Day of the Dead

In Mexico and elsewhere, Dia de Muertos is celebrated on October 31, November 1, and November 2. The Western Christian version, Allhallowtide, incorporates All Saints' Eve, All Saints' Day, and All Souls' Day. (In the Catholic Church, All Saints' Day was a "holy day of obligation," meaning we had to go to church on that day. Buzzkill after all that candy.) The origins of Day of the Dead involve honoring the dead by graveyard visits, dining on muertos (bread of the dead) and sugar skulls, and using marigolds to summon the spirits.

So I'm posting this on Halloween night, a holiday that at one time had some meaning to me. But there are no trick-or-treaters here where I am living, and consequently, there is a dearth of sugar skulls in my home. There is, however, a bottle of merlot. Make due with what you have.

The first Halloween I can recall was when I was four. I don't remember what my costume was. What I do remember is that my trick-or-treat bag was made of paper. (This was long before the plastic pumpkins which are now clogging our oceans.) Being four, I wasn't very tall. Consequently, my paper bag dragged on the gravel, eventually putting a hole in it and dispensing all my hard-earned candy in the streets. Why my father didn't realize this puzzles me to this day. Upon returning home and opening my empty bag, I howled like a Halloween ghost. (Oh! That was probably my costume! A white pillowcase with holes cut out for eyes!) My mother made my sister share her candy with me, which explains in part why she always considered me a pain-in-the-butt kid sister.

Once I was old enough to go trick-or-treating without parental accompaniment, I paired up with my best friend, Peggy. We always made our own costumes. One of our favorites was that of a "two-headed lady," which involved sharing a large coat of Peggy's mom's. We thought we were so clever . . . until people started referring to us as "Siamese twins," a label that befuddled us, as we had no idea what a "Siamese twin" was. We quickly got tired of arguing about it, though, and just took the candy and left.

When I became a parent, Halloween evolved from an excuse to party and drink too much beer to one of being a responsible adult, shepherding my offspring through my old neighborhood, ignoring their whining, and finding joy in the oohs and ahhs of the old ladies who now occupied the homes on my old street. It was a tedious exercise, but I embraced it in the spirit of tradition. And of course, I made my kids' costumes. One of my favorites was when they went as a fruit salad: Katrina was purple grapes, Jenna was a strawberry, and Sam was a banana. Scary, huh? (They did evolve into pirates and witches and hippies as they got older.)

And now, for me, Halloween is a nothing-burger. And I'm okay with that. There's that bottle of merlot I mentioned and my Bose is playing Day of the Dead, an "epic tribute to the music and artistry of the Grateful Dead."

Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings.

The Damn-Givers

"It's exhausting to give a damn."
     ~ John Pavlovitz

I was fortunate this past weekend to attend two events featuring John Pavlovitz, the author/blogger/preacher who has become somewhat of a darling to liberals of all creeds. I'm a fan. I had a chance to speak with him up close and personal at the first event, a private gathering in a friend's home. We talked about blogging, among other things. Pavlovitz, whose blog Stuff That Needs to Be Said is read by millions, credits the boost in his readership to Katy Perry, who shared a link. Be that as it may, I think that there are many spiritually hungry people who would have found their way to the blog, with or without help from Katy Perry. Having said that, hey, Katy . . . can you give my blog a boost?

I have many take-aways from Pavlovitz's talks. First of all, he acknowledged the "sickness" that so many of us have been suffering since November 9, 2016. When he described the condition, there was a collective sigh in the audience that seemed to say, "Phew! It's not just me!" For those of us who feel helpless and hopeless about the America in which we live now, Pavlovitz provided a spark of energy that suggested we can reverse the course of events that threaten our identity as a nation of compassion  and justice. Obviously, the most important thing we can do is VOTE on (or before) November 6. What else can we do? We can practice "the subversive work of love." Pavlovitz is particularly angry at the evangelical Christians who signed on to "Make America Great Again." He notes that "goodness" was never part of the Trump platform, a slap in the face to the Jesus that they purport to celebrate. For American Christians, the "subversive work of love" demands that they need to raise their voices now to reclaim a belief in a life of mercy and gentleness, not greatness. And for those of us who do not necessarily embrace Christianity, we need to identify what it is about this Trumpian nightmare that troubles us and then work to change it. If you are mourning the lack of compassion, then find ways to practice compassion. If you feel that we are no longer a generous nation, then find ways to be generous.

