Category Archives: Life in our house

French Window Treatments

When I painted the living room I took down the honeycomb blinds that covered the four French windows there and I never put them back. While I contemplated a better solution for these south-facing windows, I used reflective insulation to block the summer heat. It worked great, though it looked terrible. However, once the coverings were removed after the hottest part of the day had passed, the unadorned windows made for a beautiful view.

The windows need cleaning but you get the idea.

After a few seasons of this, I finally got around to covering the insulation with fabric to make them look nicer from the inside. After a few failed attempts, I figured out that my best option would be to staple the insulation to a frame before covering it.

Michael and Bert like to help.

I made similar though much smaller frames to replace the foam on some old speakers with fabric.

Old yucky speaker foam needs replacement but it’s impossible to purchase it.
The guy at the speaker store suggested making a frame and stretching speaker fabric over it. He said to use hot glue to secure it but I didn’t like that idea and wanted to use staples instead. However, the wood I used for the frames wouldn’t take a staple. So, I resorted to using the glue and it worked great.
Staple insulation to frame.

My next problem was designing a washable cover. After some trial and error that made me feel like a monkey involved in some kind of an intelligence experiment (it’s difficult for me to picture things backwards, which must be a requirement of sewing without a pattern), I decided to use four pockets (top, bottom, sides) on the back of the cover to finish the edges and hold it in place.

The top and bottom pockets are deeper than the side pockets. They are placed right sides together with the cover face. One of the narrower side pockets is sewn on top of the top and bottom pockets as shown.

While I hated to resort to using upholstery staples (as they will make it harder to wash the piece), it was the best option for getting a finished look. Staples were also practical since I needed to make one corner of the cover loose in order to fit it to the frame. As for solving that problem, I tried a few different options, including buttons that could be undone to give enough room to stretch all four corners of the cover over the frame.

The second narrow side pocket is sewn to the inside of the bottom pocket: Fold the bottom pocket down and sew the side pocket along the edges.
Stretch the cover over the frame and staple in place.
The “odd” corner that was sewn with the bottom flap open is tucked, folded up and stapled. I wish this were more elegant but it’s the cleanest look I could figure out. The buttonhole you see is left over from a previous idea about how to do this.
When not in use, the covers can be stored behind the radiator. Given some wire, they could also be hung on the wall.
Place the covers inside the windows.

Back when I was using the plain foil insulation to cover the windows, I used blue painter’s tape to secure them. It took me a while to realize that putting the insulation behind the glass eliminated the need for it.

Though the same size, each panel is somewhat different because it took me a few tries to figure out what worked the best. That was a happy day. When I stumbled upon a solution, I felt relieved. It made me realize that while exploring and learning can be fun, it can also be fatiguing to be in the dark for too long. After all of this work, will I have anything I can use?

I like the effect of a big painting at the end of the room. While I like the fabric I chose for this project just fine, I don’t recall choosing it. What was I thinking? In any case, it makes the room feel cool (literally – yes – but I mean psychologically) which will be nice when it gets hot. And now that I have a pattern, changing the fabric should be straight forward. It helps that I documented what I did (e.g,, what fabric, what thread, machine settings, seam allowances, etc.).

This started with a paint job years ago when I couldn’t bring myself to put back the honeycomb blinds that never seemed quite right for these windows. One thing led to another and now here we are. Of course, now I’m thinking, why not curtains?

Window coverings from the outside.

Now that this project is done, I’ve started to do a “reset” and have taken the worktable back out to the garage.

This is the Night, Really Love

My better-late-than-never movie reactions

In addition to straightening up my physical office, this morning I took a minute to organize some digital files. In the process, I found a piece on two movies: This is the Night and Really Love. An updated/finished version of the June 2022 original is below.

I also came across some photos of pumpkins (top), which go even further back. I know this because last year was a bust squash-wise. Still, it was only recently that I used the last of some frozen puree to make pumpkin and black bean soup. I found the bee balm (below) in the same place, in a folder marked “Garden.” So, not so disorganized after all.

This is the Night (2021)

Spoiler Alert: Reading this before you see the movie This is the Night might lesson your enjoyment of discovering the various plot points on your own.

While I liked This is the Night (TITN), a movie written and directed by James DeMonaco, it pained Brian. However, it should be noted that he never nodded off. Not once. And that’s something. Nevertheless, the critics — at least those who bothered to review the movie — appear to be with Brian on this one. They hated it. 

Ignorance might have bolstered my enjoyment of the movie. One, I’m unfamiliar with DeMonaco’s previous work. So, warnings about how this movie is nothing like the Purge series are lost on me. Two, I know Rocky as a cultural phenomenon but I don’t know the movies, let alone Rocky III — the movie that’s at the center of TITN — specifically. In other words, I know the Rocky theme music and could pick out a movie still, assuming that Sylvester Stallone is boxing in it. Finally, I don’t presume to know the creator’s intent.

I know the Rocky theme music and could pick out a movie still, assuming that Sylvester Stallone is boxing in it.

If ever there’s a whiff of a contrived plot or hokey dialogue that points to the same, I will bail within twelve minutes of a Netflix movie. And as not to throw good time after bad, I can easily quit a movie halfway through it. Three-quarters. More. However, though TITN gave me pause at various points, I stuck with it. I’m not sure why. Nor can I find a review that captures it for me.

Where some critics saw a failed tribute to a popular movie, I saw a story where a popular movie served as the backdrop for characters who needed to wage their own fight and who — yes — were inspired by said movie. But it would be wrong to say that this movie was about Rocky, no matter what a superfan might post on a YouTube channel.

The movie was cartoonish and regardless of whether that was the intention, it worked for me. Nevertheless, I had my doubts along the way. For example, we begin with teens splashing around in a public pool, which I loved for the memories it evoked. That I could almost smell the chlorine promised a nostalgic style and the film delivered. But then a stock bully (Steve Lipman) is introduced when he razzes the protagonist, Anthony Dedea (Lucius Hoyos) (one of the protagonists, which I’ll explain later), for wearing a t-shirt in the pool. It’s cheesy. Fine. But the bully’s girlfriend (Madelyn Cline) sticks with him even though she disapproves of his mean behavior. And I have no love for a movie where a supposedly nice woman — even a naïve sixteen-year-old — is hooked up with a jerk just so we can see the part where she realizes that she likes the kind of self-conscious guy who wears his shirt in the pool.

