"Me, Me, Me, or You, You, You?"

 

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."-- Attributed to Abraham Lincoln. In reality, Lincoln never uttered or wrote those words or words to that effect. Instead, they were said about him.

The original version of the quotation came on Jan. 16, 1883, during a speech in Washington, D.C., by the prominent writer and orator Robert Ingersoll.

"If you" want to know the difference between an orator and a speaker, read the oration of Lincoln at Gettysburg and then read the speech of Everett at the same place. One came from the heart. The other was born only of the voice. Lincoln's speech will be remembered forever. Everett's no man will read. It was like plucked flowers."

 

From the Democratic National Convention came speeches we haven't heard the likes of in a while. No sound bites, full on speeches, given with conviction, truth, honesty, promises to lower taxes for the middle class, build more houses so the middle class can afford to buy one, preserve Medicare, and Social Security, feed the children, give teachers a living wage, maintain funding for schools, give our children an opportunity to be free of pollution and bullets, overturn Roe vs Wade to provide a reproductive freedom to women, give Americans hope again.

The American Dream raised its beautiful head again when two people from State Schools worked their way up the ranks; one was bussed to school, and the other who grew up on a farm could run for President and Vice President of the United States.

Remember when the strength of America lie in its strong middle class?

Yes, we had problems in the 60's, but we had the guts to protest wars, and march for civil rights, to change the dress code in schools--and champion men to grow facial hair.

Professor Robert Reich, former Secretary of Labor, now on Substack, helped me understand how Americans could vote for a tyrant.

Trump exploited their anger.

Americans, especially the working class, have been bullied.  They have been bullied by corporate executives, Wall Street, and upper-class urban professionals.

They're angry.

In Trump, they saw someone who they thought was different.

Except that Trump is a bully.

Trump used his wealth to gain power. He used his power to target people of color, harass and abuse women, lie, violate the law, and attempt to topple our Constitution. Instead of being a leader for the people, he became an advocate for himself. He was and still is vindictive against anyone who opposes him. And then he rages at anyone who calls him a bully. And he admires Hannibal Lector! What?! (Lector is fictitious character from the movie Silence of the Lambs, who eats people.)

Trump is a "me, me, me, person.

Kamala Harris said every day in court, she would say 5 words, "Kamala Harris for the People."

"Because," she says, "what happens to one of us happens to all."

"Kamala Harris is a You, you, you person." (Thanks, Bill Clinton.)

 

From Reich:

"We have learned that Trump cannot be beaten at his own game. He cannot be out-threatened. He cannot be shouted down. He is beyond shame or guilt. He emits lies at such volume and repetition they cannot be corrected.

"The only way to beat him is by playing an entirely different game that draws on qualities that are the opposite of his, that appeals to those aspects of the American character diametrically opposed to his.

"Lincoln spoke of the better angels of our nature. Those better angels are still there but have lain dormant since 2016. Biden tried reviving them, but he didn't have the energy or stamina to pull it off. Kamala Harris and Tim Walz do."

 

And why don't our adversaries trust women?

Women, we need to roar now to convince Americans to vote for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz.

Listen to Lady Gaga go against Trump. She  put it out there. (Trump lied with an ad stating that Gaga supported him.)

https://www.nbcnews.com/video/lady-gaga-slams-trump-at-biden-rally-in-pittsburgh-95211077945

"Vote to keep Trump out of the White House like your life depends on it, no, like your children's lives depend on it, because it does."—Lady Gaga.

And then listen to that Lady sing our National Anthem. Wow, those pipes of hers rang out over the U.S. Capitol and the Washington Memorial with the clarity of an angel.  

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/watch-lady-gaga-sings-the-star-spangled-banner-at-biden-inauguration

 

And now for those following Your Story Matters, here are Chapters  39 and 40

First, Fun at the Grocery Store, then a War Story told to me by the man who lived it.

 

39

 

Funny

 May 21, 2023

 

The Pink blossoms of the dogwood tree have beaten me. (I'm up to 28,630 words, aiming for 50,000.)

 There are a few scraggly blossoms on the tree, but the ground beneath has pink all over it. The leaves have taken up residence where the flowers once were. The tree is moving on.

