Updates and thoughts on passion—no, not that kind!

 

Sophie in her donut collar. 
She is now old and mostly blind, and it shows in
her expression which clearly says
"Why are you doing this to me?"
I have no idea how to tell her it is for her health.

Update on Sophie: she is docile about the donut collar, and the shot-givers have all learned to avoid the tender areas, so no more snapping. Her cellulitis bump is going down, and she sleeps through the night. Praise be!

Update on the plumbing crisis: my native plant bed is totally destroyed, filled with large rocks—who knows where they came from? No hole in the floor yet, but the handyman is prepared should that happen. And it goes on. Today, Saturday, there is one man here working. I have no idea what he’s doing.

Update on Judith: I am faced with chores I dislike—my tax organizer arrived, so did a multi-page questionnaire to complete before a ophthalmology appointment next week, my miscellany holder on the desk badly needs sorting, and I need to check the Discover bill.  The great American novel will have to wait, though I have yet to figure out the resolution, so maybe that’s a good thing.

I’ve been chewing on the concept of gratitude lately. I try to make it a part of my life because I truly feel blessed. I was born white (not racist to say that’s worked in my favor), fairly intelligent with a comfortable life and a loving family. My refrigerator and freezer are overflowing, and I sink into a comfortable bed with a secure roof over my head each night. I am, I think, the epitome of privilege. It could have been so different; I could be an immigrant at the southern border, desperate for a new life in America, or a child hiding in a makeshift shelter next to my dead sibling in Gaza, or a farmer in Ukraine, or a nonbinary teen in Oklahoma. And somehow I think gratitude accounts for what Christian called my passion for my beliefs. It is simply because I am not that teen in Oklahoma that my blood boils when I hear a legislator refer to them as “filth” and proclaim, “We are a Christian state.” (Ironic for someone in a state with a high native American population and for someone who proclaims himself a Christian.) Gratitude is why I despise Greg Abbott’s cruelty with his cursed razor wire at the border—because I am not that pregnant woman who got entangle and died. I know life doesn’t have to be like it is for those and millions of others throughout the world.

There’s not a lot I can do from a walker in a cottage in Fort Worth, Texas, living on a fixed income. I can’t walk the block or go to rallies; my financial contributions are so small as to be insignificant, even though one of my favorite candidates insists $3 helps. Were I wealthy beyond measure, the list of politicians and charities I would support would be long. Progressive politicians like Katie Porter in California or John Tester in Montana or our own Colin Allred here in Texas. Add to that environmental organizations, wildlife and animal welfare causes, women’s rights, and others. Someone said to me that money rules the world (I think greed was implied), and I reluctantly agreed. When I protested that some people use wealth for good causes and cited Joe Biden, Christian immediately said, “He’s a millionaire.” But that, I countered, is not the operative thing about him. His life is shaped by his passion for democracy. I believe the same is true of Obama or Beto O’Rourke and was true of Ghandi, Mother Theresa. We have role models in this world. It’s just that too many of us ignore them.

One of the things I’m grateful for is that I have a church home where I am comfortable—and challenged to do what I can to make the world better. I like the Jewish concept of Tikkun olam, literally “repairing the world.” And I think it’s precisely because I am so blessed that I am bound to do what I can to repair our obviously broken world. And so I speak out. I don’t hide what Christian calls my passionate beliefs. Some have asked if I worry about alienating readers, and my answer is not at all. (Besides my career is winding down).

I’ll end this rant by quoting Martin Niemöller, “Then they came for me/And there was no one left/To speak out for me.” (see the complete poem here:  Holocaust Memorial Day Trust | First They Came – by Pastor Martin Niemöller (hmd.org.uk)

Bad start to a dog day, a happy hour mix-up, and cheers to some determined ladies

 

Sophie and I started the day off on the wrong dog foot. I forgot yesterday that I was out of canned dog food, didn’t remember until midnight which was too late to ask Jordan for a can. So first thing this morning, I fed Sophie dry kibble. No kidding! She gave me a long look, like, “This is it? I ordered eggs Benedict and you’re giving me porridge?” By time for her second breakfast (don’t ask!), I had gotten a can of meat, which she thought was much better.