"Save what you can." Pavlovitz cited the tragedy that befell a friend of his who lost his home in the California wildfires. The friend said, "We saved what we could." We, as a nation, lost a lot on November 9, 1916. But it is our mission to save what we can. "Be the kind of person the world needs" proclaims one of the T-shirts for sale at a Pavlovitz event. If you were a fair-minded, loving, and honest person before November 9, 2016, you still possess those qualities. Find ways to use them. Save what you can.

Yes, Pavlovitz is blatantly anti-Trump. No apologies. But Trump is the vehicle he uses to drive home a message of compassion and empathy, qualities that are lacking in every policy and position that the current administration has forced upon us. If you want to understand Pavlovitz's disdain for Trump, read his post-election entry, "Here's Why We Grieve Today." And if you like what you read, you might want to look for "If I Have Gay Children" or "To Brock Turner's Father, from Another Father." Keep reading, keep understanding that you are not alone, and keep being inspired to right the wrongs that have been foisted upon this nation by a heartless man who was having "a bad hair day" on the same day that eleven people were killed in a mass shooting because they were worshipping their god. Pavlovitz can help you articulate your thoughts, find ways to heal your heart, and reclaim the hope that has seemed out-of-reach for the past two years.

"Blessed are the damn-givers, for they shall right-side the world."

That's me with John Pavlovitz!

Assault Life

On my way to my winter home, weary of I-95, I drove some back roads through the low country of Georgia. I can sum it up by stating two things. The landscape was gorgeous, a wonderful reprieve from the Interstate. And the second observation is that the "Kemp" signs significantly outnumbered the "Abrams" signs. (I don't think that means there are more Kemp supporters than Abrams supporters; I think it means the Republicans have more money to spend on buying and posting signs.) Anyway, I was enjoying the drive until I got behind a pickup truck with a decal that forced me to contemplate life in America probably until I reached Jacksonville. Well, that's a lie. I'm still contemplating it.

I'm sure you are familiar with the "Salt Life" car decal? Salt Life, a clothing and gear company, was founded by some guys who worship ocean life. They live an "ocean-centered life style," enjoying extreme surfing, free diving, fishing, and other oceanic sports. Sounds to me like a good group to become associated with. I mean, I'm in a relationship with a sailor, so the sense of romance, adventure, and responsible environmentalism is very appealing.

But that's not what the decal on the pickup truck in Georgia was celebrating. The decal, including an image of an AK-47, declared "Assault Life." WTF?

My first question, of course, was "Who the fuck are you shooting at with that thing?" THAT'S your LIFE? Seriously?

And then, to calm myself down, I thought about guns. Not assault rifles. "Cowboy and Indian" type guns. I'm a Baby Boomer; we grew up on Westerns. We all had cap guns. We watched The Rifleman, Rawhide, The Lone Ranger, Gunsmoke, Have Gun - Will Travel, Gunslinger, Bonanza, and several others. We knew all the names: Jim Bowie, Kit Carson, Wild Bill Hickok, Annie Oakley, Bat Masterson, Bret Maverick, Davy Crockett, Gene Autry, Wyatt Earp, Roy Rogers, Yancy Deringer, Zorro. Hell, my grandmother was personal friends with William Boyd (Hopalong Cassidy), who was also said to later reside in the very New Jersey county in which I grew up. Gunslingers all.

But my favorite? Steve McQueen in Wanted: Dead or Alive which aired from 1958 to 1961. McQueen played bounty hunter Josh Randall, a Confederate veteran who carried a shortened Winchester Model 1892 carbine called the "Mare's Leg" in a holster patterned after gunslinger rigs popular in movies. It was that holster that got my attention. Whereas most cowboys just had a holster dangling from a belt, Josh Randall secured his holster to his leg with a piece of rawhide tied around his thigh. During my Josh Randall days, I was between eight and eleven; I knew nothing about sex, what it was, what it meant. But damn, that holster was sexy! I can still see myself tying some sort of rope around my thigh to secure my cap-gun-in-a-holster and feeling like I was something! Seriously, I'm not kidding! I had a bad-ass side, if only in my fantasies.

