Fighting the good fight.

Tom and I went to a No Kings protest and march last Saturday. We could have gone to a big one in Orlando, but we hate driving in that traffic towards Orlando. Instead we went to a small city a bit north of us. I'm glad we went. For a small city like Apopka, FL, it was a great turnout. Someone said it was 500 people, and since these things are always exaggerated and so hard to determine, I'd say there were about 400.

Many thousands attended in Orlando. There were about 75 protests across Florida alone. Wikipedia says across the country"more than 5 million people in more than 2,100 cities and towns" in every state showed up.  How amazing is that?  

What really gets me are the pictures of maybe 7 - 12 people who showed up and protested in little teeny redneck cities. SO brave. I could almost imagine how hard their hearts were pounding.  

That's my very cute husband carrying the green sign about a third in from the right that says 

"Fight Ignorance, not Immigrants"  

Grass grows sideways here

When we moved down to Florida in 2014, I experienced many culture and environmental shocks.  One such shock was how different the grass is.  It isn't the dainty, slim, soft grass of the north.  It is most certainly not soft.  Some grows up to be mowed, but it also grows sideways via runners.  These runners are greedy little monsters, always looking to spread and establish themselves.  One must admire this tenacity and will to grow.  I would be more sympathetic to it if it wasn't trying to take over my sidewalk and driveway.  

Edging is not a suburban vanity down here.  It is essential if you don't want the grass to grow over the sidewalks or narrow the street.  Mowing is Tom's job.  Edging is mine.  I must admit, the violent thug that lives somewhere deep in my psyche enjoys herself when edging.

I believe I have written about this before, but now I have the perfect picture to show you all.  It was so satisfying to cut those off with my handy dandy edger. 

Genealogy discovery

I am a committed amateur genealogist, like many of you.  I maintain and research my various trees daily.  It's a huge pleasure and a way to focus my mind.  I also find it to be a creative process.  

Some times I find amazing things, relationships to historical figures for example.  Today I found something disturbing and had to make a decision.  I was investigating the family of the American adventurer Merriweather Lewis (1774-1809), who is my 4th cousin, 6 times removed.  I am interested in that Lewis family because it was prolific and accomplished.  I also would like to find a family relationship, if there is one, to a Lewis woman who married a famous frontiersman.  I'm thinking she doesn't really belong in THIS Lewis family, because this Lewis family was "hoity toity" and she was not.  Anyway, I was looking around with time and abandon, as only a retired person can do.  

I discovered that Merriwether Lewis had two cousins (both 1st cousins, one generation removed) who were infamous murderers of an enslaved person named George.  Isham Lewis (d. 1815) and Lilburne Lewis (d. 1812) were actually nephews of Thomas Jefferson, their mother Lucy Jefferson Lewis being Jefferson's sister.  

I was horrified to be even distantly related to these monsters, so I deleted them from my tree.  Then I thought about it, really hard.  Why should they not be marked forever as racists and murderers? So I put the truth back in. Now if anyone clicks on them it says:  Isham Lewis , murderer of Slave George, and the same description for Lilburne Lewis.  

The truth can be horrifying, but it should never be ignored.  

My day today

I had the best nap this afternoon! We spent the late morning walking through the woods on the Oakland Preserve boardwalk looking for interesting flora and fauna. It's a beautiful day, warm but not hot or humid. Cloudy enough for good photo moments here and there. When we returned home, I spent some time at the computer cropping the photos I took. When I was done I could hardly keep my eyes open. I joined our 20 pound cat, Murray, on the bed where he did his best to keep me awake.  

Finally he calmed down and I fell asleep. I had a fun dream about a genealogy search wherein I found a 19th century settler I had been looking for (in the dream, not in real life). Name, dates of birth and death, etc., but when I woke up I forgot the particulars.  

There are a couple of sandhill cranes that have a nest around the holding pond that still has some understory, at the end of our development. The other day we heard they had a baby. On our way home today we stopped and sure enough, there they were. That baby sure is adorable.  

Garden sale

Today is the annual garden sale, downtown in my little town. The streets are closed and filled with vendors, food trucks, and happy people. It is a well attended and much anticipated event. 

Like this year, it always seems to be hot and sunny. In my mind it is too hot and sunny to be milling about with a close crowd of people pulling small wagons behind. 