 

BUT WAIT. I could have an extension. Does it count if I switch trees? Mom's Tree in the front yard is still blooming. I planted a twig that came to my shoulders in tribute to Mom, who loved flowers, and I love dogwoods, so I planted one in the front yard on March 9, Mom's Birthday, in honor of her. Now, it is blooming. Okay, Mom, let's go for it.

 

A few days ago, I pulled Robert Fulgrum's book, What in the World Have I Done, from my cupboard bookshelf and read the best story I have heard all week.  

 Fulgrum offered two college boys on his street a ride to work one morning. He asked what they were doing besides school and work.

"We're eating a chair."

 "What?!"

 A chair! They were eating a chair. The college professor had assigned them to do something unusual, something they had never done before, and write about it. "This is going to fry the professor," one of the kids said. 

They bought an unfinished chair and ate the back and one of the rungs. They shave off a fine dusting of wood daily and add it to their morning granola. At night, they sprinkle some on their salad. They asked a doctor if it was dangerous, and he said no, not in small doses. They may not get it all eaten by the theme due date, so they have asked if others would help them and found a willing bunch.

To further carry on the conversation, Fulghum asked what else they were doing. They have been running around the lake each morning to keep in shape.

However, they tired of running in circles and decided to see how far they would run in a straight line. They got a map of Washington (they live in Seattle) and were mapping out a route; when they were almost to Portland, Oregon, they decided it was boring and chose a European map. Now, they are finding interesting things to do along their trail. And they are finding that large tasks done in small doses can get the job done.

 Fulgrum stopped worrying about the younger generation.

Inspired by Fulghum's wanderings, speaking with people, and finding funny tales, I decided to find something amusing as I set off for the grocery store last night.

 I asked the solemn-faced kid who checked out my groceries if anything funny had happened that day. Nope. Nothing funny.

 So, I walked down to the live-wire lady with white hair and a limp, who is nearly always laughing. I asked if anything funny had happened that day. "Not today," she said, thinking, "but something happened yesterday."

 "What?" I asked.

 "A lady came into the store with no pants on."

 We both laughed. "Really? Was she completely naked, or did she have underwear on?"

 "I don't know. We scanned the store but couldn't find her. Does that story suffice?"

 "Great. Thanks. You saved my day.” Thumbs up, I exited the store.

  

40

 

Hi Jack

Jack was our friend.

He might still be our friend, but he left to investigate something beyond those skies he so loved.

Jack was a pilot in the Second World War.

As he walked past the kitchen window of our house in San Diego on the way to the front door, I would call out, "Hi, Jack."

"Never say that to a pilot," he retorted. 

Jack had a story, a war story. It should be written into a book, but I only have the short version. 

He was a navigator during the Second World War.

The navigator sits behind the pilot, and according to Jack, that is the safest place on the plane.

That proved true for Jack, for he was shot down three times and twice the sole survivor.

The third time, he was captured by a German soldier.

There was a racket around the downed plane, shells were going off, shots were fired, and the German soldier was leading Jack away from the turmoil. Jack felt he was going to be shot.

As they walked through the forest, Jack tripped, and as he did, he pulled the gun from his boot, slid it up his body, laid it on his shoulder, and fired. He didn't know if his bullet connected with the man behind him, but he ran and thus escaped.

He hid during the day and traveled at night. While lying under a bush, he watched an aerial dogfight—planes in combat. Charles Shultz's Snoopy imagines himself to be a fighter pilot yelling, "Curse you, Red Baron." 

Jack developed pneumonia during his sojourn and ended up at a French woman's farm. (I know this sounds like a movie. However, she was not a young, gorgeous French lady, but an older French woman with a heart of gold.) She was alone and living off her land, which didn’t provide much. About the only thing that grew well was potatoes. He said she wore a dress that was woven together out of cellophane. She hid Jack from the Germans and shared her meager fare with him. 

One day, the US Military front advanced to her door.

Jack came out of hiding, gave his credentials, and told the group of GIs how this woman had saved him. 

The following morning, a glorious event occurred. The GIs returned with their jeep laden with goods for the lady, food and clothing, and a trip for Jack back to his troop

Your Story Matters 35 & 36 / Renaissance / Whew

 

 35

 

On Davis Mountain

How often had I mentally walked through our log home before we began excavation? Three thousand six hundred and eighty. (I exaggerate, but not on the critical issues.)

