January 25, 2025
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Of Fire and Ice

 After a week of below freezing temperatures and a sleet/ice/snow storm that closed roads and highways, cancelled schools and government offices, and disrupted meetings and appointments all over South Texas, I am only now thawing out while writing this. We didn’t get as much snow in San Antonio as they did farther East (6” in Houston), but this was the first measurable snowfall we’ve had here since the disastrous winter storm four years ago in 2021. 

     No doubt you remember that weather event no matter where you live; it was the one that resulted in a total power-grid failure and left us without heat and electricity in our homes for days, and without our Senator “Cancun Cruz” who fled to Mexico.That storm left us with more than 6” in the City; before that, the last measurable snowfall we had was in 2017. The fact is that  we do seem to be getting more severe winter weather recently, including snow. I only remember it snowing once in my life in all the years growing up in South Texas and that was a mere dusting hardly worthy of all the excitement. 

     Ah, the weather: “Climate is what we expect; weather is what we get,” Mark Twain famously said. Of course, these days, the controversy between the climate and the weather is a hot topic. I sit here in my sweater watching the news every night about the horrendous fires in Southern California. Add to that, coverage of record snows and ice in the South and into the Northeast. Climate or weather, wherein lies the cause, and “who-in” lies the blame?

   Here in South Texas, our greatest weather events have always been hurricanes. As I look back, I realize that I have been in the biggest of them: Carla, Harvey, Celia, Ike. But having lived in different parts of the Country and traveled elsewhere around the world,  I have also been directly involved in other major weather events: earthquakes, tornadoes, floods, blizzards, volcanic eruptions, hoarfrost (frozen fog), gale-force winds at sea, and crippling drought here at home. Yet, other than having to evacuate our apartment building in New York for a night-time fire, I have never, thank god, had to endure the paralyzing fear or devastating loss experienced by the rapidly advancing flames on those living in the path of a full-on forest fire such as those in California.

     Allow me to deviate for a backstory here: A number of years ago, we sold our longtime home in Stamford, CT, in order to make a pre-retirement move farther up County. Now I loved that home in Stamford; we had lived there for 23 years, raised our son there, built our careers there, and established our place in the community. The house was a long, low, mid-century modern style (a Better Homes & Gardens design winner in the 1970s) situated on a hill that sloped down to a private lake. Being a newly-built modern house in an established neighborhood of traditional New England colonials, it took forever to sell. But we persevered because it was time for us to go, to downsize and move on. The people who finally bought it brought in architects and contractors to draw plans and they promised to upgrade and expand the house. That made us very happy.

     Watching the California fires unfold over the last several days, with the initial blazes, then the hopes of containment, then the rash of new eruptions, then the tragic loss and grief of whole communities that have ended up with nothing left of their lives has made me grateful for having survived my own past weather events relatively unscathed. As I witnessed bereaved  homeowners gradually return to their Pacific Palisades neighborhoods to sift through the debris and detritus for some remnants, however small, of their former lives, I have been reminded of “the loss” of that Stamford home.

     Once we had moved, we were still living near Stamford. I still worked there, we had friends there, doctors and services there — in many ways, it was still “home” to us. My husband never wanted to even drive by our old house when he was down there, but I was curious about all the renovations and wanted to see how they were coming along. So one day a few weeks after we had moved, I drove on over by myself, turned down the street by the lake, and maneuvered, as best I could, toward the steep hill of the driveway through all the trucks and construction vehicles. Finally, I just parked the car, got out and walked to the top of the incline. And there, to my complete shock, I found nothing left but an exposed basement. I stood there stunned and immobilized, and then I started to cry. 

     A man in a hard hat came up alongside me and asked, nicely, who I was and what I was doing there. I explained that I was the former owner of the house no longer in front of us and that I wanted to stop by and see how the new owners’ promised renovations were coming along. All I  wanted to know now was what happened to that promise. “It became clear that all the plans for re-design were too costly,” he said, “and so it just made sense to raze the house and start over.”

     Back home later I called my son, who is an architect, to tell him the news and express how angry and upset I was. “They broke their promise,” I moaned, “and now our beautiful home is gone.” He listened to me sniffle and snort for a while, and then, very simply said, “Mom, it was just a house and the house is not the home. You have your memories and they go with you.”

     Of course, we had left that house in Stamford with a great deal more than just the clothes on our backs, so my experience of that loss is hardly equivalent to the losses Californians are suffering. But I have often recalled my son’s realistic observation on that particular day when I have faced other instances of loss in my life. His comment speaks to a universal truth: You don’t need things, any things really, to tell you who you are and who you love as long as you have your life and your memories. It’s a hard truth, but one worth remembering.

     So much for the past and memories hot and cold. Meanwhile, here we are in the present in 2025, where hell has begun to freeze over.    

January 12, 2025
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The Sound of Silence

   Perhaps the most memorable song from the 1967 film The Graduate is Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence.”  Who can forget the final scene when Elaine, in her white wedding dress, and Ben, in his white hoodie, plop themselves down, breathless and laughing, in the back of a city bus while dismayed passengers look on? What on earth have these kids done!  And no sooner does the camera pan back to the faces of the kids themselves than we see their own expressions devolve from exuberant laughter and excited anticipation into blank stares and vacant bewilderment. Now they too wonder what on earth they have done!