Josh Randall rode a horse named "Ringo." (Just thought I'd throw that in.)

So what am I trying to say here? I don't know, guns are and always have been a part of American life? My father was a hunter; I grew up on venison and pheasant until wild game made me throw up. I have never owned a gun, but I understood what gun cabinets were for and why most men in my childhood neighborhood had them. And might I add that some of us who grew up on guns became pacifists?

But "Assault Life"??? What a sad commentary on America. Well, just add it to the pile. While writing this, I learned that they arrested a suspect in the pipe bomb-mailing issue of the last several days. Do I feel safer now that he has been apprehended?

You can bet your (assault) life . . . no.

Canvass Art

My itinerary for a road trip south included a weekend with my daughter Katrina, who lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. A week or so before the planned visit, she informed me that she had committed to a few hours of pre-midterm canvassing on that Saturday morning; would I mind accompanying her? Of course I said yes ("Whatever you want, Honey!"), but inside, I was whining. Canvassing? Intruding on people at their homes? Trying to avoid political confrontations? This was way out of my comfort zone! But needless to say, the mother in me said sure, no problem!

And as it turned out, our canvassing was devoid of all the things I was fearing. It was a walk in the park, so to speak, despite the "park" often appearing to be something else entirely. More on that later.

I am of that breed of liberal who embraces political correctness to the point that I am puzzled and angry that the term itself has become somewhat of a trigger. How can anyone be against the simple courtesy of not offending others? So when Katrina asked me over breakfast this morning if I was going to write a blog post about our canvassing experience, I told her that I'd considered it but decided against it, for fear that I would say something wrong. Because in my mind, our experience had much to do with race. In other words, the story cannot be accurately told without revealing that we were two white women knocking on doors in a predominantly black neighborhood.

Katrina called BS on that (well, not literally) and gave me her opinion on why I should, indeed, blog about it. And so here I am, ready to (carefully) dive in.

We were assigned to a neighborhood in Person County NC. "Turf 14," our clipboard said. I was relieved to see that we were assigned to knock only on doors of registered Democrats, as well as a few undeclared persons. No Republican households. The fear of political confrontations disappeared. I can do this!

When we found Turf 14, it took us awhile to find a place to park. All of the streets had "No Parking" signs, and there did not appear to be any public lots or stores in front of which to park. And while we drove around the neighborhood looking for a parking spot, we were quite aware that several people were watching, wondering who these strangers were driving around their neighborhood. We parked in an empty lot a short distance away, put up our umbrellas, and went in.

We'd set up a system beforehand. Katrina would do the knocking and talking, while I would navigate the map and the list of houses to approach. I would also tally the results of each contact. Although I struggled with controlling an umbrella, a clipboard, a pen, and a pair of reading glasses, I managed to shuffle through the 10-page list of names (divided by streets) and complete a fairly accurate report.

As we found each house on our list, we were aware of the houses we passed by. In several cases, those houses were in better shape than the ones upon whose doors we knocked. While I deduced that we were in a poor, black neighborhood, Katrina's more acute observation revealed that we were in a mixed neighborhood and that most likely, the houses not on our list were occupied by registered Republicans, who are most often white. This, of course, is a generalization. But the truth is that none of the people in the houses we approached were white, although we did see some white people as we walked the streets.

One thing that I noticed each and every time someone answered the door was that there was a look of suspicion and distrust on the face of the resident of the house. But as soon as Katrina announced that we were with the Democratic Party, those faces softened into an expression of welcome. As she explained why we were there, our differences seemed to disappear, if only for the moment, and there was spoken and tacit acknowledgement that we were on the same page. Each interaction ended pleasantly, even with the two residents who asserted that they do not vote.

Despite the reality that there were several houses in disrepair, their porches overwhelmed with trash and debris, there were other homes with little gardens in the yard, welcoming signs, and an obvious attempt to establish the building as a home, not just a house. Our favorite experience was on a front porch occupied by three women who schooled us on who lives where, how everyone intended to vote, and which doors we should be sure to knock on. Several of the homes had an abundance of Halloween decorations, right alongside the "Thank You, Jesus" placards. I recall the house that had a "Keep Out!" sign on the door which made us wonder if it was for real or just a Halloween decoration, as it was designed to look like dripping blood! Katrina, obedient child that she is, refused to approach any house that had a "No Trespassing" sign in the yard.

