I Am Sick to Death of Politics!!

Handy Husband and I have the whole thing plotted out…

"Echo, set the alarm for 5:30 a.m.”

“Alarm set for 5:30 a.m., tomorrow."

Wednesday morning we will shower, dress and gulp down homemade smoothies before we make an hour-plus drive to the nearest big city, (the third largest in our state with a city-population of 150,000 or metro-area population of 344,000). We must arrive at our destination right on the hour.

Handy Husband pulls our car into the parking lot with only moments to spare. We each grab a couple of tote bags and head straight to our separate predetermined stations…

Wait! Did I ever tell you that Handy Husband and I have this bad habit of secretly nicknaming people we meet on life’s path? No? Well, it's confession time, then. I’ll give you a couple of examples: There is a woman from our area that we run into on occasion as she walks her dog. This lady is a verbose fast-talker, the kind that spews out words quickly and in an excited manner, as if her audience will vaporize before she has finished her say. I find myself looking at her mouth to see just how she forms words so rapidly. Anyway, her name is Patricia and we’ve renamed her Chatty-Patty. Another acquaintance from this area is a man with a genial, effervescent wife, but he’s kind of a pill, always with his arms folded across his chest and a sour look on his face, so that they are quite the contrast. We refer to her by her given name. We refer to him as "Grumpy Cat." (Note: Names and nicknames have been changed to protect the innocent.)

We usually never nickname the people with whom we eventually become friends. Maybe we instinctively sense their potential as future pals. They call that “chemistry,” right? Like Rick and Cheryl, for example. We met them shortly after we made the permanent move here. From day one they have been simply, “Rick and Cheryl.” Nobody would ever nickname a friend, would they!? But every once in a while… Someone we referred to as “Spike” later became our pal with the real first and last name of… Well, I'd better not say, as I think perhaps Spike may read my blog. Anyway Spike is no longer Spike.

The problem with our moniker-markers is that we are getting older and our brains are not as sharp. Handy Husband walks in the house after running an errand and says, “Okay, we gotta quit this nicknaming business. I ran into Nan at the store and for the life of me all I could think of was “Ethel.” (We’d renamed Nan because she was a dead-ringer for Big Ethel in the original Archie comics with her big-boned frame and untamable hair).

So anyway, back to Handy Husband and I at the Farmer’s Market. Had you guessed that was where we were headed that early morning with our tote bags? We have been suckers for farmer’s markets forever, it seems. We made weekly trips to the Evanston market when we resided in Chicago. The funny thing is out here, in a rural agricultural county with a population density of 35 humans per square mile, and even though we are surrounded by farms, a good farmer’s market (the pivotal word being “good”) is hard to find. There is a fair farmer’s market about 20 miles away that we visit weekly and a couple of poor ones even closer. But the farmer’s market in the big city? Well, it is definitely worth a twice-monthly visit. 

There are over 2 dozens vendors at the big city market, 75 percent of which are what I consider "legitimate farmers,” meaning they actually own a farm and grow the goods they sell. The name and location of their farm is proudly displayed. You can look them up on online and see photographs of their farms. The fruits and vegetables they sell match the growing season, so that they are not selling ripened tomatoes (supposedly grown in zone 5) ready for market in the month of May. Most FM’s have a couple of illegitimate vendors who buy bulk vegetables and resell them as “farm fresh.” But my trained eye and a couple of questions can quickly expose them ;) 

The reason we arrive at the opening bell of this FM is that much of what I want sells out quickly. It’s not worth a 100+ mile round trip commute to find that what you’re looking for is gone. So Handy Husband and I split up for the first round, he heads to the egg lady to purchase my duck eggs. (Many bakers and cooks feel that duck eggs are superior to chicken eggs for baking and custards. Perhaps it’s the slightly different albumen that duck eggs have, or the extra protein and fat found in duck eggs. At any rate, I’m a believer.) Meanwhile I will have gone straight to Chestnut Cliff Farms to pour over their myriad assortment of organic, heirloom vegetables and their wild mushrooms. Then I head quickly across the way to “The Sloth.” 