     Critics of the lyrics generally agree that the song is about the difficulty of communicating emotionally, especially in an atmosphere of constant distraction and noise. Some critics have even suggested that the lyrics were prophetic warnings of increasing social isolation as the 20th century progressed into a world of instantaneous information and ever-expanding technology. Even the plot of the film can be seen as a prescient warning, particularly to my own Boomer generation, of the pitfalls of  “dropping out” of traditional roles and rules without adequate forethought. Just look at the upheaval that subsequently ensued in the 1960s and ‘70s.

     Now in the 21st century, we can all attest to the generalized anxiety and alienation brought on by the constant chaos of misinformation and the unrelenting demands of social media. Cell phones buzz and ping and ring all day, cable television blares breaking news, and even printed headlines shout from the page. So much noise, so much distraction, so much busyness — in the aftermath of the isolation of Covid 19, we have multi-tasked ourselves into a collective case of ADD. I don’t know about you, but there are days when I, too, want to get on a bus (better yet, in my new car) and flee, just like Elaine and Ben. But where to go to get away from it all…

     As observed by MSNBC’s commentator Chris Hayes in a recent New York Times essay, “The endless diversions offered to us in every instance we are within the reach of our own phones means we never have to do the difficult work of figuring out how to live with our own minds.” (Opinion section, 1/5/2025)  And the work of our own minds is found only in silence. Busyness abates boredom, Hayes contends in his essay, but we cannot escape our own mind. And in our mind is the ultimate sound of silence, the interior sounds of thought and evaluation that help us focus our attention on the things that really matter.

     I have, of late, been cultivating the sound of silence through the avoidance of noise and chatter and all the distractions and ancillary worries and demands that come at me every day. I have decided that I cannot afford them, or most of the people who deliver them. My patience and my mental health simply won’t allow it. You might say that I have stepped off the treadmill of talk and tuned in to keeping my own counsel. Call me anti-social or reclusive or even downright misanthropic, but in the end, each one of us has to navigate that private existential space in our heads between hope and despair.

     Different people have different ways of trying to navigate that space and, indeed, there is a whole industry of self-help books, diet and exercise routines, and psychological practices offering assistance. Whether it’s prayer or journaling or mindfulness, or even The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, all these approaches attempt to help us develop the discipline to resist the outward distractions of the world and cultivate the composure of a centered self.  But, to quote Hayes again, “We cannot escape our own mind; it follows us wherever we go. We can’t outrun the treadmill. Our only hope of peace is to force ourselves to step off whenever we can.”

     In other words, regardless of whatever situational problems we might have, our real problem is always an existential one, and to cope with that problem, we have to be still. In these difficult times of constant chaos and crisis around the world, we have to listen for the sound of silence in ourselves. And once again I return to the final lines of my most favorite poem, “Ash Wednesday,” by my most favorite poet, T.S. Eliot: “Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.”

     Amen.

December 30, 2024
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The Gift of Time

You reach an age, or a stage, in life where you really don’t need anything new and have no interest in acquiring anything more than you have. (Well, okay, so some “more is better” types don’t, but I’m talking about normal people.) Anyway, we have reached that stage, now giving away, selling, and disposing of waaaay more than we buy. So, not needing or wanting anything new, we three decided not to give Christmas gifts this year. Instead ,we decided to gift each other with the gift of time spent and enjoyed together, a family field trip of experiences and shared company. 

     My husband, our son and I have just returned from a few days in Dallas. We called it a holiday “family field trip.” We three have often traveled together and we travel together very well because we all enjoy the same things and look for the same kinds of activities. (This was a pattern that we started when our son was small, when we took him absolutely everywhere with us, inside and outside of the Country.) 

     This trip to Dallas, to enjoy a road trip in my new car,  was designed to stay in a luxury hotel with a spa, have great meals at good restaurants, go to the Dallas Museum of Art (where there was a special Frida Khalo exhibit), stroll (and shop) through Eataly in Dallas, visit the George W. Busch Presidential Library (I have a thing for presidential libraries, regardless of their political affiliations, having now been to eight of the  thirteen ), and to see some friends. And of course, we also found other diversions along the way, including an enlightening personal tour by veteran employees of the historic Neiman-Marcus flagship store downtown on Main Street (1910), probably the last grand-dame department store left in America.. 

     This was really an enlightening visit to a city that we had been to, but not spent much time in for years. Good choice for a quick holiday getaway (and even the traffic on I-35 cooperated.)  But, the whole point of the trip, really was not about the destination or the sights or the diversions, but about our being together for a few days. This was a gift of time for us to spend with each other without the worries and concerns of everyday daily life where we live. 

     Emerson famously said that those who travel to get away from themselves are “bringing ruins to ruins.” Perhaps, though I don’t think getting away with those you love most are exactly escaping, nor could I say that Dallas is exactly in ruins — at least not yet. Most people need a break, a change of venue, if you will, and sometimes just getting away locally will bring as much happiness and relief as an extended journey. At least that was our experience this week..