And another mix-up. Jean was coming for supper, and I had the parts all ready and in the fridge. So I was a bit surprised when Subie and Phil appeared at five o’clock—I had them on my calendar for tomorrow night. Luckily, part of supper for Jean was a cucumber dip, so we all enjoyed that and a visit, Subie and Phil left, and Jean and I had supper and a visit. Supper was smoked salmon, potato salad, and cucumber dip. Needs work. But the conversation was good. Nice that I’m flexible, but now I have no company Saturday or Sunday. Guess I’ll order myself some fresh Dover sole for Saturday.

The real thing I wanted to blog about tonight, instead of my forgetful memory and disorganized friends, is a group of volunteer moms I read about this week. In 2022’s Bruen decision, the Supreme Court struck down bans on concealed carry and expanded upon the previous standard for determining the constitutionality of gun regulations, declaring that authorities had to find analogous gun laws that existed prior to 1900. Justice Clarence Thomas, writing for the court, found that before that date, concealed carry bans were not part of America’s history and traditions, and they were thus unconstitutional.

About 20 volunteers with Moms Demand Action, part of the gun safety group Everytown, are scouring archives across the United States for historical firearm regulations. The project is far from academic. In Bruen, the Supreme Court demanded proof that a firearm regulation is rooted in “longstanding” tradition in the form of “historical analogues”—old gun laws that show how Americans “understood” the Second Amendment in the past. The historical record of firearm regulations, however, is far from complete. So motivated volunteers are stepping in to fill the gaps. What they’ve found directly contradicts the Supreme Court’s conclusions.

While the academic research already relied upon by Thomas and other judges to strike down gun laws has been shaky at best, the stakes of attempting to satisfy the test he laid out could not be higher. For just one example, see next term’s big gun case, which asks whether the Second Amendment prevents the government from disarming people who are under a restraining order for domestic violence.

These women volunteers are going beyond giving voice to their cause, and I admire that. Let’s hope they come up with strong gun control laws to convince our extremist judges. What I don’t understand is judicial precedent for saying a law had to exist before 1900. Did Justice Thomas make that up out of his own imagination?

That these women are working so hard is, however, part of a new trend to me, and we are seeing it in Texas. It’s a trend to fight Republican authoritarianism and tricks. In Texas, judges have recently ruled that the ban on gender-affirming care for teenagers is unconstitutional, and so is the book banning law which requires vendors to label sexual content in books and ultimately categorize a backlog of books sold, a task that would consume untold work hours and expense. The AG’s office has appealed the gender care bill, which somehow means the bill will go into effect until the Texas Supreme Court rules—and I believe they have greenlighted the bill. But the book law is held in abeyance pending the outcome of the appeal. In Houston, teachers are speaking out against the state (read Republican) takeover of the education system with ridiculous requirements. What these cases say to me is that people are fighting back rather than abjectly accepting these ridiculous rulings from on high. (Eat your heart out, Greg Abbott)

When I see one of the frequent comparisons of what is happening to our country to what happened in 1930s Germany, I immediately think of Martin Niemöller’s poem about not speaking out. The big difference to me is that Americans are speaking out. It doesn’t always work, but resistance is showing some slow progress. I don’t have statistics at hand, but the number of Americans who support abortion care, gender-affirming care, freedom to read, freedom in the classroom, and—a biggie—gun control is astounding, mostly in the 80% range. We will not lose our freedoms if we continue to speak out, especially at the ballot box.

Feminist Gloria Steinem proclaims that if one person speaks out, they make it easier for the next person to speak out. And that very hopeful sign is what I see in America. We will not give up democracy easily, and no, we don’t need violence in the streets.

Watch for a Mothers Against Greg Abbott sign to go up in our front yard this weekend.

Have you found your voice yet to speak out for whatever you consider right and proper?

 

 

 

My interesting life

 

Some of my friends almost visibly wring their hands over me, spending my days at my computer, sometimes not leaving the property for days (I do have plenty of company). Several years ago Jacob asked one of his parents, “What does she do all day out there? Play on Facebook?” He should read this post. It’s true, some days are a bit boring—like when I’m bogged down in a manuscript that isn’t going at all the way I think it should. But today, I’ve been amused by the variety of projects that came across my desk.