The Sloth is our nickname for the bread vendor. Even though at this point we are still only minutes into the opening of the market, The Sloth has a long line formed at his booth. He has brought his wares from another 73 miles further away. Hands down, he sells the best bread I have ever eaten. It is baked with organic heirloom wheat, unadulterated by preservatives, additives or chemicals, simply wheat, water, salt and yeast. The delicious flavor of this bread comes from a 36 hour fermentation. The Sloth also sells amazing croissants, such as you would purchase in Paris, France as well as outstanding specialty breads, like raisin-walnut or herbed focaccia. Part of the reason there is always a long line at his booth is that his products are just that good. The other part is that he moves in slow motion and you simply cannot make him move any faster than is in his DNA, apparently. Have you seen Disney Studio’s Zootopia? The movie has this brilliant part where Nick takes Judy to Zootopia’s Dept. of Motor Vehicles to aid her in running a license tag. The DMV is staffed entirely by sloths. Hysterical!! 

Our sloth moves and speaks in a manner similar to the cartoon sloths. As he looks you directly in the eye, he repeats your order/question/statement; so if I were to say, “And one chocolate-almond croissant, please.” He would reply, “You (pause) also (pause) want (pause) one (pause) chocolate (pause) almond (pause) croissant?” (There is nothing wrong with the man, he has no disability of any kind, he is just a man who prefers to live in the moment and be a part of a bread process that takes days not hours to complete.) He will slowly turn and judiciously ponder the chocolate almond croissants, before selecting one for you. Then, languidly wrap it in a parchment and in his unhurried manner carefully bag it with the bread(s) you've also requested. He will then turn slowly back to face you, look you in the eye and thank you as he softly hands you your purchase. (I’d love to witness The Sloth and Chatty Patty in a conversation.)

As I wait in the bread line I watch The Sloth as he cares for customers ahead in line, anxiously awaiting my turn. I have a crush-like fascination with him. If after this life I return as another creature I would wish it to be a sloth.

Meanwhile Handy Husband has a mental list of vegetables and fruits in which I am interested. Duck eggs clutched in hand, Handy Husband checks out the rest of the vendors, comparing prices and occasionally reporting back, “The "So&So" Farm has golden beets a dollar cheaper than the “OtherRandom” Farm. If something looks like it’s moving fast, he'll report and I’ll dispatch Handy Husband to purchase it.

I am next in the bread line, so Handy Husband sweeps off to get two cups of coffee for us from a nearby breakfast shop. “Is (pause) he (pause) with (pause) you?” asks The Sloth, with the slowest and slightest tilt of his head in Handy Husband's direction. “Yes.” “Well, (pause) then (pause) you (pause) will (pause) need (pause) two (pause) chocolate (pause) almond (pause) croissants. (pause) *smile* (pause) *wink* 

Handy Husband and I split the generous croissant and walk about, casually this time, as we do our second round of the Farmer’s Market, sipping coffee, eating our shared croissant, taking in the sights and sites.

I buy a quart of real strawberries (as different from the bloated white-in-the-middle strawberries sold at supermarkets as a homegrown tomato is from the flavorless supermarket tomato). The strawberry vendor informs me it is his last week of strawberries, as his season ends in June. I then purchase golden, white and red beets, English peas, sugar snap peas, new turnips, and kohlrabi. Handy Husband has bought some radishes and raw honey.

The sugar-snap-pea-guy tells me of another, out-of-state market he sells at on Saturdays. It’s 75 miles away from his farm. This FM features 150+ vendors! I look it up online and see that it is listed in a Washington Post article as one of the top ten farmer’s markets in the nation, ranking number six. Pretty impressive, however it will take some planning as this market opens at 6:30 a.m., sharp and it will be an 170+ mile round-trip for us. 

“Echo, set the alarm for 4:00 a.m.”... 

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” -J.R.R. Tolkien

kohlrabi, white, red and golden beets

tri-color beets, so pretty when cooked together

can you see the richer colored, larger yolk on the duck egg on the left?  also a whiter, clearer albumen.  contrast the two chicken eggs on the right which have (pardon my language) "piss-yellow" albumen

real strawberries

red all the way through (soon to be strawberry ice cream)

smoothies gulped down for quick energy on the run

summer salad :)

beets ready for roasting

English peas

I'd eaten most of my chocolate almond croissant before I remembered to take a photo

best bread in the world!!!

Part Three: The Rule Relating to or Consisting of Gold

I don’t want to say that lately I’ve been obsessed with the Russian government’s doings, but whenever there is a “glitch” (be it an electrical power outage or an interruption to our internet service) I jokingly call out to Trusting Husband, “It’s Putin! Putin’s at it again!”

A year or so ago I noticed an uptick in visits to my blog, hundreds in a single day, all from Russia. Putin’s Department-in-Charge-of-the-Takeover-of-the-World had stumbled upon my blog (just as they'd found billions of other bloggers, twitterers, Instagram and FaceBook users…). I “googled” the matter and found that the views were actually momentary visits from “bots.” So following the Blogger site’s advice I was able to block most of the traffic from Russian sites.