     So here we are at the end of another year as Father Time is about to shuffle off into the sunset taking his bag of memories with him. Even though 2024 hasn’t been the greatest of my life, I am grateful to him for having let me have another year to love, to laugh, to learn, and yes, even to struggle. After all, it is only through struggle and disappointment that we truly grow in patience, compassion, and significant connection to others. As the late Archbishop Desmond Tutu said, “We don’t really get close to others if our relationship is made up of unending hunky-dory-ness.” (The Book of Joy, p. 111) 

     I don’t know about you, but I’ve long since given up on the tired routine of making New Year’s Resolutions. Rather, better to realize that there’s no guarantee of “doing” later, “becoming” later, “reforming” later. In this life, later is always now! So now we need to appreciate the gift of time we have, to use it wisely and to share it generously with those we love. 

     You might say that the gift of time is the “gift that keeps on giving,” even after we’re gone. Hope you will remember that in the New Year.

December 15, 2024
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Puppy Love

 Fifty years ago this Christmas we got our first “show” puppy (meaning a pure bred canine with all the lineage and breeder certifications behind it to qualify for American Kennel Club shows). He was a surprise gift from my husband, probably a subtle incentive intended toward prompting me to want to start a family. (It worked; our son was born the next year.) At any rate, I consider that Christmas to actually be the beginning of “our traditional family,” one of enduring puppy love.

     That first puppy, Nero, was a Rottweiler. He had been flown to us from a reputable breeder in Montgomery, Alabama, with whom we ultimately became good friends. He was such a darling thing, a cute little black-and-tan wriggly with big paws that indicated his growth to come. It was love at first sight, of course. But then, we noticed some problems: he couldn’t walk well, he couldn’t stand, eventually he could hardly move. We took him down to Auburn University in Alabama, one of the premier veterinary schools in the country, where they determined that our darling puppy had been dropped or mishandled in transport and had arrived with a fractured vertebrae. And so that became the sad ending to that first Christmas beginning.

     From that experience, we vowed never to ship a dog again, but we did  promptly drive down and pick up another show puppy named Pharo. He, too, was a Rottweiler, and he was a show stopper! He easily became a champion of this and that and everything. He was super smart, pranced and preened and did all the right things in the show ring, but he was a brat and not easy to live with. Gradually we had two more Rottweilers along with Pharo,  one of whom was his mother, also a champion, that we retired from our breeder friend.

     We and our Rottweilers became bonafide  “doggie people” on the show circuit for ten years or more and even our young son handled Pharo in the show ring. My husband especially became very, very involved in the Medallion Rottweiler Club (of which he is still a member) and we regularly traveled to shows and specialties. Most people who simply have family pets or adopt (bless them) from a rescue site don’t realize what a huge “doggie subculture” exists in pure-bred show dogs and breed clubs. Nor do they realize that these breed clubs don’t exist to be snobbish, but to preserve and perpetuate the character, the strengths, and the reputations of breeds that they cherish. 

     Sadly, the reputation and the quality of the Rottweiler breed had begun to suffer in the late-80’s due to back-yard breeders and adverse publicity about the breed’s more aggressive tendencies. Meanwhile, we had earlier encountered our first Greater Swiss Mountain Dog, owned by August Busch III, in St. Louis at Grant’s Farm, which is the home of the famous Clydesdale horses. That Swissy, named Casar vom Neuhof, was much larger than a Rottweiler, but a gentle giant who acted as a good-will ambassador welcoming all visitors. His big-hearted temperament was impressive as his size.

     We never forgot that first encounter with Casar, which prompted my husband to research this  rare breed and to become obsessed with photographing them at dog shows. Through the Greater Swiss Mountain Dog Club of America (GSMDCA),  we acquired our own Swiss Mountain Dog, Baron of High Ridge in 1989. Baron soon won Winner’s Dog and Best of Breed in a Specialty Show right out of the puppy class; from there he was “discovered” by advertising talent agents and ultimately, became the corporate mascot called “Network” featured on ads and in appearances for Sun MicroSystems. Baron was magnificent, to say the least. He was so well-trained that he could walk the streets of New York City with no leash and could sit at photo shoots under tables laden with food and never even sneak a snack. He was a true professional, and a photographer’s joy.  (Not to mention that his royalties from print ads and personal appearances with the CEO of Sun MicroSystems paid for two semesters of our son’s education at a private university.) 

     Next in line was Ike (Derby’s Eisenhower), Baron’s son. Ike had Baron’s good looks, but even more of a dedicated competitive show and obedience spirit. He was incredibly smart and easy to train, even if a bit more high-strung than his father. “Mom, you finally have a dog that is you,” my son said. With his compulsive energy and drive, Ike ended up with more championships, drafting titles, and obedience degrees than most people we know. And through training him, my husband became a judge and a trainer himself, an active member of the GSMDCA and their first delegate to the American Kennel Club. Between the dog shows, the demonstrations, the drafting clinics, and the active promotion of the breed for recognition by the AKC in 1995, my husband’s lifelong passion for canines became his dominating interest.

