Our whacked-out government has decided that the upcoming census should include a citizenship question, something America quit doing in the 1950s.
Why do we count people? To determine congressional representation and distribution. It has been used to allow political parties to gerrymander districts in order to ensure the highest number of their own people get to represent them in both state and national legislative bodies. It also allows governmental budget makers and bean counters to decide whom to tax by how much to either fund or de-fund upcoming budgets. And let's not forget the impact of packing our judicial system with judges who lean in one direction or another.
Historically, our forefathers loaded the dice from the very beginning when white property owners counted more than others. They wanted the "right" people to build this country. The "wrong" people counted, literally, less. They couldn't even vote in order to make changes in the system. Nearly all of us today agree that policy was wrong, inhuman, swaying power to the wealthy white men. We have amended our constitution to correct those inequities. Unfortunately, the relative few who agree with the original system have regained power in our government and are busy dismantling your rights.
Why is a citizenship question important? Not only does it generate fear in those who fear deportation, while still contributing to society by their work and their taxes, but that fear leads them to not answer the census. The result of this is they don't count! Literally! Not only do they not count, but other members of a family with, say, one undocumented immigrant and a citizen spouse and perhaps several citizen children, don't count either. It's no accident that a large number of these are brown skinned.
It's also no accident that our darker skinned population tend to vote for the Democratic candidates on the ballot. They're not stupid about where their interests lie. All the fear mongering among Republicans about non-citizens voting has been shown time and again to be hogwash. Unfortunately, Republicans have done a great job of finding ways of blocking our darker skinned citizens from turning up at the polls. This is just another sneaky tactic.
Right now this proposed census question is in the courts system. It may get knocked down. It may sail through. Time will tell. But if it does go through, how about the rest of us agree to boycott that question? Don't answer yes or no. Simply fill the rest of the paperwork out but leave that space blank. Spread the word to others. Let's get the government back to counting heads, not citizens; people, not white folks.
Friday, March 30, 2018
An Unanswered Question
OK, all you theoretical physicists out there:
I've been fascinated by the photos and information we've gotten from the Hubble Telescope. Not only are the pictures spectacular (look 'em up!) but the information gleaned about the size of the universe is truly mind-boggling. The very definition of it, in fact.
One piece of information from all those new discoveries has me puzzled. All those gazillion (technical term) galaxies are not only moving away from us, it has been determined that the rate at which they are traveling is increasing!
I heard that scientific speculation has therefore pushed the conclusion that eventually everything else will be so far away from us, that aside from our own galaxy, the night sky will be dark. Everything will be too far away to see, not because they are so tiny, but because their light can't possibly reach us. Now that's where I have a problem.
We believe, at this current moment (a qualifier given that knowledge historically increases and updates), that the speed of light is an absolute limit of possible movement. Nothing can travel faster. Nothing. So-o-o-o-o....
As all those other galaxies approach the speed of light, and we suppose their speed will match up with lightspeed, why will the sky go dark? Won't that light reach a - to us- static point where they will all appear to freeze in relation to us rather than winking out?
Yes, this is not an urgent question. My lifetime will be too short for this to be a remotely practical question. So will yours. The sun will likely burn itself out long before then, something that will likely prevent any earthly life from answering the question. In fact, even allowing for continually increasing advances in optics so one could actually follow retreating galaxies, solar burnouts would likely make it impossible for anything to answer that question, making it moot.
But just suppose....
I've been fascinated by the photos and information we've gotten from the Hubble Telescope. Not only are the pictures spectacular (look 'em up!) but the information gleaned about the size of the universe is truly mind-boggling. The very definition of it, in fact.
One piece of information from all those new discoveries has me puzzled. All those gazillion (technical term) galaxies are not only moving away from us, it has been determined that the rate at which they are traveling is increasing!
I heard that scientific speculation has therefore pushed the conclusion that eventually everything else will be so far away from us, that aside from our own galaxy, the night sky will be dark. Everything will be too far away to see, not because they are so tiny, but because their light can't possibly reach us. Now that's where I have a problem.
We believe, at this current moment (a qualifier given that knowledge historically increases and updates), that the speed of light is an absolute limit of possible movement. Nothing can travel faster. Nothing. So-o-o-o-o....
As all those other galaxies approach the speed of light, and we suppose their speed will match up with lightspeed, why will the sky go dark? Won't that light reach a - to us- static point where they will all appear to freeze in relation to us rather than winking out?
Yes, this is not an urgent question. My lifetime will be too short for this to be a remotely practical question. So will yours. The sun will likely burn itself out long before then, something that will likely prevent any earthly life from answering the question. In fact, even allowing for continually increasing advances in optics so one could actually follow retreating galaxies, solar burnouts would likely make it impossible for anything to answer that question, making it moot.
But just suppose....
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
The THREAT Of Social Media
We all hear about the downside of using social media. Privacy can be lost. Stupid adolescent postings can lose you a potential job. Bullying happens. We don't even have to mention the inappropriate rampaging of the current occupant of the West Wing. And rating systems can get out of hand. I well recall one criticizing Motel 6 for, frankly, not being a 5-star motel. (Hey, it's a two star, priced accordingly, and adequate for that, especially when you consider their pet policy. Get over yourself.)
But sometimes using the threat of negative comments on your social media platform can have beneficial effects for you, the consumer who's been screwed by the big bad company. Steve just found that out this morning.
Last Thanksgiving, give or take a couple days, Steve and I both gave each other an Ancestry.com test kit for an X-mas present. They were running a sale, and we had both been curious for years. The instructions are simple but precise. Don't eat or drink for a specified period of time ahead of taking the test, then spit into a tube until your saliva reaches a designated level, screw the cap on which releases a blue preservative into the tube, and shake to mix. A mailing box comes with the kit, and you wait perhaps 6 weeks for getting your results emailed to you. In color. And along with regular offers to take "advantage" of a plethora of other services they offer, for fees of course.
Mine was returned promptly. Steve waited. And waited. Finally a notification came through that they had been unable to process his sample, and a new kit arrived. Repeat process and wait, a couple weeks longer this time. Presumably the extra wait was due to the continuation of their sale and a whole lot of folks thinking that X-mas was a good time to either take or give the kit for testing.
Steve still waited, a tad less patiently this time. I had to remind him of when they had said this 2nd kit's results would be ready, and they weren't yet late. His mental clock was still ticking from the start of the whole process, understandably enough. Finally, late yesterday the e-mail arrived.
Deja vu: they still were unable to process his kit.
This morning he got on the phone 1st thing after getting out of bed. There was the typical voicemail maze, punch whichever number to get into the next menu, figure out which number they meant you to punch this time, and so on. And on. Finally, a human. Remarkably, one with English as their native language.