Nevertheless, I stuck with it. Was it because of the way Rafe the Handsome Mailman (Constantine Rousouli) flirted with Anthony’s/“Shirty’s” older brother Christian (Jonah Hauer-King), hinting at a juicy side story that turned out to be much more than that? Was it wondering about whether the family restaurant could be saved? Did I just want to see how the Dedea mother (Naomi Watts) looked as a blonde or whether she would liberate herself from that cranky husband Vincent (Frank Grillo)? Or was it some other basic character-wants-x-will-she-get-it hook? Whatever kept me engaged, there was a definite moment when I decided to roll with it, despite the guy next to me who was sighing with every Rocky reference that went straight over my head.

It happens right after the Dedea family watches Rocky III in the theater. This is where our bully from the pool returns and makes it look like “Shirty” yells out, “Rocky is a pussy!” Now a mob is after the kid, including some out-of-place biker dudes whom DeMonaco must have resurrected from — as it happens — the 1986 Gary Busey film Eye of the Tiger. It’s ridiculous, just as some critics have complained. But then the manager of the movie house appears just in time to whisk the imperiled “Shirty” down a secret hallway and to a back door where he escapes. From that point, for reasons I can’t explain, I was on board. It’s possible that I wrested the wheel from the story’s creator. Either way, I enjoyed the ride.

So, when critics say that the fervor surrounding the premiere of Rocky III is unrealistic, pointing to the ticket lines that wrapped around the building (It’s surprising that no one took issue with the size of the theater. You could have filmed it in my living room.), or that it was laughable when an entire town turned on someone for hurling insults at “the greatest hero of our time,” or that the movie was overly sincere with one critic warning us not to give DeMonaco any credit by taking any of this with a grain of irony, I say phooey. I don’t care how DeMonaco would have me take it. I thought it was funny when the cops kicked “Shirty” and his friends out of the squad car when they realized that he’s the one who questioned — or supposedly questioned — Rocky’s manliness.

And now for an intermission…

… and we’re back!

There would be more cringey parts to come. The worst was when “Shirty’s” mother tells his brother Christian that she knows that he (Christian) is a cross-dresser. In fact, she insists that he put on a dress. She helps him put on a wig… and lipstick… Acceptance? Great. But this was a bit much. Maybe someone could pull off “blurry boundaries” without “incestuous” coming to mind. But this was bad. Cut to gratuitous nightclub scene (Every movie! Come on!) and more blurry boundaries where mom lurks after  dropping off her freshly-out Christian. I suspect that DeMonaco just needed “a moment” to extract an emotional response from his audience. He should have either smoothed over the rough edges of this scene, in which case he would have needed to start with a monster belt sander. Better yet, scrap it and try another approach.

Despite this, I stuck with the movie and discovered that all of these odd little parts — save a few that left even this sympathetic viewer scratching my head — add up to a satisfying and surprising and lovely ending. But wait! This only worked because there were accomplished actors who were able to wring water from a rock. Fine. The battle that the mother has with the father at the end of the movie is worth it. And when you consider that she was standing up for her non-conformist son who likes to wear dresses, it seems to me that Rocky is the perfect backdrop to this movie. And given the shift in the social climate where we are just beginning to see a transgender world, maybe even timely. It’s not a matter of giving anyone too much credit. It’s a matter of what I picked up on, regardless of anyone’s intent.

This brings us back to the idea of the multiple protagonists in this movie. The main character is obviously “Shirty,” right? That is to say Anthony who faces down the enemy and gets the girl. I’m not convinced. Though a small character by comparison, I would argue that it is the father who makes the biggest transformation when Mister That-would-be-stupid finally says yes. Or is it his wife, who finally puts her foot down? Or is it Christian who — at last — comes clean with his dad? I like a movie where you can make the case for multiple characters, even if the writer must choose one. For example, realizing that Troy Dyer (Ethan Hawke) is the protagonist of Reality Bites as opposed to the obvious choice, Lelaina Pierce (Winona Ryder), made the movie better for me. As for who Lelaina “ends up with,” I have strong opinions. But I’ll leave that debate between the generations for another time.

I don’t know if it will be worth it for you to get there, but I have no regrets about spending my time with This is the Night. Nevertheless, this is one case where I won’t be able to convince Brian that he might like this movie if he approached it with the right mindset. And judging from the comments elsewhere on the Internet, he holds the more popular view.

Really Love (2020)

We also didn’t see eye to eye on Really Love, directed by Angel Kristi Williams. I thought critic Roger Moore had it right: “…beautiful people doing beautiful things set to a silky smooth jazz score all do their best to atone for a script seriously thin on originality or conflict,” whereas Brian found a lot more to like about this film. There was something about a realistic evolution of a young romance that he liked, whereas I was bothered from the start. Again, Moore says it best: “They meet at a gallery show. He’s forward, fingering her necklace. She makes a lot of eye contact and allows it.” He also makes note of some “clunky dialog,” quoting the exact phrases that hung me up as well. The writer might have benefited from that belt sander — working up to super fine steel wool — once DeMonaco finished with it.

The ending of Really Love is predictable. It’s also lovely and it almost makes me forget the weird beginning and the glossed over middle where we are to accept without any evidence that there are real barriers to these two lovebirds to be together. I can’t recommend it. However, it is beautiful and it was fine to have on while I untangled some yarn and rolled it up into a ball. It kept my interest in that I wondered if the slow pace of the movie, which was great, was going anywhere. Alas, it was not.

There, I fixed it.

It has been a long time since my friend Paul introduced me to a website that featured DIY plugger repairs. “There, I fixed it,” perfectly summed up the eyeglasses that were held together with zip ties or the mirror that was taped to a car. My latest low-budget solution indeed made me yell those words out loud. I solved a problem that had arose from the solution for a different problem, which in turn gave me an idea for a future episode of my long-dormant podcast, QuOTeD – The Question of the Day.

It only took 14 years of living in this house to realize that the door on the dryer is reversible. Making the switch would mean that I could transfer clothes from the washer to the dryer without the door blocking me. However, one improvement exposed the need for another one. The dryer isn’t level. Now the door swings closed from a resting state. It might be worse than the original problem was. The solution is to level the dryer. But until I get around to it, I’m using a magnet to hold the door open. It’s taped to a random wire that will be removed – again – when I get to it.

Hold dryer door open with magnet.
There’s a magnet buried in the blue tape.

In more fix-it news, I made some updates to the various websites that I manage. Had I been pinged by the social scientists who are collecting happiness data, it would have been a low point for me. But I don’t think it was the task itself that I hated. It was having to do it instead of something else. In fact, I might have preferred to troubleshoot websites over putting up the apples from my neighbor’s tree. In this case, any unhappiness I might have been feeling didn’t stem from a specific task, annoying that it might have been. But it was about the perceived or real pressure to do more than can be done in a day. I suppose one lesson here is to ignore the dire messages to make software upgrades until you can put it on the schedule. In the meantime, find your happiness in crossing your fingers and trusting that it’ll be fine.