     Over the years we have had three more Swissys, often overlapping, all out of Baron’s bloodline: Duke, then Kaas, and then Mac. Sadly, the larger the breed, the shorter the lifespan, so most of these magnificient companions only lived to be 8 or 9 years old. Mac, our last Swissy (pictured) enjoyed exceptional health his whole life and made it to the ripe old age of 11, which was quite something. But arthritis finally got the better of him as he lost muscle strength, so we had to put him to sleep right before Thanksgiving this year. It was incredibly sad, not only because it is truly a loss of a comforting and beloved family member, but also because we knew that as we ourselves were getting older, Mac would have to be our last large-breed companion. Moreover, his passing also marks the end of our active “doggie years,” particularly for my husband who has devoted so much of his life and love of animals to the cause of their protection.

     Roughly 66% of American households have some sort of pet, more today than ever before. Much of this growth is rightly attributed to the loneliness and stress ignited by the Covid epidemic, and the apparent remaining stress of a chaotic world situation. The family dog population has increased from 52.9 million in 1996 to 87.7 million in 2024. (FYI: The cat population has remained fairly stable during the same period.)  It doesn’t matter whether the family pet is a pure-bred dog or one rescued from a shelter. What matters most is that “Fido” lives with you in your home and is given the love and opportunity through care and training to become an active member of the family. 

     The average IQ of most people is somewhere between 85 and 115; the average house dog has been shown to have an IQ of about 100, and a developed vocabulary of about 250 words, which is roughly equal to that of a small child between 2 and 3 years old. With the right training, some exceptionally intelligent breeds can develop a human vocabulary of about 1,000 words.  In other words, your family dog is probably smarter than most of your friends and relatives!

     God knows that they are more loving, more devoted, more forgiving and more understanding. They intuitively know when you are sad or lonely or depressed or even just sick with a cold;  they will sit by your bed, look into your eyes and nurse you with their wet noses. There is a reason that canines are the first choice for comfort and service animals; they really are a man’s — and a woman’s — best friend.

      Saying good-bye to our Mac is equal parts profound gratitude for his life with us and profound grief for his loss. And saying good-bye to 50 years of being devoted “doggie people” is now the sad ending of puppy love this Christmas season.

November 16, 2024
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Glad Tidings

Okay, so here we are in the middle of November with Thanksgiving around the corner and the Christmas holidays in our sights. I don’t know about you, but so far, the month of November has been a real bummer for me. Between Thanksgiving being the anniversary of my Mother’s death, my art quilt “Fire In The Sky” not getting juried into the international show, various health issues among friends and family, bothersome little catastrophes around the house, and of course, all the noise over the election, things are not, as they say, “going swimmingly.”

     But I grasp for the good news which is: the election is over!!! We now have two full months before the new administration becomes official. That means that there are NO campaigns, NO solicitations for money, NO robo calls, NO ads on television, and NO coverage of rallies or conventions. No rah-ha or blah-ha, no noise. Blessed peace. We need to enjoy it while we can. There is plenty of time after January 20 to tune back in to all the chaos and mishegas if you must, but for now, let it rest.

     Since the election was apparently clean and decisive, we are also spared the accusations, the lawsuits, and the endless drama over a contested election which could have gone on and on for months. Granted, only 63% of registered voters turned out this year, and yes many are already trying to assign blame for who did or didn’t do what, but really we all share the blame for every election result whether we like it or not. In a democracy, the people choose their leaders, so this is who we are and what we’ve chosen in 2024. It’s done. Get over it.

     I for one have already begun looking for small ways to be glad this holiday season. First of all, I have put a strict limit on I-phone news updates, social media, podcasts, cable news and political pundits. I have returned to my one, reasonable mainstream evening news program (NBC Nightly News) that covers the nation and the world, and that’s it for media. Too much chatter, too much noise. I refuse to let all these people live in my head throughout the holidays; it’s already too crowded in there anyway. 

     Contrary to popular opinion, talking about and hearing about and worrying about what-ifs only reinforces all those fears and worries and what-ifs (unless you’re talking to a therapist, of course). I don’t want to talk about it or hear about it either, even with people who might agree with me. This year especially I’m trying to create a quiet place in which to find reasons to be glad and to plan a lovely, calm, un-fussy holiday season at home beginning with Thanksgiving. 

     Though dinner will be just us, I’m setting the table in the dining room and using my best china and crystal. Why not the best for those I love the best? I’ve already put out some seasonal decorations, already made my traditional brioche and put it in the freezer, already stocked special wines to accompany the meal, and already ordered an entire turkey dinner, complete with pies, from a gourmet market here in town. We will watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, nibble on baked brie, and laugh about our shared memories of Thanksgiving dinners past (the good, the bad, and the ugly).  And we will be thankful that our little family is here together right now.

     Finally, in a month, and in a year actually, that hasn’t been too great, I should be glad that not only am I not the Thanksgiving turkey, but that I don’t even have to cook it!

November 4, 2024
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Election Malaise

A malaise is defined as a general discomfort or illness that is, ironically, difficult to define — but not always. The word comes from the French root mal, meaning bad, and aise, meaning ease. Bad ease — you’d better believe it. Couldn’t be a better description for the tenor of the country now in the midst of this 2024 election cycle. As always, the French have been prophetic.

     I’ve sensed the malaise for a while now even here in Texas. In previous presidential elections Trump signs and flags and banners blanketed the general landscape and every residential street, but this time there is a dearth of signage altogether. On our own cul-de-sac, there are only five political yard signs, two for Tump and three for Harris. Driving around the City, I also notice that there are few bumper stickers on cars at all, not even for any local candidates. I take this as both a good sign and a bad one, thinking that perhaps people are still deciding on whom to support, or that they are afraid to advertise their affiliations, which is concerning and sad.

