the 80s with a nice breeze. Not sure I would have prevailed, but apparently, he gets cold easily too. Eggplant parmigiana that was delicious. And I thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere. Thanks to Kathie and Morris for a lovely evening.

I gave myself a holiday from writing today. Piddled at my desk with this, that and the other, even made notes for the novel, but didn’t actively work on it. Pleasant, but I didn’t get as much reading done as I expected. Tomorrow, back to work. And another week begins.

The tedium of days

Sometimes the tedium of days makes me want to cower in bed, which I know is not the answer. But even though I have work to do, books to read, the routine of my days gets to me. Brush teeth, wash hair, eat breakfast, and work at my desk—some days, not feeling pushed, I spend way too much of the morning on Facebook. The ultimate in escapism. Today was one of those days.

Because I’m compulsive, I beat myself up a lot about not being productive. I wrote 1000 words on a new manuscript earlier in the week—and quit, because it just didn’t seem to come alive on the page. I have some ideas about how to fix that first thousand words—and I can’t move on until I do that. But I find myself reading a book or doing anything to distract. I have an older titles of mine to proofread so I can get it back up on Amazon. Do I do it? Nope. I diddle and fiddle. It really bothers me.

Friends came tonight to bring me supper, and we had a good long, jolly visit. Then Jacob arrived and announced he was hungry, so Teddy took him to the Old Neighborhood Grill to get a cheese quesadilla. Jacob sat and chatted like an adult—so proud of him.

Jordan is coming back tonight to make salads for our salad buffet tomorrow night, but it’s 8:30---her car is in the driveway but I don’t know where she went. Think I saw Christian’s car too so perhaps they’ve gone somewhere. Getting close to my bedtime, so I may not be much good at making salads—or directing her.

Kind of a downer post tonight, and I’m sorry. But I am so worried about my doctor appointment Tuesday, afraid my ankle is not healing. Trying to teach myself, “What will be will be.” Somehow when I tried to type the original que sera, sera, it came out in Greek letters. Is that an omen?

Tomorrow is a new day.

Meeting life with joy, or why do we blame ourselves?

Did you see the video of the 106-year-old woman dancing at the White House with the president and first lady? She was gleeful and so spry, said she’d always wanted to come to the White House and more recently to meet the Obamas. Now she was there in honor of Black History Month. Obviously, both the president and first lady delighted in her company, and one thing I must say to all his critics, from videos we see of him with the beyond-elderly and the very young, he is a man of compassion, grace, and love for humanity.

I on the other hand spent too much of the day having a pity party. It is now four days since I had the stomach virus, and the music lingers on. Saturday I felt great, last night with eight people for supper, I lost my starch—my neighbor came over to pull the barbecue, and Jordan, Susan, and Subie did the dishes. I ate but not much. This morning I woke feeling awful, got myself together once I got up and had a good and productive morning. But this afternoon and evening, my starch has gone again. One thing I know about a virus—it can linger and make you very tired.

But I also spent the day beating myself up mentally for giving in. I should, I thought, find the joy in life. It was all my fault for letting stomach issues get in my way. I should rise above. I also thought at times it was a sign of aging. I decided irrationally that my blog chronicle of the year would be of the year I aged—when in truth I’ve done so much else and really had a good year (I’m counting the year from my July birthday to the next, so it’s more than half over). Yes, I’ve had some health problems, and yes, I’ve probably lost some mobility but I’m working on improving it. And I don’t think my brain or my attitude have aged, so I’m going to ride out this pesky pestilence and stop blaming myself. I think it’s a trap we all fall into—blaming ourselves for things beyond our control.

Don’t mean to give the idea that I have the TV on all day, but sometimes I do most of the day with the sound muted, and tonight The Biggest Loser is on. I may not be in good shape, but I’m closer than some of the contestants. They are an inspiration to make me work harder at staying healthy and active. My resolve: back to Yoga. And stop feeling guilty.

Tomorrow is a new day.

The Guilty Pleasure of Reading

Since I was talking about the guilt of happiness last night, it seems only fitting to move on to the guilt of reading. Reading is a lifelong passion of mine that started when I was a young child and my mom read Chicken Little and the Wind in the Willows. In grade school. I remember summers when I rode my bike to the local branch of the Chicago Public Library, took out a stack of books, brought them home and spent the day reading them, and went back the next day. It was probably a mile from my house, and those days are gone forever: if my nine-year-old grandson wanted to ride a mile by himself, I’d be horrified and strictly forbid it. I do remember that my reading habit didn’t make me popular with neighborhood kids.

I guess it was when I became an adult with responsibilities that the pleasure of reading became attached with a tinge of guilt. There were other things I should be doing, and reading was (and is) such pure pleasure. I found myself saving my book until the last thing at night, a habit that persists—taking an hour out of the day to read seems a bit slothful to me, although I did do it yesterday and thoroughly enjoyed it. Taking advantage of the short period when we have deck weather.