Taking a walk this morning, Brian and I stumbled upon another swell fix-it job.

Cheap landlord or ingenious solution?

It’s nice when things fix themselves. I was late planting my garden this spring and on top of that, it appeared that I had planted some non-producing beans – if that’s such a thing. But then one day I was working in my yard and saw green beans hanging from the top of the arbor.

Nature doing its thing.

I wish the environment could fix itself on a timeline conducive to supporting life as we know it. Regardless, I’m still heartened by the bees that make the yard hum.

Bees go wild for the chives and sedum that line the back walk.
Chives and sedum make a pretty mix.

If only I would fix the compost, maybe Brian wouldn’t cringe whenever I hand him a bucket to empty. It’s pretty wild back there.

Can you spot the compost bin in this jungle?
You’ll have to fight the raspberries to get to it!

There’s a lot yet to fix around here. But it’s important to remember to stop and take pictures of the flowers.

As for my question, given that it took me over a decade to make a simple improvement – reversing the swing on the dryer door – I’m wondering if others have such projects. Are there easy home improvements or repairs that you put off doing until, for reasons you might not fully understand, you woke up and decided today is the day. You tackle a task only to wonder: What took me so long?

Not Bored but Maybe Boring

Brian groaned when he realized the purpose of our post-lunch errand. Nevertheless, he was relieved to find out that my haul would fit into a grocery bag. In other words, it wasn’t another chair.

I love my recent acquisitions, two paintings I found on FreeCycle. The first is a sunset – or a sunrise? – that I see as I turn around to face the hallway at the top of the stairs.

The second is a place that feels familiar, though I’ve never been there.

If you ask me what I’ve been up to, this is what I’ll tell you. I hung up two paintings the same day I got them. If there’s time and you seem interested, we could talk about how something as simple as a free painting can lift a person’s spirits or how these random paintings about which I felt lukewarm belong here. For the person who gave them away, these paintings were clutter or reminiscent of a time best forgotten or just ugly. Or maybe it was painful to give away her mother’s art that was collected over the span of a childhood? But she’s moving to Denver. Starting over after a messy divorce. No room. Downsize, like it or not. Or maybe she read Marie Kondo’s book and said, “These colors don’t spark joy! Get them out!”

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Or I might tell you about how I’ve been replacing the boards on my deck and how being done with hauling 16-footers on top of my car (after hours of picking through them at the warehouse, ugh!) is a cause for celebration, even though there’s still more to do.

Or – being of limited skills in the way of needle arts – how I cannot believe that I managed to recover four patio chairs using my consumer-end sewing machine. It was tricky but not as hard as sewing a patch on some old jeans.

It’s an out-of-body experience to look at a finished product (mostly finished, I might add some buttons but I’m counting it as not to despair). It’s the same feeling I get whenever I see the door at the top of the stairs. It was caked with layers of brittle paint and it was a huge job to repaint it. The ceiling in the dining room. The office I’m sitting in right now used to be Pepto Bismol pink. These are good things to remember when you’re in the middle of a never-ending project like when there are still boards to cut, clamp and screw down to the framing of the deck. With every swing of the hammer, I wonder “Am I about to ruin my house?”

“I’m not bored but I might be boring.”

That’s what I told my mother when we were catching up this morning. She called just as she was sitting down with a fresh cup of coffee and just as I was about to do the same.

Boring is no badge of honor anymore than eschewing television makes you better than me. I would welcome adventure. But it’s still cool to take pleasure in second-hand art and to think, “Perfect! I love it.” And then to put away the drill that has a place because you’ve already done the boring task of organizing your tools, which didn’t bore you at all.

Bert claiming the materials to make the seat cushions. He loved the plastic mesh that I was able to reuse after reinforcing it with fabric.
“You’re not going to throw out these filthy cushions are you?”

I did document the patio chair project and keep meaning to post some tips, if not for the random person who might find it useful (Spoiler alert: pockets, as in shams, instead of zippers), then for me. Because it’s already starting to feel like someone else must have done it and I’m not sure I could do it again.

It’s just sewing.

In the past, whenever someone came over to visit and we sat on the deck, I’d throw an old sheet over one of the patio chairs that have seen better days. This was going to be the year to address the problem. We should have replaced the cushions a long time ago when Steve offered to make them at cost. He wanted to return a favor, if you can call being patient a favor.

We first met Steve Cone when we hired him to reupholster the old chair that Brian had inherited forty years ago during his time at Rural Sociology at the U of M. While it was supposed to take weeks to fix the chair, due to extenuating circumstances, the initial deadline was blown by several months. We didn’t care. As long as our dusty chair with its springs that dragged on the floor sat in Steve’s shop, it wasn’t in the living room. Mission accomplished, as far as I was concerned. There was no favor to return. But Steve insisted on giving us the deal.

“It’s just sewing,” he said.

It made me think that a person in his line of work must be accustomed to fussing or downright difficult clients.

Steve was a rock star in the world of upholstery and I feel lucky to have crossed paths with him when I had the chance. Recently, when a salesperson at A-1 Foam recommended his book, Singer Upholstery Basics Plus: Complete Step-by-Step Photo Guide, she said “People have started businesses based on what they learned in that book.” I couldn’t help myself and had to make it known that we too had met the man and knew of his greatness. What I didn’t say was that I have good memories of how easy it was to chat with Steve and I feel strangely proud that he felt the same way about me.

Maybe he made everyone feel that way, which would have been another testament to his greatness.

As he went over the numbers for the patio chairs, Steve said that he could reuse the fabric on the back of the cushion, which was this light gray plastic weave that’s used for sling chairs. I wasn’t so sure I liked that idea. I was sick of these awful cushions and I wanted something new. Wasn’t that the point? Whatever we decided, before he could do the job, Steve would need some time to give his hands a chance to rest. In a couple of months, I was supposed to call him to get on the schedule. Then time got away from me, as it always seems to do. When the Christmas card I sent to Steve was returned in the mail, I had a sinking feeling that too much time had slipped away. And I was right. At the age of 71, Steve had a heart attack and died.

He missed the first pandemic shutdown by just a month or so. He also would have missed the last party we had before the coronavirus took over the world. If only we had invited him…

It was a stupid calculation. On the one hand, I could see him at the table. On the other hand, it was early on in the dinner party experiments that Brian and I were planning for the year… So, maybe we should stick with people who we knew would roll with it regardless of whether a silly little game worked as planned or whether anyone had anything insightful to say about the topic at hand or whether the evening went south in some other unexpected way. We would invite Steve once we figured out what could help keep things interesting yet comfortable enough amongst a group that didn’t necessarily know each other very well. In the meantime, there’s no need to torture anyone or to look foolish so early on in what I had hoped would become a friendship. Had I to do it over again… would’ve, could’ve, should’ve… I should’ve trusted that Steve could’ve rolled with it and it would’ve been fine.