"Oh, you had this problem? Tsk tsk. We''ll be happy to send you out another kit, no extra charge.... Oh, we've already done that?... Are you sure you followed the instructions precisely? ... Well, we'll be happy to send you another one, again no charge.... That won't do? You want your money back?... OK, we can do that, minus $25 for our handling and testing, of course.
That's when Steve informed them that he would be willing to accept their offer. but they should understand that he would be posting very negative comments on social media about them.
After another brief hold, the company representative came back on the line and informed Steve that they would, of course, refund the whole amount!
But sometimes using the threat of negative comments on your social media platform can have beneficial effects for you, the consumer who's been screwed by the big bad company. Steve just found that out this morning.
Last Thanksgiving, give or take a couple days, Steve and I both gave each other an Ancestry.com test kit for an X-mas present. They were running a sale, and we had both been curious for years. The instructions are simple but precise. Don't eat or drink for a specified period of time ahead of taking the test, then spit into a tube until your saliva reaches a designated level, screw the cap on which releases a blue preservative into the tube, and shake to mix. A mailing box comes with the kit, and you wait perhaps 6 weeks for getting your results emailed to you. In color. And along with regular offers to take "advantage" of a plethora of other services they offer, for fees of course.
Mine was returned promptly. Steve waited. And waited. Finally a notification came through that they had been unable to process his sample, and a new kit arrived. Repeat process and wait, a couple weeks longer this time. Presumably the extra wait was due to the continuation of their sale and a whole lot of folks thinking that X-mas was a good time to either take or give the kit for testing.
Steve still waited, a tad less patiently this time. I had to remind him of when they had said this 2nd kit's results would be ready, and they weren't yet late. His mental clock was still ticking from the start of the whole process, understandably enough. Finally, late yesterday the e-mail arrived.
Deja vu: they still were unable to process his kit.
This morning he got on the phone 1st thing after getting out of bed. There was the typical voicemail maze, punch whichever number to get into the next menu, figure out which number they meant you to punch this time, and so on. And on. Finally, a human. Remarkably, one with English as their native language.
"Oh, you had this problem? Tsk tsk. We''ll be happy to send you out another kit, no extra charge.... Oh, we've already done that?... Are you sure you followed the instructions precisely? ... Well, we'll be happy to send you another one, again no charge.... That won't do? You want your money back?... OK, we can do that, minus $25 for our handling and testing, of course.
That's when Steve informed them that he would be willing to accept their offer. but they should understand that he would be posting very negative comments on social media about them.
After another brief hold, the company representative came back on the line and informed Steve that they would, of course, refund the whole amount!
Saturday, March 24, 2018
Dumbest Answer Yet
A month ago ( http://werejustpassingthru.blogspot.com/2018/02/was-it-really-surprise.html ) I posted a question to anybody who was willing to read yet another commentary on school shootings. So many stupid ideas have been voiced instead of actually passing and enforcing some laws to help curb gun violence, particularly school shootings. I'm sure the NRA is smugly secure in its role of supporting gun sales by buying off legislators or threatening them with a well-financed campaign ("primarying") against any effort to have some effect. A lot of stupid ideas about how to protect our school children have been discussed, some even put into effect.
I asked at the end what other stupid ideas people had out there to do anything but something effective. I've gotten an answer, I'm sorry to say. The school district of Blue Mountain, PA has decided to institute a program of supplying every classroom with a bucket of rocks.
WTF? Are you shitting me?
Are they thinking the bullied students - because popular culture has that as the root cause for all school shooters - will turn to the rocks and throw them at their classmates instead of bringing in a "legal" AR-15? Or are they suggesting that the students can actually defend themselves against a hail of bullets by throwing a rock or two the shooter's way before the target they present in the process gets them among the first to be killed?
Yep. Dumbest idea yet.
I asked at the end what other stupid ideas people had out there to do anything but something effective. I've gotten an answer, I'm sorry to say. The school district of Blue Mountain, PA has decided to institute a program of supplying every classroom with a bucket of rocks.
WTF? Are you shitting me?
Are they thinking the bullied students - because popular culture has that as the root cause for all school shooters - will turn to the rocks and throw them at their classmates instead of bringing in a "legal" AR-15? Or are they suggesting that the students can actually defend themselves against a hail of bullets by throwing a rock or two the shooter's way before the target they present in the process gets them among the first to be killed?
Yep. Dumbest idea yet.
Friday, March 23, 2018
Pruning, Desert Style
Yep, it's that time again. Not by the calendar, necessarily, but because I feel like it. The jewelry projects are done... for now. Time for a change. The knees are just fine as long as I don't have to get up off the floor. No pain, stamina returning. My docs all tell me it's time for more activity, and they aren't talking chaining. So it's out in the yard.
I can see the messes that need attention. This is after we hired the usual crew in to blow the crap off of it and leave it looking clean, remembering to clean out the cactus that will sprout and grow each year from the edge of the patio roof. A little watering needs to happen, since our two combined rainfalls in the last six months totaled under an inch, meager even for here. Stuff has died back and needs trimming. But the most trimming needed is for the palo verde.
This is truly a desert survivor. It's the one palo verde that always, no matter how old and venerable, maintains green bark. When we were ready to put trees in the back yard, and the Desert Botanical Gardens had its semi-annual plant show/fundraiser, this is the one their staff recommended. They just forgot to mention one little, teensy, bitty thing. Every branch, no matter how tiny and close or far from the trunk, ends in a thorn. A woody thorn. So when it stabs you, there's a real message behind it.
Now pretty much everything that grows wild down here has thorns or spines, even the orange trees which I'm pretty sure are imports. Supposedly they protect the plants. Javelinas munch on prickly pear, uprooting and scattering whole clumps of them in a single night's feeding, and if they didn't manage to destroy it all, they're back the next night to finish the job. I'm an eyewitness, from a short stay in Sedona. Birds drill homes in saguaros, rabbits go right through damn near everything seemingly without being deterred by anything the plant can bring to bear.
All of which leaves me to wonder what use are all those thorns, anyway? I'd suspect their real function is to keep us soft-skinned humans away, but I am pretty sure they evolved long before we arrived.
It does tend to work, however. We nicknamed our palo verde "the thorn tree", since it's easier to remember than "foothills palo verde" and we both know exactly which tree we're referring to. It's the first thing in the back yard we put solar lights around so we could warn ourselves exactly where not to go in the dark. By the time the lights died, we knew very well what area to avoid, and the tree had grown tall enough to see against the never-dark sky over Phoenix.
