Dear Mr. President

Dear Mr. President,

First, I want to thank you for your leadership during the current pandemic. I know you’re making the best decisions you can based on the advice you’re receiving. But as I listen to the experiences of friends and neighbors, I see a problem in the government’s advice to isolate as a solution to the threat of COVID-19. If a cord of three strands is not quickly broken, it’s unbelievable to me that the only solution we’ve been given in this crisis is the one that leads to unraveling.

Ironically, while the impact of sheltering at home affects us in diverse ways, there is a common thread which ties all our experiences together—the void that isolation generates. Since it’s difficult to interact or physically support one another, the best we can do is offer consolation from a distance, watching helplessly while we all try to navigate these uncharted waters. First responders and medical personnel pay a particularly huge price in fatigue as those on the front lines of potential contagion as well as the fear of bringing a virus home to their families. In the case of parents who’ve been handed the surprising responsibility to complete their children’s education this year, as well as homeschooling families deprived now of one another's support, every parent of a school-aged child has been left adrift in a sea of uncertainty, unsure of the once reliable location of true north. Our compasses have been shattered and we are left alone to pick up the pieces.

I do not blame the virus for this consequence—I blame the forced lockdowns. I’m frustrated by the way we are being forced to protect ourselves, advice that amounts to nothing more than crawling into a hole. By ourselves. Indefinitely. The fear foisted on us by an eager press is more lethal than the virus itself.

The domino effect of these things and the shutdowns forced on our country is enormous. Churches have closed, small businesses are going under due to no fault of their own, families left unemployed face bankruptcy, and anxiety threatens the mental health of many as we are separated from the very loved ones who are normally there to buoy us up in times of crisis. All the gathering places where people find strength in unity, comfort in a handshake or hug, solace in a smile—every single one of these things is now in the crosshairs while we are “reassured” by media and personalities that we are “in this together.”

Please tell me how we are in this together when we are pressured to stay away from each other?

Sheltering in place—a poor synonym for the sobering reality of isolation—is the last thing people need. In the history of our country there has never been a time when we have been “encouraged” to separate ourselves in order to save ourselves. Not during the Spanish Flu epidemic, not at war time, not in any other pandemic. It goes against all that makes us human to “self-isolate,” a phrase I hope I never have to hear again in my lifetime. I am especially sorry for those in our communities who live alone right now.

Our phobic panic has led us to fear even our neighbors, our closest friends, and our families. Some suggest we fear for one another, but I don’t think that’s what’s really driving the isolation or lockdown or shelter-in-place or whatever else anyone wants to call it. Pressured to remain hidden behind closed doors, perpetually washing hands that never touch anything or anyone outside our immediate environment, loneliness is a bigger threat to our well-being than a virus could ever be.

A distance of six feet may as well be sixty miles, and the face masks we are now told to wear a reminder that we each appear dangerous to each other. Even deadly. Let’s be honest for a change. What we’re really telling one another is to “Just Stay Away.” When we are finally rescued from our remote desert islands, I hope none of us returns with the shirt we bought as easily as the lie that made us wear it.

There are risks to incessant isolation. I’m sure you’re aware that cities are reporting an increase in suicide attempts and deaths. Marriages are in crisis. Stress is its own killer across the board, and all the anxiety which naturally accompanies the information overload and social distancing we are experiencing does nothing but promote that. None of these things are contagious in grocery store lines, but they are the backlash of either good intentions gone haywire or, as many worry, something worse.

We are being told to rely on “science” as the CDC does, but science changes its mind everyday and the CDC follows suit. I’ve read articles written as recently as a month ago telling us that face masks are considered ineffective by the CDC and, in some cases, may even perpetuate the virus itself. Once again, science and the CDC changed their minds and now “suggest” all Americans wear a face mask in public though their own webpage states that they do nothing to protect people against COVID-19.  They base their new suggestions on information they supposedly didn’t have when the virus first broke out—namely, that people can infect others with a virus days before they are symptomatic.

That’s not even close to the truth. As a mother of two children, I’ve known firsthand for at least thirty-five years that germs and viruses spread well in advance of anyone’s knowledge that there’s a bug on the loose. And science and the CDC know that, too—they’ve written about it in recent years.

We’re told to make masks, not buy them, but I have yet to hear the recommendation that cloth masks should be washed after every wear. If they indeed capture vagrant virus germs so we don’t inhale them, we shouldn’t handle them until they’ve been laundered. Frankly, if you haven't been fit-tested for a mask, it can give a false sense of security by allowing viruses to get past the barrier. This is the training professionals receive regarding protective equipment. Gloves should be removed inside out and thrown away, never re-worn, and never used to touch more than one item. Where is that advice in newscasts? Like any other form of protection, I can buy a shield, but if I don’t know how to use it, will it really keep me safe?

I can’t help but feel like we are at the mercy of puppeteers who daily pull new strings to see if we will dance.

I admit I have no idea what kind of pressure you are under as the leader of this remarkable country, Mr. President. I can only give you my perspective where I sit alone on my back patio for the fourth straight week under government-advised house arrest. Isolation and loneliness are deadly. We are meant for contact with other human beings, even though, as always, it carries with it risk. Right now, though we are a free country, we are held hostage by paranoia, an abundance of contradictory information from equivocal government agencies, and a paralyzing fear of the unknown.

Mr. President, people need to get back to work to support their families and to find purpose again. Our economy needs it. Our country needs it. Shutting down an entire nation out of the fear that we don't have enough common sense to know how to wash our hands and avoid touching our faces is not only short-sighted, it's insulting.

The greatest threat to America right now is the loss of trust and security generated by prescribed self-isolation. The fallout from months spent fearing a virus that will go the way of all its predecessors may prove greater than the sum of its parts. I am weary of the suspicion I see and even, to my shame, feel myself whenever any of us dares to get too close to another human being, whatever that may mean. The benefits of a hug from a friend or loved one exceeds and even protects against the dangers of isolation.

It’s been said that to take the road less traveled makes all the difference. I’m praying that you—and we—will.

Soon.







With thanks to Tom Bech for the use of the photo above. The original can be viewed by following the link below:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/viatorius/5610477551/in/photolist-9xMavz-AHCbpk-pEDbEm-mqJhv-dths1d-bAQosE-dugcss-dthiE2-y8bkpY-2ehya2z-5rQ313-4Dqjo2-8JDueE-aURRp4-7EHStU-7SQaFN-2pSgZz-7Ysf1-6NVPio-8nUt6e-8f6etd-eqGGk-9u6wgx-dthtvX-6NWd32-duNvZ6-dugcMs-azbdHa-oGPGuX-3adyAF-bsexcT-aRpG1i-dNpXFG-25Qqein-QpZLmg-aRpGaM-4E5tXw-8rurbu-o5L1Wg-EagMd-62USZG-fMHa4q-62YZz2-ot51xR-fMpFT4-4KU1Ek-qkTLj-23vh7E-9iy3Qs-4vFUqw

The Way We Roll

I was fifteen in 1973. A high school sophomore with no driver’s license, lots of pimples, and like most other teenagers my age, plenty of insecurity. I suspect I must not have paid much attention to politics or world news, either, although I blame that on my tenth-grade history teacher. Not only did he make a subject I once loved as palatable as unsalted grits, but his idea of a good time was making us play a game he called ‘Current Events,’ Jeopardy-style. I never won. Heck, I never even placed. And I got the only “C” of my high school career sleeping through American History.