After several hours, during which we did not quite complete all the addresses on our list, time restraints demanded that we leave Turf 14 and head back to headquarters to turn in our sheets. As exhausted as I was, my reflections on the experience were all positive. So here are my take-aways:

~ There's a reason that we were well-received in this neighborhood. We declared ourselves Democrats. And in this case, it is not about tribalism. It's the certainty that the Democratic Party is the party of compassion, and the people we spoke to know that. Once we established that shared belief, we were non-threatening to one another.

~ Katrina and I discussed the differences between a couple of white people going into a black neighborhood to canvass and a couple of black people going into a white neighborhood to canvass. I'll let you use your own imagination to come to your own conclusions about this. But I think it's fair to say that these two scenarios are not equal. What will it take to correct that misconception?

~ The current divisiveness in our country is devastating. Finding common ground with one another is essential if we are going to overcome this divide. It could be as simple as recognizing that whatever neighborhood we occupy, whatever ethnic heritage we claim, whatever economic status we fall under, we have much more in common than that which divides us. I know that I could have spent an afternoon on the porch with those three women and had a damn good time. It's not that hard.

And by the way, GET OUT AND VOTE!

Sears and Roeb(ankr)u(pt)c(y)k

Although the name was officially "Sears, Roebuck and Co.," my memory insists on "Sears and Roebuck." Founded 132 years ago as a mail-order watch company, it eventually became the Amazon of its day, selling everything from tombstones to barber chairs to wigs to build-from-a-kit houses.

And this week, the struggling company filed for bankruptcy. It will close 142 of its remaining 700 stores.

Those of us who are now at a certain age have some fond memories of Sears. Although the yearly arrival of "The Big Book" (the company's merchandise catalog which grew to over 500 pages in the good years) was an exciting day in American households, it was nothing compared to the arrival of "The Wish Book," Sears' Christmas catalog. Like many kids, I spent hours and hours pouring over that catalog, making my Christmas list. Although my memory can be faulty, I recall that my mother gave me a limit of $100 to select my gifts. We were not well-off by any means, so I question if I have that number right. One hundred dollars times three kids . . . where would my parents have gotten that kind of money? Oh, wait. I forgot. Santa!

The joyful task of making my list became a math exercise as well. I tried to choose items from the various sections of the catalog, making sure to include a mix of toys, puzzles, books, craft kits, and clothes. Tweaking the list to meet the magic number of $100 was a time-consuming exercise. I didn't dare go over the limit, but I also didn't want to leave any money unspent. On Christmas morning, I found everything I asked for under the tree.

While I can recall certain gifts from that time (like my Royce Union 24" two wheel bicycle in 1957), one that stands out was the Ideal Toy Company's "Mr. Machine." No, I did not put "Mr. Machine" on my wish list. But my brother did. The popular toy came out in 1960. I was ten, and my brother was five, much too young to put together the 44 plastic pieces that would turn the kit into a walking robot. (The clear plastic body allowed you to see the working gears!) To this day, I can still sing the advertising jingle:

Here he comes, here he comes, greatest toy you've ever seen
And his name is Mr. Machine
He is real, he is real, and for you he is Ideal
And his name is Mr. Machine
Mr. Machine, Mr. Machine, Mr. Machine!

And to those of you in my age group, I apologize for the earworm.

Anyway, Mr. Machine was like a bonus gift for me, getting to assemble it for my little brother.

By the late 1960s, Sears was no longer "cool." Their dungarees just couldn't compare to hip-hugger bell bottom jeans available elsewhere. Aside from the ever-popular Kenmore appliances, modern Americans began to eschew Sears for JC Penney, WalMart, and eventually, whatever new and hip retailers started up.

So it isn't a surprise, really, that Sears has filed for bankruptcy. And of course, that doesn't mean that the company will disappear. It's still there . . . but for how long? Of course, the demise of this great American retail institution does not affect me in any way, except for evoking some nostalgia that is, if nothing else, wistful. It harkens back to another time, long before this country became what it is today . . .

And you were thinking this would be a non-political post, weren't you?