Yes, there’s politics—if you know me at all, you know I speak out at injustice, and these days I see a lot of it. Hot topics with me today are the school voucher bill about to be considered in the Texas Senate and the appalling reaction of Texas leaders to two mass shooting within a week. So yes, I wrote to my state representative about the bill some legislator introduced to give trauma training to third graders and install bleed stations in third-grade classrooms. Third graders? I cannot abide the acceptance of violence with no effort at prevention. And tonight I’ll write my state senator protesting the school voucher bill which, to me, is a sop to the rich and part of Abbott’s program to undermine public education, which it will effectively accomplish. The proposed stipend will not enable many more families to choose private education, and unless things are changed, there’s no accountability for how the money is spent.

A year or so ago, I did the basic writing for twelve tile plaques to be placed on the exterior walls of the Will Rogers Memorial Center, chronicling Texas history. Since then, the text for those plaques has been rewritten, edited, amended, and whatever by a variety of hands including those of my good friend Carol Roark who knows far more about Texas history than I do. Today those captions came back to me once again (I think this is the second time), now in final form. Perfect. Would I just check punctuation. So I did, found lots of capitalization problems and a couple of sentences that just didn’t make sense. If you cut out extraneous stuff and take a sentence down to subject, verb, and object, nonsense jumps out at you. So back they went.

And then a newbie writer sent me a copy of her work-in-progress, a historical mystery set in Chicago. I forgot I had volunteered to be a beta reader because I’m always interested in Chicago history. I’m glad to do it, though—along the way others have helped me, and I’m glad to pay it forward.

I also had on my to-do list for today an evaluation of a manuscript under consideration at a university press, so I wrote up my notes, filled out the forms, and sent it off.

And finally, this evening I go an email from the Southwest Writers Collection containing the unpublished manuscript of a young-adult novel I wrote years ago. It had to do with the house of a childhood friend where life, at the time, seemed much more exciting than my staid household. The friend I wrote it for died several years ago, but her older sister wants to read it. So I’ve sent it off and saved a copy for myself, which I’ll read when I get to it.

With all that reading stacking up my project tonight is to finish the mystery I’m reading so I can clear the decks and review the forthcoming mystery by a friend, which I’ve promised to put in this blog, and read that Chicago novel. The mystery is a thriller, which is not my usual fare—I don’t like to be scared or depressed when I read. But this is absorbing. When it gets tense, I just take a break.

The Burtons are at the Paschal golf team’s end-of-year dinner tonight, so I’m on my own. While they eat Italian food, I’m thinking about what I can do with a can of sardines. I have plenty because for a bit every time I put anchovies on the grocery list, Jordan came home with sardines.

Not a bad day. Not boring at all. In fact, a lovely way to spend a rainy day. We had a slow drizzle much of the day—perfect for those new plants that were put in yesterday. Not so perfect for Sophie who has declined to go out except for one quick and desperate trip.

A food day and a word about my blog

July 16, 2018

Another food day. Fixed chicken pot pie filling in puff pastry for my chef-friend Heather for lunch. It was an experiment, because the box clearly said not to use a toaster oven—and that, of course, is what I used. The puff pastries did not turn out as I expected nor as the picture on the box suggests, but Heather said they were pretty much like they should be. When I started to give Jacob leftovers, he pointed to the pastry, said “What’s that?” and didn’t even give me time to reply before he said, “I don’t want it.” Unperturbed, I kept spooning the filling onto the pastry. “Yes, you do,” I told him. “It’s just like the pastry you loved last time I fixed this.” He liked it.

This evening Subie and I had a nice dinner at Winslow’s Wine Café. I ordered meatloaf, but it had bell peppers mixed in it. Settled for a.crab cake and chocolate mousse. Decadent but oh so good. And a lovely visit.

A dear friend posted on Facebook this morning that she was glad when I gave up politics (must have been a brief and calm period)—she wants more Juju (my grandmotherly name) and less politics. For those of you who read my blog regularly, a word may be in order. I try not to post only about politics but sometimes I cannot help myself. And perhaps today of all days is a good one to explain why I post about politics.