My whole childhood was a lengthy timeline of unsettling current events. Who wanted to play a game where you could name all of them? I have no memory of any point in my growing up years when the Vietnam War wasn’t raging and the focus of nightly news. (Thank God it was all in black and white.) There was social unrest with teens and college students protesting everything from the war to the Miss America Pageant. Free Love sent divorce statistics skyrocketing while marriage rates plummeted. The Drug Culture exploded, and the Watergate Scandal ruined my entire summer vacation—every single channel covered the Senate hearings, so I never found out how long Audrey’s marriage to Dr. Hobart lasted on General Hospital once she realized she was actually in love with Steve.

It was, to say the least, a challenging time that I don’t remember very well. And no, that’s not because I took part in the drug culture. I was a Baptist—I wasn’t allowed. I suspect it’s because it was all I knew and so it was our version of normal.

Then the shortages hit. An oil embargo in October of ’73 sent gas prices soaring, quadrupling almost overnight. This is one of the things I do remember. Lines and lines of cars—sometimes as much as two miles long—all waiting to fill up at gas pumps that sometimes ran out before it was your turn. You could only fill the tank on odd or even numbered days, depending on the last digit of your license plate number. Kind of hard to cheat on that one.

Early in the year, the stock market fell like a rock in a pond, down 45%, one of the worst declines in history. The oil crisis ignited an energy crisis and by the time Christmas rolled around that year, a weary public was discouraged from putting up holiday lights so we could “save electricity.” It was a huge blow to the Christmas spirit as well as Detroit as the automobile industry scrambled to produce fuel efficient cars for a public weary of waiting in line for a fill up.

In the middle of all that chaos, a little joke made by Johnny Carson on his late-night talk show set off a panic that nobody saw coming. Rob and I caught this little gem last night while we were avoiding the 2020 evening news and searching Roku for something funny to watch instead. Did you know you can still watch an entire episode of The Late Show with Johnny Carson? Me neither.

Making fun of an unsubstantiated rumor in November of 1973 that Japan was experiencing a toilet tissue shortage, Johnny’s offhand remark set off a panic in a year of shortages and stress and fear that emptied grocery store shelves across America of their very own toilet paper supplies. It was four months before people realized there was plenty to go around and they could stop hoarding paper goods.

And I thought we’d come up with a brand-new way to freak out. It seems there really is nothing new under the sun.

The Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 1973. It wasn’t really Johnny’s fault. His headline-inspired joke fed right into the social anxiety of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year. And there wasn’t even a virus to blame it on. Ultimately, consumers were blamed for the shortage, I suppose because they . . . consumed. Too much. Well, that and the way the media handled the rumor. Nothing new under . . . you get it.

I don’t know if this is encouraging to anybody else, but for some reason, maybe because it appears I did lose a few brain cells in my childhood, most likely due to exhaust emissions and the overconsumption of white flour and sugar, it kind of encourages me right now. Yes, we’ve wiped toilet paper off the shelves, at least out here in the desert where I live. No, we didn’t need to. As a lot of people have pointed out, it’s a respiratory virus we’re dealing with, not an intestinal problem.

I guess I feel a little less stupid hearing that forty-seven years ago, when I was fifteen and couldn’t drive and had no money and depended on other people to buy my toilet paper, the generation before me lost the good sense God gave them, too, panicked about something that did nothing to eradicate the problem of Vietnam’s war or the energy crisis, and made their lives more difficult as a result.

It’s the way we roll. No pun intended.  But they survived. They didn’t learn anything and neither did we, but we all survived. Maybe this time I’ll remember and when the next crisis rolls around—pun intended—we’ll all pick up what we need and no more.

Nah. Who am I kidding? How does that saying go? “Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it.”

I gotta pay more attention to current events.




With thanks to Adam Koford for the use of this great graphic! The original can be viewed at 
https://www.flickr.com/photos/apelad/5623164685/in/photolist-9yUbXg-7tJt19-qdLh-VK7Vf4-acXyhp-7u9jEK-5Dxedr-411W2-Mwf47b-8f4UXD-4rzDYD-5wspHn-5PACyw-dmN6Pz-TzudDQ-X7ADo-eKVLmo-4NSDz-WTetCe-23okvmA-VxrpCJ-JuJrd-2iFQ1X7-QdcN55-a4k4So-CqnLtc-YQBT-2iJJWW8-4iP4KZ-eKVLmb-4TePMn-5KWoCz-FAk2H-2byiNPL-6bnyBB-4iTceY-66SRjc-oK8P8T-24xfcMA-e2tYM-oAqeS-7qo4YD-hy7bQ-8EPV1M-DcS3W-8EbqXr-fCGMJC-E8qx1-BbiHR-283coZC

Losing It

I think even Groupon is getting stir crazy.

“Need Ideas For Your Night In?” the notification read. Curious about their hook as it popped up on my iPhone, I thought, sure. I’ll bite.  What have I got to lose? I can put my TV binge watching on hold while I stare at the ads on my cellphone for a few minutes.

It was amazing. Scrolling through their novel ideas of how to enjoy my unplanned-for staycation, I had to admit—I have no idea how Groupon stays in business.

Here’s a great way to spend the stimulus check President Trump is sending me, especially since all the stores around here are closed and there’s nowhere else to shop but online. I could buy a woman’s t-shirt decorated with a social distancing message on the front—that no one will see because we’re . . . right. See the fail there? Maybe the print is like, really really big, though, so it can be seen from across a parking lot.

Do a 14-day Detox. Boy, that sounds fun. Two weeks on the toilet, alone, flushing all my toxic anxieties away. Actually, I might think about that one. It’s a bargain, too, at $18.99. So, you can flush your money and other stuff all at once.

As if those don’t sound appealing enough, there’s a CBD Box Bundle Mystery Deal for half price. $9.99 for magical hemp in amounts that might be as little as 500mg or much as 5000 mg. That’s where the fun is. Will I get over my gloom about self-isolating or just feel so happy that I won’t care or even notice anything going on around me except for those cute little purple hippos that keep running through the house?