Poop

Fearing that social media might take away my license to blog, I resisted titling this post appropriately. "Poop" is an acceptable word, I think, whereas "shit," which is what I wanted to title this, is not. I watched a funny youtube video this morning of the Finnish comedian, Ismo Leikola, discussing the many contradictory meanings of the word "shit." Ismo is the shit! Google it if you have not seen it. It's a pretty funny commentary on American English.

Anyway, as I write this, I am consuming a shitload of food. That's because tomorrow will be a day of fasting. And tomorrow evening? Shit! I mean poop!

Yes, that's right, it's time for my 3-year colonoscopy. With that word, I probably just lost half my audience here. I mean, who wants to read this shit? But if you're still here, bear with me. Consider this my PSA. (That's "Public Service Announcement," not "Poopy Shit Advisory.")

Colorectal cancer is the third most common cancer in the United States. It is also the third leading cause of cancer-related deaths in the United States. It is expected that there will be 50,630 deaths from colorectal cancer in 2018. Despite those numbers, the good news is that the death rate from colon cancer has actually been dropping. One obvious reason is that over the decades, better and more successful treatments have been introduced. The other big reason is that more people are getting screened. Whereas the suggested age of screening was originally 50, it has recently been dropped to 45. If I were the Queen of the World, I would lower it to 30.

My husband was diagnosed with Stage IV colorectal cancer at age 41. Pete was an athlete, in great health . . . except for the stupid cancer. Did he have symptoms before diagnosis? Yes. So why didn't he get screened? Well, for one, he was a guy. (Sorry, but statistics will bear out that women pay closer attention to their health than do men.) And for another, in 1998, we didn't know anybody who'd had a colonoscopy. So there was the fear factor. Fear of the unknown, fear of invasive testing, fear of doctors and hospitals, fear of discomfort. By the time we found someone who'd had the procedure and said it was nothing to be afraid of, it was too late. After four years of radiation, chemotherapy, multiple surgeries, clinical trials and routine testing, Pete lost the fight at age 45, leaving me and three young kids behind. When he knew his death was imminent, he said he had no one to blame but himself. He'd been a fool to avoid earlier screening, and he paid with his life. (His words, not mine.)

Shit. That's a downer, isn't it? But maybe it scared the shit out of those of you who have been putting that colonoscopy off? You know who you are! Put on your big boy (or girl) pants (which you'll be dropping multiple times the night before the test) and schedule that appointment. What do you have to lose . . . except a lot of shit? What do you have to gain? Maybe the rest of your life.

So yeah, anyone who has been screened will tell you the same thing: the only bad part is the prep. And you do that in the privacy of your own home. Your reward the next day will be a lovely little propofol nap! At worst, cancer will be discovered . . . and treated early. Not so bad would be polyps, which can be removed during the procedure. Best would be a clean bill of health . . . and a celebratory meal! Pig out!

Speaking of which, I have some pigging out to do this evening. I have lots of distractions planned for tomorrow's fast and a fat book of Sudoku puzzles strategically placed in the bathroom. I am looking forward to my Michael-Jackson-style sleep (well, not the permanent sleep that he incurred) during the procedure, some good news, and then a satisfying lunch. And then I'm good for three years. Well, unless the world gets blown apart before then. But that's another shitty conversation for another day. For now, I'm pooped!

Where Have All the Tablecloths Gone?

This water-in-the-basement problem has forced me to clear out shelves and drawers that happen to occupy space that will soon be host to jackhammers. In so doing, I have come upon items that I had no idea I still owned. Sad to say, I've also discovered stores of rice and other grains, piled up in remote corners by the resident mice . . . for a future they will never know, thanks to my exterminators. It's been a fun week. Not.

One drawer hosted Halloween costumes, including a wedding "hat" that this maid-of-honor wore in a 1974 wedding. It shared space with a tutu, a pirate's sword, and a coonskin cap. Another drawer had a collection of shawls, three of them crocheted by yours truly. If shawls ever come back in style, I'm good to go.  Another drawer had a lot of bubble wrap. You can never have too much bubble wrap. Who knows when you might have to ship a dinner service for twelve somewhere across the country? Or when the Age of Trump has stressed you out so much you need to pop air bubbles 24/7?