I have a good friend who makes me look meek as an activist. She’s a progressive, a feminist, an ardent Episcopalian, and a fighter for all the causes I hold dear. She’s intelligent, outspoken, and never at a loss for comments and contributions. But she’s also a devoted grandmother, an animal lover who can’t resist a furry face, be it canine or feline, and a skilled gardener with a huge property to maintain. She posts a lost of activist messages, but she also posts about her grandsons, known as the best boys, her animals, and her garden. She told me once she posts the personal because she wants people to know there’s a warm, fuzzy side to her, to know that she’s much more than a shrill activist.

I try to take a leaf from her book, and, in fact, I think my posts are proportionately more personal than political. But I cannot and will not keep quiet about the divisive turmoil in this country, the fact that many experts agree we have been led a good distance down the road to fascism. And the fact today that the supposed president of our country sold us out to Putin.

People say to me that they’re so tired of politics they just tune it out. That, to me, is a most dangerous attitude. It’s exactly what Putin and trump want. They want to accustom us, bit by bit, to an erosion of our values, to categorizing some humans as inferior and dangerous, to slowly encroaching cruelty until we’re numb to it. I keep remembering Martin Niemoller’s poem that begins, “First they came for the socialists…and I did not speak out, because I was not a socialist.” It ends, “And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out.”

I know many disagree with me, but I will continue to speak out against the destruction of all that America has stood for: for the alienation of our international allies and destruction of the world order, against the increasing racism and hate in our country, against harsh and cruel immigration procedures, against the increase in climate warming and the rollback of regulations protecting the environment, against laws which favor the rich and rob the poor of health care, education, even food, against the control of women’s bodies by old white men.

I think it’s important, however, to stick to the issues—and I urge my fellow progressives to do that. It’s easy to pick on trump, pence, mcconnell and others for their personal appearance and foibles—why doesn’t the orange buffoon learn to button his coat? And did he really walk in front of the Queen?—but that defeats our cause and turns people away. Stick to the major issues that are destroying our world; try to ignore those easy quick jabs (though, Lord, that’s hard sometimes).

November is coming. Sometimes I feel it’s our only hope. This blog started out to be about grandmothering, writing, and cooking. Politics crept in because I can’t keep it out. I hope you’ll stick with me through all topics.

A food day and a word about my blog

July 16, 2018

Another food day. Fixed chicken pot pie filling in puff pastry for my chef-friend Heather for lunch. It was an experiment, because the box clearly said not to use a toaster oven—and that, of course, is what I used. The puff pastries did not turn out as I expected nor as the picture on the box suggests, but Heather said they were pretty much like they should be. When I started to give Jacob leftovers, he pointed to the pastry, said “What’s that?” and didn’t even give me time to reply before he said, “I don’t want it.” Unperturbed, I kept spooning the filling onto the pastry. “Yes, you do,” I told him. “It’s just like the pastry you loved last time I fixed this.” He liked it.

This evening Subie and I had a nice dinner at Winslow’s Wine Café. I ordered meatloaf, but it had bell peppers mixed in it. Settled for a.crab cake and chocolate mousse. Decadent but oh so good. And a lovely visit.

A dear friend posted on Facebook this morning that she was glad when I gave up politics (must have been a brief and calm period)—she wants more Juju (my grandmotherly name) and less politics. For those of you who read my blog regularly, a word may be in order. I try not to post only about politics but sometimes I cannot help myself. And perhaps today of all days is a good one to explain why I post about politics.

I have a good friend who makes me look meek as an activist. She’s a progressive, a feminist, an ardent Episcopalian, and a fighter for all the causes I hold dear. She’s intelligent, outspoken, and never at a loss for comments and contributions. But she’s also a devoted grandmother, an animal lover who can’t resist a furry face, be it canine or feline, and a skilled gardener with a huge property to maintain. She posts a lost of activist messages, but she also posts about her grandsons, known as the best boys, her animals, and her garden. She told me once she posts the personal because she wants people to know there’s a warm, fuzzy side to her, to know that she’s much more than a shrill activist.

I try to take a leaf from her book, and, in fact, I think my posts are proportionately more personal than political. But I cannot and will not keep quiet about the divisive turmoil in this country, the fact that many experts agree we have been led a good distance down the road to fascism. And the fact today that the supposed president of our country sold us out to Putin.