As much of the world now knows, it was all part of Putin’s cyber tactics used to influence public opinion across the globe.

***

One day a friend texts me a copy of a FB posting from a fellow school teacher. For anonymity’s sake we’ll call the teacher by her initials, “KW.” My friend's text reads: “Warm fuzzy thoughts from KW.” Above my friend’s comment is a divisive and bitter-filled diatribe that left me wondering how this grammar school teacher could conscientiously instruct children in a diverse urban public school setting. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with this thought as someone quickly called KW on her actions: KW, I am shocked at the caustic virulence of your posting. If I were a parent of a muslim child, I would be quite concerned that you would be able to teach my child without bias and in a meaningful, non-discriminatory manner…

KW quickly blocked her original message:

The following message, although not as vitriolic, is typical of KW’s postings: 

KW pens such dispatches on a regular basis. I know KW from her childhood and am quite shocked at her adult mordancy. It’s a change from the young, pleasant Roman Catholic school girl I thought I knew back then. I wonder if it’s because she has fallen victim to Russian bot-swaying, or if she is spoon-fed this rancorous discord by the constant watching of Fox News.

***

Did I tell you about the young father I encountered some time back at a local Chicago park?

When visiting the city, I often take my youngest grandson to this particular park and one day, as we play together, a young father and his son join us. The boys are both about 18 months, just beginning to talk. The father and I chat as the two boys examine the little toy trucks they’d each brought along. The young father asks my grandson his name and he pronounces it, with the r sounding rather like a w. I, in return, ask his son, “And what is your name?” The boy says something and the father quickly becomes agitated. He casts me an incredulous look, “Did you- did you hear that!?! Did you hear what he said?!”

“No, I didn’t quite get it.”

“He said, ‘Obama!’ I swear to- and ooh, aargh! ...and it’s because my father, my father has Fox News on all the time! Obama this, Obama that. It’s all negative junk and it’s poisoning my father’s brain! Dad used to be such a sweet guy -aaarrgh! I will not let him poison my son!”

Normally decent people who follow this kind of (excuse my language here) crap, dished out by Russian bots and Fox News, are kept at a fever pitch by each blast of hatred, “Yes! Yes! That’s how I feel, too!” Like a junkie, they crave more and more to feed their hate-habit. I wonder if the jolt is like a "high" for them.

***

As I write this I look out at my current gardening project in the yard. There’s no need to fuel a weed as weeds adapt to make the most of any condition. There is no need to amplify hatred, yet there is a multitude of internet bots making sure that fertilizer is abundantly applied to enhance the growth of malevolence.

And I think of the adult male from France that I viewed on the internet last week… I hope you saw it, too, because it was quite moving. He spoke at his police officer husband’s funeral in Paris. His husband having lost his life to a terrorist attack. In his eulogy, he borrowed a quote from a man who’d also mourned the loss of his wife to a terrorist attack: “You will not have my hatred.”

Follows the original quote:

“On Friday evening you stole the life of an exceptional person, the love of my life, the mother of my son, but you will not have my hatred…
So no, I will not give you the satisfaction of hating you. You want it, but to respond to hatred with anger would be to give in to the same ignorance that made you what you are.”

So no, bots, you cannot make me form an opinion of another human based on anything but my own personal experience with that person. You cannot have my hate, either.

***

There is a blissful inner freedom that comes from love, acceptance and forgiveness. At least that is my experience. But, it doesn’t just pop up all on its own, it takes some work. In my garden I pull out the weeds; some of which, like wild parsnip, dandelion and purple clover have very deep-reaching roots. Like an iceberg, the tip of the plant that shows above is small in comparison to length of the root. And unless I remove every inch of the original root they come back with a pervading tenacity that always surprises me.

But you work and you practice, like a child doing their piano scales over and over. You cannot become a musician without repetition, you know. You can cast seed randomly into the wind and I guess something or other will grow, but a garden takes cultivating.

What makes me feel good? What makes me feel bad? What brings me joy? What brings pain? I ask my young grandson, “How do you feel when you are mean or selfish? How do you feel when you are kind or nice?” Piano scales improve a child’s musical ear, finger agility and strength, the same way discernment improves compassion, humility, peace and a child or adult’s overall well being.

***

This is the closing of my three-part series on “The Rule Relating to or Consisting of Gold”

There is some form of the “golden rule” in most major religions/philosophies/belief-systems: Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Confucianism, Buddhism, etc. My favorite interpretation of it is:

“Treat others only as you would consent to be treated in the same situation.”