I actually like pruning my own yard plants. I can control how they get shaped, and it's a reasonably pleasant activity. It was onerous for several years due to my knees, and this one was particularly bad because sitting next to the tree on a chair put my head in the exact perfect position to get stabbed by everything on the young tree. We're both better now, me more mobile and the tree thornless to a higher level, so that's not so much of an issue. Still, I have to approach it carefully and thoughtfully, properly gloved and brandishing loppers instead of hand pruners. Plus, I just have to be in the right mood for it. Mild temperatures and orange blossom season make an ideal time to find a reason to enjoy the back yard.
There is a little madness to my method. I've been trying to choose the right branches to keep to maintain a multi-trunked support for the canopy. This means they twist here and there, but always away from the center. I like the look. When you plant a tree because you like the trunk, and this is the kind of trunk the tree provides you by forking all over the place, you better have decided before hand that this is the look you want. If not, choose a different tree.
This look takes a lot of study before cutting. It's more than just the final shape. It's where the cut branches fall. Onto you is pretty much a big no-no. Onto the ground where you have to step next for the branch you cut is not helpful either. Now you're probably thinking, hey, she could just haul the cut branches away from the tree and keep going. Yeah, maybe. But that's work. And I'm not in the habit. Besides, there's one other thing to keep in mind. Those branches stay on the ground around the tree for a couple of days after cutting.
Yes, on purpose. It's not just that I'm tired and ready for something different after finishing the tree. But two things happen in those couple of days. The rabbits come in and eat the tenderer bits of green bark off of them, and this is where they are used to feeding: this tree valiantly keeps trying to send new shoots up from near ground level, and everything that emerges through the chicken wire is reduced to bare wood. Second, the branches dry out. Both things result in a significant loss of weight in what I have to haul over to the patio for processing for disposal.
Our garbage company has no problem hauling away whatever you prune. That is, so long as their employees never need to become acquainted with any of the pointy ends of any of it.
I can't blame them.
So, depending on what you're sending out, ropes, bags, or boxes are required. Several months ago we had something delivered in a large box. Rather than recycling and getting rid of the clutter, I insisted Steve keep the box for just this purpose. This means this big pile of thorns has to get cut again, into smaller bits that fit into this box so it can be sealed up with nothing poking out. That's another few hours' job.
At least for this one I can mostly sit. There is a very sturdy low oak coffee table out there, built by my late father-in-law to withstand anything his two growing sons could try to do with it. When it was time to tear down the old farmhouse, our family was invited to come down for whatever we wanted between their picking through for themselves, and the auction to sell off the rest. Mostly we raided the library. I asked for the table. It still is in great condition, though I am beginning to think that in this dryness it could stand another coating of the spar varnish Bob put on it decades ago. Otherwise, it's still solid as a rock, nary a wobble anywhere, and makes a great place for all those shaded outdoor projects.
So, box, table, loppers and hand pruners, and two sets of suede work gloves ready to go. The goal is to, well first, not get any new holes in me, and second, trim down all those gazillion branching pokey bits so they not just fit into the box but don't catch on each other and refuse to compact down to manageable size. Fortunately, after three years I have system. It's more enjoyable with Steve sitting out with me while eating his breakfast, so both of us can enjoy the neighborhood birds and peak of orange blossom season. The job improves even more once I dispose of the heavy gloves. The best pruner for this job is meant for a man's hand. So are the gloves. Together they are almost impossible to use, and I've figured out how to avoid getting poked. The only thorn I have under my skin when the job is done is left over from the original pruning, and if it ever bothers me, I'll go find a needle one of these days.
The one thing almost impossible to avoid is keeping the smallest branches from going flying as they are cut, rather than dropping obediently into the box. Since the branches have dried for a couple days, the cuts finish with a snap, and it's never a guarantee which direction they go, even when I hold the big branch down inside the box. So the last part of the task is getting out the broom and dustpan and sweeping up the pine needles which have accumulated on the patio in the last couple of strong winds. Not only do I get up any stray palo verde thorns, the pine straw goes in the box on top of all the branches, keeping them from either showing or escaping when the trash guys pick the box up. And the patio hasn't looked this good since... well, nevermind.
This huge full box now weighs a total of about two pounds. It's going to sit out in the carport until the night before garbage pickup, so the wind won't blow it into the neighbor's yard. I don't think it would be quite the wonderful present they might expect if they chose to open it.
Damn! That tree looks good now!
I can see the messes that need attention. This is after we hired the usual crew in to blow the crap off of it and leave it looking clean, remembering to clean out the cactus that will sprout and grow each year from the edge of the patio roof. A little watering needs to happen, since our two combined rainfalls in the last six months totaled under an inch, meager even for here. Stuff has died back and needs trimming. But the most trimming needed is for the palo verde.
This is truly a desert survivor. It's the one palo verde that always, no matter how old and venerable, maintains green bark. When we were ready to put trees in the back yard, and the Desert Botanical Gardens had its semi-annual plant show/fundraiser, this is the one their staff recommended. They just forgot to mention one little, teensy, bitty thing. Every branch, no matter how tiny and close or far from the trunk, ends in a thorn. A woody thorn. So when it stabs you, there's a real message behind it.
Now pretty much everything that grows wild down here has thorns or spines, even the orange trees which I'm pretty sure are imports. Supposedly they protect the plants. Javelinas munch on prickly pear, uprooting and scattering whole clumps of them in a single night's feeding, and if they didn't manage to destroy it all, they're back the next night to finish the job. I'm an eyewitness, from a short stay in Sedona. Birds drill homes in saguaros, rabbits go right through damn near everything seemingly without being deterred by anything the plant can bring to bear.
All of which leaves me to wonder what use are all those thorns, anyway? I'd suspect their real function is to keep us soft-skinned humans away, but I am pretty sure they evolved long before we arrived.
It does tend to work, however. We nicknamed our palo verde "the thorn tree", since it's easier to remember than "foothills palo verde" and we both know exactly which tree we're referring to. It's the first thing in the back yard we put solar lights around so we could warn ourselves exactly where not to go in the dark. By the time the lights died, we knew very well what area to avoid, and the tree had grown tall enough to see against the never-dark sky over Phoenix.
I actually like pruning my own yard plants. I can control how they get shaped, and it's a reasonably pleasant activity. It was onerous for several years due to my knees, and this one was particularly bad because sitting next to the tree on a chair put my head in the exact perfect position to get stabbed by everything on the young tree. We're both better now, me more mobile and the tree thornless to a higher level, so that's not so much of an issue. Still, I have to approach it carefully and thoughtfully, properly gloved and brandishing loppers instead of hand pruners. Plus, I just have to be in the right mood for it. Mild temperatures and orange blossom season make an ideal time to find a reason to enjoy the back yard.
