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Sunday, November 19, 2017

About blogging


I’ve blogged since 2011. I stumbled across blogs a year before, and thought “I’d like to do this.” I worked out Blogger and began, July, 2011, with a tiny kitten I’d scooped up in a parking lot in Pittsburg, visiting artist friends at the Three River Art Fest. My exhibiting days were retired; I was eight years the fiscal officer of my township.

The first year I spent recording family history, and doing a little more genealogical research. I was in awe of my father, abandoned by parents and relatives and by age eight essentially holding together his little family of five siblings. I learned his history from my mother; my father never spoke of his childhood. I thought my children would be interested, but they weren’t.

I loved my mother, and her mother twice as much. That grandmother was the only grandparent I had, and her history, back at the turn of the previous century, was as difficult as my dad’s. They could have exchanged stories, were they friends. They weren’t.

A few people followed the blog, and the stories of my forbearers. Then in the summer of 2012 my sister and I took on the care of three of my youngest daughter’s four children. The adventures of two teenagers and a ten year old took on a life of its own. Folk came over to see what was happening and many stayed.

I do like to write, and even taught freshman English at the local community college, until I was divorced. Having two children to support, and a house and car to pay for, I opened the Help Wanted section of the paper and saw accountants and engineers seemed well paid.

I applied for both sorts of positions and for a BS at a local college. I held my own well enough to be hired as the controller of a local electronics company, finished an accounting degree a year later. It was Moxie 101; I don’t know if it would work in the new world. I held the job almost fifteen years. The company was sold twice over, the economy was tumbling, my sister and I were fooling around with weaving; it was time to move on.

Jan and I were weavers for twenty years, until she quit to be a quilter and me to get a new hip, and work part time for my township.

Now I have 1,142 posts on my blog, and a hundred or two I’ve deleted. My writing improved over this time. I’ve learned to keep posts to five hundred words, or so. Say it and exit stage left works best for me. If rambles don’t advance the narrative, delete them.

I follow one statistic; view count to comments. I’ve settled on comments of ten percent or more of views as a decent blog, with something of interest. (That’s the statistic on the post page; it’s the one I’ve made sense of. A bit lazy, too.)

My other rule—let every comment stand. I do not delete comments because I may not agree, or moderate and not publish a comment at all. That’s censorship. I like the exchanges that go on, some as long as a string on Facebook. But if it’s spam, no quarter. Report and delete. Take that, blackguard.


Friday, November 17, 2017

Clay feet


Went to bed sick to my stomach, or my mind, last night. Slept badly. Al Franken, too. I feel like we’re in a virtual three dimension tic tac toe game, pitching men through space. Who’s in charge? What’s going on. What is the point? The biggest offender holds the biggest office in the world, and nothing has changed.

I’ve reached the point of “so what.” Until the biggest boil is lanced, nothing has changed. We struggle against more power than can be overcome. It’s good we are taking sexual assault seriously. If more abusers step up to the mic over time, and confess, good. But until the biggest bully is gone, there will be no mic drop.

Bullying starts at home. I wish every parent understood that. Treating children as less than people, shaming, confidence destruction are bullying. Sibling against sibling; child against playmates. It can be stopped at home and it will never spread like binder weed and crab grass.

We’ve excoriated Bill Clinton; we’ve called out every third movie mogul; it’s time to let go. Reserve a right to shun or prosecute every old offense that comes to light. But, we need to stop, cut, move forward the business of this country. And that does include removing President Pussy Grabber.

The world has not ended since January 20th. A lot of sleazy legislation has been passed. A lot of stupid world deals have been made. More wildlife has died. The oceans are rising. We’ve learned to mobilize and prepare to keep making change. We can outlast Pence. We can keep on voting more intelligent people into office.

That’s all. Calm down. Keep calm and carry on.  

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Red shoes


I see the world in pictures and in stories. I see people by what I see around the people. Often I recognize them by their hair, by their size and shape, but not by their face. I don’t know why, or why this even came to me, as I set about clearing a batch of pictures from my phone.

A little batch of pictures has hung around on my phone since election day. Not that long ago, but light years in my world of file them or get rid of them. Flags were at half staff that day. I had to look it up. The church shooting in Texas. What changes?



Of everything I lost to the Red Bus, my job was the worst. It connected me to the world more than any other piece of my brain that went spinning off. I have an email almost daily from the new fiscal officer: How does she do this or that or the other thing. And I know and I tell her. I did not lose that job for want of competence.

The new fiscal officer was appointed by the trustees to fill the vacancy when I left. She had to run for election in the next general election, in November. She had an opponent, which I never did in four elections. And, she won.

I vote in the town hall, and took my chances at finding Ron on my way out. The door still opens to the same key code, and the same voice from the office observed “I hear footsteps in the hall!” Ron moved Winston, the skull in wool hunter’s cap, from Doug’s chair, and I settled in for a catch up chat. Doug is off, nursing his replacement knee, you may recall.



First we talked grandbabies. Ron has his first, a boy who’s closing in on a year now. Actually, we shook hands on our way out the door, me to DC and him to Czechia, where the little fellow was just born. That’s the little guy, on the phone.



“I have a picture for you!” Ron said. This picture is so Ron, I must explain it. That’s the hood of a thirty five year old Ford tractor, on the last trip mowing ditches this year, “on Wetmore, your favorite road. It was a beautiful day! I had to take a picture.”



Here’s one more picture I didn’t use the other day. The branches over the road at Kendall Lake. I take this picture almost every spring and every fall, for the last many years.



And, for the end, our little girl with red shoes. Now her care is in the hands of a fifteen year old girl every day. Often in the afternoon I see her and her brothers coming down the road with the caretaker. The complex maintenance fellow says they’re still using space heaters in the house, but that’s all he knows. All I know, too. I need to figure out how to upload the doctor forms to the Rotary site.