Isn't that what daydreams and visualizations are? First, you have a thought, ask for it, and then take action.

I loved living in the forest, building our log home, and living in the completed house. Our loft served as my office and a guest bedroom. My computer and desk sat in front of a window (of course), where I could look out over the forest below. After I got my horse, Duchess, we had a temporary fence below my window, and I could watch her from my window.

Neil and I contended with beavers for a time. Those cute, gnawing, flat-tailed creatures caused the road to flood, for they had jammed saplings and debris into the culvert that carried the stream under our road. 

When we had the road excavated and culvert installed, we thought the stream would gurgle through and go on its merry way. The beavers thought differently. They would gnaw down a few saplings, jam them in a culvert along with debris to chink the cracks then sleep undisturbed from the sound of rushing water.

Apparently, the sound of rushing water is to them, like a dripping faucet is for us.

Their job is to quiet it. The people removed the plug. The beavers put it back in.

I don’t know how many times we that that, until our son-in-law came to our rescue!

 He built a beaver baffle (his term), a fence a foot or so out from the culvert into the water. That freed us from standing atop the culvert and leaning over while pushing a long swimming pool-hooked pole into the culvert and pulling out the saplings and debris. I said it was like doing a hysterectomy through the birth canal. Eventually, the beavers disappeared. However, I believe the neighbors had a hand with that.

We had sold our house in town, bought a fifth wheel, and lived on-site for two years. I casually mentioned at the Battery Exchange that I needed someone to move a fifth wheel, and a man there volunteered.

 There it was, the grapevine effect again, and state-side this time.

 During our time in the fifth wheel, I oversaw almost every aspect of the construction.

 Neil had emergency surgery while living in the fifth wheel, lost a cancerous kidney, and 20 years later, that one kidney is still going strong.

During those construction years, I would drive into town in the morning and pick up a kid, a helper. He told me his dreams as I drove us to the house. He spoke Spanish, and I didn't. (Two years of college Spanish had vanished unless you want me to count to ten or ask for your name.) However, the kid and I muddled through. He was strong and could carry couches and solid oak furniture, and we rented a tuxedo for him when he agreed to serve at Lisa’s wedding. 

I praise every person who worked on that house. I was the director, and every artist there contributed to the whole. They created a home better than I had imagined. I drew the floor plans, and the log builder set a perfect hipped roof on it and created the blueprints. A structural engineer ensured the house was adequately supported with rebar. A log home settles, so it must be built to accommodate that. The owner can tighten huge nuts on blots and thus tighten down the house every few years. It had a full daylight basement, where the necessary tightening could be accomplished at the ceiling space. Our logs were well-dried before construction, so there was slight shrinkage.

There was room in that basement for a two-car garage, storage for hay, a bathroom, and another bedroom, which later DD turned into an apartment for herself and her baby.

I called it "The House that Dave Built," for we had four independent contractors named Dave. The finish carpenter, Dave, was an artist par excellence. If you are building with logs, hire a mountain climber, for they know how to use ropes and pulleys. Dave installed a twelve-foot header log over a strip of sun room windows without help. He built a stained-glass window for the loft bathroom, cut logs (a mistake on a log cannot be spackled back together), and built cabinets. Many people have complained that building a house is wrought with pain and stress, yet I enjoyed the process. We even served Thanksgiving dinner at the fifth wheel with turkey cooked overnight on an outside grill. 

Ramtha said once that we do everything for the experience of it. We could argue that point. However, I decided to take on this job for the experience. 

Sweet Marie, our log designer's mammoth crane, remained parked in the driveway, ready when a truck of numbered logs arrived from Eastern Oregon. 

 The structure had been assembled on a lot, each log numbered, and then disassembled and trucked to our site. The log builder followed them in his camper and lived on the property for a few days while his crew assembled the logs. Then, he would be off working on another house until the next round of logs came. 

Those men could use a chainsaw with such skill it looked as though they were cutting through butter. Every log fit together so tightly that not a strip of paper could be forced between them. The structure needed no chinking, for a V-groove cut in the top log created a saddle that sat astride the bottom one.

I can't imagine how much time and expense our log designer (Greg Steckler of Log Rhythms, Inc) saved us by leaving his crane parked at our house. It was there when the logs arrived, and it was there to install four of the skylight windows, which were the largest allowed.