I could pick up a ceramic hair straightener for one-fourth its original value. Make myself beautiful for . . . no one. Rob finds me the most attractive when I refrain from spending money, so this idea is also flushable.

How about 80% off a Golf Group Package for One? Is it really a game, though, if you play by yourself? I mean, I’m not a golfer but I always thought the term ‘foursome’ implied the addition of three other people.

Here’s the one that really appealed to me. For only fifteen dollars I can buy one acre of land on Mars. You’ve got to admit, that one’s a screaming deal. It takes social distancing a little too far, but as long as Nancy Pelosi’s not there, I might consider relocating.

Right now, Uncle Biff’s California Killer Cookies are on sale for $7.99. I’m no marketing expert, but if Uncle Biff doesn’t come up with a better name soon, I predict the death of his cookie line. We’re all on edge right now and the last thing on earth—or Mars—that I want to do is eat something that promises to kill me. Just saying.

Here’s a fun idea. Build-A-Head. For the low, low price of only five smackeroos they’ll send you an oversized cardboard cutout on a stick of anybody’s mug that you want to hide behind. I had to think about that one for a minute and then I realized. Oh, it’s like a flu mask, but for your whole head and a large chunk of your body. It’s multi-purpose, too. With both your hands on the stick as you hold it up for protection, you can guard against touching any surfaces or breathing in bad air. There’s no way any stray germs could infiltrate. Heck, they won’t even recognize you.

How about a pair of WuHouPro Women’s Super Comfy Stretch Denim Bermuda Shorts? There are so many things wrong with this picture I don’t even know where to start. First of all, there’s an obvious marketing problem here again. I don’t want to wear clothing that either a) sounds suspiciously like it was made in or around Wuhan, China, or b) gives the impression of sarcasm. As in, woo hoo, I’m stuck in my house with an overstocked pantry and refrigerator—I might as well buy some super comfy stretchy Bermuda shorts so no one will know how overstocked I’d feel in my old jeans.

I could buy lots of bouquets of flowers and send them to friends and family, but how do I know the delivery guy isn’t allergic and didn’t sneeze into them first? Forget that one. There’s an offer for an ice cream gift card that’s good until the end of the crisis or until hell freezes over, as well as warm winter gloves just in case that happens. And the piéce de la resistance. A Universal Adjustable Neck Phone Mount—I assume so we can socially distance from our own phones. This one I like. Ever since I learned the government can listen in on my private conversations, I’ve stopped trusting those clever little devices. I mean, don’t you sometimes catch a fragrance of Chicken Kiev floating through the air and wonder, since you don’t have a Russian restaurant in the neighborhood, is someone name Natasha monitoring your phone call from a cozy little café table in Siberia?

Fine. You caught me. I already picked up the box of CBD Mystery Oils. There might be something wrong with them. Paranoia was listed as a possible side effect on one of the bottles.

Oh, there are so many things to spend my money differently on in these difficult times. And Groupon is right there to help in our times of crisis, with everything from ice cream coupons to super comfy stretchy shorts I can wear to hide the evidence afterwards. Whether I’m spending a night in or eight weeks with the dream of time off for good behavior, there is absolutely no reason for me to feel bored or anxious or suspicious.

I just wish I knew what those little purple hippos are up to.

Washing My Hands

It’s not that I’m having trouble sleeping. It’s that sometimes I have trouble getting back to sleep. It could be menopause, I guess. Or the room is too warm. Or the world is upside down. Something like that.

Unfortunately for women, we don’t have a brain built of boxes like men have. Ever heard that or noticed it before? Men have the amazing ability to compartmentalize everything. Every worry or project or relationship has its own box. They deal with one thing at a time. When it’s time to go to sleep, they slip into the slumber box and even if they wake up in the middle of the night, all the other boxes are closed up tight. Before you know it, they’re back in Dreamland.

Women, on the other hand, have minds made out of spaghetti. Everything in our lives is connected, lit up like a Christmas tree, 24/7. It’s just one big old plate of crisscrossing connections, like a superhighway where one road leads into another one and onramps and offramps interrupt the flow, lanes merging and diverting, and God forbid there’s a slowdown for road work. Is there anything worse than being stuck in the middle of a five mile long interstate parking lot with nothing to do but think about all the people and expectations and responsibilities and worries you were trying to run away from while you took a shortcut to the grocery store?

Some days you’re better off staying home.

Today was one of those days. Last night was one of those nights. I’ve been waking up at 4:00 after five hours of sleep which is three hours too little, and right when I turn over to try to find my onramp to Dreamland, too, I get detoured and find myself in the middle of a traffic jam. It could be an hour or two before I get out of there. It’s not a complete waste of time. I’ve been praying a lot. I’ve probably been praying for you. Eventually, when I run out of worries and anxiety and frustration and loneliness, I fall back asleep only to wake up and discover that all of yesterday’s problems were patiently waiting for me today—completely unwelcome, by the way. Sometimes in forwards on my phone.

You can’t even hide when you stay home.

I picked mine up too soon this morning and checked for messages. A text message from my sister brought a smile. Encouragement there. A message from an old friend waited for me via the messenger app, as well. A friend I used to go to church with but haven’t seen in years, we’ve circled each other’s worlds via Facebook a few times. How nice to hear from her, I thought. She probably has an encouraging word of faith and hope for me. What a great idea to remind people in your circle of friends that God is still on His throne, He’s fighting for us, He’s for us, and this too shall pass.

That wasn’t exactly the message.

I know people mean well. I also know how easily we get addicted to bad news. Bad news sells. It keeps people watching television and checking Facebook and worrying that the world is about to come to an end which, logically, means you must forward warnings to everyone in your friends list so they can sit in terrified isolation, too. That’s why I took Facebook off my phone last week. Which doesn’t mean I don’t check it—it just means it’s not as easy now and I don’t hang out there as long as I usually do. I’m tired of rumors and panic and tunnel vision. And I don’t need to be reminded at every single turn that the planet is frantic about how well people are washing their hands or whether it’s selfish to try to get fresh air when they leave their isolated existence now and then.

Home is a respite and a haven. It’s far more than a shelter. But “sheltering in place” is turning it into a prison.

So, I don’t live on Facebook. I don’t want to watch the news repeatedly. We don’t even have it on much in our house. The media, social or otherwise, isn’t just destroying the mental health of teenagers. It’s wrecking the peace of mind of adults, too. I’ve lived through a lot of crises, personal and corporate, and I’ve learned this—they always “come to pass,” they don’t come to stay. This one will pass, too. I believe God loves us and is working on our behalf. We are not living in judgment from heaven. We are not being punished. There is every reason to hope and look to better days. But I don’t want the peace that I cherish and fight for to be stolen by forwards and memes and good intentions that leave God out of the picture.