And then there was the drawer of tablecloths. Yes, I used to host family dinners which involved tablecloths. I even have some matching cloth napkins. There's a Happy Birthday tablecloth, one filled with hearts (used for Valentine's Day, of course), several winter/Christmas ones, one full of autumn leaves, and other miscellaneous ones in shades of blue, green, and rose. And a white lace one, of course. As much as I loved the idea of holiday decorating, I think I was more intent on protecting the dining room table. Whatever, I had a collection of tablecloths, and I used them.

So do people still use tablecloths? Perhaps they do, and I am just out-of-the-loop since I gave up on tablecloths several years ago, mostly because I stopped celebrating holidays with the same exuberance as I did when my kids were young and my extended family was large and accessible. So I don't know if they're still a thing. I considered donating mine to church groups that collect such things, and then I realized that I could use the tablecloths the same way I use old sheets . . . as drop cloths for painting projects. So the tablecloths are still here.

And then, amid the tablecloths, I found . . . an apron. Yes, a full-body apron. I remember in seventh-grade home-ec, our first project was an apron. It was easy. Thread the needle through the top and pull to gather, then stick it all together on a three-foot strip which would tie it all to your body. At that time, the full-body apron was a throw-back to another time. (Think Granny in The Beverly Hillbillies.) In the fifties and sixties, the apron only covered the nether-regions. (WHY?????) The takeaway here is this: there was a time when women wore aprons.

And, as kitschy as that may be, I am a bit distressed at the metaphor. Women are tied to the kitchen duties? Keeping the nether-regions clean is a priority? Wearing the "uniform" of domesticity keeps women in their place?

Or maybe they're just tablecloths and aprons. And maybe, when I see men purchasing tablecloths and donning aprons, I will soften my blatant feminism and happily sit down at a table on which a meal, prepared by a man, awaits my compliments.

P.S. That has already happened. Well, minus the apron. Thank you, Ed.

The Autumn of Trump

I am having a hard time coming up with an entry for this blog. Part of me wants to post something about kittens and puppy dogs and Mallomars and autumn leaves and apple cider and Fleetwood Mac's Bare Trees album and pumpkin everything. But there's another part of me that wants to rant and rave about the Asshole-in-Chief and his latest despicable behavior. Seriously, the man is devoid of compassion, decency, and integrity, and he needs to be called out. And he is. And there's that part of me that wants to add my voice. I am in crisis, having no idea whether it would be better to distract my readers (and myself) from the reality of this Age of Trump, or to go full Monty (not talking nudity here) and vent my anger and despair in language you would not want your children or grandchildren to read.

I am overdosing on MSNBC, my iPhone's newsfeed, Facebook posts, my daily newspapers, and videos of the latest skits from late-night comedians. (And thank goodness for them! What would we do if we couldn't laugh?) This over-exposure to the current nightmare is taking a toll. I am eating too much, drinking too much, sleeping too little, and looking for conspiracy everywhere. You, too?

Although it's hard today to pick the greatest offense, Trump's pep rally in Mississippi on Tuesday in which he mocked Dr. Christine Blasey Ford is top of the list. More disturbing than his pathetic rant are the cheers of his audience, who responded with chants of "Lock her up!" Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with these people? (Hey, I warned you about the language . . . )

A friend sent me a Daily Kos article which comments on Adam Serwer's story in The Atlantic, in which he posits that "cruelty is the whole point." He likens the cheering Trump base to the bystanders who smirked and smiled at the lynchings of blacks in the Deep South in the 30s. "Their shared laughter at the suffering of others is an adhesive that binds them to each other, and to Trump." It is a desire to be one with the pack, tribalism at its most basic. "This is the world that Trump has brought us to."

Indeed. And this is where we find ourselves. The only answer, it seems, is to vote. Change the order. Take back decency and humanity and all the virtues that are not held by the current majority. The saddest truth is that, according to the article, we cannot change the mentality of the Trump base. "Shame will never work with these people, because they have none. Appeals to conscience will not work, because they have none."

I know. It's hard to grab onto that sorry truth. If humanism is one of your cherished beliefs, there is no way that you can process the lack of that virtue in others. I guess a lot of people were absent the day they taught The Golden Rule.

In closing, let me just say that I am going to enjoy some Mallomars with my pumpkin ale while raking leaves and listening to Bare Trees. Anybody got a puppy I can borrow?