When DD sold her property in Southern Oregon and moved in with us, after she worked on her apartment, and we added another bathroom, she and I flipped the house I mentioned earlier.

DD waited 12 painful months for artificial insemination to work and another 9 months for Baby Boy Darling to arrive. We experienced a housing decline and a drop in business. We decided to move to Hawaii, where the house cost a quarter of what our present one did.  

We rented the log house and moved.

 

  

36

A Star Fell on Junction City

 

I found a star in my backyard this morning.

 It was purple and made of mylar. Once, I'm sure it once was a fat, puffed-up balloon, but this morning, it was limp and crinkled.

It tickled me that it chose to settle in our yard. Especially after I wrote about stars falling on Illinois that 4th of July many years ago. Don't you wonder where a fallen balloon came from? Were they released by accident or on purpose? 

Usually I don't like Mylar balloons. They hang around the house like an unwelcome guest you can't get rid of. Compared to the original rubber ones, I consider them a travesty. Rubber ones are fragile globes of living color, beautiful when the sun lights them and disappointing when they pop.

One of our fun experiences at Disneyland involved a rubber balloon. Baby Darling was about two years old, and we were there without his older cousin, who was five and lived in Oregon. DD suggested we write a note to Casey, the cousin, and send it to Oregon on a balloon.

Excitedly we bought a balloon and with a black Magic Marker we wrote notes on the balloon. We enrolled Baby Darling to ceremoniously release it and watched as it winged itself, its tail, aka ribbon, swinging back and forth as it grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared. Baby Darling thought that was the most fun thing. "Up, up, up," he said.

The older grandson is now seventeen, and we occasionally ask him if his balloon has arrived. 

As I have said, Disneyland is DD's favorite spot on the planet. The many visits we had when she was growing up, with friends, with family, with just us, still rings in her soul.

And it's true, as Disney said, that the outside world doesn't exist when you are at Disneyland.

 One year, we saw a real mouse scampering along the sidewalk and carried home that image as the fun aspect of the day. They keep cats on the property to control the rodent situation, so I’ve read. Strange, I've never seen a cat there—maybe they stay hidden in the daytime.

For some families, going to Disneyland is a once-in-a-lifetime event, unique to the kids, and exhausting to the parents. When time is limited, visitors try to jam in as many experiences as possible—I've been there.

But when we lived in Southern California and could buy season tickets, we found that you didn't have to exhaust yourself but could save yourself to fight another day.

One day, I complained about the crowds. Daughter Dear said, "It's a party." And I got with the program.

What if life is a party?

 

Whew!

Don’t you love fresh and new?

I was feeling that life was wearing out, becoming dull and joyless.

And then Kamala Harris came roaring in like that lady from the Cavalia Horse Show who whooped into the arena at breakneck speed, standing atop two horses who seemed to be having the time of their lives.

Now, that was fresh.

I felt like I had jumped on a trampoline. I am so tired of griping and complaining and getting caught up in it is so easy. It’s perversive, like a brown blanket of doom descending on us. It sucks the joy out of living. I know I’m speaking for myself, but perhaps others feel as I do.

I was tired of people telling me the world was going to hell and that people were manipulating and lying to me. I was tired of people asking for money by giving me a teaser and then saying that I ought to upgrade.

The trouble is, living that way just makes it more true. (Yep, I mean true and more true. Some think truth is absolute, but I have found that everyone has their own "truth.")

Right out of the starting gate, Harris was criticized for her quick smile and laughter. I know, when you are in an emotional quagmire and some shiny, glad-faced person comes into the room laughing and joking--it's irritating.

But then, we see reality.

Hey, this is fun. Let’s join the program. Get up and dance.

So, we go outside and see the green, and we praise the plants that are thriving and the ones that are struggling. I thank their determination to grow and to provide Oxygen for us. They aren’t just for beauty and use; they are co-creators with us.

Is it not so green where you live? Well, The Midwest is fun, too; the rock formations and the cliff dwellings tell us of long-lost civilizations who probably wanted what we want: food, shelter, security, friendship, and families, and who also wanted to believe in the goodness of life.

While we were so busy worrying, listening to the rabble in the marketplace, and contemplating our navels, we didn’t look out there to thank those who went before us and the freedoms they fought so hard to give us.