This is a time to build each other up. To encourage each other. See that word hidden in there, inside encourage? Give courage to one another. Honestly, I am more concerned about the fear that’s going viral than the virus behind it. We may be better than a heart surgeon at scrubbing our hands of germs right now, but we’re not doing ourselves any favors by forgetting to keep our minds free from attacks while we’re doing it.

Stay home? I do it all the time. But it’s not enough. Each of us has the responsibility to guard our minds and hearts and protect the peace that makes our homes havens of rest, too. That might just mean washing your hands of Facebook and the news channels for a while. It might mean asking your friends not to copy you on ‘good intentions’. And if you find yourself awake at four a.m. with no one to talk to after a long day of no one to hang out with, remember this.

You’re not alone. I’m awake, too. And I’m praying for you. Lots of people are praying. And God is fighting for us. He made us that promise, you know. “It came to pass.”

It didn’t come to stay.







With thanks to Joshua Pitcock for the impressive photo above. The original can be viewed at the following link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/captscurvy/2343799249/in/photolist-4z7zRT-jL9Xs-kTAX6-26giKE-L2CumV-4odL7x-6hQZKN-9fbTiM-4f9UhX-UQ81jv-nubvqT-5mxb7u-4f9S5B-4ffzy7-aCpKpC-4f9QEP-4fdQiL-4fdN3Q-4fdN37-4fdQAm-4fdP83-4f9RY2-4f9QFv-7zfYjF-djiHxQ-qjA2r5-mtTCfB-ReQHw-abAe4-GvgjN-5Q2tqn-G47du-4AuVW2-5q2UUe-EMUk9-23Q2L8z-vFDhU-4e6RV3-666tLi-CDAu-6VWVbb-dYy3Hv-3rwFZP-dAwUw3-55AsWm-2huFmEG-7neqKh-8suMQw-4f9PzT-vM4eC

Hero

My dog is my hero. It’s cold and damp and rainy outside, but is he afraid of getting wet? Nope. He’s seventy pounds of enthusiasm, leaping through the air in our backyard like one of those giant white bunnies you could win at the State Fair. Seriously leaping into the air. He does it all the time, not just when it’s breezy outside. He’s hilarious.

It’s obvious he doesn’t listen to the news. Doesn’t have his own page on Facebook. He’s completely unaware that the world beyond his backyard is in a state of panic. He’s just playing tag with the grackle who likes to taunt him from the tops of our oak trees. Just now his arch nemesis tricked him, landing in the neighbor’s lemon tree eight feet in the air behind the wall where my puzzled puppy sat facing me. Brody could hear the giant, black bird but couldn’t see him because he was facing the wrong way. I, on the other hand, had a front row view of the whole drama, the bird squawking, my dog’s head checking side to side, never thinking to turn around and look behind him. Guarding his yard, he’s at his happiest when he’s chasing away trespassers, following his own instincts, thinking his own thoughts.

Sometimes he stalks the wild lizards who hold poses on that wall like frescoes in relief. They’re the same color as the paint we selected there, but Brody, with his Superdog vision, can pretty much spot them from anywhere. Long, furry white tail held stiffly at parade rest, he lowers his head and sloooowly, inches at a time, like the stealth commando he is, creeps toward the cement wall in full view of his prey. In a nanosecond, at the very last stroke of the clock, the gecko slides sideways inside the safety of the block wall and Brody saunters proudly back to me, ready for praise and head rubs. He never even meant to catch the slithery thing. He just meant to scare it into submission.

A couple of weeks ago, he actually did snatch one, though. The thing he’d been chasing away like a nightmare in the dark. I don’t know why this one didn’t escape. Maybe it thought it was enforcing its boundaries, too. For a few tense moments there, it was like high noon at the OK Corral. Eye to eye, the two enemies stared each other down, ready to draw on their self-protection. But Brody, who can leap fairly tall bushes in a single bound, made the first move and, before El Gecko knew what happened, he was held tight in a canine clench.

I don’t know who was more surprised, Brody or his lunch, but he discovered he didn’t really like the taste of lizard and spit it out on the ground. The lizard, no worse for the wear, tucked his tail between his legs and made a beeline for the crack in the wall. I think they both learned a lesson that day. Big, white dogs mean business and tiny, little lizards taste terrible. It was a win-win from my point of view.

He’s not simply the terror of the lizard world. Any uninvited visitors get the same treatment. Like a lion in the African brush now, he glides across the grass and leaps up onto the wall, frightening away the dangerous monarch butterfly. On sunny days, he walks circles across the bright, sunlit pavers leading away from our back patio, where he tracks the movements of the deadly common housefly, victoriously stomping out their shadows while missing the essence of the insect. He’s ferocious, but a little misled.

He’s not fond of the hummingbirds we freely feed in the backyard, either. It’s not that he’s jealous of their sugary, fake red water where we leave it suspended from tall, metal hooks under the shade of our oak trees. He simply resents being divebombed by the frantic little interlopers. Either that or he sucks at tag. It’s probably a little of both. Hummingbirds are fascinating and beautiful, but pretty obnoxious sometimes. My grandmother stopped feeding hers when I was a kid once because of the possessive way they guarded the public feeders she provided, hoarding the sugary syrup, and attacking any other hungry or thirsty fowl—even their own kin.

“If they can’t behave themselves, then I’m not feeding them anymore,” Grandma declared, her Irish feistiness giving a red glow to her salt and pepper hair. It made me laugh. “That’s how hummingbirds are,” I told her. “Not in my yard,” she snapped.

Not in my yard. That’s Brody’s mantra right now. He believes in boundaries. He guards the gate to his yard. Nothing comes in or goes out without his approval or complete rejection. It’s only natural, now that I think about it. It’s his responsibility, and ours, to guard our hearts and minds. To preserve our peace and tranquility, no matter what’s going on over the back wall. Let the the grackle have its tree. The hummingbirds can chirp and fight each other for their sugar fix but they won’t get away with divebombing my dog. Even the lizards and the bugs are free game if they threaten Brody’s peace of mind. It’s his yard. His rules. His freedom to protect.

I don’t know about you, but right now I could really use a hero who thinks his own thoughts, follows his own instincts, and protects his yard from predators. Maybe I’m learning to be my own hero while I admire what comes naturally to my dog. Watching him is better than watching the drama going on around me any day of the week.

Better for my peace of mind. My health. And my soul.

We all need a real hero.

Ahead Of My Time

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” the gray headed lady asked.

“I want to be President so I can stop the war in Vietnam."

“Oh, honey, that’ll never happen,” she laughed.

Grownups always ask questions like that, as if a five-year-old could possibly narrow it down. The truth was, I wanted to be a nurse. And then a scientist. And an archaeologist. And a teacher if I had time. But mostly, I thought I’d be an inventor. Whatever nurses couldn’t fix or scientists couldn’t explain and archaeologists hadn’t discovered for teachers to teach, an inventor could take care of in about an afternoon. With time leftover to hang from the monkey bars.