-Fr. Harry Gensler, S.J. (This might not be a verbatim quote but it’s as I remember it.)

So my final thought is based on the Judeo-Christianity taught me as a young child: If we are “made in God’s image,” (Genesis 1:27) how can people not then look upon the beauty of God’s spectrum of humanity and not celebrate the diversity given us, the diversity of beliefs, the diversity of hair, eye and skin tones, the diversity of the physical body, the diversity of personality, the diversity of lifestyles, the diversity of locale, the diversity of economic background… to do otherwise is an insult to our creator that I absolutely cannot comprehend.

***

Only when the last tree has been cut down; Only when the last river has been poisoned; Only when the last fish has been caught; Only then will you find that money cannot be eaten.

- Native American on the greed of white America

(or me on the current GOP who've attempted to sell the U.S.A. to the Russian government )

Part Two: The Rule Relating to or Consisting of Gold

Immediately upon reading the last page of “To Build a Castle: My Life as a Dissenter” by Vladimir Bukovsky, I dash to the lower level of our home where, hidden from view beneath a sofa table and behind the sofa, are four overspilling boxes of books that I’ve no room to properly house on five bookshelves stationed throughout the house. I pull the sofa out and paw through the books. Ah, there it is, a worn paperback copy of “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich” by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. I will reread it this week in between sprucing up the grounds which are splendidly springing back to life as the warm weather returns.

I woke last night to a nightmare, which found me fleeing for my life to escape the SVR. It was complicated and required some Devin Nunes-type maneuvers on my part, of nighttime hopping from one vehicle to another and such. At some point I was hiding in a high-tier sleeping bunk when a Russian operative found me. I was unarmed but, lo and behold, hidden in the bunk was a fully loaded military-type pistol. As the male agent slowly neared, it was necessary for him to look up to meet my eyes. I stared right-straight back at him, when it occurred to me that this wasn’t an “it’s you or me” thing. I understood that my immediate reaction encompassed protecting the well-being of my grandchildren (and all of my future progeny) from this Russian agent (and the couple of ghost-like figures he had half hidden in the shadows behind him.) 

It’s you, Rus, or it’s my innocent bloodline, I thought. So I, a pacifist, but sensing I’d simply no alternative, calmly picked up the gun and fired away, point blank, rendering him thoroughly and lastingly lifeless. I woke immediately. I lay quietly in my bed with two thoughts. Which were: Let’s face it, you are not really brave enough to pull that off. And that the actual point of this dream seems to be that we humans are all capable of evil, evil that is committed in the name of combatting evil. And such is the dichotomy of life.

As soon as I posted my March 5 blog, “good vs evil,” I regretted the title. Oh, that’s the worst title, I thought, but too late, sister, you done hit that ‘publish’ command. I sometimes wonder: just who has the right to claim moral superiority anyway? An author who’s done a good job on the dualism theme is Cormac McCarthy in his novel, “The Road.”

(Boy) Are we still the good guys? he said.

(Man) Yes. We’re still the good guys.

(Boy) And we always will be.

(Man) Yes. We always will be.

(Boy) Okay

This father/son conversation follows an incident where… -never mind, I don’t want to spoil it for you. Go read the book.

***

All of which brings to mind an evening when my older grandson was just 3 1/2 years old. I am settling him down, to be tucked in for the night and weaving some sort of tale. Whatever the story is, Older Grandson interrupts me with the question, “Wait, were they good guys?” “Yes, Sweetie, they were good guys.” He nods.

Fast forward a couple of years to a day when I pick Older Grandson up from his after-school Catholic doctrine class, asking, “So, how was it?” “Good,” he replies. A few seconds later he says, “Well, actually it was kind of boring.” I appreciate the honesty.

One day I take Older Grandson to one of those kiddy arcades where children can earn machine-spewed tickets by paying hard-earned money to play Skee Ball and such, then use the accumulated tickets to buy cheap trinkets. We come across a machine that dangles a swath of about two dozen tickets. I look about for someone to whom to call out,”Excuse me, you forgot your tickets,” but no one is near us. My grandson sees my hand reach toward the tickets and says, “Um, but, Grandma, we can’t take those. They belong to someone. That’s not what we do.” He emphasizes the “we” and I know what he means, he means us “good guys.” My hand drops to my side as I say, “I was going to turn them in at the counter, but you’re right, we should leave them there in case the family comes back.” A couple of moments later I confess to him that I’d intended to use the tickets. I hope he appreciates my honesty.