Author Susan Wittig Albert reminds me that as authors reading is research and education for us. No reason to feel we’re neglecting more important things—we’re doing what’s important to our careers. I do know over the last years, since I’ve been writing mysteries, I have developed a much more acute sense of what I think works in others’ mysteries and what doesn’t. I’m no arbiter of taste, and what suits me may not suit the next person but I’ve learned to spot plot discrepancies, out-and-out blunders, awkward wording, the things that would mar a mystery of any subgenre. And by seeing those things in the works of others, I have I hope been able to strengthen my own manuscripts.

So one of my current goals is to read more—during the day, at night, whenever I feel like it. Even, as I will tonight, leave unfinished business on my computer of desk to read. What am I reading? A Wee Murder in My Shop by Fran Stewart. Who can resist a 14^th-century Scottish ghost?

The Guilt of Happiness

Today was one of October’s “bright blue days”—remember that poem from grade school days? Perfect temperature, beautiful sunshine, a perfect day. I played “hookey” from work and sat on the deck in the late afternoon, reading a book. Jacob said he‘d join me because he was doing his reading. He didn’t last long, however—bugs made him say the thought he go back inside.

I sat there, read a bit, contemplated the world a bit. So pleasant. And Jacob was perfect all afternoon—did his homework, visited with Chandry, wrestled my garbage carts (one very heavy) down to the street, and then brought in and opened three cartons of books from Amazon. The print copies of my mysteries are going away due to the publisher closing down, and I wanted to have some on hand. Now to find a place to stash them.

Jacob and I had dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill—neighbors’ night—and had a fine time. I’m always proud to take him there because he behaves so well, carries on conversations with the adults, and generally eats his dinner—which he doesn’t always do at my house.

But sitting on the deck, I thought about the fact that many of us feel guilty if we’re too happy. I said something the other day about sandbagging ourselves, and I think it’s true. I don’t know if it’s our Puritan heritage or not—our country is so diverse these days that surely not all of us bear the burden of the Puritan world view. Though I suspect there’s more than a touch of Calvinism lingering in my Scottish bones. But why when I feel perfectly wonderful do I feel the need to curb that feeling? To somehow shoot myself in the foot. Is it that I know there’s so much suffering in the world that it’s wrong for me to be happy? Is it that I’ve absorbed that Puritan consciousness that we are all sinners? I was horrified one day one day when Jacob brought home a Bible verse to memorize that said we were all sinners and had let God down—heavy thoughts to put on a nine-year-old—or someone my age.

I don’t believe in an angry God. I believing in a loving one who wants his children to be happy and follow his commandments. Where does this guilt come from? Darned if I know, but I’m going to do my best to defeat it.

What can I do? What can you do?

Somehow I keep wanting to make today Friday, and I think maybe it's because it has been a discouraging week. Karl Rove raised a ton of money to defeat liberals, the Supreme Court shot down affirmative action, Paul Ryan proposes a budget that will obliterate the middle class, and authors are suing book reviewers for negative reviews. Why is there such acrimony in our country? I posted earlier that the two rival factions in Palestinian government had come together to form a unity government. A friend suggested pressure from Israel forced that move, and she was right. Somewhere I read an article that said a fairly credible analysis claimed that the U.S. is no longer a democracy--it's an oligarchy, a country ruled by the wealthy. Well, if corporations are people and the courts keep ruling in favor of them, that's probably already true or soon will be.
Today I read an article about the 1914 Ludlow Massacre in which the Colorado National Guard fired on a tent camp of striking miners and their families, killing some two dozen, including many women and children. It seems the miners were fighting for the same rights and working conditions that are being rolled back today.
It's not only people--there is a move afoot to allow ranchers, etc., to hunt wolves to extinction. Do these people not know the laws of nature and how important each link in the chain is to the world? Perhaps the wolf will be like the buffalo--when we kill almost all of them (except maybe those in zoos), then we'll frantically be trying to bring them back as a species. It seems to me that so many people don't see beyond the present moment and their comfort and  pocketbooks. I can't believe that ranchers can't find a way to protect their herds from wolves, but as my brother told me about feral hogs--maybe I don't understand the proportion of the problem. (I have no problem with killing feral hogs and I think they're far from being endangered--people may be in more danger from them.)
It seems strange to me that in the midst of all this chaos, for that's what it must be called, most of us go peacefully on with our daily lives. Sure, my grocery and gas bills grow at a rate faster than my income, and I'm tightening my belt a little. But I still live the good life of the middle class--entertaining when I want to, eating in restaurants when the fancy strikes me, getting good medical care. I may skimp on clothes a bit but I can always buy that new pair of pants or shoes when I really want.
Sometimes I feel I should be giving more to charity, and I do give frequently to a few causes--my church, animal protection groups, Democratic candidates--but I am besieged with so many requests, that it boggles my mind.
Which leaves me with that eternal question--beyond voting, what can I, a retired woman on a fixed income, do to help save the world? Sometimes I feel helpless, but other times I think of people who have made a difference single-handedly, through persistence, and I think I'm a wimp. Guilt is not a good feeling.