So, back to square one with the chairs. “Send photos!” a handful of upholsterers said.

We bought this secondhand patio set fourteen years ago. That pattern strikes me as 80’s but I’m not sure.

So far, there has been one response, not counting a prompt response from Repair Lair that doesn’t do upholstery even though It’s just sewing.:

Rebekah,

These cushions are pretty complicated and definitely beyond my sewing skills….

S*

At another place, we were warned to be prepared for how expensive cushions can be: “The stuff made in the factory is cheap. So, when you have them custom made, they’re going to cost you more than what you paid for the entire set.” In addition to that, a backlog of work meant that it would take weeks just to get an estimate.

Next stop: A big box store where they stock bolts of fabric so that a person can walk out with a yard. Probably inspired by watching too many YouTube videos, I would try to repair the cushions myself and I needed supplies to experiment. Whether my consumer-end sewing machine was up for the task was just “part of the discovery process,” as Brian likes to put it.

So far, so good.

Bert approves of the newly recovered chair, though he was also happy to claim the dirty naked Dacron that’s been sitting on the floor by the front door for the last few weeks.

In an upcoming post, I’ll describe what I did to deal with the worn parts of fabric that I reused on the backside of the cushion (I came to appreciate Steve’s suggestion to reuse the fabric and have noticed that upholsters in general take pride in keeping what’s salvageable), explain how I got around installing a zipper (and why I wanted to avoid it), and let you know how I ultimately finished this cushion. For now, I have discovered enough to know that what I’m trying to do is possible. As for the frames of the chairs, eventually I’ll repaint them.

In case you forgot, here’s a before and an almost-done after.

Steve has been on my mind as I’ve been working on this project. I’m on shaky ground, as I am not a sewer. Just cutting into the fabric feels scary. So, telling myself, “It’s just sewing,” can be helpful whenever I get stuck.

Steve Cone and Brian who is sitting in the newly reupholstered chair that Steve just delivered.
The chair Steve Cone recovered for us.

Paw in Pocket

“Bert has his paw in my pocket.”

I got the camera.

Bert on Brian’s chest with his paw in the shirt pocket.

The first five pictures I took were totally black because I didn’t notice right away that I wasn’t in the point-and-shoot mode. That required a flash that made the picture look flat.

This is a nice picture of Brian. The light catches is eyes. But the picture is still flat.

I flipped though some of the pre-sets on the camera to see what would work.

Our messy living room.

I liked the slower shutter speed better. But I needed my subjects to stop moving. A tripod would have helped. I like that this picture had more light variation and isn’t so flat. But does it have a focus? The lamp in the background is probably blown out. But this was an improvement over the flash. I like the suggestion of trees through the window and the way the blue wall color shows.

Bert with his paw in Brian’s pocket.

In the pictures without the flash, Bert’s orange markings stand out better.

Speaking of Bert, he would like to have breakfast now. I assume that’s why he is meowing at the office door. As for me, I am going to get back to working on some writing. After I had already told some people that I am writing a novel, I heard an author say that he doesn’t like to make such announcements because you can’t be sure that the thing that you are working on wants to be a novel. So, then you have put yourself in the position of forcing – let’s say – a short story into being something that it isn’t. Or maybe after a lot of work you discover that you don’t have anything. Why not fail in private? Jinxing myself aside, I feel mostly confident that I will finish this. Whether it turns out to be “anything” can be another problem for another time.

Restoring Old Homes

With all of the old homes that are being torn down in our neighborhood in favor of density, it was distressing to come upon a gem that had some “architectural interest,” though it had fallen into disrepair. Next to an open lot – maybe two – that had already been cleared of the homes that used to be there, I was certain that Brian and I were looking at the future site of yet another apartment building that would be made with particle board. My heart sunk. I didn’t think that the house had much of a chance of escaping the wrecking ball.

I was wrong.

Southwest corner of the house.

Recently, Brian noticed a crew working on the home. We confirmed that the place is being restored and I am relieved. For starters, the house is sitting on a brand new foundation after having been moved from the adjacent empty lot. On Sunday, two guys were busy framing a new garage.

Front.
Front zoom.
Porch. The Christmas lights on the front porch hint at an interesting story. Who put them there? The previous owners? Was it a last hurrah of some sort? The new owners – the people who are fixing it up? I am picturing a celebration after they had just bought the place.

Density in the city core is supposed to be the environmentally responsible thing to do. However, if that’s the case, then why not require the buildings that replace old homes to meet LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) standards? They should be state-of-the-art, zero-waste and carbon-free (almost free?) structures. Green roofs. Grey water. Passive solar. The works. They could be made to last for centuries. And they could be made for Minnesota. What do I mean by that?

Several years ago, I was in Virginia for a wedding. The area had been going through a crazy heat wave that ultimately took the power out for many of its residents, including the family of the bride. The hotel where several of us were staying was not effected and so there was some shifting to accommodate various guests, some of whom were getting baked out of the spare bedrooms where they were staying with the locals. Even the bride took over one of the rooms at the hotel so that she could get ready for the big day.

It was scary. And it made me wonder. When did we stop designing buildings based on the conditions of the natural environment versus the assumption that air conditioning (or heat) would always be a simple flip of the switch? Do we have to go back to adobe homes? Our own house that is just over a hundred years old was also built with the belief that we would never need to worry about the supply of cheap power or the consequences of using too much of it. So we have added insulation and taken some other steps to conserve energy. But now that we know what we know, when we build new housing, shouldn’t we build for the environment from the start?

When I took these snapshots, I didn’t anticipate that I was going to make a video with them. But I wanted to try it and used what I had.

And that is just considering the energy standards. There are also human standards. For example, we were talking to a couple at a friend’s party (pre COVID-19) who were telling us about their woes looking for a town home in a retirement community. The good ones have – ahem – community spaces. And this couple was holding out for one such place. According to them, the newer developments treated things like lounges and meeting rooms as wasted space, which is to say that they were not included. While the two embraced downsizing, retreating to their pod where they would feel isolated wasn’t what they had in mind when they decided to retire.

There is also green space to consider, which is another aspect of the human standard. New buildings should have green rooftops. Courtyards. Enough grass for a picnic. Balconies. Playgrounds. We cannot concern ourselves with this, right? However, we do concern ourselves with how many parking spaces there will be, which is funny since density is packaged with this idea that the new arrivals will use the public transit and therefore should eliminate any concerns about the impact on traffic. In the meantime, in one of the apartments going up near us, eliminating balconies from the plan is supposed to assuage the fears of the neighbors who see the development for what it is. College housing. Elsewhere, another development received a variance that essentially traded green space for parking.