It was a typical boring Sunday when I first got in touch with my creative side. We’d already been to church that morning with the other six people in our tiny congregation, but Baptists believed Sundays were for sermons and it always took at least two attempts for the preacher to get it right. That’s why I never saw even one episode of The Magical World of Disney or any of its Sunday night cartoons. By the time we got home, it was too late for Tinkerbell twinkles. Not even Professor Ludwig Von Drake or Mathmagic Land were part of my childhood. Sunday nights were for church, not fun.

“If I was a grown up, I’d invent a box that would make the World of Disney start playing after we get home from church,” I declared in a wistful voice.

“That’ll never happen,” my parents said. In 1964. Fifteen years before the first VCR hit the American market. We could have been so rich if they just hadn’t made me go to church every Sunday night. I knew it was a great idea. I was just ahead of my time.

When I was a kid, you only knew what time it was if there was a grownup around to ask. Owning your own wristwatch was a rite of passage. You had to earn the right to sport an analog timekeeper by knowing how to read one—digitals hadn’t been invented yet. There were a lot of styles back then, from pendant necklaces to pocket watches. But nobody ever wore one on their fingers. I wondered why.

“When I grow up, I’m going to invent a ringwatch,” I announced.

“That’ll never happen,” they said. Five years later we were in a jewelry store where, on display, I saw a selection of tiny little watches mounted onto rings. We could have been so rich. But I was ahead of my time.

Soon I grew up and gave up on inventions. I became a nurse to my children, a scientist in my kitchen, an archeologist in our garage, and a homeschool teacher. Technology was changing so fast, there were no new ideas left for me to invent just so other people could make money on them.

Then came Superbowl LIV—or 54, if you’re not familiar with the numerals invented by ancient Romans. February 2, 2020, Miami, Florida, and all the amazing commercials that are the real reason football fans support teams throughout years devoid of coronaviruses—so they can eat hot wings with friends and laugh at the genius ads created by Budweiser and FritoLay.

Not this year. This year the big winner was Hyundai and its new Smaht Pahk Sonata. A car that parks itself while you watch from the safety of the sidewalk to the amazement and gratitude of all your friends. No more DMV road tests with parallel parking skills. Just you and your instructor standing in front of a pizza parlor watching a driverless car do what most of America cannot.

I was thinking about this while my friend, Pam, and I were shopping recently. It was raining outside, and while I checked out, she got her car and picked up my soggy purchases and me at the front door.

“You’re an officer and a gentleman,” I told her as I ducked inside and buckled up. “You know what would be really great?”

“If you tipped me?” she asked, shaking the water from her hair.

“Exactly! Who cares if a car can show off and parallel park itself right in front of you? What we need is a sedan with its own valet feature. A car that will drop you off in front of Hobby Lobby, go park itself wherever shade can be found even if it’s a mile away, and then pick you up at the front door again when you whistle for it, all cooled off and ready to go. Now that would be smaht.”

She was silent while she considered my genius idea. “That’ll never happen,” she finally said.

“Why not?”

“You’re ahead of your time.”

Story of my life. It’s okay. I’m on to something new. An improvement on our overheating Tempurpedic mattress. Cooling vents that kick in during hot flashes, but just on the woman’s side of the bed so her husband won’t complain about freezing all night.

Just to be sure I wasn’t ahead of my time, I googled it, and you know what I found out? It’s already on the market. You know, either there are spies everywhere or else there are no good ideas left to invent. But I was determined to try.

What about a hamster cage that powers a paper shredder? While the furry little guy gets his exercise, the wheel generates enough energy to pulverize my junk mail.

Or an egg cuber, a space saving gadget that could make a round egg fit into a square hole. 

Maybe you're like me and multi-tasking is your thing. Wouldn't it be great if you could have your hands free to make dinner and still scroll through Facebook? The answer is a nose stylus! Sure, you'd look a bit like Pinocchio, but you'd be efficient.

I don't know how I come up with this stuff. The internet, of course. Every one of these ideas has already been invented. See what I mean? There’s nothing new under the sun. I’m too late to cash in on any other time saving contraptions. 

I’ve thought about it long and hard and all that’s left is the one idea no one laughed at when I was a kid. With all that time I'm saving, I could re-discover my inner five-year-old, head off to the nearest playground, and hang from some monkey bars.

There’s just one problem. Now that I’m past my prime, I’m no longer ahead of my time.

It’ll never happen.










My thanks to TopTenAlternatives.co for the use of the fun photo above. The original can be viewed at https://toptenalternatives.co/

Paddling A Sinking Canoe

Working his oars in a frenzy, the frightened man sat waist-high in water, half-submerged in his own boat. While spectators watched from a safe distance, he did his best to navigate the damaged canoe to the other side of the lake, succeeding only in holding his ground, making no progress. It was an exercise in futility if ever I saw one, a word picture for panic.

We are paddling a sinking canoe.

Social Distancing, the catchphrase of this new decade, has taken over the reason and faith of even churchgoers who used to gather and give hugs and shake hands. No more holy kisses. No more pats on the back. Now we’re supposed to wave from the safety of our cars and try not to make eye contact if we find ourselves inside a grocery store.

Did you know your head can literally fall off your shoulders if you shake it too much in disbelief? True story—I read about it on the internet.

Far, far away in another galaxy known as China, source of all cheap manufacturing, subpar outsourced chicken parts, and icon of socialism, this communist country succumbed to a coronavirus strain that turned an everyday virus into a supervillain. Fashionable face masks appeared in social media, frightening numbers were released across the airwaves faster than a sneeze, and suddenly the entire planet put itself in a voluntary lockdown. Toilet paper disappeared off store shelves as the rumor escaped that either a) all of it was manufactured in China so there would soon be a shortage due to the shutdown of toilet paper factories, or b) hoarding toilet paper was the way to protect ourselves from a respiratory virus.

The obvious problem with the first theory is that if the toilet paper we buy here in America is manufactured in China, the source of COVID-19, then using Chinese toilet paper infected by the virus would be a really bad idea. Congratulations to all the hoarders who successfully filled their garages with contaminated wood pulp. Once again, the silent scream of truth goes ignored—most toilet paper sold in these United States is also manufactured here. Or in Canada. Google, people, Google.

The problem with the second theory is that it only works if you use it to blow your nose. In that case, we should be hoarding Kleenex.

This is flu season. Spring. Every year. Without fail. While the groundhog stays, well, underground, cloistering himself away until the predicted arrival of warmer weather, the virus flourishes. But once the warm—and in our case, hot—temperatures show up, Punxatawney’s icon emerges and flus bug out.