A few weeks ago, I was asking for a renaissance.

Maybe there is one on the horizon.

Your Story Matters 35 & 36 / Renaissance / Whew

 

 

 35

 

On Davis Mountain

How often had I mentally walked through our log home before we began excavation? Three thousand six hundred and eighty. (I exaggerate, but not on the critical issues.)

Isn't that what daydreams and visualizations are? First, you have a thought, ask for it, and then take action.

I loved living in the forest, building our log home, and living in the completed house. Our loft served as my office and a guest bedroom. My computer and desk sat in front of a window (of course), where I could look out over the forest below. After I got my horse, Duchess, we had a temporary fence below my window, and I could watch her from my window.

Neil and I contended with beavers for a time. Those cute, gnawing, flat-tailed creatures caused the road to flood, for they had jammed saplings and debris into the culvert that carried the stream under our road. 

When we had the road excavated and culvert installed, we thought the stream would gurgle through and go on its merry way. The beavers thought differently. They would gnaw down a few saplings, jam them in a culvert along with debris to chink the cracks then sleep undisturbed from the sound of rushing water.

Apparently, the sound of rushing water is to them, like a dripping faucet is for us.

Their job is to quiet it. The people removed the plug. The beavers put it back in.

I don’t know how many times we that that, until our son-in-law came to our rescue!

 He built a beaver baffle (his term), a fence a foot or so out from the culvert into the water. That freed us from standing atop the culvert and leaning over while pushing a long swimming pool-hooked pole into the culvert and pulling out the saplings and debris. I said it was like doing a hysterectomy through the birth canal. Eventually, the beavers disappeared. However, I believe the neighbors had a hand with that.

We had sold our house in town, bought a fifth wheel, and lived on-site for two years. I casually mentioned at the Battery Exchange that I needed someone to move a fifth wheel, and a man there volunteered.

 There it was, the grapevine effect again, and state-side this time.

 During our time in the fifth wheel, I oversaw almost every aspect of the construction.

 Neil had emergency surgery while living in the fifth wheel, lost a cancerous kidney, and 20 years later, that one kidney is still going strong.

During those construction years, I would drive into town in the morning and pick up a kid, a helper. He told me his dreams as I drove us to the house. He spoke Spanish, and I didn't. (Two years of college Spanish had vanished unless you want me to count to ten or ask for your name.) However, the kid and I muddled through. He was strong and could carry couches and solid oak furniture, and we rented a tuxedo for him when he agreed to serve at Lisa’s wedding. 

I praise every person who worked on that house. I was the director, and every artist there contributed to the whole. They created a home better than I had imagined. I drew the floor plans, and the log builder set a perfect hipped roof on it and created the blueprints. A structural engineer ensured the house was adequately supported with rebar. A log home settles, so it must be built to accommodate that. The owner can tighten huge nuts on blots and thus tighten down the house every few years. It had a full daylight basement, where the necessary tightening could be accomplished at the ceiling space. Our logs were well-dried before construction, so there was slight shrinkage.

There was room in that basement for a two-car garage, storage for hay, a bathroom, and another bedroom, which later DD turned into an apartment for herself and her baby.

I called it "The House that Dave Built," for we had four independent contractors named Dave. The finish carpenter, Dave, was an artist par excellence. If you are building with logs, hire a mountain climber, for they know how to use ropes and pulleys. Dave installed a twelve-foot header log over a strip of sun room windows without help. He built a stained-glass window for the loft bathroom, cut logs (a mistake on a log cannot be spackled back together), and built cabinets. Many people have complained that building a house is wrought with pain and stress, yet I enjoyed the process. We even served Thanksgiving dinner at the fifth wheel with turkey cooked overnight on an outside grill. 

Ramtha said once that we do everything for the experience of it. We could argue that point. However, I decided to take on this job for the experience. 

Sweet Marie, our log designer's mammoth crane, remained parked in the driveway, ready when a truck of numbered logs arrived from Eastern Oregon. 

 The structure had been assembled on a lot, each log numbered, and then disassembled and trucked to our site. The log builder followed them in his camper and lived on the property for a few days while his crew assembled the logs. Then, he would be off working on another house until the next round of logs came. 

Those men could use a chainsaw with such skill it looked as though they were cutting through butter. Every log fit together so tightly that not a strip of paper could be forced between them. The structure needed no chinking, for a V-groove cut in the top log created a saddle that sat astride the bottom one.