It feels like people are pitted against each other in weird ways and bad decisions come out of that. I wonder if it’s because economic problems are easier to solve than human ones (I think I am channeling Brian here because this is a theme for him.). If I only have to think about the cost per square foot, it is easy to find a solution. But if I have to ask myself whether I want my grandmother to live in a place where there will be almost no chance that she will get to know her neighbors or whether a little kid wouldn’t be better off growing up in a place where there are trees and grass – those are bigger, messier questions that will depend more on stuff that cannot be expressed algebraically. These are values that exist outside of ledgers.

A while ago, I recall reading about a family that was selling their house on Marshall Avenue to a developer. The neighbors were upset for all of the reasons you would expect. But the sellers insisted that they had no choice. They needed the money to retire (it might have been a case of a parent who needed to move to assisted living, but the point here is the same). I just hope that they were able to find a place where the developer did not skimp on the community space because that is what the market dictated. Now, why people are in the position of making economic choices that they would rather not make is another issue. But I mention it here because long term care security and a broken health care system are a part of this story that should be explored further.

Finally, I have a question about how the neighbors are economically impacted by these developments. For example, down the street from where I live, a property sold for over a million dollars to a developer. The one on the corner across from it sold for 700,000 dollars. But what if suddenly having an apartment building next to your house makes your property value go down? Or what if, you can no longer see the sky when you look out of your office window and this really depresses you? What if it shades your tomato plant? Should you be compensated for this? Conversely, do these over-market-value sales have an impact on my property taxes, since home valuations are based on recent sales of comparable homes in the area? Or should I expect my property taxes to go down since there will be more people to share costs?

This is not a rant against density. However, it is an observation that it is not the only thing and it can be taken to an extreme. The airlines serve as a cautionary tale. Over the years, we have watched legroom on flights disappear. And now just as we thought that it would have been impossible to jam another row of seats into economy class, the industry has been considering yet another tier of traveling where passengers would essentially stand for the duration of the trip. Yep. Too far.

Saturday Coffee

Roblyn 21XX – The Podcast

Roblyn 21XX, Issue #7, January 17, 2021

Back in September, I started to dread winter. We anticipated feeling even more cramped inside our bubbles, as Dr. Fauci predicted a surge in coronavirus cases. Maybe we would get antsy and panic like a flock of ducks flushed out of the security of the brush. So, Brian and I started hosting Saturday coffees with the idea that by the time winter came, we would have established a routine where we could easily pop out of the house for a quick hello with the neighbors.

That was the plan. And it still is. But there would be no perfect record, as I had hoped. The single digits eventually forced a cancellation of our Saturday routine. More would follow. Though disappointing, the bitter cold gave me an idea. Or it might be more accurate to say that it brought an idea forward. Could we base a podcast on the neighborhood zine that we have been publishing since July? Would this offer some additional connections that might be valuable?

I was adamant that the zine itself should be printed and delivered to households. That’s why I began with what I alone could manage, which was essentially my block. Then a few people offered to print and deliver even more copies. It became the model. The zine would be as big as this volunteer pool would allow. And while we don’t quite cover it at present, I see the natural physical boundaries of the zine to be east of Cretin, west of Cleveland, north of Marshall and south of St. Anthony Avenues.

Though I love the e-newsletter that I produce for my podcast, QuOTeD, The Question of the Day, I was positive that the Roblyn 21XX zine shouldn’t be online. Part of what makes it cool is that you have to live here to get it. (Note: I have mailed hard copies upon request. Most notably my parents are subscribers.) However, I think a companion podcast to the zine is different. Yes, it is online. Yes, there is a screen. Yes there are links to click. But, a podcast like this could also be our private low powered radio station where there is a little more room, like a secret swimming hole before it is discovered by litterbugs. Plus, there is a warmth in hearing a voice. Maybe it can warm us up on those days when it’s too cold to do much else.

So, just as I did with that first issue of the Roblyn 21XX zine, I made a pilot episode of its companion podcast. This could be a one-and-done, a nice idea that doesn’t have legs. That would be fine. Or it might stick and become something even better. Either way, I enjoyed making this episode and hope that you enjoy it too.

Rebekah

Thank You

Siamese cat

Siamese Brothers

It’s hard to take a picture of a cat that does not ultimately feel generic. Thank goodness for my digital SLR. It was a Christmas gift from Brian a number of years ago. The point-and-shoot mode is decent. And on the occasion that I want to play with the f-stop and aperture as I did when I was experimenting with photographing a lamp, I can do that too. But easy access to cheap and instant photographs should not mean that no one has ever seen a cat as adorable as Michael or Bert. But it is hard to resist picking up the camera when they are piled together in a blissful slumber or doing some otherwise irresistibly sweet thing like staring into the dishwasher as if they had just solved a crime.

When Brian floated the idea of getting more than one cat, I had my doubts. But the rescue outfit where we adopted these guys explained that kittens do better in pairs. For one thing, they need a high level of stimulation that would be hard for most people to provide. Both of these guys do a pretty good job of entertaining themselves – making a toy out of a candy wrapper, for example. But it is still very nice that in addition to us, they have each other.

And yes, I was serious about the dishwasher. For some reason they are fascinated with it. It’s another reason why we are lucky that our kitchen has a door that can be shut. Because they are “banished” from it on a routine basis.

These guys crack us up every day. Their latest game is to stalk each other among some small boxes scattered in our front room. Thinking about childhood and the forts we used to make with lawn chairs and blankets, I threw a sheet over the boxes. Last night, this occupied them long enough to let us enjoy our strawberry smoothies in relative peace.

On that note, Bert is at the door. He isn’t rattling the doorknob yet, but he is letting me know that it is time to move to the recliner where he can pile on and kneed my fat tummy like bread dough. With his eyes closed tight, he sticks his face in my plush housecoat and roots around and gnaws like he expects to find milk. He likes the smell of coffee. But I tell him that coffee isn’t for cats. Eventually he falls asleep. Michael will join us later. I make a game out of who will get up first. My coffee will cool before I can finish it. So, I’ll want to zap it in the microwave again. But I don’t. This is yet another way two kittens have changed my life. When Brian stirs, they will forget about me. He is Man Food Source. They know the routine and they will supervise him until he has successfully executed his morning duties.

Bert is resorting to scratching.

Better go.

Homemade Fig Newtons

A snack idea turned into monster memories and a response to a scary post

Can prunes be an adequate substitute for the leftover Halloween candy in my freezer?