Years later, Devoted Husband and I, with Older Grandson and his family, make a visit to Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s historic house and plantation in Virginia. As we walk past the slaves’ quarters Older Grandson comments about the injustice of slavery. I think his exact words are “it’s just wrong.” After our tour we stop at the gift shop. Grandson chooses to purchase one of those antiqued copies of the Declaration of Independence. Seatbelt secure in the car, he quickly opens and unrolls his purchase, his eyes zipping across the document as he says aloud, “Where is it? Where’s the part where it says ‘all men are created equal’ ?”

At a family gathering we have a discussion on what my growing-up-too-quickly Older Grandson calls the “ding-dong ditch.” This is where kids ring a doorbell and then run and hide. Some family members think it’s simply a normal adolescent antic, a harmless part of the maturation process. Other family members opine that it’s not something to be overlooked or lightly dismissed, as it is harassment in its infancy. I notice that Older Grandson is alert to everyone’s opinions on a topic in which I suspect he may have, at some point in his young life, witnessed or actually taken part.

***

A couple of weeks ago, I accidentally stumbled across Sr. Helen Prejean on Twitter and now have added her to my ever-lengthening list of Twitterers I “follow.” This puts her up there with Pope Francis, the FCNL (Quakers), Nancy Sinatra, The Gates Foundation, Thich Nhat Hanh, Dalai Lama, The Nelson Mandela Foundation, Merriam-Webster, Senator Al Franken, Chelsea Clinton and such. Twitterers who always manage to admirably and emphatically state their opinions with nary a hint of hate, rancor or vitriol (okay, well maybe some get a bit agitated on occasion, but as long as they never uses any foul language?) At any rate, I’m fussy about whom I choose to follow and if there is too much negativity, I’ll drop you as quickly as I'd drop a bare-handed steaming hot potato. Puhleeze, let's disagree with civility.

Anyway, as you may know Sr. Helen Prejean, author of “Dead Man Walking,” has long advocated for the abolition of the death penalty in the United States. I follow  her recent fervent dedication in attempting to stop the planned systematic assembly line killing of eight men now on death row in Arkansas. (As of this posting, one of the eight has been executed -and as a side note: Did you know that the ‘cause of death’ in an execution is officially listed on the death certificate as ‘Homicide?”)

Having read one of Sr. Prejean’s books years ago, having read an excellent article back in 1997 by Northwestern’s Medill lecturer Robert McClory (about a senseless murder and a grieving mother’s forgiveness), having watched Werner Herzog’s documentary “Into the Abyss,” having given the subject my own heartfelt machination, mastication and digestion, having matured as a human being, I now feel strongly that capital punishment is not a solution for, nor a deterrent to crime. I agree that there are those broken humans who must be incarcerated for life to protect society, to prevent gruesome, senseless killings. But, to punish homicide with homicide? (Another side note: If a death row prisoner should become suddenly ill before an execution the execution, in some states, must be delayed until he/she are physically well again, because you cannot execute someone who is unexpectedly physically unwell. The state must ensure they are in good physical health for their age and health history before killing them.) 

But, what about those who are not where I am in my thinking? I once wavered on the efficacy and the morality of the death penalty. There are different layers, different tiers… Again, who am I to say what others should feel?

Anyway thank you, Sr. Helen Prejean. I am ever grateful for your calm, sensibly reasoned responses.

***

What does it mean to be a good person? Is a person good because they are taught? Is goodness innate? I’ve no answers…

***

This week we celebrate the birthdate of Older Grandson. Oh, and he’s a good kid. Not perfect, mind you, but a perfectly good child. I mean, he might snitch the occasional extra cookie when Mom and Dad aren’t looking. And maybe he pulls his shoes off without first untying them properly. But when faced with a moral dilemma he knows right from wrong. And should he stumble or falter, I’m certain he’d quickly get right back on track, with grace.

‘Cuz we’re the good guys, right, Buddy?

Happy birthday!!! I am so proud of you.

***

More to soon follow in what I hope is the final of my “The Rule Relating to or Consisting of Gold” series.