     I’ve also sensed a general cultural malaise in terms of enthusiasm for the seasons, the holidays, and any autumn community activities. Granted, it’s hard to celebrate fall when we remain in a drought, when daytime highs still hoover around 90º and when the only leaf color on any trees is a dead brown. In our neighborhood, few houses this year had any Halloween decorations at all, and fewer still were open and lighted to welcome trick-or-treaters. In years past, many residents set up tables in their front yards displaying their treats or even grilled hot dogs to give out along with chips and sodas inviting neighborly conversations. This year there was none of that.

     All there is this year, all there has been for too long, is an absolutely incessant barrage of political robo calls, text messages, and television ads. I was under the impression that once you had voted, all these solicitations stopped. Obviously, I was wrong. Actually, the closer we’ve gotten to election day, the more insistent and urgent the messages have become. I’ve been getting five or more text messages a day, some from down-ballot candidates whom I’ve never heard of in other states, but most from opposition candidates in the party in which I am not registered! Note to self: never donate to either national party committee again because they all obviously share their donor list with everyone else. 

     I just read that the total amount of money spent on the 2024 elections has reached 16 billion dollars — yes, BILLION; the presidential race alone accounts for two billion of that. Here in Texas, the Cruz vs. Allred senate race is not only the most expensive in Texas history, but the most expensive senate race in the country running now just shy of $200 million dollars. It’s obscene. Think of all the good that could be done with that amount of money, all the people who could be fed, all the suffering that could be alleviated, all the disasters that could be relieved. It makes me sick.

     We can thank the Supreme Court ruling in Citizens United vs.the Federal Election Commission (Jan. 21, 2010) which undid campaign finance rules that had existed for more than 100 years. Enter the free-wheeling era of Super Pacs and Dark Money spent by the biggest corporations and organizations and the millionaires and billionaires who wield political power through them all. The argument in the ruling was that Citizens United (a conservative non-profit group) had the same “free-speech” right to support and donate to political campaigns as an individual person does. The result of granting “personhood” to corporations and groups, however, meant an almost immediate expansion in political spending, thereby increasing the already outsized influence of wealthy donors, big business and special interests. At a time of growing wealth inequality in the US, this decision served to reinforced the idea that democracy serves the interests of the wealthy few while the power of the ordinary citizen is almost negligible. And we are surprised that so many potential voters today are cynical, unaffiliated and/or totally disengaged?

     According to the U.S. Census Bureau 2020 Report on Presidential Election Voting, more people turned out to vote in 2020 (154.6 million) than in 2016 (137.5 million). It was the largest single increase between consecutive presidential elections since records of voting and registration began being recorded in 1964. The 154.6 million voters in 2020 constituted roughly 66% of those eligible to vote. The Bipartisan Policy Center reports that roughly 244 million Americans are eligible to vote in the 2024 election; in order to equal 2020’s turnout, 162 million ballots need to be cast by end of day tomorrow. Let’s hope it’s more; please god let’s hope it is an absolute  landslide! 

     Whatever way the election goes, my greatest hope is that it’s decisive. Otherwise, we are in for more of the same chaos, confusion, and court challenges that have dragged on for years already. I don’t know about you, but I am just so sick of all of it. The campaigns are too long and too expensive, not to mention too ugly and too violent. Even Donald Trump recently admitted that he’s been campaigning for nine years. Insiders say he is exhausted. I guess so —aren’t we all? 

     There is a famous quote from Joseph de Maistre, a French philosopher, writer and lawyer who lived in the period right after the French Revolution: “In a democracy, people get the leaders they deserve.” That quote has been reiterated many times and attributed to many different leaders — not always accurately — including Thomas Jefferson who amended it to “The government you elect is the government you deserve.” I don’t think any of these leaders/philosophers were being sarcastic about democracy. You see, in a democracy, especially one here in the United States where we are a nation of proud individualists, people tend to vote for those whose policies will benefit them personally, not necessarily for those who prioritize the interest of the common good or society as a whole.

     This is where we are now in this election, I think. The main issue, on several levels, is  “looking out for number one.” If my fellow Americans are unable to move beyond themselves, to look to the lessons of history and to take the long view of what is before us, then so be it. We are a nation of short-sighted, gullible, selfish people. No doubt our election malaise will continue long past November 5. I hope a generalized malaise is the only thing we suffer.

October 18, 2024
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Trick or Treat?

If you’ve been reading this web post regularly, you know that I am really into Halloween. At one point, I actually had more storage bins full of Halloween decorations than I did for Christmas (though I have been trying bit-by-bit to scale back on all seasonal decorations and housewares). For most of my life, as soon as September 21 announces the start of fall, I’m all in with a base layer of pumpkins and leaves into which the darker, spookier elements of Halloween can easily be integrated come October 1.