There is a little madness to my method. I've been trying to choose the right branches to keep to maintain a multi-trunked support for the canopy. This means they twist here and there, but always away from the center. I like the look. When you plant a tree because you like the trunk, and this is the kind of trunk the tree provides you by forking all over the place, you better have decided before hand that this is the look you want. If not, choose a different tree.
This look takes a lot of study before cutting. It's more than just the final shape. It's where the cut branches fall. Onto you is pretty much a big no-no. Onto the ground where you have to step next for the branch you cut is not helpful either. Now you're probably thinking, hey, she could just haul the cut branches away from the tree and keep going. Yeah, maybe. But that's work. And I'm not in the habit. Besides, there's one other thing to keep in mind. Those branches stay on the ground around the tree for a couple of days after cutting.
Yes, on purpose. It's not just that I'm tired and ready for something different after finishing the tree. But two things happen in those couple of days. The rabbits come in and eat the tenderer bits of green bark off of them, and this is where they are used to feeding: this tree valiantly keeps trying to send new shoots up from near ground level, and everything that emerges through the chicken wire is reduced to bare wood. Second, the branches dry out. Both things result in a significant loss of weight in what I have to haul over to the patio for processing for disposal.
Our garbage company has no problem hauling away whatever you prune. That is, so long as their employees never need to become acquainted with any of the pointy ends of any of it.
I can't blame them.
So, depending on what you're sending out, ropes, bags, or boxes are required. Several months ago we had something delivered in a large box. Rather than recycling and getting rid of the clutter, I insisted Steve keep the box for just this purpose. This means this big pile of thorns has to get cut again, into smaller bits that fit into this box so it can be sealed up with nothing poking out. That's another few hours' job.
At least for this one I can mostly sit. There is a very sturdy low oak coffee table out there, built by my late father-in-law to withstand anything his two growing sons could try to do with it. When it was time to tear down the old farmhouse, our family was invited to come down for whatever we wanted between their picking through for themselves, and the auction to sell off the rest. Mostly we raided the library. I asked for the table. It still is in great condition, though I am beginning to think that in this dryness it could stand another coating of the spar varnish Bob put on it decades ago. Otherwise, it's still solid as a rock, nary a wobble anywhere, and makes a great place for all those shaded outdoor projects.
So, box, table, loppers and hand pruners, and two sets of suede work gloves ready to go. The goal is to, well first, not get any new holes in me, and second, trim down all those gazillion branching pokey bits so they not just fit into the box but don't catch on each other and refuse to compact down to manageable size. Fortunately, after three years I have system. It's more enjoyable with Steve sitting out with me while eating his breakfast, so both of us can enjoy the neighborhood birds and peak of orange blossom season. The job improves even more once I dispose of the heavy gloves. The best pruner for this job is meant for a man's hand. So are the gloves. Together they are almost impossible to use, and I've figured out how to avoid getting poked. The only thorn I have under my skin when the job is done is left over from the original pruning, and if it ever bothers me, I'll go find a needle one of these days.
The one thing almost impossible to avoid is keeping the smallest branches from going flying as they are cut, rather than dropping obediently into the box. Since the branches have dried for a couple days, the cuts finish with a snap, and it's never a guarantee which direction they go, even when I hold the big branch down inside the box. So the last part of the task is getting out the broom and dustpan and sweeping up the pine needles which have accumulated on the patio in the last couple of strong winds. Not only do I get up any stray palo verde thorns, the pine straw goes in the box on top of all the branches, keeping them from either showing or escaping when the trash guys pick the box up. And the patio hasn't looked this good since... well, nevermind.
This huge full box now weighs a total of about two pounds. It's going to sit out in the carport until the night before garbage pickup, so the wind won't blow it into the neighbor's yard. I don't think it would be quite the wonderful present they might expect if they chose to open it.
Damn! That tree looks good now!
Monday, March 19, 2018
Brunch & Agnosticism
So... Saturday after our (Grandmothers for Peace) bi-monthly peace demonstration, those in the group who could, went to our regular restaurant for brunch. Actually we don't use the fancy term. For some of us it's breakfast, for some it's lunch. It doesn't matter. It usually involves adequate inexpensive food, what I'm told is vile coffee, and nonstop conversation. Often more than one goes on at a time.
Somehow one of the conversations I was in turned to religion. Likely it was spurred by Stephen Hawking's death and his contributions to our understanding of how the universe works. Understanding of the universe is not "mission accomplished". I don't believe as humans we can ever reach that goal. Just like, to the person who wanted to lay creation and the universe all off on God and thus not needing our understanding, I disagree that we as humans could ever understand God. Providing there is one. Or more. Or none. If there were gods, and they were we, then perhaps there would be understanding. Highly as we prize ourselves, however, we're still only human.
I expressed my opinion on the matters, and provoked a friendly cross-examination of whether I believed in heaven, hell, an afterlife, etc., etc. She tried to insist that I had some kind of faith, pro or con, on those matters, some belief about what the answers to all those unknowable questions was. When I remained staunchly agnostic in my answers, willing to wait and see until something definitive was provided me, she decided to just summarize it all up as me being a person comfortable with ambiguity.
That seemed fair. At least on those big questions. I'm old enough that the time of finding out is coming closer. Getting a no answer about an afterlife is still an answer. (Now the smaller questions, politics, parenting, beauty, war, I can get quite heatedly firm about: never fear I'm indifferent to life.)
She wasn't quite ready to let it rest there. Mind you, this was still a friendly discussion, and remained so. Still, she couldn't understand how, without faith, anyone could have a system of ethics. If it wasn't from wanting to get into heaven, why would anyone behave?
I refrained from a snarky comment that a great deal of people avowed their belief in heaven and hell, but it didn't seem to have any moderating effect on their behavior. (Hey, hypocrisy anyone?) Or maybe the promise of forgiveness no matter what just works like a Get Out Of Hell Free card. Hey, folks, life is a game of Monopoly!
Instead of snark, I simply suggested the idea that good ethical behavior was a reward in itself. It didn't require a parental threat from a religious theology.
She looked thoughtful for perhaps a whole second, murmured some equivalent of "maybe," and let the conversation flow elsewhere.
We'll meet again on a Saturday morning to hold signs and wave at drivers passing our little protest group, whether they honk, smile & wave in support, or express some more negative response. I just love the ones who think that their brand of religion will cure us of the error of our ways.
Uh huh.
Somehow one of the conversations I was in turned to religion. Likely it was spurred by Stephen Hawking's death and his contributions to our understanding of how the universe works. Understanding of the universe is not "mission accomplished". I don't believe as humans we can ever reach that goal. Just like, to the person who wanted to lay creation and the universe all off on God and thus not needing our understanding, I disagree that we as humans could ever understand God. Providing there is one. Or more. Or none. If there were gods, and they were we, then perhaps there would be understanding. Highly as we prize ourselves, however, we're still only human.
