There are no suckers or losers in the U.S. Military

 There are no suckers or losers in our military. All should be honored for their service.

This is my Uncle Joe. He served in World War II. He was stationed at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii with what was then known as the Army Air Corps. On 7 Dec 1941, he was walking back to the barracks after attending mass when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The heel of his shoe was hit by flying shrapnel, but Joe was not hurt. After Pearl Harbor, he was assigned to Canton Island, a South Pacific coral island, where he helped to operate one the first radar facilities. Later, he received a transfer to Europe. Joe was a tailgunner, flying bombing missions over Germany. The first week in December 1942, on his 13th mission, the B-17 was shot down over the Black Forest. The crew parachuted to safety. All survived but the pilot. Joe hid in an abandoned farmhouse for 4 or 5 days. He melted snow to drink, and in one of the houses he found one egg, flour and sugar. His feet froze, and he wrapped them in old rags. He decided to try to make it back to the American line. He was dressed up as an old lady, and the Germans spotted him crossing a river. He was captured and imprisoned at Stalag Luft 4 POW Camp Gross Tychow, Germany. He was liberated at the end of the war. Fuck you, Donald Trump.

Uncle Joe with his mother and his youngest brother after he returned from the war.

Down, but not out.

 I'm having a hard time writing blog posts. It's more inability than reluctance. 

I like to write first thing in the morning. However, I also try to exercise (biking, walking) in the morning as well. In the heat of the summer it is imperative to get out there very early, so my early morning creative routine is kind of shot until the Florida heat and humidity subsides.  

I will admit to being "a little" shell shocked of late. It's hard for me to focus. I should relax, ignore the political noise and re-center my self in this beautiful, yes beautiful, world.

Still, that hateful Trump and his evil cohorts try to distract us from beauty and goodness every damn day.  The unrealized poet in me is convinced he is the Devil, the anti-Christ. I am gobsmacked that people who think they are good Christians follow someone like him. In my fevered dreams they follow him straight to Hell.  

My Tennessee Grandmother was my own personal Pentecostal saint. She was known to talk in tongues when the spirit moved her. My Grandma was the personification of goodness, and she worked hard at understanding the difference between good and evil. She would never have voted for Trump. Like Kamala Harris, she knew a predator when she saw one.

Grandma taught me to say "Get behind me, Satan" when I was overwhelmed with worry or distraction. I haven't said that phrase in a long, long time. But I'm saying it today.

I strive for balance

I find myself thinking of my grandmother. She was kind, good, and loving. I want, so much, to be the kind of grandmother to my grandkids (and great-grands) that she was to me. But I have a mean streak. I think it comes from her husband, or maybe her son. They were both troubled souls. I don't want to be like them.  

So I try harder to be good, saving the meanness for those who deserve it. Who knows, perhaps fighting back is a gift? Am I diminished or enhanced by trying to control this darkness? Anger has proven both useful and righteous from time to time.

I know I cannot swallow my anger whole or I would lose my mind. It is important for me to digest it bit by bit. I sing to it until it falls asleep. Then I try to put it to bed without waking it up.

A walk around a small lake

Many housing developments are built around small lakes in Central Florida. One in particular, called Oakland Park, has done a terrific job of protecting some of their green space. A beautiful walk around their lake is open to the public, and we often bike there in the morning to take that walk. One of the highlights is the preponderance of little blue herons that build their nests and raise their young in cypress trees surrounding a wooden dock.  Let me take you on that walk:

cypress knees

hibiscus

a couple of sandhill cranes walking around the neighborhood

probably a night heron hiding behind some Spanish Moss

yellow canna, pickerel weed

very old, very big live oak

beauty berry

here's the momma little blue heron with her new born fluff balls

and here is the daddy little blue heron, a few yards away

muck reflecting green leaves

Try to imagine.

My daughter and son-in-law's a/c went out the other afternoon in this terrible heat and humidity. They had to wait until 10:00 pm for the repairman; he was that busy. The poor guy went to the wrong house (next door to M&M, where the crazy Christian neighbors live) The neighbor man got all freaked out that a black man was knocking at his door at 10 pm. He yelled at the a/c tech and called the repairman the n-word.  

The a/c man was quite shaken by the overt racism. But still, he found the right address and knocked on THAT door to fix the problem and finish his day. My son-in-law went with him to check on the a/c components outside so that no one would freaking shoot him. 

It is my white privilege that even allows my mind to be boggled. This is what people of color have to endure every damn day. 

A day that is completely mine

I woke up about 7:00 am this morning.  With my eyes still closed, I allowed myself to stay in bed.  I slowly came to consciousness, awakening to a day that will be completely mine.  Sleeping without an alarm clock is one of the big payoffs in retirement.  It just never gets old.

Tales of Bullying and Meanness: The Marathon Man

My tormentor was the faculty chairman of an academic department at the university. He disliked me, but when I asked if he wanted me to find another job he said no. He wanted to bring me down, teach me my place, perhaps destroy me. He would come into my office, shut the door, and harangue me for hours. Not every day, but certainly every week. He was afraid of the other faculty, which included his wife. Berating me was his only avenue for achieving authority. 

Because I was the manager, he was my supervisor for the 3 year term he filled. There was always a new chair, every 3 years. I could hold on. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of chasing me away. Perhaps I should have left, but I didn't. Call me foolish, but I like to win.

He had to give me a final performance evaluation about a month before his term ended. It lasted, on and off, for a day and a half. I'm not kidding. Hours and hours of him asking me questions he could then use my answers against me. It was quite odd.

I reminded him a performance evaluation is a time for a supervisor to review the employee's work performance, and give constructive feedback to help the employee improve. Instead, we danced around his hatred for me. Just him and me. On and off for 2 days he asked me questions, and I tried to answer them very carefully.

Finally, he asked what I thought about working for him. I replied "Working for you is like running a marathon in 90 degree heat, with the flu." He was a runner, so I knew he'd understand. That ended the "review." A month later his term was up, and I had a new department chair who was quite wonderful.  I won, sort of.

Alligator's Delight

9:22 am
The powers that be re-opened the wildlife drive near me, where there are scads of alligators and birds to view safely from one's car. It had been closed because of the pandemic. Apparently the alligators are more plentiful than ever, and lie in the road now. IN the road, not alongside it like the pictures below. After a couple of months with no cars, they think they own the place.

We usually go for a bike ride (or a walk) every morning.  Today my knee is "hinky" and I'm going to take a day off to rest it.  My husband took this as the opportunity to bike on the aforesaid drive, which I am usually reluctant to do. He's there now. I KNOW he's going to ride his bike around the lounging gators. 

I told him to be safe.  That's code for "don't underestimate the alligators." He laughed and said he would.  Sheesh.

11:53 am  He's back, He was careful.  Yay.

I remember turning 2

I distinctly remember turning two. My oldest sister had been preparing me for the event. She was a very earnest 7 year old, the kind of sister who took being older quite seriously. 

It was 1953. My father was sitting in his underwear at the kitchen table, as he was wont to do in the mornings. White t-shirt, white boxers, he sat enthroned wearing the working man's at-home uniform. 

Both my older sisters were in on the fun.  They guided me to his chair and pushed me forward.  My father asked me "How old are you today?" and I held up two fingers in front of my face.  I held them up like a premonition, for they were displayed like a peace sign, like bunny ears.  It wasn't the last time I made that sign for either meaning. However, it was the last time I told my father I was two years old. He laughed and told me I was a good girl.

I knew I was loved.  

This flowering bromeliad reminds me of belonging to a family

A sign at a Chicago protest