     No doubt this enthusiasm for Halloween comes from my fondest childhood memories, especially my Halloween-themed birthday parties. Since my birthday is October 9 and my parties were always held on the Saturday nearest to that date, my Mother and I would start planning the big event well in advance. That meant that the house, and everything else, had to be decorated by the party deadline. Halloween was a big deal when I was growing up. All us kids went trick-or-treating, never fearing the dark and always welcoming homemade treats such as candied apples, chocolate fudge or frosted sugar cookies. The threats of food allergies, implanted razor blades, and lurking pedophiles had thankfully not yet arrived, nor had the need for hovering parents.

     As teenagers, we went out to dances or to see horror movies or gathered to eat and talk and show off at our favorite drive-ins (not theatres, but the curb-service kind). Of course, there were always parties where we bobbed for apples or endured some version of a haunted house by sticking our hands into eyeballs (peeled grapes) or having worms (spaghetti) slithered on our arms. Most of our costumes were homemade and the more creative and crazier they were, the more we screeched and laughed. Yes, there were tricks during those teenage years, but they were as non-threatening as the childhood treats; if a boy papered trees at your house or jumped out of a bush to scare you, that only meant he had a crush on you. Everyone, even the adults, went out and about town in costume, not only to parties, but to school, to work or to shop. What an idyllic, innocent time. Seemed like Halloween lasted almost the whole month of October, which is probably why I have always continued to get an early start on the holiday.

     But not this year. I only just began sorting through the holiday bins a couple days ago to finally put up some outdoor decorations. This year I have scaled back considerably both inside and out, taking a carload of witches and goblins, ravens and owls, tablecloths, napkins and faux floral arrangements over to Goodwill in time, I hope, for someone else to enjoy them. I don’t know … maybe the birthday blahs have gotten hold of me this year, now that I’ve gotten close to that age when I should be considered “too old to run for President.” 

     Or maybe it’s just that I’ve lived long enough to recognize that scary costumes, haunted houses or superstitious sightings of ghosts and vampires cannot possibly match the real-world nightmares we are all having right now. With the help of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, I ask: How could “Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog” possibly be as fatal as the poison potion of lies and deception being fed to us everyday? How could “For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble” possibly be as damming as the future implementation of a Project 2025 agenda?  How could “Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble” be any worse than the seeds of deceit, division, and hatred thrown into the fiery caldron of our national conversation over the last eight long years of what has become  an interminable, and obscenely costly political campaign? How could a Frankenstein or a Dracula or a Mummy be as much of a monster as any of those living human monsters we have on our local, regional, and national stage threatening revenge and retribution on their very own people? If hell is chaos and hopelessness, then we’re there. No wonder Americans are all exhausted and depressed. No wonder I have lost my sense of fun about my favorite holiday of the year. Halloween no longer offers any innocent horrors born of the popular imagination; these days, the horrors are very real and they are here.

     Trick or treat? Truth or lie? Good or evil? Threat or promise? Us or them? Fear or freedom? Democracy or autocracy? Can you decipher the difference, and will you vote accordingly? 

     “Trick or treat!” Children aren’t the only ones who need to shout that out this Halloween.

September 16, 2024
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Who Cares?

     Amazing how as you get older, less and less matters. Of course, for a writer, when less and less matters, there is less and less to write about. I’ve been in this state of ennui for a while now, which is why I think it took me so long to finally get that art quilt done and then the story of it posted. But now, here I am again in this general mood of carelessness groping for a topic.

     Okay, lest I mislead you into thinking that I am totally disengaged and completely apathetic about current events, allow me some distinctions. Yes, I care about the elections, yes I care about climate change, and yes, I care about the rise of bigotry and discrimination and the erosion of civil rights and war and all the other ills and grievances and injustices that fill the nightly newscasts. But ranting and raving and talking back to the television is not going to change what I, as one individual, can do about the bigger issues beyond my reach. Such passion will only increase my anxiety and make my blood pressure rise. Ultimately, as any politician knows, or should know, issues people care about ultimately become a matter of immediate priorities, and my dance card is rather full of those these days.

        So what do I care about? First of all, I care about my health and the health of my immediate family, including my 11 year old dog, since all of us are getting older and problems we never thought we’d have are suddenly appearing. In terms of a national issue, I might identify this concern as part of the larger topic of universal healthcare and insurance coverage: the “corporatization “of private medical practice, the rise in routine referrals to specialists, and the incredible cost and confusion of medical insurance.  For example, on a recent visit to our primary-care physician, my husband and I were informed that our doctor is retiring at the end of this month. How about a lot of notice! And then we were informed that other doctors in the practice that we have been part of  for 16 years, will not accept “transfer patients,” meaning us. So here we are, at this age and stage, without a primary-care physician. It is not a happy place to be.

     Next, even though I don’t commute to work anymore, I find that I am forced to care about the local traffic patterns each and every day: the closed-off roadways and the massive, pervasive construction all over the entire city and state where I live. Call this part of the larger national concerns about infrastructure and the demands of urban population growth, especially in Texas. As just reported in the San Antonio Express News (9/13/24),San Antonio led the nation with the single largest population growth of 22,000 new residents last year; the greater metropolitan area experienced a 2% growth rate with almost 50,000 new residents from 2022 to 2023. (I might add that these migrants are not foreign but “domestic,” that is people moving here from other areas of the country.) 