We tried to get rid of it, the bags of miniature Snickers and 3 Musketeers. Brian was handing out so much candy per customer that it prompted one observant kid to ask whether we had had very many trick-or-treaters. Sounding even more grown up was the young woman who told us to stay warm as I stood there in the doorway wrapped in a comforter. Enjoying what was left of unrestricted youth, the teen was roaming the neighborhood with her friends on the one night that a random stranger might be welcomed. Trick-or-treat for as long as you can.

Eventually, we might circle back to the fun it was to put on a wig. College bars. Parties. You’re back to deciding what to be. A Potluck? Now you have to decide what to bring. So, there you are, Little Red Riding Hood with your tater-tot casserole and cold feet because those are the shoes that go with that outfit. You came with Doug. He’s a wolf. Of course, he is. He brought a bag of pretzels. We hate Doug. Then those parties you somewhat dreaded – parties that required overcoming barriers, psychological barriers, just to leave the house – these parties will be something to miss while you’re either supervising your own monsters or cooing over the costumes of other people’s kids.

“What a beautiful princess you are!”

“What a scary ghost!”

A lollypop and a bacon strip – a pair for some reason – came to our door the year I started to write this post, 2019. The bacon worried – and probably hoped – that he might offend a vegetarian. He was itching for something, an encounter that would cue the statement churning in his head, a belief in search of context. What exactly did he want to say all puffed up like that? A skeleton – first the meat and now the bones – carried a ten-gallon pumpkin for her stash. Her mother was quick to tell me that “She picked it out!” We laughed. Smart kid. Brian has robbed a baby of the fun of dropping something into his bucket of candy. So, he gives the boy another chocolate “for the hand.” Held in the arms of his father, the boy’s little arm swings around like a boom. His candy lands with a pleasing crinkle. You can see this on the baby’s face. He did that. Did we see? Yes. We saw. You did that! Good for you, kid!

It’s amazing what can be understood and between whom. A baby. A man. A politically incorrect slab of meat.

Or is it dumbfounding what is confused?

A Facebook post about a left-wing global warming conspiracy brings me down. It is liked and shared without question, replacing the discussion we might have had.

This is from my Facebook feed.

The guy who posted this used to be a friend of mine. We were part of the same weekly dinner group. At some point we lost touch, only to reconnect on social media. There I can see that things are going well for my old friend. Girlfriends. Dogs. Skiing. Lots of pictures in beautiful places. Nature. There is God. Crusaders are mixed with A Course in Miracles – something I associate with Marianne Williamson who endorsed Dennis Kucinich for president for ’04 and who herself ran for the office in 2020 as a peace candidate. What I remember about Williamson’s take on The Course was that one can be centered in love or fear. The idea prepared me to deal with those who have made an art out of scaring people, be they salespeople, politicians or someone who thinks they are closer to God than I am. Anyway, the contradiction reminded me of Stu.

Stu was a gay sergeant in the U.S. Air Force before Bill Clinton’s Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. He had married his beard who was stationed somewhere far away. Marry a lesbian and live with your lover. It was a fairly common survival tactic in the military, or so was my understanding back then. (More recently I heard a similar story. A lesbian Mormon approached a bachelor friend to suggest a marriage that would be arranged to help her pass in that world. I can’t remember what he was supposed to get out of the deal. Reluctant sex? Money? The casting off of stigmas that we invent? I’m so sorry that this person can’t just be who she is – openly – without fear of punishment.) Well, I suppose it’s naive and possibly insulting (for that I am sorry), but I was floored to learn that this gay man who took a wife for show was a Republican. “They’re called Log Cabin Republicans,” he told me.

I never knew my old dinner party friend as a particularly religious guy, though not without some belief in a higher power, a sense of mystery behind the curtain so to speak. And now here he is lauding the late Reverend Billy Graham. It’s just another thing that separates us: A religious leader who defended the death penalty instead of seeking mercy for the condemned; and a belief that pollution that could be prevented isn’t contributing to the shrinking polar icecaps.

Why is it taking me so long to finish this post? When did a first draft appear? November? 2019. That was pre-Covid-19. Remember when we used to say pre-9-11?

You’ll have to deal with the leftover candy, unless of course you’re the sort to turn off the lights and hide until eight-thirty when the little monsters go in for the night for their baths and bedtime stories. Was it not for Brian, who knows what I would do? I almost skipped it last year. But eventually I joined him on the porch. I had been washing windows and putting up lights to cheer up the place for the coming winter. It will be dark at four-thirty before you know it. So, I was tired and it was hard to get off the couch. Hard not to just doze off to the sound of Brian greeting the kids and their parents who carry babies dressed like bunny rabbits and nudge superheroes forward, often reminding the likes of Spider-Man to say thank you. Soon they’ll be wandering the streets with their friends unsupervised and without costumes or gloves or hats because this is what freedom looks like to a child.

Now it’s another kind of mask. The face coverings that are supposed to fend off real monsters have been politicized. They stand in as cheap knock-offs of fundamental human rights. It’s a misplaced grudge, of course. But it’s hard to get people to talk about the dread caught in their stomach, a feeling that they might end up on the street because a layoff is looming and they’re behind on the rent. And even if your investments might give you a sense of security, deep down you worry because you don’t really understand how the stock market works. It’s hard to get people to talk about how they have really been screwed by the system where something as basic as affordable health care is not assured. How can you relax when you know that something that started as a cough could sink you for life? And if you’re lucky enough to have a job, it might be a soul-sucking one, the kind of work where you put your time in until you can retire without going broke. But those are big rocks to move. It is easier to complain about how wearing a mask is impinging upon your freedom.

When my old dinner friend thinks of me, he remembers how I hated flies. One of the rare times we actually exchanged words on Facebook, he recalled how I had lost my mind the time they had overtaken the house where I lived. They dotted the white cathedral ceilings in the kitchen as if someone had flung a box of raisins into its frosted underside. “Guilty as charged!” I said. This has not changed… Nor has my objection to the death penalty. At what age is a child aware of lethal injections that are administered by doctors, sanctioned by the state and defended by men with Bibles? Whatever it is, it is too young to be burdened by such sad things. Whatever age it is, that’s when I knew that I was against it. Was she always that way? Yes. I was always that way. Is she still that way? Yes. We ask these things of people we used to know. We wonder if we ever knew them.

There is but a trickle of kids this Halloween night and Brian and I wonder if we should give up on our ritual of sitting on the porch with our big bowls of candy, making a game out of giving away the perfect amount to each kid so that we neither run out of treats too early or end up with a surplus. It’s a game we never win. The lulls between monsters give us a chance to reminisce. I try to remember what it was like to trick-or-treat when I was a kid. Pillow cases for bags. Being out in the dark with Matt and Amy. Ginger? Who was in charge? My dad? Yes. He must have been there. Or was it one of the “big kids” taking us from house to house dressed as clowns and witches – costumes my mother made – and – one year for some reason – really fat baseball players with painted mustaches? Or were we kids on the loose? Unsupervised. Free.