I expressed my opinion on the matters, and provoked a friendly cross-examination of whether I believed in heaven, hell, an afterlife, etc., etc. She tried to insist that I had some kind of faith, pro or con, on those matters, some belief about what the answers to all those unknowable questions was. When I remained staunchly agnostic in my answers, willing to wait and see until something definitive was provided me, she decided to just summarize it all up as me being a person comfortable with ambiguity.
That seemed fair. At least on those big questions. I'm old enough that the time of finding out is coming closer. Getting a no answer about an afterlife is still an answer. (Now the smaller questions, politics, parenting, beauty, war, I can get quite heatedly firm about: never fear I'm indifferent to life.)
She wasn't quite ready to let it rest there. Mind you, this was still a friendly discussion, and remained so. Still, she couldn't understand how, without faith, anyone could have a system of ethics. If it wasn't from wanting to get into heaven, why would anyone behave?
I refrained from a snarky comment that a great deal of people avowed their belief in heaven and hell, but it didn't seem to have any moderating effect on their behavior. (Hey, hypocrisy anyone?) Or maybe the promise of forgiveness no matter what just works like a Get Out Of Hell Free card. Hey, folks, life is a game of Monopoly!
Instead of snark, I simply suggested the idea that good ethical behavior was a reward in itself. It didn't require a parental threat from a religious theology.
She looked thoughtful for perhaps a whole second, murmured some equivalent of "maybe," and let the conversation flow elsewhere.
We'll meet again on a Saturday morning to hold signs and wave at drivers passing our little protest group, whether they honk, smile & wave in support, or express some more negative response. I just love the ones who think that their brand of religion will cure us of the error of our ways.
Uh huh.
Friday, March 16, 2018
"National Tragedy" and Perspective
If you're reading this, you haven't been hiding in a cave for the last couple days. You've heard about the pedestrian bridge collapsing in Florida. The death toll reports rise periodically: one, four, six. Since 8 cars were affected, i.e., squashed, at least 8 people were involved, and that's even if each were a single-person vehicle.
The TV coverage has repeatedly shown an unidentified man telling the reporter on scene that it was a "national tragedy." Tragedy, certainly. But overblown, much?
Every single loss is somebody's tragedy. But how is this national in scope? Is he talking about the national 15 minutes of attention before the news cycle goes on to the next whatever? Perhaps the tragedy spreads to the contractors or engineers if studies show them responsible for the bridge failure. They lose money, trust, personnel. Perhaps, if one really wants to stretch it, repercussions from this event spread out across the country to a residue of unease and mistrust of bridges, as many reported after the 35W bridge collapse in Minneapolis.
But that is still a far cry from it being a national tragedy.
If you want to discuss national tragedy, how about we start serious discussions and some real action to end all the gun violence in this country? But since it's guns, we can't and don't. Can't, because by law places like the CDC are prohibited from collecting the data that would show the true figures about just how pervasive it is, not only in death tolls, but non-fatal injuries and imprisonments. Won't, because our lawmakers are under the thumb of, if not downright paid for, by the nutzoid extremists in the NRA who cry "2nd amendment rights" while their real goal is selling more guns.
That is the real national tragedy.
Thoughts and prayers aren't going to solve one bit of it.
The TV coverage has repeatedly shown an unidentified man telling the reporter on scene that it was a "national tragedy." Tragedy, certainly. But overblown, much?
Every single loss is somebody's tragedy. But how is this national in scope? Is he talking about the national 15 minutes of attention before the news cycle goes on to the next whatever? Perhaps the tragedy spreads to the contractors or engineers if studies show them responsible for the bridge failure. They lose money, trust, personnel. Perhaps, if one really wants to stretch it, repercussions from this event spread out across the country to a residue of unease and mistrust of bridges, as many reported after the 35W bridge collapse in Minneapolis.
But that is still a far cry from it being a national tragedy.
If you want to discuss national tragedy, how about we start serious discussions and some real action to end all the gun violence in this country? But since it's guns, we can't and don't. Can't, because by law places like the CDC are prohibited from collecting the data that would show the true figures about just how pervasive it is, not only in death tolls, but non-fatal injuries and imprisonments. Won't, because our lawmakers are under the thumb of, if not downright paid for, by the nutzoid extremists in the NRA who cry "2nd amendment rights" while their real goal is selling more guns.
That is the real national tragedy.
Thoughts and prayers aren't going to solve one bit of it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
A Day In The Life
Retirement doesn't have to be boring. I mean, it can if you work at it. Or if you're just determined to be bored, or just aren't paying attention. But even a quiet day can have its events. Like today.
I woke up the first time around 7-ish. I don't really need to mark the time most days, but my bladder disagrees. I generally take advantage of it being my first waking to take my thyroid medicine, since I have to wait at least 20 minutes before anything else. Since I'm only about 6 hours into a night's sleep by then, I crawl back into bed for a top-off. But since it's nearly 70 already, I open the bathroom window before hitting the pillow.
The second wake-up is the real one. It includes the rest of my morning pills and, being a week day, my morning mocha caffeine fix while I get a bit of local and national news. Only, not today! Grrrrr! I'm not sure of the DVR is having a breakdown requiring replacement, or if Daylight Savings is screwing everything up with the timer. Since we remain on standard time in most of Arizona, excepting the Navajo Reservation which covers parts of 4 states and keeps to a single time zone, it might be that the machine is too stupid to adjust. Funny, though, as everything yesterday with timers set got recorded at the right time.
By now it's too late. The stations are past news and into game shows. The one show that does record insists on recording the same show 3 times, with different start times, interfering with anything else. I head through the programming, delete all 3 messed up timers involved, and reset them by selecting them out of the guide for tomorrow's programming, and hope for the best. It worked last time this happened.
Today is a Club day, meaning a shower and changing into outdoor clothes. (My pajamas are loose, comfy, knit items suitable for any gym. In a pinch I can wear them outside while I run out the garbage, but no way where I might be recognized. And of course, I never hit a gym, so they're still just pajamas.)
There is a stray wisp of hair that is getting a bit too long, so a snip fixes that to my satisfaction. I normally let my hair just air dry after brushing, lucky enough to have some curl left and keeping it short enough to get away with doing that. Unfortunately for me, when I later hit the parking lot at the rec center, a mischievous breeze follows me all the way inside with my still damp hair. I choose to pretend it looks normal going 17 different directions and ignore it. But that is later.