     Once again, there is nothing I can really do about any of this except to pack my patience and try to cope whenever I go out. Case in point: the main road right outside of my residential neighborhood is being expanded from two lanes into four with a center turn lane. This is the ONLY access into or out of our small neighborhood, and so some days, when the traffic is at a complete standstill, I simply decide to turn around and come back home rather than cope. Few destinations in my life right now are worth the bother anyway. This particular road project is supposed to extend into 2027. I think I’m about to become agoraphobic. 

    Actually, aside from the immediate well-being of my loved ones, what I have come to care about most these days is dinner. I am an accomplished home cook and this is something I DO have control over (except when the traffic prevents me from getting to the market). My husband keeps us provided with fresh herbs growing right outside my kitchen door, and does his best to keep me cheerful with fresh flowers and seasonal vegetables from his larger garden when the weather cooperates. My son and I have just published the fourth edition of Savvy Chef, our own 107 page compilation of favorite family recipes over the years. Unlike so many other people, I not only plan and cook dinner at home almost every night, but I also still indulge in those quaint old-time activities like canning and preserving, baking bread, and making holiday cookies and cakes. There is nothing like the comfort of a full larder and a treasure trove of favorite recipes. In a foodie family, caring about “what’s for dinner” brings me way more satisfaction than worry. 

      In truth, I think it is simply harder and harder for me to care about much of anything with any passion anymore because I’m older, I’m tired, and I’ve heard it all before. My priority list has grown shorter and shorter as my more immediate, day-to-day cares have taken precedence. However mundane those cares may seem to others, they matter to me — and even “me” is sometimes more than I can control. 

    To echo the words of that famous “sartorial wit” of the past on her way to a migrant children’s detention center here in Texas, “I really don’t care, do U?” Yes, I do still care, especially about children as victims in war and migration, but I just can’t afford to care as much as I used to.

August 28, 2024
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Fire In The Sky

Those of you who follow my posts probably wonder where I’ve been all month long. Well, I’ve been “under fire,” under the “Fire In The Sky “(above), an art quilt that I finally completed for submission to an international exhibition being sponsored by the Studio Art Quilt Associates (SAQA). The deadline for entry was set for the end of this month which, given everything else that has been going on in my life lately, became yet another major source of stress and anxiety.

     As a fabric artist and active member of SAQA, I am not new to the rigors of exhibiting art and entering juried competitions. Since 2017 when I started submitting my work, I have had eight of my art quilts exhibited in 17 different venues, and have even had solo representation in a small gallery show. I am especially proud that my most favorite work, “A Texas Oasis” depicting a Texas Dairy Queen, was acquired by and is now part of the permanent art collection of Incarnate Word University here is San Antonio. (See journal post “A Texas Oasis” dated May 20, 2020.)

     I recount this history not to brag, because my small successes pale in comparison to those of most of my fellow SAQA members, but to illustrate that competitions and deadlines are not new to me. Nor is rejection. (Remember, I’ve been a freelance writer for years.) But so far, my art quilts have only been juried into regional and national shows; I have not yet had any piece accepted into a “global” exhibition. “Fire In The Sky” will be my third try. This particular art quilt is the third iteration of my original design featuring a pump jack, and this final work is the third re-do of that third design. Maybe good luck comes in threes?

     This whole pump jack idea began early last year when I saw a photo of a working well in a North Texas oil field owned by someone I know. I asked for permission to have the photo blown up and then created a full scale pattern from that. And then it sat, while I recuperated from Covid, while we did some house repairs, while we had company, while we fought to save our lawn and garden in a severe drought … As they say, “life gets in the way.” I wandered in and out of my studio, picked up the pattern now and then, made some changes, and thought about it all while I cooked and cleaned and worried about other things. 

     Late last year I saw the call for entries for this SAQA global exhibition called “Fire.” That’s when I decided to ditch all the pick-up trucks and drilling details of the oil field photo design and “relocate” the pump jack to a prettier landscape in front of a brilliant Texas sunset. I started to redraw and resize and research those fiery skies. I began digging through my fabric stash thinking about how to do justice to a magnificent sunset in cloth. But then, due to some unexpected, and unwelcome, events, I got sidetracked again. Art cannot be created without full concentration and uninterrupted blocks of time, and I had neither. 

     By early this year, I had adapted to a new set of circumstances with different demands on my time. Once again, I would drift into the studio when I could and tweak my design and experiment with a technique I wanted to use.  I had taken a class years ago from Karen Eckmeier ( “Layered Landscapes” www.quilted-lizard.com) that I hoped would give texture to the overall background of earth and sky. I started with the foreground and, while it was unwieldy and difficult at first (because my landscape was much larger than the ones usually done with Eckmeier’s basic technique), it did eventually work. Okay. But once I started working from the horizon up into the sky, I got stymied again; I just couldn’t figure it out and it became a frustrating disaster. 

     As luck would have it (if “luck” is the appropriate word), I drove down to Victoria in late June to attend a Mass for my Mother and to visit the cemetery. On the way down on U.S 87, I drove through fracking country, as I have a hundred times. The once oil-boom capital of South Texas, a mere outpost in the middle of nowhere, was now a fully functioning, fully established oil field with storage tanks and transfer stations and flare stacks burning off the gas from working wells. Ah ha!  And there it was  — the fire! And that’s how the flares, not the sunset, became the focus of the “Fire In The Sky.” This is the way creative work goes, up and down often from unexpected inspirations.