How does one respond to a long-debunked conspiracy theory? I could post a quick “Really?”, by which I would mean, “Are you frickin’ kidding me?” It’s hard to find the words that are both kind and truthful. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. This is a thing. Besides, even the smart-and-carefully-crafted-to-be-kind rebuttal is sharpened by pixels. Plus, if I am to believe the things that I am reading about this or the podcasts that are addressing the subject, it’s very difficult to talk someone out of a conspiracy theory for which they’ve already made the non-refundable down payment. It’s hard to abandon the sunk costs, even if that just means the hours someone has spent with their face in a YouTube channel.

Don’t respond. What good will come of it? Talk about fig newtons.

I can see my dad inspecting the candy that is spread out on the kitchen counter. He is protecting me. These days I try to protect him with advice like, “Don’t click on suspicious links!” He already knows this, but I warn him anyway. We both know that he is a target for scams because he is old. Why doesn’t anyone do anything about this? Why are parasites an acceptable feature of our society? Once just hours after my parents ordered a new iPhone that was to be delivered by Fed-Ex, a suspicious call was triggered. My dad knew enough to hang up. He even called Apple. Yep, it’s a scam. They were fully aware of it. I never got the full story. What was the point? How exactly did the voice on the other end of the line intend to separate my dad from his money? How did they know that he had just purchased a phone? Instead, I was stuck on a single question. When are we going to realize that we can design the world as we wish and that we need not tolerate predators that see our loved ones as easy marks? Instead, we stand around as if there is nothing to be done. We re-elect incumbents on every level of government who have failed to stop this bullshit. Impotent, we are left to rebel against the common good with a lie about a medical condition that prevents us from wearing a mask for the ten minutes it takes to buy a jug of milk. It’s pathetic.

With Covid-19 heading into another peak worse than the previous ones, now I worry more about organic viruses than the ones that infect my parents’ computer.

By the time I was in the third grade, we lived in Tehran where the locals would have been confused by tiny Frankensteins at the door. That must be why I have memories of the Halloween parties that replaced the trick-or-treating. Bobbing for apples wasn’t for me and the cake walks weren’t as exciting as tromping around the neighborhood wrapped in the smell of night. My mother made a jack-o-lantern cake for one of these occasions. I wanted to keep it. But alas it was for some other kid to win.  These must have been squadron parties, military families entertaining their kids in a foreign country. At one such party, Santa Claus gave me a camel. Who arranged for this? A lowly one-striper? An administrative assistant? I want to thank you. I still have that camel. But that’s Christmas. We’re talking about Halloween.

So, Brian and I are on the porch handing out candy. He would be content to read between customers, but he lets me sit there with him. He’s mostly cooperative when I ask him questions about what he remembers about trick-or-treating. But he does not remember how old he was when he stopped. I couldn’t say either. He marks his place and puts down his book. You can read, I say. He won’t do this until I leave or pick up my own book. I ask him how the book is going. Then business picks up. One kid. Two. Three at a time. Four. Talk of bagging it next year fades.

Of course, we didn’t know what next year would bring. It’s 2020. The department of health is advising against a traditional Halloween.

Let it go. Just let it go. But I can’t.

There was a stretch when it seemed like some parents were opting for house parties instead of trick-or-treating. It was safer. Warmer. Maybe, but mainly safer. It’s better to eat pizza and watch a scary movie than to worry about razor blades in your candy. Now the neighborhood listserv is abuzz with talk about how “goodie bags” can be safely distributed to the kiddos who are desperate for the kind of fun that cannot be replaced with musical chairs and party favors. That want something real. We all do.

The Facebook meme that has me torqued complains that Dr. Elaine Curry “gets no media coverage.”  Tucker Carlson seemed to like her. I know this because I watched the interview on YouTube. And now an algorithm has pegged me for a nut. But maybe I could be convinced that global warming is a hoax, if only I were to watch all of those suggested videos. Well, even as he interviews her, Tucker seems uninterested in what Curry has to say. He has is own agenda to push and he uses her to do it. In a cursory search, I did not find an example of Curry using that word – hoax. Her issue is actually more interesting than 44 blurry words on a meme. But why look any further? Two grainy photographs – a woman and a girl – are somehow enough.

Have my Internet wanderings triggered the right-wing political mail I’ve been getting? If this is how the Republicans are spending their money, I suppose there is some hope in that.

So now there’s candy in the freezer. Brian gave up sweets a long time ago and I have never had much of a sweet tooth. And yet this afternoon a candy bar did sound good. Did I say there was candy in the freezer? What would be the harm?

It turns out that rampant candy tampering was never a thing. It used to be that calling out a hoax cleared the air. Made us less afraid, assuming you were willing to accept the good news. Imagine that! Refusing to accept the good news. Instead we cling to the thing that keeps us in a perpetual state of fear and mistrust. Why are we so comfortable there when we could assume the best of people? What would Marianne Williamson with her love-versus-fear-based perspective say about that? In any case, hoax is just another word that has lost its meaning.

Curry’s issue seems to be that mainstream academia has sidelined her for presenting data that does not support the theory that burning fossil fuels is a driver of the climate crisis. She’s also cranky about the claims that there is almost perfect consensus of the scientific community on this issue. Skeptical Science refutes this along with several other of her statements.

I want the snappy response that will definitively win – and more importantly end – this argument. I want this even though smarter people than me (and you my old friend) have ended it several times only to see conspiracy theories resurrect like the zombies at my door, lies that will not die because it is so damn easy to click share and to repeat what we have heard from behind the fortress of a keyboard. I can’t stay with you here, pretending to believe in monsters under the bed. There are plenty of real monsters. If you listen, you will hear them knocking. Answer the door. Instead, you hide. You’re in the house. Except for the glow of the television, it is dark. But those pesky kids persist. They ring the doorbell anyway. So, you turn up the volume and the giant heads pound the message even louder. They pound it so hard that you’ve lost sight of a truth that used to be yours and a common sense that seemed – but wasn’t – intractable. You have been robbed. But instead you just figured that you must have spent that twenty dollars. You just can’t remember where. 

You seem paranoid. I’m afraid that it is contagious.

I tell myself to drop it.

Too much work.

Too dangerous.

Write about Fig Newtons.

What happened to you, friend?

What happened to me?

Would it have made a difference were we still eating dinner together?