This is a new virus strain. It's not the Bubonic Plague. No, there is no vaccine for it. There are dozens of influenza strains that show up every year and we don’t have vaccines for the vast majority of them either. Worldwide, there are approximately 290,000 - 650,000 deaths related to seasonal flu each year. Annually, in the United States alone, between 12,000 and 61,000 people die from complications of the flu, and the most people can say is, that's too bad. Or maybe, I had no idea. You're not the only one. Even the CDC doesn't have an accurate count of flu deaths every season because, according to their website as well as many others, they, and we, expect that many people to die of flu-related causes each year and they either aren't fully reported or they simply are not counted.

That may be the difference right there. For the first time in history, we are being pummeled in the face with continuous updates about coronavirus cases and deaths. I'd be scared under normal circumstances if we simply knew on a daily basis how many people are injured in their own homes each year while taking a bath or shower. 235,000 -- in case you were wondering.

But does that perspective help when it comes to the coronavirus? Nope. The President, pressured by public opinion, advisors, and this current election year, has declared a state of emergency for all these here colonies. I’d have to agree. Fear is a terrible emergency. Churches and schools are closing, March has been canceled, fire departments are limiting access to the public, and common sense is on a ventilator, not expected to make a recovery any time soon. Sadly, while the virus has taken the lives of cherished loved ones, another 330 million healthy citizens have succumbed to rumors and panic and socially contagious fear.

Not since 9/11 have I witnessed so much panic and fear mongering and suspicion in America, let alone the rest of the world. Two NBA players tested positive for COVID-19 and within days the entire sports season was canceled. The theory is that people who are not sick may be carrying the virus around unknowingly, Typhoid Mary-style. Every person you see could be a carrier. Suddenly, I’m getting emails from every business in possession of my email address—I’m going to take care of that as soon as I finish writing this little tome—reminding me to wash my hands.

My mortgage company wants me to sing my ABC’s and wash my hands. Really? I’m 62 years old and you think I don’t know how to wash my hands after I go to the bathroom or pick my nose or pet my dog or clean up a baby’s butt or handle raw chicken? This is what I pay my mortgage company to do, send me emails about washing my hands, covering my sneezes with my elbow, or throwing tissues in the garbage when I’m finished with them?

I’m not worried about catching a virus. I’m worried about my contact with social media.

Is there any good news anywhere that we can hold on to while we’re told to keep everyone else at a distance? There is. For me, numbers are a good place to start. I've been keeping tabs myself on a website called Worldometers.info. Seeing the way numbers are reported, doing the math, figuring percentages--all of that is factual. None of it is spun into a terror cyclone by a greedy media. Thinking for myself has become an exercise in perspective that pays off in better mental health than if I depended on any form of media, social or otherwise, for the truth.

Here’s the best news. Our bodies are made up of trillions of good bacteria—one hundred trillion of them. We are more bacteria than we are cells—there are 38 trillion of those. We’re designed by God to have strong immune systems that fight off viruses, and He’s given us good foods that will strengthen the microbiome in our gut which, in turn, protects us. He’s also given us strong minds and reminded us not to make ourselves vulnerable to fear. What He hasn’t done is force us to believe the truth.

Vaccines are not our best defense. There is no vaccine for the common cold, which is another coronavirus. The best defense is a good offense. Eat and drink probiotic foods regularly which feed and build your biome which strengthens and protects you. 

And here’s another amazing thing. Every time you give a hug to someone, not only does it reduce stress and lower blood pressure for both of you, it passes on your good bacteria to strengthen them. Eighty million of them with every handshake. Social distancing does exactly the opposite. The only thing it passes on is fear and suspicion. Good is always stronger than evil, I was just reminded—and that goes for bacteria, too.

Surrounded by an ocean of fear in the face of a respiratory virus, news like that is a breath of fresh air to me. I’d rather take my chances with healing hugs any day.




With thanks to New Media Consortium for the use of the above photograph. The original can be viewed at :
https://www.flickr.com/photos/nmc-campus/2073233284/in/photolist-26mUZJ1-7Qxr2B-8t7psY-9TBDxz-JM3ndx-m7mnQa-bcxibg-KyrCGf-bcxi8i-7Ry1v1-aqBDBX-Zhg3Y-cRPNW3-7FVYb-ocyFgH-23E8Vx-4acS2s-4acSsh-4acTgf-4acSSq

Finding My Tribe

Ever since I heard that my maternal great-grandmother was a full-blooded Creek Indian, I’ve been looking for my Tribe.

You know what I mean, right? We all have one. Your Tribe, your people, your homies. It’s the scattered collection of human beings who love the same things you love, laugh at the same jokes as you, vote for the same liars, or vape the same e-cigarettes you vape. They might read the same books, go to the same superhero conventions, or stalk the same food trucks where you like to eat. Which might actually mean they’re stalking you¸ but that still proves they’re in your Tribe.

I’m intrigued by the idea of finding my Tribe. From everything I hear on podcasts and read in books, all of us need one. They’re the people who “get you.” They’re your cheerleaders, your comforters, accountability partners, and your community. When you’re around them, you feel included. You belong. If you don’t show up, they make it their business to find out why and help you come back to your Tribe. It sounds so . . . claustrophobic.

Okay, here’s the truth. The real reason I’m on the hunt for my Tribe is because I’m a writer, and a writer needs readers. Lots and lots of them—just not all in the same room at the same time. I’m also an introvert which makes membership in a Tribe a little tricky for me. I like you, but I need my space. I need close friends, but not all at once. I’m a good listener, but please take a number. Exhausting, contradictory stuff like that.

It’s not important to me, as a writer, that the members of my potential Tribe reside in the same zip code. Or county. Or even the same country. They could all be scattered across the worldwide web—that works—and read my blog posts or my nearly finished but yet unpublished novels from the privacy of their own homes and then leave comments in cyberspace about what I’ve written and why they sit with baited breath each and every day hoping for one more published article from me, their introverted, invisible, but wildly talented egocentric Tribe member. That’s the same thing as community, right?

So far no one has responded to my offer for membership in a Tribe like that.

So, I’ve been researching how to be a better Tribe-ist. Here’s what I learned.

1.     Your vibe attracts your Tribe. That means that if you are yourself, you will attract others who are like you, no one has to pretend and feel uncomfortable by being in the wrong Tribe, and everybody wins. The obvious problem here for me is the members of my Tribe are probably all introverts who don’t want to be found.

2.     You must engage with your Tribe. Here’s what that means to me. I write a book. They read it. Nobody has to attend conventions or wear funny badges or drink bad coffee. Low expectations will be the hallmark of my Tribe. Introverts unite, separately.