Breakfast is generally around everybody else's lunchtime. Today we have a General Membership Meeting at noon, pot luck. I almost never bring anything other than my own whatever. Today it's yogurt. Fat free, sugar free, Greek yogurt, with lemon peel bits, cinnamon, and sucralose. I'd have put in candied pecans too but I ran out and haven't started the process of hammering the nuts to bits, much less the candying bit. I do have the lemon because a friend with a lemon tree shared some and I grated the peels and popped the bits into the freezer to freeze dry. An open bowl plus a bit of stirring to keep them loose does a pretty good job over a couple of days before they go into a zipper bag bag into the freezer. The best part, besides having the grated peels of course, is the wonderful lemon smell which permeates the freezer for days, spreading into the fridge, and spilling out into the kitchen (which can use all the help it can get!) every time somebody opens either door.
The lemon is not the only wonderful thing in the air right now. The just-rained desert scent from Saturday has dissipated, but orange blossoms are infusing the air. My palo blanco tree in the back yard is full of catkins, but I can't credit them with any fragrance, and the desert willow is still too busy figuring out how to shed its brown winter leaves to have even started to bud, so all the good stuff is wafting in from neighboring yards. And hey, if that fails me, I can just go open the freezer again.
Once dressed and organized, I head out to the club. I plan for time to put a chain necklace in the vibrator so it's dry, polished, and ready to submit for sale, while I finish up the paperwork for all 10 of the items I'm putting in today, 10 being the club limit. When that's ready, I find another member to "receive" my stuff. Usually this means teaching somebody how it's done. Simple, if you remember to check three things in each of three places and make sure each set matches. They either correct me, or initial and date the card that goes with each item. Then I tear off the front copy, bagging the item and the carbon copy card together, and submit everything to be locked up until jurying.
The first woman I ask helps with the first 4 items but receives a call that her son is in the ER back home with chest pains. She suddenly has other priorities, and I find another member to teach. He happens to be the club treasurer, and I'm surprised to find out that he's managed to avoid learning how to do this simple task during all his years in the club. Now he doesn't have that excuse any more. His wife is amused.
There's time for more chatting before heading down to the room where the meeting is held, one with a kitchen, food table, and tables for members which also contain paperwork for the meeting. Today it's simple: my minutes, the Treasurer's report, and the President's agenda. I have, besides that, notes on a mini speech I have been volunteered to give the members explaining a policy which is, shall we say, less than popular with some few who do not understand it and the reasoning behind it very well. Oh, and a pair of pens so there's no excuse to be unable to take complete minutes.
During lunch, conversation ranges from new great-grandchildren to health issues to a comparison of Arizona and UK traffic laws. Our UK member has some of the same opinions many of the rest of us at the table do about certain laws here, like the one where anything that happens during a left turn is the fault, legally, of the turning driver. No matter what stupid or criminal thing is being done by the idiot who hits you, it's your fault, your ticket. Oh, and current penalties for driving while texting here are over $800 for the first offense, double for the second.
Our resident leprechaun is in attendance, the only decoration giving a nod to the upcoming holiday. It may be rude to call him a decoration, but he is the most colorful thing in the room. He also helped out with last Saturday's Fun Fair by adding the same atmosphere to the event. I presume the costume sits in a closet somewhere next week, waiting for whatever fun he can get out of it next year. (Note: never assume there will actually be a next year for any of our members. Also note: shut up about it.)
The meeting is short and sweet, ending in extra sweetness by my rescue of 2 lonely abandoned frosting-and-walnut-topped brownies withering away on a plate. Mmmmmmm....
I returned to the club with a project in mind, but find I've run out of ambition by the time I get back in the room. Stepping outside, I find the temperature is over 80 and the car is an oven. Just another reason not to dawdle on the way. Besides, I spy, at long last, Steve's scooter returned to its place of pride in the driveway after finally getting the right part sent from Pennsylvania to the repair shop so it'll run again. This is about the 4th different day it's been promised to be returned. Yesterday's excuse was the repairman had been rear-ended on the freeway, and suddenly had different priorities than driving that extra 5 miles to our house to drop it off, even though the scooter had survived the crash just fine, as had the repairman. What can you do?
Steve is just happy it's finally here. We chat a bit before our phones get busy with incoming calls. In order to hear my caller I step outside onto the patio since Steve can get a bit loud on his phone, and I can hear every word his callers say too. It may as well be on speaker. I really want to hear my caller, as I know she had a doctor's appointment today that worried her. The verdict is it's not throat cancer, but she may still wind up losing her voice permanently. There will be meds, and requests to change certain habits and make new ones to minimize symptoms. We'll see how that goes. Now, since she can still talk, albeit very gravelly, we have a good chat, ranging from hummingbirds, to orange blossoms, vacation plans, experiences with venomous spiders, snakes, and... oops, she has another call, bye.
Steve and I kill some more time, watching a little light TV, checking out stuff on eBay, going through the mail which includes two packages, but all of it for him, paying a bill. No "lunch", no napping. We are both waiting to head down to the Sun Bowl, an amphitheater within scootering distance, planning to hit the food trucks once we get there, early enough that I can still find close parking now that I'm walking in from the car carrying a folding chair. Steve, of course, is riding his chair in so that's not an issue for him.
Several things surprise me. First, as early as I arrived, only a very few parking spots were still open, so I had a really long walk. Second, no food trucks at this concert. Every time before there were beverages, tacos, popcorn, and who knows what else. Oh well, I'm not actually feeling hungry, just looking forward to some good kettle corn. Next time. I hook up with Steve who's saving my place next to him in our usual spot, reserved for handicapped folks. We used to scooter in together, but I'm much better now. I join him anyway. We're down in front. So are the rows of chairs for the busloads of folks from the nursing homes. Looking around at the tiers rising behind us, they are already full of folks, with more arriving for another half our or so. I have no idea where they all put themselves. It seems everybody arrived early hoping to get good seats to hear the Navy concert. Real Navy. Not a bunch of half-assed musicians who can play a couple of military songs like the group that came in for last Veteran's Day.
These guys are warming up, checking out voices, floor movements, audio equipment. We hear an introductory few bars to probably everything on the program in our hands.These guys are GREAT! Part of the U.S. Navy Band, they are one of several touring groups called the Sea Chanters, and we are one of their last stops on this particular tour. And yes, everybody laughs when their MC expresses his appreciation for their opportunity to get out of Washington DC for a few weeks.
While they warm up, however, Steve and I worry about them. Everybody is in shorts. Sure, it's still warm, but by the time the concert actually starts, we will be being treated to a spectacular Arizona sunset and rapidly falling temperatures. We all knew to bring jackets, maybe even lap blankets by a few. But they take a break offstage, and once they filter out informally, one at a time, mingling before they come out (again) formally, they are each in full dress uniforms.
