I grew up with Republicans. The ancient ones. The “fiscally conservative/socially moderate” folks. People like Eisenhower, who built the Interstate System, continued the New Deal and expanded Social Security.  Nixon, who resigned in disgrace, still eased Cold War tensions, ended the draft, formed the EPA, created the first affirmative action program, enforced desegregation, saw the passage of the Clean Water Act, and implemented Supplemental Social Security for the needy. Closer to home, Everett Dirksen, warmonger that he was, also fought to create the Civil Rights Acts of ’64 and ’68. The Rockefellers were probably the best example. They favored big business and Wall Street, but supported Unions, the building trades, and government spending on the environment, healthcare, and higher education.  Six decades ago, the GOP fought for Civil Rights, Gender Equality, welfare programs, and environmental protections.  I miss those people.  Their old, familiar elephant is now in a museum. Next to integrity.

The pleas for “social distancing” have me puzzled.  Such a strategy sounds more like advice for young teens with racing hormones than a public health necessity.  I find little about the current pandemic precautions to be social in any way.  To me, a call for “personal distancing” is more suitable advice.

Social drinking, along with pot lucks, bridge parties and birthday celebrations are what I consider entertaining contact with others. A deadly virus not so much. And yet, people in my own community continue to gather on porches, in garages and on their decks to socialize – thinking, I assume, that being outside is a “no-virus bubble.”  Furthermore, large delegations of family and friends still march in tandem though big box grocery stores, checking out the bargain bins and gathering up the necessary allotment of beef jerky and toilet tissue.

This is not a party, folks. Take this personally. Stay home!

We’ve all seen and heard how Covid-19 is the most dangerous to the older crowd.  Seniors are advised to stay in. Nursing homes and assisted living centers are closed to non essential visitors. Old is the new threatened. Given that the scientists are expecting the rest of the world to follow the course of Italy and Spain, who’s to say the world’s population won’t shrink from the top down?

Because rank and priviledge won’t spare the vulnerable, should we lose key world leaders, what will ensue? Kim Jon Un is 37.  Macron and Trudeau are in their 40’s. UK Boris and Kavanaugh are 55. Merkel and Xi Jin Ping squeak under at 65 and 66 respectively. Everyone else is as old as dirt.  Should our world leaders become incapacitated, or worse, what kind of chaos will their absence create? Who will be in charge?

Do the math. Wash your hands. This stuff is real.

I read with great interest the story of the Wethersfield School crossing guard who was rewarded for quick thinking and preventing what could have been a terrible situation. I applaud her. It has to be a tough job.

The article got me thinking of a blog post I did several years ago about an experience I had at the no-longer-existent F.U. White School in Galva. Bear with me as I share it.

Back in the dark ages of the 1950s, 5th grade brought new responsibilities. Readying us to go out into the world, teachers assigned tasks. No refusals accepted. It was then that I found myself perched on the curb of authority. Literally. Swaddled in an oversized yellow belt, I was charged with the safety of our schoolmates every Thursday as I led them from the “Dome” and across to the Fourth Avenue sidewalk.  No lights, no signs – just my short, outstretched arms and the hope that my face could be seen over the giant hoods of the Chevys and Packards that waited in line for a few of the non-walkers.  It was not my favorite job. And I don’t think I was very good at it.

Which brings me to this morning’s responsibility. I’m here in Wisconsin for a few days and chauffeured my grandkids to school.  It’s cold and very snowy here.  Snow, cheese, and the breweries never disappoint. Huge piles of snow line the streets while rows of cars and buses vie for an opening into the various entrances.  There is no such thing as a left turn before or after school.  And not a Packard in sight.

The lean, attractive woman who controlled the flow of traffic smiled as she waved us along. Our eyes locked, and she knew. Kindred spirits? Soul mates?  Illinois plates? No problem.  “She’s wearing my belt,” I said to myself. Then, I saw her nod in my direction. In the midst of all the commotion, she quietly, but decisively, led a group of warmly jacketed children from the curb and across to safety. She looked like she enjoyed her job. And I bet she was good at it, too. After a successful drop-off and one more wave, I was on my way home. Secretly so glad that she, not I, was doing that job.

Kudos to you, Mrs. Groy.