I can't imagine how much time and expense our log designer (Greg Steckler of Log Rhythms, Inc) saved us by leaving his crane parked at our house. It was there when the logs arrived, and it was there to install four of the skylight windows, which were the largest allowed.

When DD sold her property in Southern Oregon and moved in with us, after she worked on her apartment, and we added another bathroom, she and I flipped the house I mentioned earlier.

DD waited 12 painful months for artificial insemination to work and another 9 months for Baby Boy Darling to arrive. We experienced a housing decline and a drop in business. We decided to move to Hawaii, where the house cost a quarter of what our present one did.  

We rented the log house and moved.

 

  

36

A Star Fell on Junction City

 

I found a star in my backyard this morning.

 It was purple and made of Mylar. Once, I'm sure it once was a fat, puffed-up balloon, but this morning, it was limp and crinkled.

It tickled me that it chose to settle in our yard. Especially after I wrote about stars falling on Illinois that 4th of July many years ago. Don't you wonder where a fallen balloon came from? Were they released by accident or on purpose? 

Usually I don't like Mylar balloons. They hang around the house like an unwelcome guest you can't get rid of. Compared to the original rubber ones, I consider them a travesty. Rubber ones are fragile globes of living color, beautiful when the sun lights them and disappointing when they pop.

One of our fun experiences at Disneyland involved a rubber balloon. Baby Darling was about two years old, and we were there without his older cousin, who was five and lived in Oregon. DD suggested we write a note to Casey, the cousin, and send it to Oregon on a balloon.

Excitedly we bought a balloon and with a black Magic Marker we wrote notes on the balloon. We enrolled Baby Darling to ceremoniously release it and watched as it winged itself, its tail, aka ribbon, swinging back and forth as it grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared. Baby Darling thought that was the most fun thing. "Up, up, up," he said.

The older grandson is now seventeen, and we occasionally ask him if his balloon has arrived. 

As I have said, Disneyland is DD's favorite spot on the planet. The many visits we had when she was growing up, with friends, with family, with just us, still rings in her soul.

And it's true, as Disney said, that the outside world doesn't exist when you are at Disneyland.

 One year, we saw a real mouse scampering along the sidewalk and carried home that image as the fun aspect of the day. They keep cats on the property to control the rodent situation, so I’ve read. Strange, I've never seen a cat there—maybe they stay hidden in the daytime.

For some families, going to Disneyland is a once-in-a-lifetime event, unique to the kids, and exhausting to the parents. When time is limited, visitors try to jam in as many experiences as possible—I've been there.

But when we lived in Southern California and could buy season tickets, we found that you didn't have to exhaust yourself but could save yourself to fight another day.

One day, I complained about the crowds. Daughter Dear said, "It's a party." And I got with the program.

What if life is a party?

 

Whew!

Don’t you love fresh and new?

I was feeling that life was wearing out, becoming dull and joyless.

And then Kamala Harris came roaring in like that lady from the Cavalia Horse Show who whooped into the arena at breakneck speed, standing atop two horses who seemed to be having the time of their lives.

Now, that was fresh.

I felt like I had jumped on a trampoline. I am so tired of griping and complaining and getting caught up in it is so easy. It’s perversive, like a brown blanket of doom descending on us. It sucks the joy out of living. I know I’m speaking for myself, but perhaps others feel as I do.

I was tired of people telling me the world was going to hell and that people were manipulating and lying to me. I was tired of people asking for money by giving me a teaser and then saying that I ought to upgrade.

The trouble is, living that way just makes it more true. (Yep, I mean true and more true. Some think truth is absolute, but I have found that everyone has their own "truth.")

Right out of the starting gate, Harris was criticized for her quick smile and laughter. I know, when you are in an emotional quagmire and some shiny, glad-faced person comes into the room laughing and joking--it's irritating.

But then, we see reality.

Hey, this is fun. Let’s join the program. Get up and dance.

So, we go outside and see the green, and we praise the plants that are thriving and the ones that are struggling. I thank their determination to grow and to provide Oxygen for us. They aren’t just for beauty and use; they are co-creators with us.