We still have time before the concert begins, and Steve spots a staff person from the Rec Centers administration that he's talked with before. He inquires whether free casino-and-bus tickets are still available, and gets a positive response with instructions. While they are talking, I realize I also recognize her from several meetings in my capacity as an officer of my club, including training. So we strike up our own conversation, as she now has a few minutes free. I mention another, former club officer's name, asking whether she remembers her, and hearing she does, asks has she heard her latest news?
When she tells me not to give her any bad news, I remain silent long enough for her to realize there is only bad news. OK, she decides she is ready to hear it. The person we are talking about, one of the sweetest, most welcoming member of the club, has left the state to go live with her son. She's got stage 4 ovarian cancer, undiscovered while she ran through a host of other medical problems, and her doctors hold out no hope. However, the club grapevine, those close few who have been informed of her status, say she will be coming back briefly in April. Her son is not a fan of her service dog. I'm not sure of her "long term" plans, either for herself or the dog, but the RCSC woman I'm talking with cares about both of them, and left the conversation to go find her husband to talk him into adopting this dog when and if she needs a home.
Our expectations for the concert are greatly exceeded. Many of the selections, stepping past the patriotic, I don't recognize from the titles in the program. As I'm listening, however, I realize most of them are a part of the soundtrack of my youth. I hadn't paid much attention back then, in fact tried not to. It was Beethovan, Tschaikovsky, and some Peter Paul and Mary or Chad Mitchell. I might even be one of the few remaining people who remember that the Smothers Brothers played some straight folk music along with their comedy. But somehow this other music did filter in. I worked in a Woolworths store that piped in music, rode in cars on dates where the radio was on. I didn't escape it after all. Sure, I couldn't repeat the lyrics or give you the titles, but the music embedded itself despite me. I wound up recognizing more music than Steve did, and he actually listened to the stuff back when.
During the concert Steve pointed out one of the singers to me. He was sure the guy had been in "Jersey Boys". When it was announced that the musicians would be available to meet folks after the concert, He scootered over to find the guy, who confirmed Steve knew what he was talking about. Meanwhile I slowly fought my way back to the car, prepared to wait several minutes until traffic cleared out. We both knew Steve would beat me home.
A little supper with our evening news, and Steve headed off to bed. I decided to stay up blogging, hoping to finish before today turned into tomorrow. I may have just made it.
I woke up the first time around 7-ish. I don't really need to mark the time most days, but my bladder disagrees. I generally take advantage of it being my first waking to take my thyroid medicine, since I have to wait at least 20 minutes before anything else. Since I'm only about 6 hours into a night's sleep by then, I crawl back into bed for a top-off. But since it's nearly 70 already, I open the bathroom window before hitting the pillow.
The second wake-up is the real one. It includes the rest of my morning pills and, being a week day, my morning mocha caffeine fix while I get a bit of local and national news. Only, not today! Grrrrr! I'm not sure of the DVR is having a breakdown requiring replacement, or if Daylight Savings is screwing everything up with the timer. Since we remain on standard time in most of Arizona, excepting the Navajo Reservation which covers parts of 4 states and keeps to a single time zone, it might be that the machine is too stupid to adjust. Funny, though, as everything yesterday with timers set got recorded at the right time.
By now it's too late. The stations are past news and into game shows. The one show that does record insists on recording the same show 3 times, with different start times, interfering with anything else. I head through the programming, delete all 3 messed up timers involved, and reset them by selecting them out of the guide for tomorrow's programming, and hope for the best. It worked last time this happened.
Today is a Club day, meaning a shower and changing into outdoor clothes. (My pajamas are loose, comfy, knit items suitable for any gym. In a pinch I can wear them outside while I run out the garbage, but no way where I might be recognized. And of course, I never hit a gym, so they're still just pajamas.)
There is a stray wisp of hair that is getting a bit too long, so a snip fixes that to my satisfaction. I normally let my hair just air dry after brushing, lucky enough to have some curl left and keeping it short enough to get away with doing that. Unfortunately for me, when I later hit the parking lot at the rec center, a mischievous breeze follows me all the way inside with my still damp hair. I choose to pretend it looks normal going 17 different directions and ignore it. But that is later.
Breakfast is generally around everybody else's lunchtime. Today we have a General Membership Meeting at noon, pot luck. I almost never bring anything other than my own whatever. Today it's yogurt. Fat free, sugar free, Greek yogurt, with lemon peel bits, cinnamon, and sucralose. I'd have put in candied pecans too but I ran out and haven't started the process of hammering the nuts to bits, much less the candying bit. I do have the lemon because a friend with a lemon tree shared some and I grated the peels and popped the bits into the freezer to freeze dry. An open bowl plus a bit of stirring to keep them loose does a pretty good job over a couple of days before they go into a zipper bag bag into the freezer. The best part, besides having the grated peels of course, is the wonderful lemon smell which permeates the freezer for days, spreading into the fridge, and spilling out into the kitchen (which can use all the help it can get!) every time somebody opens either door.
The lemon is not the only wonderful thing in the air right now. The just-rained desert scent from Saturday has dissipated, but orange blossoms are infusing the air. My palo blanco tree in the back yard is full of catkins, but I can't credit them with any fragrance, and the desert willow is still too busy figuring out how to shed its brown winter leaves to have even started to bud, so all the good stuff is wafting in from neighboring yards. And hey, if that fails me, I can just go open the freezer again.
Once dressed and organized, I head out to the club. I plan for time to put a chain necklace in the vibrator so it's dry, polished, and ready to submit for sale, while I finish up the paperwork for all 10 of the items I'm putting in today, 10 being the club limit. When that's ready, I find another member to "receive" my stuff. Usually this means teaching somebody how it's done. Simple, if you remember to check three things in each of three places and make sure each set matches. They either correct me, or initial and date the card that goes with each item. Then I tear off the front copy, bagging the item and the carbon copy card together, and submit everything to be locked up until jurying.
The first woman I ask helps with the first 4 items but receives a call that her son is in the ER back home with chest pains. She suddenly has other priorities, and I find another member to teach. He happens to be the club treasurer, and I'm surprised to find out that he's managed to avoid learning how to do this simple task during all his years in the club. Now he doesn't have that excuse any more. His wife is amused.
There's time for more chatting before heading down to the room where the meeting is held, one with a kitchen, food table, and tables for members which also contain paperwork for the meeting. Today it's simple: my minutes, the Treasurer's report, and the President's agenda. I have, besides that, notes on a mini speech I have been volunteered to give the members explaining a policy which is, shall we say, less than popular with some few who do not understand it and the reasoning behind it very well. Oh, and a pair of pens so there's no excuse to be unable to take complete minutes.