***

It is vital that we sow the seeds of goodness in order to cultivate justice, foster accord, and sustain integration, without growing weary.
—Pope Francis, 2017

Not to forgive is to be imprisoned by the past. Not to forgive is to yield oneself to another's control. If one does not forgive, then one is controlled by the other's initiatives and is locked into a sequence of act and response. The present is endlessly overwhelmed and devoured by the past. Forgiveness frees the forgiver. It extracts the forgiver from someone else's nightmare.
—Lance Morrow, 1984 essay

The Rule Relating to or Consisting of Gold, Part One

Just past the newlywed stage Long-Standing Husband and I rented an apartment in a six-flat in Chicago’s West Ridge neighborhood. Reflecting back now, I have only fond memories of the six families residing in that building having lived in relative harmony, or at the very least some type of communal balance. Such was our content that within a couple of years, four of the families bought homes in that same neighborhood, within walking distance of one another; one on the same block as the very house we purchased.

There were 25 single-family homes on our block. There was a small synagog on one corner, across the street from which the Rabbi and his family resided. A bit less than 1/2 of the families that were living there when we moved in were still there when we sold and moved 38 years later.

Directly west of us our next door neighbors, for anonymity sake I will call them, the Chayt family, were among the families, like ours, that remained..., hmmm, search for word or phrase... well, long-standing, yes, long-standing. Like our 6-flat neighbors, we got along well with the Chayts. The backyards of our collective homes were fenced on three sides, leaving the space between us open. After many years we hired someone to fence off the space between us. The Chayts were hurt, “Is it something we’ve done? Have we offended you?” they asked. “No, no, of course not. It’s simply to keep our beagle from constantly marauding your yard.” “Oh, but we don’t mind!”

The widowed Mrs. Chayt was a gentle, kind soul, often offering our children a homemade pickle from her endless crock or a slice of freshly baked bread, a piece of fruit. When anyone had the slightest ailment she’d send over her matzoh ball soup. One halloween she presented our daughter with a hand-sewn gypsy costume. It featured a long, wide-tiered skirt, complete with hidden pockets, a matching blouse and headscarf. Mrs. Chayt told me, with a wink and a chuckle, that the female gypsies that frequented the markets throughout her childhood in eastern Europe wore the skirts so they could easily “pocket” the items they stole.

One summer day when the heat was intense and our older two children were dashing about the backyard, she coaxed them with homemade lemonade and taught them to do basic needle work under the shade of her backyard tree. “Is good for them to sit still a bit in this heat,” she cautioned.

Mrs. Chayt always called me, “Maria.” I corrected her a few times, to no avail. At some point I decided that I must have reminded her of someone she once knew with that name. So I became Maria. “Maria, do you want some of my peonies? They are in need of thinning.” “Maria, come. Come, I have something to show you!” I’d happily stop whatever I was doing at the call of my new name, walk across our undivided lots, eager for a chat.

The day she turned 90, her adult children planned a party for her. The hitch was that her birthday fell on Shabbat that year. They’d arranged to prepare all of the celebratory food beforehand, but there was the problem of the coffee, for to start the electric coffee pot violated their Orthodox law. They worked around it by prearranging for me to covertly enter a side door at a specified time that Saturday and surreptitiously plug in the coffee maker.

***

Long-Standing Husband and I are now retired and living in a small enclave amongst many farms. A couple of years ago a group of young Mennonites (or some modern Anabaptist sect that allows for the use of motorized vehicles and equipment) bought some properties near our community.  One of the families opened a cabinet-making company at one of the entrances to our development. Upon the grand opening of their cabinetry business they had an open house which L-S Husband and I attended. We met the owner (let’s call him, oh I don’t know, how about Dwayne?) Dwayne and two of his sons gave us a tour of the spotlessly organized operation. Dwayne’s wife and daughters were there as well serving homemade refreshments. Dwayne explained that 5 or 6 families from a larger sect had moved to this area from a more southern location, as they were looking for farm area where there would be more snow. Go figure? ;)

L-S Husband and I ran into some of the clan last summer at a farm auction we attended. They are always unfailingly sweet and I can’t help but love their look, with the females attired in bonnets and ankle-length pastel dresses and the menfolk in matching pastel shirts and black slacks held up by suspenders. We occasionally drive past Dwayne’s second son during the warmer weather as he mows the culverts. Without fail he glances up, smiles and waves.

***

So where am I going with all of this in the middle of a national identity crisis, in a country that seems to me at risk of completely losing its moral compass and falling victim to questionable Putin/oligarch influence? The Russian government has seen fit, fairly successfully, to infiltrate our media-obsessed brains with lies and hatred, intended to pit neighbor against neighbor. Some of our politicians have been “bought” with Soviet government money so filthy it must be laundered repeatedly… how have we not learned from history?