Is it not so green where you live? Well, The Midwest is fun, too; the rock formations and the cliff dwellings tell us of long-lost civilizations who probably wanted what we want: food, shelter, security, friendship, and families, and who also wanted to believe in the goodness of life.

While we were so busy worrying, listening to the rabble in the marketplace, and contemplating our navels, we didn’t look out there to thank those who went before us and the freedoms they fought so hard to give us.

A few weeks ago, I was asking for a renaissance.

Maybe there is one on the horizon.

The Good in Us. You Deserve to Thrive.

The Good in Us. We Deserve to Thrive.

Remember that song I Believe? It begins: “For every drop of rain…” We can’t print many words from song lyrics, so I trust you’ll remember that song. Hint, “a flower grows.”

It’s hard to maintain a positive attitude, isn’t it?

First on my list right now is this: "Keep the White House free of dictators living there."

Think of it this way:

The Republican Presidential Candidate got his trial sentencing delayed until after the election. If he wins, he will have Presidential immunity. When his term of office is over he will be up for grabs again regarding sentencing. Do you think he would let that happen? There are words in the wind say he wants to be President FOR LIFE. (And according to the Rolling Stone Magazine, he has his people at strategic positions in the swing states. Hum. What do you suppose that means?)

That's a dictator folks!

I don’t care where you are on the abortion issue (Well, I do care, but I’m keeping my mouth shut). Vote for Kamala Harris to keep a dictator out of the white house, then address the abortion issue.

Do you think a woman has a right to her own body, or should the government decide?

Do you like the way the Supreme Court is set up?

Do you think the US ought to send any military equipment into wars outside the US? Remember the Vietnam War? Great protest movements helped grind that to a halt.

Remember the Iraq war? We ended that after 20 years.

Do you believe that we should support our NATO allies?

Do you think it’s OK to insult people who do not have children?

Do you think it’s OK to insult people who have a different Faith than yours?

What happened to the separation of church and state? Is it all right with you to let that go?

Should we argue over climate change or work together to see that everything within our powers is done TO KEEP THE EARTH INHABITABLE TO HUMANS?

Do you think the ones with the money ought to run our country or that people without children should NOT run for office?

Do you think that childless people don’t care about the future?

Do you want internment camps?

Do you think it’s OK for a man who is running for President to say that women are fat and ugly—but he wants their vote?

Do you think it’s alright for a man who is running for President to believe it’s his right to grab the women he considers pretty by their private parts?

Remember the Divine Right of Kings?

Do you think it’s OK to place a man in the white house who wants to abolish our two-term Presidential system? What about the ones who come after him? That edict would still be in place.  Our Republican Candidate won’t live forever—unless he knows something we don’t know.

Do you think our Republican Presidential candidate is a Messiah? (I’ve heard of a more loving one.)

Are we OK with our country being run by corporations and that the rich can run the show, or that one man can throw millions into a Presidential campaign to help determine the it's outcome?

Is money speaking for us?

Do you believe that we the people have a voice?

Keep the Present Republican Candidate out of the White House and then address those concerns individually.

We can do it.

This Candidate must win by a landslide, or he will never believe he lost.

If you can’t stand Kamala Harris, grit your teeth and vote for her anyway. WE DO NOT WANT A DICTATOR IN THE WHITE HOUSE.

We are good people. We deserve to thrive.

Do we remember that we have the power to make changes, advance civilization, and get along with each other?

I think so.

"Never doubt that a group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, its the only thing that every has."--Margaret Mead

WE CAN DO IT--PEACEFULLY.

 

"My wife's cat," says one reader.

 

 

And now dear ones, from an earlier time when the living was easier and the air was fresher, the sun brighter, and the heart lighter—like 14 years ago. It’s an excerpt from my book.

Thank you for reading so far. I love all my readers.

 It’s strange, I am getting a good number of hits on this site, however most are from out of the U.S. I guess they don’t like me so well here in my homeland. It must have been something I said.

  

 

 34

 On the Road

 When Daughter Dear was on maternity leave and her son was two months old, we set out for an eight-state road trip.

We rented a van and loaded Bear into the back and Peaches in the front. The baby had the seat behind us, and thus we took off—limited only by the needs of a two-month-old. It was the best vacation of my life—to do what we wanted, when we wanted, and stop when we felt like it. 