3.     Always be positive – the health of your Tribe depends upon it. That kind of defeats the purpose of having a blog site to throw up on, though. It makes me feel like I can’t be myself. That nobody will accept me for who I really am. If all of that is true, the only way I can be a part of the introvert Tribe I’m searching for is if I’m an extrovert. If you ask me, that little piece of advice isn’t positive at all.

You can see why I’m having such a difficult time with this. That and the fact that my writing hobby is relatively unknown. That’s why I need a Tribe. To bolster my flagging spirits, tell me how much my writing has changed their life, to buy my books and support the lifestyle to which I’d like to become accustomed.

It’s time I faced the facts. You can’t have a Tribe if you’re an introvert. With ulterior motives. And average writing talent. Not only that, you can’t have a Tribe if you’re not Native American. It turns out my great-grandmother wasn’t even a full-blooded Creek Indian. Or a half-blooded one, though she did have the normal nine or ten pints we each have. When I sent in my spit test to Ancestry.com, they wrote back and said there is no evidence anywhere that my freckle-faced, red-headed DNA contains a single drop of Native American blood. I’m not even a blood relative of my blood relatives.

The only hope I have left is that if you made it this far, you recognize sarcasm as my native tongue, that sometimes it physically hurts me to hold in sarcastic comments, and I have sarcasm moments that are so advanced people actually think I’m stupid.

I may have to give up on searching for my Tribe and just be content to be an unknown blogger, wannabee novelist, lover of sarcasm, and collector of memes. There’s no shame in whiling away the hours online laughing at other people’s humor, reading their copycat recipes for food truck fare, and collecting political pundits to pin on my cyber boards. Even if I did borrow some funny phrases here, it’s worth including them in case they help me locate my missing community of introverts.

Ohmigosh. I did it. I think I just found my Tribe. “Pinterest.” Social media at its most social.

I might be an extrovert after all. 










With thanks to Steven Miller for the fun photo included above. The original picture can be viewed on his webpage by following the link below.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/aloha75/14586957695/in/photolist-odZYjB-2hQ1d9S-7kgLz4-as5KAo-WCQCDv-H288A-6ywoNb-NFRsVG-is9MLA-qp5dtR-8w5rQN-6MX1zv-62TA2s-vzMWw5-2ecrBsv-BjUr9v-8nQWub-34stk-jwfDf-8w2r1x-nh52DP-NmgXcH-Uand99-4kf3Vd-6Rr4AE-8w5rKW-is9vUg-8w2oE8-62Pkuz-kgHfzS-jwfXq-UkaEdb-yHMAzp-dMXhcc-hBHaEW-6aXsgz-jwfV4-9UwSiu-pAkc7c-jwfmw-62TAaA-62PjBD-8w5rdA-29r8pKP-8QUg7K-2dqjKz6-62PkXa-62TAis-isapKt-NT8Qxh

The Suitcase

It was just a beat-up old suitcase, tucked away in a dusty corner of a second-hand store behind a tower of crates overflowing with discards. The handle, long ago ripped from its top by an overly zealous taxi driver, had been replaced by a stiff arch made of hemp rope, knotted on the inside of the lid. It wasn’t pretty, but neither was the suitcase. Somehow, with its battered leather sides covered over by layers of souvenir travel stickers, the brown luggage and rough rope handle suited each other. They were gnarly, but they were tough. Survivors. Overcomers. Connected by necessity, they seemed stronger together, ready whenever the need arose.

Which seldom happened anymore.

Once upon a time, the classic beauty had been new and luxurious. Fitted with hardware both polished and sturdy, its secure latch inspired confidence. Light blue flowers flooded the pattern of the silken lining inside its roomy compartments. It commanded a high price, in the beginning, and even a few jealous glances from those whose own luggage had seen better days.

Following its first venture into the outside world, it returned home with black scuffs on one side. “No matter,” the owner said, unworried. “We’ll just cover that with this travel sticker from the Grand Canyon.” The case was still strong and mostly undamaged, and everyone thought the addition of the brightly colored decal gave it character. As time went by and the suitcase was called on again and again, it returned home each time with more character, more disguises, more masked evidence of careless luggage handlers and the brutalizing wear and tear marked by years on the road. Soon, the stylish leather exterior was practically unrecognizable, covered from stem to stern with a confusing assortment of labels including “Hotel Havana,” “Virginia Is For Lovers,” “Jamaican My Bacon,” and “Nixon For President.”

“That’s just the price of experience,” the owner said with a sigh, the day the handle first tore loose. “A little duct tape will fix that.” But just in case it didn’t, he bought another suitcase, a newer version with hard plastic siding and spinner wheels while its well-worn predecessor was relegated to second place, packed up with towels and shower shoes and packages of Ramen noodles on its journey to a tiny closet inside a university dormitory.

By the time the hemp repair had replaced the missing handle, the suitcase gapped at the top, allowing moisture from a passing storm to leak in rain. Soon a musty odor infiltrated anything stored inside. The blue flowers long ago lost their bloom and the inner stitching had pulled loose following a tug of war battle with a victorious coat hanger. “Why don’t you get rid of this smelly old thing?” someone suggested, filling its stained interior with other castoffs also destined for retirement.

Late one afternoon, a donation truck drove up that familiar street where the leather bag had once been a proud member of the family, all its souvenir charm fading in the sunlight. Carelessly tossed in the back, it landed in a heap with all the other has-beens that suddenly seemed long past their prime, if not their expiration dates, relegated to the dusty corners of last chance stores where one-eyed dolls and matted teddy bears kept them hidden from the dismissive waves of those who preferred pristine purchases.

Until the day a young woman with an eye for quality reached beyond the chaotic stash of cast offs and retrieved the rejected suitcase. “Perfect,” she announced, tucking the worn, weathered portmanteau under her arm to take home. Alone with her purchase the following afternoon, she studied the collage of identities attached to its exterior over the years. One by one, she pulled them off, discarding them layer by layer, until the original, chestnut-brown leather could be seen again. Beneath the bright light of discovery, she carefully removed every bit of adhesive evidence that suggested anyone had ever attempted to cover the beauty of the suitcase. Oiling the neglected leather, she buffed it until its luster exceeded its original sheen.

Then she turned her attention to the inside where moisture and dust had disintegrated the lining. With an eye to the future, she cleaned away all the years of neglect and replaced the stained fabric with crimson taffeta. Soon, a fresh scent bloomed from the rosy inlay carefully glued in place and trimmed with gold braid.

“Now,” she said, admiring the renovation, “about that handle. This rope will never do for a beauty like yourself.” She tossed the raveled hemp in the trash with the rest of the artificial repairs used to disguise the suitcase and opened a drawer in the mahogany desk she’d once rescued from a hot, humid greenhouse. “Just the thing,” she proclaimed, attaching a sturdy brass grip to the long side of the luggage. She gave a brisk buff to the antique latch and carried her resurrected treasure to the front window of her store where it sat on display for thirty short minutes before another woman with discriminating taste paid top dollar for the vintage case and proudly brought it home to the admiration of her husband.