Well, bear with me a moment…

As a former Roman Catholic, I’ve lived a fairly conservative lifestyle. I’ve been in a heterosexual marriage to the same man (Long-Standing Husband) since my 20s. I obey the laws of our government, pay my taxes, have never defaulted on a loan, have never been arrested, in fact I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket or moving violation while driving. I no longer practice Roman Catholicism, but L-S Husband and I dutifully took our children to church and sent them to Catholic grammar and high schools. All three received their undergraduate degrees from a Jesuit university. However, despite my attempt to live what I would call a conservative lifestyle, I do not think that this qualifies me to know what’s best for anyone else. I do not think that my choices in anyway make me superior, nor do they make me inferior, to anyone else. A lifestyle is between you and your conscience or between you and your religious beliefs.

My concern, at the given moment, is with politicians who think they have a better idea of what is good for my soul, or anyone else’s for that matter.

So, this is for you, Mr. VP Mike Pence, as it looks as though you are to be our next President, named in succession as soon as the current president of the United States either resigns or is impeached.

I am happy for you that you and your wife are in a committed monogamous relationship. It’s a nice feeling, isn’t it? I applaud you, Mr. VP Pence, as you and your wife certainly know better than anyone what is best for you and your relationship. If you don't care for homosexuality, Mr. Pence, then don't engage in sex with men. It's as simple as that! Stop worrying about what others do. What really concerns me, however, is your seeming willingness, or let me rephrase that, your seeming eagerness to quickly alter our current laws for the purpose of squelching the freedoms of LGBT persons, or for restricting aid to the financially marginalized, or for repealing quality health care for all persons, or for the taking away of affordable birth control options for women, or for the removing of water potability and air quality provisions… must I go on?

I’ve learned many a lesson in life from those of different faiths, like my friend, The Shining One, a Muslim by birth ( https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4551613852202258879#editor/target=post;postID=3495666843569404898;onPublishedMenu=template;onClosedMenu=template;postNum=1;src=postname ), or my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Chayt, or Dwayne, my new neighbor. You see, Mr. VP Pence, they did not seek to change laws to suit their beliefs, they simply, contentedly lived the lives they chose despite the lack of a corresponding government-imposed law. 

My own examples: I stand in absolute opposition to the death penalty, so I would simply decline to serve on a jury that might impose a ruling calling for the execution of another human being. Additionally, I’m not crazy about the idea of abortion, so I would not have one - at least I don’t think I would, but I really don’t know because I was never placed in that agonizingly difficult, gut-wrenching situation. No, I always had affordable access to birth control, as every woman should. And there is no doubt in my mind that if men were able to become pregnant this would not even be an issue.

Well, that’s enough preaching from an ex-Catholic on a Sunday.

Oh, and one last thing, Mr. VP Mike Pence: This past week Long-Standing Husband went to our local, family-owned bank to make a withdrawal from their outdoor ATM. The ATM is housed adjacent to the handsome bank building, just under a drive-thru overhead covering. However, if you are to enter it at just a certain time when the sun is in just a certain position, try though you might, you cannot read the digital LED-lit options.

L-S Husband pulled into the ATM bay and began his transaction requesting a cash withdrawal and at just that certain moment he could no longer read the output on the multi-function device. One of the two tellers saw his difficulty and walked out to assist him. She used her override capabilities and cancelled the transaction. “There, that will do it,” she said, “I think I have cancelled the transaction. I know it’s hard to read the display sometimes. Come on inside and I will give you the cash that you requested. If there is any problem I will telephone you.”

As L-S Husband retold this event to me when he came home, he happened to mention that Dwayne had driven up to the ATM just as he, L-S Husband, was driving away.

A few minutes later L-S Husband’s cell phone rang. It was the bank teller explaining that she had not cancelled the transaction, however just after L-S Husband had driven away Dwayne had gone through the ATM and discovered the cash sitting in the dispenser. Dwayne parked his car, went inside, and returned the money.

You see, Mr. VP, soon-to-be President Pence, you cannot mandate your idea of morality. Because no matter a person's befief, either they got it or they ain’t.

***

“Judging others makes us blind, whereas love is illuminating. By judging others we blind ourselves to our own evil and to the grace which others are just as entitled to as we are.” 

-Dietrich Bonhoeffer

“Jesus himself did not try to convert the two thieves on the cross; he waited until one of them turned to him.” 

-Dietrich Bonhoeffer

For goodness sake, be a man/mensch, Mr. Vice President, and speak up now for your country's democracy!