During lunch, conversation ranges from new great-grandchildren to health issues to a comparison of Arizona and UK traffic laws. Our UK member has some of the same opinions many of the rest of us at the table do about certain laws here, like the one where anything that happens during a left turn is the fault, legally, of the turning driver. No matter what stupid or criminal thing is being done by the idiot who hits you, it's your fault, your ticket. Oh, and current penalties for driving while texting here are over $800 for the first offense, double for the second.
Our resident leprechaun is in attendance, the only decoration giving a nod to the upcoming holiday. It may be rude to call him a decoration, but he is the most colorful thing in the room. He also helped out with last Saturday's Fun Fair by adding the same atmosphere to the event. I presume the costume sits in a closet somewhere next week, waiting for whatever fun he can get out of it next year. (Note: never assume there will actually be a next year for any of our members. Also note: shut up about it.)
The meeting is short and sweet, ending in extra sweetness by my rescue of 2 lonely abandoned frosting-and-walnut-topped brownies withering away on a plate. Mmmmmmm....
I returned to the club with a project in mind, but find I've run out of ambition by the time I get back in the room. Stepping outside, I find the temperature is over 80 and the car is an oven. Just another reason not to dawdle on the way. Besides, I spy, at long last, Steve's scooter returned to its place of pride in the driveway after finally getting the right part sent from Pennsylvania to the repair shop so it'll run again. This is about the 4th different day it's been promised to be returned. Yesterday's excuse was the repairman had been rear-ended on the freeway, and suddenly had different priorities than driving that extra 5 miles to our house to drop it off, even though the scooter had survived the crash just fine, as had the repairman. What can you do?
Steve is just happy it's finally here. We chat a bit before our phones get busy with incoming calls. In order to hear my caller I step outside onto the patio since Steve can get a bit loud on his phone, and I can hear every word his callers say too. It may as well be on speaker. I really want to hear my caller, as I know she had a doctor's appointment today that worried her. The verdict is it's not throat cancer, but she may still wind up losing her voice permanently. There will be meds, and requests to change certain habits and make new ones to minimize symptoms. We'll see how that goes. Now, since she can still talk, albeit very gravelly, we have a good chat, ranging from hummingbirds, to orange blossoms, vacation plans, experiences with venomous spiders, snakes, and... oops, she has another call, bye.
Steve and I kill some more time, watching a little light TV, checking out stuff on eBay, going through the mail which includes two packages, but all of it for him, paying a bill. No "lunch", no napping. We are both waiting to head down to the Sun Bowl, an amphitheater within scootering distance, planning to hit the food trucks once we get there, early enough that I can still find close parking now that I'm walking in from the car carrying a folding chair. Steve, of course, is riding his chair in so that's not an issue for him.
Several things surprise me. First, as early as I arrived, only a very few parking spots were still open, so I had a really long walk. Second, no food trucks at this concert. Every time before there were beverages, tacos, popcorn, and who knows what else. Oh well, I'm not actually feeling hungry, just looking forward to some good kettle corn. Next time. I hook up with Steve who's saving my place next to him in our usual spot, reserved for handicapped folks. We used to scooter in together, but I'm much better now. I join him anyway. We're down in front. So are the rows of chairs for the busloads of folks from the nursing homes. Looking around at the tiers rising behind us, they are already full of folks, with more arriving for another half our or so. I have no idea where they all put themselves. It seems everybody arrived early hoping to get good seats to hear the Navy concert. Real Navy. Not a bunch of half-assed musicians who can play a couple of military songs like the group that came in for last Veteran's Day.
These guys are warming up, checking out voices, floor movements, audio equipment. We hear an introductory few bars to probably everything on the program in our hands.These guys are GREAT! Part of the U.S. Navy Band, they are one of several touring groups called the Sea Chanters, and we are one of their last stops on this particular tour. And yes, everybody laughs when their MC expresses his appreciation for their opportunity to get out of Washington DC for a few weeks.
While they warm up, however, Steve and I worry about them. Everybody is in shorts. Sure, it's still warm, but by the time the concert actually starts, we will be being treated to a spectacular Arizona sunset and rapidly falling temperatures. We all knew to bring jackets, maybe even lap blankets by a few. But they take a break offstage, and once they filter out informally, one at a time, mingling before they come out (again) formally, they are each in full dress uniforms.
We still have time before the concert begins, and Steve spots a staff person from the Rec Centers administration that he's talked with before. He inquires whether free casino-and-bus tickets are still available, and gets a positive response with instructions. While they are talking, I realize I also recognize her from several meetings in my capacity as an officer of my club, including training. So we strike up our own conversation, as she now has a few minutes free. I mention another, former club officer's name, asking whether she remembers her, and hearing she does, asks has she heard her latest news?
When she tells me not to give her any bad news, I remain silent long enough for her to realize there is only bad news. OK, she decides she is ready to hear it. The person we are talking about, one of the sweetest, most welcoming member of the club, has left the state to go live with her son. She's got stage 4 ovarian cancer, undiscovered while she ran through a host of other medical problems, and her doctors hold out no hope. However, the club grapevine, those close few who have been informed of her status, say she will be coming back briefly in April. Her son is not a fan of her service dog. I'm not sure of her "long term" plans, either for herself or the dog, but the RCSC woman I'm talking with cares about both of them, and left the conversation to go find her husband to talk him into adopting this dog when and if she needs a home.
Our expectations for the concert are greatly exceeded. Many of the selections, stepping past the patriotic, I don't recognize from the titles in the program. As I'm listening, however, I realize most of them are a part of the soundtrack of my youth. I hadn't paid much attention back then, in fact tried not to. It was Beethovan, Tschaikovsky, and some Peter Paul and Mary or Chad Mitchell. I might even be one of the few remaining people who remember that the Smothers Brothers played some straight folk music along with their comedy. But somehow this other music did filter in. I worked in a Woolworths store that piped in music, rode in cars on dates where the radio was on. I didn't escape it after all. Sure, I couldn't repeat the lyrics or give you the titles, but the music embedded itself despite me. I wound up recognizing more music than Steve did, and he actually listened to the stuff back when.
During the concert Steve pointed out one of the singers to me. He was sure the guy had been in "Jersey Boys". When it was announced that the musicians would be available to meet folks after the concert, He scootered over to find the guy, who confirmed Steve knew what he was talking about. Meanwhile I slowly fought my way back to the car, prepared to wait several minutes until traffic cleared out. We both knew Steve would beat me home.
A little supper with our evening news, and Steve headed off to bed. I decided to stay up blogging, hoping to finish before today turned into tomorrow. I may have just made it.
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