     Now we were into July. Again, I ripped apart the sky that I had configured and started over. My third re-do. But this time, it was clear; my connection to the fire theme of the exhibition would be the fire of the flares and the environmental message of that. And this time I realized that I needed to simplify my design, to make it more abstract and modern and not try to replicate an exact photograph. Still, I worked in fits and starts, getting more and more stressed and more discouraged about my ability to meet the August 31 deadline. I had sleepless nights about it, anxiety attacks about it, conversations with my therapist about it. And then one day, in late July just a precious four weeks or so before the deadline, a dear friend happened to call and catch me in the middle of a complete meltdown.

     “Why do you do this to yourself?” she asked. “With all you have on your plate, why do you impose these deadlines and put this additional stress on yourself?” And it was that question, in the middle of that meltdown, in the middle of my ranting and raving and anger and frustration with the moment, that I heard myself say, “Because this is who I am.”

     It is so easy to lose yourself in the details and demands of everyday life, most especially when you hit a period of rough going. Out of both necessity and survival, we default to our roles — mother, sister, daughter, spouse, friend, even our professional titles. But those roles, however important and loving and sustaining they might be, are not who we are intrinsically. Rather, they are a reflection of what we do and how we care for others, our roles reinforced by others, but alas only lasting as long as those significant others are around to reflect them. (This is why people suffer from empty-nest syndrome or have trouble finding themselves after retirement.) 

      At my core, I have always been a writer and a creative and I always will be. That identity doesn’t depend on anyone but me, so it’s important that I protect and preserve that in order to hold on to myself. It is often a struggle to create, and it is often even more of a struggle to stay strong and true to who you are, especially in the face of headwinds.

     So there, I’ve done it; I’ve completed “Fire In The Sky” and submitted the entry this week. It took about three weeks of intensive work, six-to-seven hours a day, and I am proud of myself.  Yes, I hope to get accepted into the exhibition, but more importantly, I accomplished my goal and met a deadline with work I can be proud of.  I did it because this is who I am and I don’t need anyone else to tell me that.

July 26, 2024
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Let the Games Begin — Please!

There are sooo many reasons I am anxious for the XXXIII Olympic Games beginning this week.  

     First of all, I love Paris. It is my most favorite city in the world (well, almost, maybe just a tad behind New York) and the last Paris Olympics was a 100 years ago in 1924 when I wasn’t around, so this is my first vision of those remarkable venues. Secondly, the 1900 Paris Olympics were the first to feature female athletes, many of whom became Olympic champions. Fittingly, this year the Paris Games claims yet another first: the first to achieve full gender parity, both in the Olympics and the Paralympics. Equal numbers of women and men are represented among the 10,500 athletes, with 5,200 of each gender competing.  

     Oh, and did I forget to mention that I just love Paris and all things French (food, wine, fashion, and of course, the indomitable people.)

     I am soooo tired of all the political drama and ugliness, violence and wars, climate disasters and dire economic predictions on television and in the media that I long for something that is true and real and based on actual achievement. I need to be reminded of the universal indomitability of the human spirit, of the virtues of resilience and the strength of character that propel people to persevere even in the face of possible defeat.  Most of all, I need the inspiration of those who work so hard for so long and risk their whole athletic futures on one shining moment; even those who fail in their quest manage to do so with grace and dignity. To me, these mostly young people are champions before they have even competed in the Olympics. That’s inspiring. These days, god knows we all need to be reminded of what that kind of character looks like. 

     The other night, I watched a documentary, Le Grande Seine (mostly in French with subtitles), on the preparations and planning for the opening ceremonies being staged on the Seine. In another first for Paris, this will be the first opening ceremony not held in an Olympic stadium. Bien sûr, of course. Leave it to the French to be stylish and original. The work, the planning, the incredible organization and execution of this extravaganza — everything from writing the music to designing the costumes to choreographing the dance performances (on rooftops, no less)  and coordinating the movement of boats and barges transporting 10,500 international athletes from 206 countries down the River Seine in the Parade of Nations — will culminate with the lighting of the Olympic torch and a spectacular fireworks and drone-light display behind the Eiffel Tower.

     The Parade of Nations route, which begins at the Pont d’ Austerlitz bridge at the Jardin des Plantes and travels four miles downriver to the Jardins du Trocadéro across from the Eiffel Tower, recalls one of those Seine River barge sightseeing cruises as it passes some of the most iconic landmarks in Paris: the Louvre, Notre-Dame Cathedral, Les Invalides, and the Place de la Concorde. An expected 320,000 spectators will be lining the River route (notwithstanding the recent coordinated arson attacks on the high-speed train network and, hopefully, without any additional worldly ugliness thwarting the joy of the Games). Another billion people from around the world are expected to be watching all this as it’s happening. Now that’s a lot of people on a river-barge cruise!!

     It’s all so exciting, so uplifting, and so much needed right now. The Olympic torch represents the light of spirit, knowledge and life, and its passing from one carrier, one country to the next symbolizes the passing of the torch from one generation to the next. What could be more welcome, and more timely.

     But that’s enough from this armchair Olympic tour guide. I have to go now. The Opening Ceremonies are just about to begin!