Today is January 28, 2020.  UNICEF estimates that 353,000 babies will be born around the world before tomorrow dawns.  If it’s your birthday you are in good company with a few of the greats.  Johann Ernst Bach for one.  Johann Sebastian was his twin. Guess you could say they were born Bach to Bach.  Sorry about that.  And African explorer Henry Morton Stanley, who led the search for Dr. Livingston, and discovered the Nile as a bonus. The illegitimate son of Elizabeth Parry, he went by his father’s name (whom he never met) as Henry Rowlands until he emigrated to America, where he went to work for Henry Stanley, taking his name as a gesture of gratitude.  He fought for both sides in the Civil War, ending up in the Union navy where his love of adventure flourished. Expeditions to the Ottoman empire, the Congo and beyond followed. Happy birthday wishes, I presume.

I grew up in a cloud. Back in the 1950s and ’60s, everybody smoked. Parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors – even the minister inhaled. I doubt if I ever saw anything clearly – and I’m certain that I always smelled like a Winston. Tobacco ruled. Fancy cigarette boxes, engraved lighters and oddly molded ashtrays were prized possessions. There was no escaping it. Everyone on television smoked. Everyone in the movies smoked. Cowboys in white hats, black hats, jeeps and saloons all lit up the “tobaccy” as they tamed the Wild West. Danny Thomas, Donna Reed, Jack Parr – you name it. Smoke was everywhere. Humphrey Bogey’s Casablanca was awash in it, adding to its intrigue with a magical, swirling haze.
It’s always been a rite of passage for young people. I missed that voyage, having never tried it. I’m lucky I guess. Hard on the lungs. Ask Bogey.

Texting and twittering have quickly replaced what is now considered “old-fashioned” emailing.  Even Twitter has dwindled to “X.” Messages by pen and paper are now relegated to the attic; dusty and antiquated.  Time, and typeface, both march on. Handwritten correspondence has been obsolescing since man first etched a figure on a cave wall. Those clumsy hieroglyphics didn’t last long – who can spell hieroglyphics without a dictionary anyway?  But the move from cave wall to tree bark to parchment to Gutenberg press sped up the ability to transmit our thoughts. And now, in an instant, we express love with a tiny heart (in any color) and fling an insult with a poop emoji (it smiles). It seems hieroglyphics have resurfaced – without grammar and punctuation (that’s a topic for later). In the meantime, write a letter to your mother. In cursive.

I see a lot of posts, cards, books and thoughts on The Rainbow Bridge.  The place pets cross when they leave the earth.  Not being a religious person, I don’t see a heaven or hell as an option, but thinking that pets have a special place is appealing. After all, they are a lot more advanced than we humans. Seriously, their motive in life is survival. Not to cheat, kill, maim or ruin the environment for fun. They don’t start wars, pollute the earth, promote fracking, support the oil and pharmaceutical lobbies or vote against their own best interests.  So, a nice place to live, once they leave this earth, is probably more than fair.

There certainly is no shortage of pets. The industry is huge. Designer dogs and cats show up on my Facebook page every day, all decked out in fancy coats with fancy price tags. Ads for pedigree pups and kittens fill up half the page in the larger papers. Cute and expensive, they pose for the camera on pretty pillows, while their owners hope for a sale. No sale? Well, an early run across that bridge I fear.  In comparison, the shelter dogs and cats pose in cages, often with their noses pressed through the bars. They hope for a pat on the head, a kind word and a stable owner. They, too, face the possibility of seeing that bridge if they go unselected.  I wonder sometimes if it’s a four-lane.  It must be a busy place.

And then there are the pets that live with me.  Nothing fancy.  Just furry. Every single one was either a gift, or a squatter. That is, they showed up, and they stayed.  It was a simple as that.  I had no choice. Each with their own back story and a unique personality.  There was Festus, the lop eared schnauzer (and the only dog) who ran like the wind on three legs after my son.  Having failed as a farm dog, he enjoyed being a city pup, but not a a fan of the bath – or the mailman. Ginger, the crabby cat who loved the centers of pumpkin pies and my daughter was a tortie with attitude. She had belonged to a couple whose new apartment building wouldn’t allow pets.  So, she allowed us to adopt her. Kevin, the golden haired tom who was long on beauty, but short on brains, moved around with me several times.  His previous owner liked to enjoy a bit of reefer, and I think Kevin may have inhaled a bit too much second hand smoke.  He stared into space much of the time.