People say to me that they’re so tired of politics they just tune it out. That, to me, is a most dangerous attitude. It’s exactly what Putin and trump want. They want to accustom us, bit by bit, to an erosion of our values, to categorizing some humans as inferior and dangerous, to slowly encroaching cruelty until we’re numb to it. I keep remembering Martin Niemoller’s poem that begins, “First they came for the socialists…and I did not speak out, because I was not a socialist.” It ends, “And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out.”

I know many disagree with me, but I will continue to speak out against the destruction of all that America has stood for: for the alienation of our international allies and destruction of the world order, against the increasing racism and hate in our country, against harsh and cruel immigration procedures, against the increase in climate warming and the rollback of regulations protecting the environment, against laws which favor the rich and rob the poor of health care, education, even food, against the control of women’s bodies by old white men.

I think it’s important, however, to stick to the issues—and I urge my fellow progressives to do that. It’s easy to pick on trump, pence, mcconnell and others for their personal appearance and foibles—why doesn’t the orange buffoon learn to button his coat? And did he really walk in front of the Queen?—but that defeats our cause and turns people away. Stick to the major issues that are destroying our world; try to ignore those easy quick jabs (though, Lord, that’s hard sometimes).

November is coming. Sometimes I feel it’s our only hope. This blog started out to be about grandmothering, writing, and cooking. Politics crept in because I can’t keep it out. I hope you’ll stick with me through all topics.

A damp, chilly day and my view on Facebook

Spring was in full bloom when I woke up this morning—rainy and a bit chilly. Oh the temperature wasn’t bad, but it just felt cool. Rain was heavy, then slight, then heavy again, but it rained almost all morning. Actually, I’d have liked it—after all, my basil seeds, and my newlettuce and onion were getting good soakings,--but I had to go out in it.

Or I thought I did. Two days in a row now I’ve tried to go to doctor appointments that are really next week—somehow I was just a week off on my computer calendar. Yesterday I caught it before I left the house. Talking to a friend and arranging a lunch for next week, I noticed that the audiologist was listed twice—once yesterday and once the next Monday. Hastily I called to check, found out it was next week, and cancelled my ride in time to avoid Betty picking me up or me showing up there only to be told I didn’t have an appointment.

Not so lucky today. There was great confusion over whether Jordan or Christian would take me to the eye doctor. Ophthalmology appointments always take so long because of eye dilation and all that someone drops me off, and I call when I’m through. To my surprise, Jordan came back after dropping Jacob at school to get me, and I arrived at the office with one minute to spare. Checked in and settled down to wait my turn, only to have the receptionist come and say solicitously, “Your appointment is not until next week.” I called good friend Jean who came to get me and take me home. I figured Jordan had barely gotten to her office, and it would upset her routine to have to leave again so quickly.

I’ve had two nice long days at home at my desk, with a brief detour this morning. With rainy weather, I’ve been grateful to be at home, snug and secure. And it’s great nap weather.

Yesterday I got into a protracted—really long!—and sometimes unpleasant discussion of gun control, so ugly that it led me to block someone, a thing I’ve only done twice before in my long years of social media. The person I blocked accused me of being an angry old white woman, which I readily acknowledge—I am angry that children have to show us the way. But the line that got me was that he wasn’t going to enable me—sorry, sir, no man “enables” me. I have another FB antagonist who is absolutely, to my mind, off the wall in his arguments, leaping from this topic to that so fast, you can barely follow and always coming back to blame it all on Obama and Hilary. But I know he’s otherwise a good guy at heart, and he has never ever attacked me as a person—so I don’t and won’t block him. I enjoy our exchanges—okay, sparring matches. But many on the conservative side cannot exchange opinions without attacking the person voicing the opposite view. I deplore that. I am not now capable of volunteering for many causes I find worthwhile--speaking out is one of my ways of paying it forward.

Some ask why I’m so vocal on Facebook, and I can only reply that my conscience makes me speak out against what I feel is unjust, dangerous, cruel,, detrimental to our country—and these days that’s a lot. To remain silent would be to be complicit. Fellow authors suggest I might antagonize readers. I hope not, but it’s a price I’d pay for liberty and justice for all in this country. I am constantly reminded of Martin Niemoller’s WWII words:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

That, my friends, is why I speak out—for my family, my grandchildren, for you, and for me. I hope it doesn’t upset you.