We always buy something, but for some reason the plants we have purchased at this large community sale have never flourished. In fact, they usually die. Why? I don't know. We have lots of plants purchased over the last 11 years from local nurseries that are doing great, but we usually put them in the ground in February or March. Maybe the plant sale plants would transplant better if they stage the sale at the beginning of March, when it is a bit cooler?  It has been in the high 80s, even 90 degrees F the other day. I probably have a wrong-headed northern gardening mentality, but it seems too hot to plant.  

This sale used to be fun, and we looked forward to it every year. My husband wants to go later today, but I am dreading it. So much effort for so little return. 

Am I depressed because of the political situation, or am I just getting old?  I wonder.  

UPDATE:  I just got back from the sale.  It was fun after all.  Biked down there and back, and now I feel like I'm on top of the world.  

Here's a gorgeous shrimp plant we bought the first year 
we went to the sale. It died off within a few months.
That's when I realized I didn't know what the hell 
I was doing, gardening down here.  

Tarpon Springs

We drove to Tarpon Springs on the Gulf of MEXICO (Dammit) the other day.  My Baby Sister and her family rented a large house, and Tom and I went to visit and spend a night.  There were wild little children, my favorite diversion.  

That night after the kids were put to bed, the adults sat in the living room talking and laughing.  Hearing us downstairs, the kids could not get to sleep.  At one point I went up, laid down with them, and sang them my repertoire of children's songs. Most are songs I learned as a child from a record my mother would put on to calm us.  It was all nursery rhymes, and I remember how to sing almost all.  I always sing them in a certain order.  I imagine it was the same order used on that record, over 70 years ago?  

After I left to return to the adults, the kids could once again be heard laughing and talking upstairs.  Excited children on vacation are formidable opponents.

And, of course, they were all up at the crack of dawn the next morning. 

Her personality is as wild as her hair

Old things

I have always been reluctant (a euphemism for unwilling) to throw away old things.  I'm not a hoarder, I do force myself to ditch most junk.  But I have a lot of "stuff" from my ancient past taking up space on bookshelves and in closets.  Not junk, STUFF.

I have begun to imagine my daughter and son-in-law cleaning out our house, getting it ready to sell, after we pass.  From where I'm sitting I can see a bookshelf with photos of all the cats we have had, a battered copy of The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet, Mistress Masham's Repose, and all my high school yearbooks.  I see my 1950's St. Joseph Missal sitting between two of my mother's old bibles.  I'm not a practicing Catholic, you know what I mean?  It's nostalgia. I also have more photo albums than I care to admit.  Oh gee, there's a Fuzzy Wuzzy kitty bank our grandchildren gave us sitting on the third shelf down.  I wonder if I still have that  pink piggy bank that granddaughter E painted for me 18 years ago?  

This is just one bookshelf, mind you.  Yesterday I was texting with friends about Captain Kangaroo, and I asked them if they remembered a book he read on his show, Millions of Cats. They didn't.  I had a copy and ran to get it so I could show them the great cover art.  Then I remembered I passed that book on to a great niece just last year.  I was annoyed with myself, until I realized nobody really wanted to see the cover art.  And if they did, I could google the book title to get the cover art.  

I really have to start thinking about old things in a different way.  And I need to let my daughter know I'm fine with her throwing away all my stuff when I'm gone.  I am just sorry I couldn't seem to do it myself.  

Yep, the third book down is a reissue of
the 1950's era Baltimore Catechism

I'm thankful for history books

I refuse to admit to depression in the face of this wild U.S. roller coaster ride. That's what he wants. My fear, of course, is that the roller coaster hasn't been maintained properly and a crash is imminent. 

I've been amusing myself reading a history of 14th century Europe. It was a time of petty tyrants, violence, and chaos. The book is "A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century" by Barbara W. Tuchman. Fabulous read, albeit a bit slow. I spend a lot of time pulling out my phone to google things like the Beghards, or Charles V. It's quite the learning experience. Why I need to learn anything more is not really clear to me; however, it's fun. (That's the depression I'm pretending not to have speaking. Ignore her).

It's hard to describe why I find this book so comforting. I guess I am reminded that history is cyclical, and time marches on. Things change.  

My foray into the 14th Century has been so encouraging, that I just ordered a used hardcopy of "Europe: A History" by Norman Davies. That one goes all the way back to the cave men. I can't wait. I just wish it was available as an ebook. It's 1200 pages, and going to be physically uncomfortable to read.  

How do you manage reading actual books that are so darn heavy? 

And still there is fudge

I really have to stop eating the fudge leftover from Christmas. It haunts me, enthralls me, and makes me stupid.  There are still 8 pieces left!  

I'm going to start counting calories today.  I'm almost sure of it.