Virginia Inez, who arrived from New York searching for a new home to take over found Kevin an easy target  and was clearly the reincarnation of a woman I cared for (and loved dearly) as a nurse.  She was intrusive, nosey, noisy and limped – just like her name sake. A great cat. I still miss her. Chloe, the gorgeous long haired tortie who came with Larry would stare me down if I dared to sit next to him on the sofa. She also tried her best to bite my toes whenever I went to bed. She was by far the most beautiful cat I ever had. But she would not let me pick her up and petting her was risky.  Terrible waste of feline fur.  Then came our two-some.  Handsome, a loveable orange long hair and Pretty Boy, who got me to blogging today.   Most recently, Taco Tommy a/k/a Norman arrived here with a chubby kitten’s body and plenty of purrs, acting as though he owned the place. And, he did.  Looking at his orange hair and watching him play, we can’t help but think that Handsome may have sent him to us.  Maybe this bridge has two lanes…

Now, more about that two-some.  Handsome was left behind when the neighbors moved out – around twenty years ago.  He was a big, fluffy guy whose grooming abilities were lacking.  I suspect he was separated too early from his mother and never got the washing of the fur lesson.  He would mat up quickly and the groomers would have to shave various parts of him on a regular basis. It embarrassed him, I know. But dreadlocks on a cat are not a good thing.  He was a lover and would purr at the first stroke. Pretty Boy, or PB, came to us at about a year after Handsome moved in. At the time, PB was sporting a pink flea collar and a number of cuts and bumps – most likely due to the neighborhood bully cats making fun of his effeminate attire. He as not yet full grown – still a teen by cat adolescent standards. That was nineteen years ago.  He was a talker, much like his predecessor, Virginia. Both were sleek dark haired beauties. Neither had any use for dogs or catnip. I think they may have been connected somehow.

Larry, the official cat whisperer, was the first to feed them, which, of course to cats, is paramount to a binding rental agreement, with all manner of amenities such as veterinarian care, primo nutrition, a heated cat condo in the garage and plenty of pets and fuzzy toys.  They took to their new home quite nicely, staking out their own leaf pile nests next to the house, as well as the sunny spots on the deck. Each had their own food dish, but preferred to move between the two, taking turns at each bowl, lest one of them contain more than the other.  They tolerated each other, but roamed the yard separately most of the time.

On occasion they would team up and bring us “gifts.”  We would find the remains of what appeared to be a rabbit near the back door, with Pretty Boy looking proud, and Handsome appearing confused (a not uncommon look for him).  Other times, we’d find some squirrel parts and a mouse carcass or two on the deck. And fleas. But those we could handle, thanks to Dr. Stevens, their personal and always attentive veterinarian. We made many a trip there, with each cat wrapped in a towel. Cat carriers were not an option. Pretty Boy, the usual “tough guy” would object loudly and frequently during the entire trip and throughout the visit, while Handsome would utter a few weak “meows” while enroute.  There, they received the necessary “surgery” that male cats should have, various antibiotics for infections, medications for worms and the usual shots and such to keep them safe. Which brings me back to this bridge idea.

Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do. No medicine will work. An aging feline body just doesn’t last. So, you make the decision. Having to put an animal down is not an easy task.  Especially when they snuggle close to you when you pick them up for that last ride.  Or, maybe they know and are grateful. Maybe. I hope so. Because today was one of those days that pet owners dread. But it’s something we must do.  I remember each one. I remember their quirks and what made them special. I remember the ones I was able to pet and talk to until they were gone.  I wonder if they ever looked back once they started across that bridge. If so, I hope they were happy.

Pretty Boy

There are few, if any, news programs, columns, cartoons, T-shirts or ball caps that don’t offer a political comment or reference to the state of the country.  Talking heads on every channel deliver an ongoing stream of why and why not, arguing for or against the latest tweet, arrest, subpoena, rumor or photo opportunity.  In between, the continued diatribe are the political ads, selling their product and warning us of the dangers coming from the other side. The late night talk show hosts, who have long been a welcome respite from the daily grind of political jabber are finding it hard to stay fresh.  As the government scenario continues – ever more ridiculous and rude, their writers scramble to be more clever than the day before.

Those on the Right have chosen an outspoken game show host as their champion. They look to him to free them from the chains of bureaucratic tethers, keep the poor and needy out of their back yards and their wallets, and return America to the good old days when Ozzie and Harriett were the gold standard, and the gold standard was secure.  The Right has no room for those who are not straight, white or patriarchal.  To them, the melting pot is meant for fondue. Gays and transgendered should be in institutions; not in our schools, or in families, or in government.  Schools should be full of Bibles instead of accurately portrayed history books, creationism theories rather than proven science – and segregated into charter and other private schools – all paid for with tax dollars. Public schools must follow suit, but with far fewer dollars and shut away in urban areas where “those” students belong.  Brown v Board has been moved into the janitor’s closet.