If your chest is tightening, if you think I am lost, corrupted or brainwashed, I understand. You call me names, I’ve seen them on the Internet, in my Facebook feed and elsewhere. But before that, there were the businessmen who used to come into Paddy O’Neil’s where I was a cocktail waitress. Tom, a big guy in a suit, was a known tipper. I think he was a lawyer because he wasn’t a doctor and in my mind, those were the people with money. But he could have been anything. Regardless of where Tom sat – your section, mine – the alpha waitress would usually claim his table that would be stuffed with more suits who were loose with their money. So, it was unusual that I would ever have to deal with him, but sometimes I did.  He was a scotch man and I brought him the usual, a double Dewar’s on the rocks. When I was new on the job, the first time I heard him order it – dubdersrox – I asked him to repeat it. He did and it didn’t help. I didn’t know my scotches. I still don’t. In any case, most of our exchanges have long been forgotten except for this summation. “You’re a bleeding heart!” he said. At the time it hurt. Today, I would have said, You’re damn right. What led to this, I do not remember. Maybe he was extolling the virtues of Billy Graham and I just couldn’t help myself and confessed that I couldn’t make sense of his lack of compassion. Or maybe he saw me wince when he made a comment about the lazy Indians who pass out drunk in the park. I wouldn’t have been able to resist hinting at the irony, the idea that some of these suits might drive home inebriated that very night, as if inebriation were somehow classier than a bum who smelled of dirty socks. Or maybe I just asked a question that challenged an assumption and instead of taking it seriously, it was easier to slap a label on me. Or maybe you can just tell that kind of thing about a person.

I am reminded of Dr. Elaine Ingham She is a soil scientist. Like Curry, she too complained about how the university system pushed conventional wisdom. In her lecture at the Oxford Real Farming Conference she introduced herself in part this way:

Yes, I do have the academic alphabet soup after my name. So undergraduate, masters, PhD… I am currently the president of Soil Food Web, a company I started after I ran smack into my university, Oregon State university’s absolute dedication to Monsanto…

Her approach appealed to me. It made sense to me in the same way that I’ve always been opposed to the death penalty on a gut level.  Without being a soil scientist myself, it seemed reasonable to suggest that a cycle of tilling and fertilizing and applying pesticides was eroding the soil and harming the very microbes that make it possible to grow stuff. So, I am not unsympathetic to the suggestion that unpopular ideas can be shushed by the establishment or that a minority voice might actually be right, while the majority presses for conforming to bad science. Galileo was accused of heresy because he made the case for a heliocentric solar system (what did they call it before it was the “solar” system?) as opposed to one that revolved around Earth. So, there are two examples.

But this hardly means that I should concede that the climate crisis is a hoax because someone’s research didn’t warrant priority funding. Brian and I talked about this a lot. The way we choose our scientific pursuits is not perfect. It might even be unfair. But it’s a little too convenient to claim that whenever the consensus doesn’t swing your way it means that there is a conspiracy.

Brian thinks that climate change denial is rooted in the question about how we can transition to a green economy without wreaking havoc on the economy as it operates today. He’s probably right. But it’s hard for me to understand. It’s kind of like people who might vote for Trump because their 401-k was doing well the last time they checked. Or what about Stu, who married a woman just so that he wouldn’t be hassled by anyone who might notice that he was gay? How did he set aside this reality when he voted for the clowns who would have been happy to slam the closet door on his face? And lock it shut? And he did this for what? The perception that Republicans are fiscally responsible? They are not. Morally superior? Give me a frickin’ break! No wonder depression has a grip on this country. We’re constantly setting aside our values to guard our dog bones, and they are bones. That’s what you get when money rules a system.

We all have our cognitive dissonance. I voted for Joe Biden.

Likewise, most climate change deniers – those people who are smarter than a collaboration of international scientist – are the same people who will be the first to avail themselves to modern medicine be it LASIK surgery, an artificial joint, or a treatment for cancer that would have killed their grandparents. They’ll jump on an airplane without a care in the world, embrace nuclear energy and fill their homes with gadgets: handheld devices that are essentially an extension of their brains, GPS systems that rely on satellites in space, or robots that vacuum their floors. But when it comes to a warning that the CO2 levels in the atmosphere are dangerously high, they’re good with brushing it off as a hoax because it’s not economically viable?

Of course, it is beyond ironic that this Facebook meme is presented as an example of “media manipulation”.  Our current president will go down in history as having invented the idea of accusing people of your own crimes. But it’s an old trick and it’s certainly being used here. A deceptive message warning us about deceptive messages? Maybe that could have been my snappy response to my friend’s ignorant post.

This year, the year when Covid-19 emerged, for Halloween we sat on the lawn with our neighbors instead of waiting for the monsters to knock. Trick-or-treaters marched by to take their goodie bags from the tables that lined the sidewalk at a safe distance. It was windy. Gusty at times. It occurs to me that we are sitting under a maple that is dying and loosing its branches. Maybe we should think about moving? We don’t. The women are wrapped in blankets. Every year the blankets.

A block over, “It’s hoppin’!” There are bon fires. But I’m not sure they had anything to do with the firetruck that went by.

The neighbor’s kid is dressed like Trump. Backlit by street lamps, we can see a stick figure inside a blow-up costume that is wearing a diaper. His brother is dressed like the grim reaper. I don’t think this was on purpose. They are accompanied by the headless horseman who doesn’t have a pumpkin to carry or a horse to ride. So maybe he was just headless? When it’s time to go inside, the brothers have to walk their friend home. So a baby Donald Trump and his brother the grim reaper escorted this decapitated body down the street.

I tried to find the clip that solidified my dislike for Reverend Billy Graham. It seems like it was something on Larry King. A woman in Texas was going to be executed that night, always midnight for some reason, a strange custom when you think about it. I couldn’t find it. Instead, I discovered that the man had evolved. He actually seemed humble when talking about how he might have been wrong to condemn the gays. Elderly now, he seemed comfortable with reflection. And I was surprised to learn that he was – eventually – on the right side of the Civil Rights movement. That was something, wasn’t it? Of course, religious extremists didn’t like the Reverend’s change of heart. How easily they turn on you.

How easily they turn on you, indeed.

If only we could just be who we are, without fear of punishment.

Sometimes cold. Usually. Sometime after moving to South Dakota, I would associate Halloween with blizzards. It was probably the weather more than my age that determined when it was time to stop tick-or-treating.

Homemade Fig Newtons
Author: 
Recipe type: Snack
 
Ingredients
  • 5 prunes, chopped
  • Saltines or other cracker
  • Walnuts, 1 handful, chopped
  • Maple syrup
  • Peanut butter
Instructions
  1. Spread finely chopped prunes/prune paste on a cracker.
  2. Sprinkle the above with crushed walnuts or another nut you like. Pecans would be good.
  3. Drizzle the above with maple syrup.
  4. On a separate cracker, spread a dab of peanut butter. Use this to make a sandwich with the first cracker with prunes etc.