“You are a shrewd judge of character,” he told her.

True, it had been made new again, but on its worst days it was always more than “just a beat-up old suitcase.” Its underlying beauty had simply been distorted with identities that belonged to someone else, suffocated by ill-fitting fixes. Underappreciated and misunderstood, its significance undermined by carelessness, the original splendor it contained was nearly lost forever. Whether sentenced to a garbage dump or repurposed at a flea market into another portable bar, its worth hung in the balance of whatever price one was willing to pay for its discovery.

None but the Lover of castoffs knew what lay hidden under the layers of judgment the suitcase wore for most of its life. And none but that same Lover knew how to restore it. The gift of unpacking its beauty lay in the hands of the One who rescued it.

It always had great worth. And it was always worthy of greatness.

“Perfect,” she had pronounced, though it lay broken and discarded in a dark, dusty corner.

And it was.

Dinosaurs

“Always be yourself unless you can be a dinosaur, and then always be a dinosaur.”

The sign hangs in a spare bedroom decorated for my grandson whenever he spends the night at our house. Blue dino footprints march up and down all the walls and a stuffed tyranno rests against the pillows every week in between sleepovers, keeping guard and waiting for the seven-year-old who will soon outgrow the ferocious fascination he has for all things extinct and move on to something more realistic, like Star Wars.

It’ll be a sad day when that happens, just like it was a sad day when he told me he was over Thomas the Train. It’s not just that I’d finally gotten the train decorations in that room right. My heart broke because it was a kind of graduation. Grandkids grow up faster than my children did, I’ve discovered, and no matter what I do I can’t slow it down. I guess the real heartbreak behind all of that is the knowledge that every time they get a little older, I do, too.

Nothing brings that into focus more than when I take a hard look at the culture we live in today and realize that I don’t recognize anything anymore. Listen, it’s not that the era of my youth was anything worth being nostalgic about. When I was a kid growing up outside San Francisco, it was the Drug Culture, Make Love Not War, LSD tripping, Vietnam War debacle, throw-everything-that’s-ever-had-value-out-the-window culture. It was the Sixties, not Happy Days. I don’t look back on that period of my life with fondness, let me put it that way.

I realized the world as everyone knew it was a’changin’, and it could go from bad to something more bad. (Even grammar was biting the big one.) But I had roots in something deeper than the shallow culture of the time and I was used to swimming upstream, rowing against the flow. Like a puzzle piece from the wrong jigsaw, I’ve never fit in comfortably. Uncomfortable. That’s generally how I feel when my life is put in a lineup with all the other lookalikes while an unseen judge on the other side of the two-sided mirror determines who the real phony is.

I finally know who I am.

I am the dinosaur.

For example, I believe—and please don’t take offense at this—that the best people to raise children are the parents of the children. Yes. I know. Gray areas abound here. Life is expensive. Homes are headed by single moms. Some homes are horrible environments, not even worthy to be called home. There are plenty of sad scenarios about families on the extreme edge of survival. That’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about priorities. About the over-swing of the cultural pendulum, from “a woman’s place is in the home” to “I am woman, hear me roar.” We are no longer under the thumb of men, in general. Glass ceilings still apply, I realize.

Women are capable of doing it all. Bring home the bacon, fry it in the pan. Sixties graduate here, remember? I agree, women have been suppressed. I am a woman. Believe me, I know. It takes sacrifice to stay home, make ends meet on one income, and change every poopy diaper a baby--and society--can throw at you. I’ve been hit by a lot of poop. It takes creativity to come up with entertainment on a budget while all around are other young families who provide every cost prohibitive toy the industry can dream up so the family will have fun memories. It also takes a healthy conviction that money doesn’t equal fun. Just look at the fallout of celebrity lives who have more money than God and end up destroying their own lives with it.

Now there’s an out of place puzzle piece.

Last night we watched the Super Bowl and the highly anticipated half-time show, or at least five minutes of it. Maybe it was ten. I don’t know. I was busy trying not to feel nauseous and wondering why there hadn’t been a warning to families that it was R-rated. I know that’s not a popular perspective—lots of people on facebook told me so this morning. I’m too much a dinosaur to have seen it for what it was. An exciting display of feminine power. Extreme athleticism, especially since the stars were both middle-aged. And, above all, it was the first time that two women headlined the entertainment spectacle, particularly two Latino women. Double.Edged.Sword.

Here’s where my creaky bones try to knit together in Ezekiel’s wilderness of scattered skeletons. Just that afternoon, while working on another writing project, I’d read a list of words worthy of use in describing the strength and beauty of women. The internet page also listed words that are often confused with complimentary expressions for females. Guess what word showed up on the List of Oppression? Sexy. The very thing that highlighted the “entertainment” millions of people tuned in to see last night.

The internet article stated that women are not sex objects. The Super Bowl begs to differ. The women who performed last night see things a little differently, too. I agree that they were in superb physical condition. That they are very flexible. That their conditioning puts a lot of twenty-year-olds to shame. Actually, it doesn’t. The shame is when women of power take the opportunity to headline something as big, and supposedly family friendly, as the Super Bowl and use it to teach young girls that seduction is entertaining, modesty is stupid, and talent is only appreciated if it makes men salivate.

I warned you. Dinosaur here.

I know this is pointless. I’m either preaching to the choir or speaking in pig latin. I learned that on facebook this morning, too. Here’s the thing. Something went wrong at the beginning of my generation, about 1960. I know that’s hard to believe when you realize that Barbara Eden was forbidden to show her belly button on I Dream Of Jeannie, and that Ricky and Lucy and even Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore slept in separate beds as married couples on my black and white television set. But don’t be fooled. That was all smoke and mirrors. The evening news and popular music and Haight Ashbury and mini skirts and free love, they all told the truth. That there was no longer truth. Its expiration date had come and gone.

Like the dinosaurs.

I have granddaughters who will inherit the earth we’re leaving to them, and I am afraid for them. I have grandsons who will do the same. I’m afraid for them, too. I know when people stop to analyze whose fault it is that our blue marble has spun out of control on many levels, the finger will point at us, the Baby Boomers. We should have stopped the culture wars. We should have been more tolerant. We should have minded our own business. We should have been more involved.

Don’t worry. I’m not bitter. It’s the same criticism every generation lobs at the previous one. And I’m sure every generation on its way to its eternal reward has worried that those they’re passing the torch to are ill-prepared to run the race. It’s just a pendulum swing. Nobody trusts anybody anymore. We’re all just getting what we can while we can. Until something catastrophic happens and climate change occurs and we bury all the truth we don’t believe in anymore beneath the ground we walk on.

Like the dinosaurs.