All political parties run on fear. For the Right, it’s fear of becoming brown, or black, or of having to share the same doctor’s office with those on the lower end of the social spectrum.  Although the majority of those on “welfare” are white, those with more melanin are always suspect.  Keeping America white is their mantle – even as they embrace their scriptures, sing their anthems and genuflect. Keeping America male is as important as keeping it white.  Women are not to rule.  They are to reproduce.  To consider the possibility of a woman President is totally unacceptable.  Even if it’s couched with “I’d be okay with a woman – just not THAT one” it’s clear that females need not apply.

The Right side of the political divide also runs on loyalty.  Loyalty to the office.  Loyalty to the status quo. Loyalty to what works for them.  Right now it’s excusing a POTUS who is morally bankrupt, laws that continue to discriminate against women and other minorities and changes that leave our environment under attack.  Even the “Me, too” movement creates the question of what men are to do now.  How unfair that this is affecting the way men have to work, and play and behave overall.  Ozzie and Harriet made a television career on the premise of “boys will be boys” and that still permeates through most of America.

Then, there’s the Left.  Who they have chosen to save us is still in flex.  What the Left fears is vulnerability. Feeling as though they are the champions of all that is unfair, they do make an attempt to right those wrongs.  Those attempts aren’t always as courageous or organized as perhaps they could be (I’m being nice here).  The liberals of late seem to spend a lot of time and energy arguing and fighting over who will lead and how they will enact and maintain their yet-to-be determined platform.

The Left always fears their base.  A base that is as vulnerable as it is diverse. While the Left promotes the rights of union and non-union workers, those same employees will jump ship if they think new rules, true or not, will affect their jobs.  They want more affordable health care, but are slow to change what they have, no matter how expensive, if there’s a remote possibility that they will have to share in the cost later on.  They want clean air and water, but that means changing how they fuel their cars and heat their homes.  While that might cost more initially, looking at the long term benefits is scary. Predictable costs are less so.

They want safe streets and schools, but they fight any mention of gun control.  There was a huge outcry over the last president’s views on guns from all sides, as he was expected to take them all away.  Interestingly, that never happened.  Any change to the Second Amendment brings out panic in the streets, even though the majority of Americans just want sensible laws.  Mentioning how US gun deaths exceed those of other countries by leaps and bounds makes no difference.  As with the Right, the Left fears change as well.  Apparently active shooter drills in Kindergarten isn’t seen as change. Rather, let’s arm the school cooks.

The current Left reminds me of a composite of Nero, the Keystone Kops and Glenda, the Good Witch.  They are too busy infighting, wasting time on a Mueller like impeachment inquiry and platitudes to set an agenda.  Good ideas, good people, but no plan.  That we have so many on the stage, vying for the party leaders to swivel around on their chairs and press the buzzer, is very disturbing.  Seems as though game shows are the elections of the future.  As women’s access to birth control, reproductive choices, mammograms and pap tests diminishes, so does the outcry.  As the environment erodes and lobbyists purchase Senators, where is the Left?  If, indeed, there is reason to think our current administration is corrupt, why is a useable conclusion taking so long? I wonder, quite often, what the Nixon daughters must think.

Disclaimer here: I have been a Democrat since the early 1970’s.  As one of those cookie munching, tree hugging lib-tards that garner so much flack from the other side, I have great difficulty with those who support the current man in the Whitehouse, and any of his minions. But I find myself saying that some days, being on the Left is more than frustrating. Not enough to leave the party, but more than enough to take it to task when I feel it needs a “whack.”  Loyal as an Alt-Right Republican I am…

We didn’t get where we are overnight.  And much of what we see now has been in place since our founders snubbed their noses at King George.  Racism, sexism, religious interference – a Civil War and hindered voting.  Much of it was diluted, for awhile. But these things are as American as the proverbial pie. However, now it’s exploded, and it’s not pretty.  Oozing out like lava, our transgressions are showing. We clearly are a divided nation.  And not for the first time. Holding hands and attempting to listen isn’t working.  It never has. Polarized as we are, it’s hard to see us sharing ideas, let alone tax dollars.  If the tall one was correct, a nation divided pretty much screws itself.  I feel that, until we do our own research from all sides, refuse to be persuaded by Russian or other propaganda (how stupid ARE we?) and look at things long term instead of what’s ahead next week, we are more than divided. And pretty much, screwed.