I had heart palpitations after going up and down a Colorado mountain too fast, coupled with an area in New Mexico that held both a mental institution and a Prison. Both DD and I felt odd, and my chest hurt all night. Don't ask me to explain it; it seemed like something was in the air, something negative. A person at our hotel told us that area wasn’t good.

Both DD and I felt similar negativity in some areas of Hawaii, one of the reasons we wanted to leave. No heart palpitations there, though. I don't tend to get too woo-woo, but when woo-woo strikes, I pay attention.

Clearly, I have an altitude problem. That trip up and down the mountain showed me. Altitude, not attitude. Well, that, too.

 A young woman Neil knew from Nikon Inc. told me that if I had walked that mountain instead of driving it, I wouldn't have had a problem. 

That woman, a slight person who looked like a runner, climbed Mt Everest to the base Camp. Yes, she did. I was astounded. She said, "You climb high and sleep low." You climb higher than where you plan to sleep and then return to your campsite. That will help acclimate you to the altitude. 

While driving in Santa Fe, New Mexico, I declared, "I want to find one of those pottery shops…”

“Like that one?” DD pointed.

Directly beside us was the best pottery shop I had ever seen. It had rows of pottery, beautiful glazes and designs, dishes, pots, wall hangings, and those chocolate tiles Nina bought, carried to Hawaii, and left as the countertop of a bar in her Hawaiian Tiki Room.  

Coming home from that trip, we found ourselves 100 miles from Disneyland, DD's favorite place on the planet. Being that close, we had to go. We found a hotel with a shaded parking lot, and as we had a large van, we left the windows slightly ajar for the dogs, walked a couple of blocks to Disneyland, and partied hardy. At night the dogs came into the room with us.

After that Colorado Mountain High, I breathed a sigh of relief upon entering Disneyland, where I noticed a sign at the train station stating the elevation. I thought it said one foot. But when I checked the Internet to verify the elevation, a sign on the train station read 138 feet. Either way, I was comfortable.

 Little Boy Darling's first visit to Disneyland, at two-months old, was fun, and he liked the submarine ride where he watched fishes swimming past the port hole window.

We skipped all scary rides.

Once, for the heck of it, way before our grandson was a glint in anyone's eye, and after reading that the Cavalia Horse Show featuring exquisite white horses, a Cirque du Soleil sort of event, was being performed in Dallas, Texas, DD, and I flew there. A pond appeared in the sand on the floor of their mammoth white tent. After their horses had raced through it, splattering water and clearly getting wet, the water disappeared beneath the sand.  

Witnessing the love expressed between the horses and the trainer was worth the ticket price, and the girl who came racing into the arena at breakneck speed riding two horses, Roman style, almost had me on the floor.

After we had accrued numerous frequent-flyer miles and often asked to be bumped from a flight on purpose so we could earn more, DD and I used them to go as far as we could. That was to Niagara Falls, where a humongous amount of water separates the US and Canada.

We took the Maid of the Mist boat into the tumultuous mist on the American side. At that time, we didn't need a passport to cross the border, so we drove to Canada across the river to see the Niagara River fall from a different country.  On the Canadian side, we ate the best chocolate-covered pretzels at the Hersey factory and, by chance, saw that Madonna was performing that night at the Ontario Sports Arena. 

We had to attend that concert.

Our tickets were in the nosebleed section behind a column. From our perspective, we could see Madonna rise from beneath the stage. On giant TVs, we watched that woman sing while doing a handstand, and nary a muscle quivered from the strain of it.

Our seat companion, a young, enthusiastic fellow, had flown from Texas especially to see Madonna's performance, so the three of us were flying high. 

We fell in love with Canada—the people and their attitude. They gently suggest wearing seat belts: "Be protected, not projected." They also have "Traffic calming zones" in the city where drivers can pull over and calm down. Some ads alongside the road presented exquisite lawn plantings with the vendor's name spelled out in flowers. 

It was strange driving up to the falls; we traveled over the flat country following the Niagara River until, WHAP, an abyss. I had expected to hear a roar before arriving but only heard it when we were practically upon it. A good thing a native, not knowing the falls were there, didn't come along riding his horse at breakneck speed. 

But then the horse would have heard it.

💕 

 

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A long time ago we used to drink champagne and eat Oreo cookies in the hot tub. I wish we could do it again. (And with you.)