Merriam-Webster, where would we be without you, these days!

good vs evil

When I was a child I loved to read Mad magazine, always first rifling through the pages to quickly find the deliciously enjoyable Spy vs Spy series. Antonio Prohías, an award-winning cartoonist, in exile from Cuba for being accused by Fidel Castro of spying for the CIA one day walked into New York's Mad magazine office, portfolio in hand. Unable to speak much English he was assisted by his daughter’s interpretation. He sold his first three Spy vs Spy cartoons that very day. No one had to explain to me when I first viewed the wordless cartoon that the opposing spies represented the U.S.A. and the Soviets.

At my Catholic grammar school, we had periodic drills in case of an attack/nuclear bomb. These drills required us to sit crossed legged in the school hallway (away from classroom windows and possibly breaking glass) and to tuck our heads in our laps, while shielding our heads with our arms. We kept cigar-sized boxes in our desks that contained water, chocolate, gauze and such, to tide us over until help could arrive. Like the fire safety slogan, "Stop, Drop and Roll," the drills had a kid-friendly catchy phrase, “Duck and Cover.” Again, it was clear we were ducking and covering because of the threat of the U.S.S.R.

When I wasn’t wasting my childhood brain on the reading of Mad magazine I would view the television cartoons of The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. Again, always eager for the episodes featuring the nefarious spies, Boris Badenov and his sidekick, Natasha. Boris and Natasha spoke with mock-Russian accents and worked for the fictional dictator-run nation, Pottsylvania, “…but, first we must get moose and squirrel.” Together the protagonist Rocky, a flying squirrel and his sweet-natured pal, Bullwinkle, a moose, valiantly fought for truth, justice and the American way- wait, I’m mixing them up with Superman, but you get where I’m going with this -I was raised, I was reared, I was brought to maturity on this good vs. evil stuff, and the enemy, in my mind, was always the Russian government.

And now in my retirement years I see the whole Russian spy-thing playing out, in real time, like some kind of bizarre James Bond soap opera. There is the quiet lead-in, then nothing for a couple of days, then *Bing-Bang-Boom* rapid-fire, fast-action sequencing that makes it nearly impossible to follow the multiple threads. Then I’m left, breathlessly waiting for the next shoe to drop.

This is all bolstered by the fact that I follow the Twitter accounts of some exceptionally knowledgeable, patriotic political writers, analysts, statisticians and such. I cling tenaciously to the words of those who assure me that my side, the “good guys,” will eventually victor. It’s addicting and at the same time I know it’s not good for my health.

I long for the warm days of spring, with her longer periods of sunlight, that will allow me to put down my IPhone, allow me to go outside and work in my garden, allow me to drive more often into the city to visit beloved family and friends, allow me to take longer walk/jogs at home here around Privatopia.

I pine for a quick end to this political madness. But I know that even as I see our current president slowly heading for the drain, it could be that it's one of those slow, partially clogged drains and thus it will be a lengthy drawn-out process before he, along with the dirty water, will begin to finally spin quickly and then even more quickly, -when suddenly *slurp*, down he will go. And I also know that if, let me repeat this once again, IF this plays out, this will not be the end -no, not by a long shot, it will not be “over” for my country. No, for a sizable rift has been carved directly into the heartland of this nation and that divide will require some degree of surgical intervention.

I have faith that eventually we, as a nation, will heal, although it will be a long and slow recovery. I have that faith because daily I read and re-read the heartfelt Twitter accounts of so many intelligent, well-educated, young Americans, who thoughtfully advocate strongly for “truth, justice and the American way.” Yes, my nation is going to recover.

On another note, the weather reports indicate that it’s warming up this week, and so my garden, not unlike my nation, will need some tending. It needs, as a whole, to be kept a watchful eye upon, to be inspected for weeds, its trees and plants will need loving encouragement, pruning, clean and adequate life-essential water, healthy and healing sunshine…

I’m donning my jacket, putting on my boots, tugging on my gloves, gathering my tools and I’m heading outdoors. There is work to be done!

***

In light of the many protests throughout Russia today (March 26, 2017) I thought I should add a note to my blog to say that I do NOT consider the Russian people to be the enemy, foes, adversaries or rivals. It is their ruler, Putin, and his regime that I oppose. Today my heart goes out to the many protesters, like the pictured young woman, the frightened boy, and the young man who gives the acknowledging-eye to the photographer. I admire their bravery: love & peace, my world brothers and sisters!

***

one of my childhood faves

As I recall Boris & crew were about to draw straws to see who would swim across the body of water

"duck and cover" in case of attack

practice makes perfect

just outside my door - when I place my hand on the knob she will look up, then dart away