Ruth Bass

How hard this it, the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg before the Donald Trump nightmare can end. And the almost instant ability of Repblicans in the Senate to immediately abandon things they considered PRINCIPLE -- waiting until Americans have their chance to tune in by voting -- and say let's get a dependable conservative in there right now. We usually expect Mitch McConnell to be turn whichever way works, but maybe, just maybe, not all of his Republican folowers will fall into line. Lindsay Graham turned hypocrite with no problem, but perhaps this time Susan Collins will find her soul and not order the roast beef sandwich. (You can look that up probably.) And we go over the 200,000 death count right now from coronavirus. They slide past that so easily, the Senators never yelling at the president that he needs to DO something. We have reached a sorry place, including Bill Barr's comparison of virus rules like staying home and wearing a maska  as secondonly to the "restraints" of slavery. The president should be invoking one of his fasvorite phrases: "It's sad." Yep. Lots of sad.

We said goodbye to Tracer on August 2, 2019. That day has turned out to last longer than most -- he was what my parents might have described, when I spent hundreds of dollars on his chemo, as "just a dog." Not so. He was just Tracer, every day going about his routines as if they were religious ritual -- the watch over food prep, the interest in the dishwasher, the hour at the hall window after breakfast in hopes that a rascally chipmunk or dashing squirrel would appear, the appearance in front of me at 9 p.m., the time of day when (after Milt's death) when I had habitually said "time for TV Tracer," and off we'd go to drop the blinds, turn on the TV and watch and snooze and watch. Around 11, before the chemo started, he'd get up and stare until I moved to take him out and put him to bed iin his crate. For 12 years, with a few memorable exceptions, he slept until his humans got up, or he waited quietly. He's in every corner here, and yet he's not. And the weeping of August 2 goes on, sometimes rushing out without warning. Like when he should be there to get a Frosted Mini Wheat, or two or three. Or the end of the banana.

Written by himself it says on the cover of the little paperback entitled "Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass." Written by himself because he taught himself to read and write, when he suddenly realized that knowing those two things would pave the road to a place where children were given enough food, people were paid for work, kids owned more than just one long shirt to wear and it was illegal to hang people up and whip them. Douglass was a genius at finding his way and emerged from slavery to a home in New Bedford, Massachusetts -- where he learned he was protected in a hotbed of abolishonists -- then Rochester, New York, where he and his wife continued their friendship with fellow agitator Susan B. Anthony. It's a relief, in the same month that Congress approved Betsy DeVos as education secretary, to learn that Douglass is part of the common core curriculum for our nation's children. Is that true in charter schools, too? Or are they exempt. Read More 

Milt used to correct me when I referred to "the elderly" as if they lived elsewhere and might not be anyone we knew. "We are the elderly," he would say with no dismay in his voice.
It's hard to know when exactly "elderly" starts, but certainly I've tried to hold the term at bay  Read More 

We used to call it the plumber look. So often, as the plumber crawled under the kitchen sink -- a dark, sometimes dank, hole at best -- we as kids would giggle over the way his pants pulled down and the crack of his buttocks showed. Our mother, if present, would shush us, but we knew she saw it too. The start of roundness, the flesh so pale compared to his now-hidden face and strong arms with sleeves rolled up.

Now it's apparently high fashion. And the pants are much lower. A guy bends to pick up anything, and there's the beginnings of his butt. He stands up, hitches up his pants and goes on his way. But the pants are too big, the belt nearly useless, and one wonders how seemingly hipless males are able to keep their pants from just falling to the ankles.

It happened at the post office the other day. Too much information. Not fashion. Perhaps, given the falling-down possibility, not even comfortable. At the risk of being labeled "fuddy-duddy," for which I qualify easily in age, I don't like it. Didn't even laugh the last time the plumber came. Read More 

Three maples in front of the house are brilliantly orange, shedding leaves daily by the hundreds. I mow them whenever they are crunchy, saving the raking arm at least a little. And I am forced to remember that they were Milton's view of the world for a day or so before he left us on the 14th of this month. Thus fall, always a season for me of apple picking in the back yard, pumpkin harvest in the garden, crisp air and brilliant colors all around, now has reminders of loss all around. It's easy to celebrate life, his life, quite grand all around. And it's time to remember that in the zillion photos of our long time together, he's nearly always smiling. It was a good time. And he left when it was time. I know that. But I hadn't quite stopped talking with him. Perhaps that time was the time that could never actually come.  Read More 

It's getting hard to be a stalwart New Englander asserting that it is, after all, wintertime and in these parts it does snow in the winter. Under a dusting overnight, the driveway today was what my mother called "glare ice." The dusting kept Tracer and me from breaking our necks because it gave us something to grab -- he with little leathery pads and me with dependable Yak-Trax. It was sunny enough yesterday to let the salted town crumblage (whatever the substance is) soften a bit, so the edging tool broke some of that up in hopes the sun would attack any open space. But the sun was laid off not much past noon, and snow started to fall again. No need for color photography this afternoon -- the world is once again just black and white and 80 shades of gray. The snowdrops must be worrying by now. Read More 

In the Northeast, thousands of people are already wondering if the daffodils, six or 8 inches under the soil plus at least that in snow cover, have started to yawn and stretch. Probably not. But if the long weeks till spring are a major burden, the thing to do is turn to the weather page in the local newspaper. Even the weakest of daily papers, in these days of threatened print, will have a weather map. And if the service purchased is a good one, you can find news of the moon (often obscured in clouds these days), the planets and -- here's the good part -- the time for sunrise and sunset. Minute by minute, the sun is pushing back toward 7 a.m. and doesn't disappear again until 5. The sad (and bad for those with SAD) are the forever time between 4:30 and 5. But we're getting there. And in our west-facing house (sort of), the sun is moving north, out of what we call its winter corner. By June it'll be right out there in front, staring at the lavender house.  Read More 

Today it was a fox, looking almost orange in the late afternoon light. Nose to the ground, he took his time in the field behind the apple trees, no doubt discovering that bears and turkeys had been there before him. They look so dainty, the foxes. Their narrow faces, slim bodies and lush tails combine well. This was the first we had seen since fall. But bears -- ah, yes, Mama and her one-year-olds right behind the kitchen and necessitating early removal of what has been paradise for chickadees, juncos, titmice and the plump mourning doves. As usual, the cardinals dined late, almost at sunset, and bluejays came to scare everyone off. But the pile of feathers on the ground after the snow melted indicate that the blue jay was a little too haughty about his place in the animal world. It was probably a sharp-shinned hawk that got him, obviously with a struggle. As a visitor named Beverly used to say, "Remember, everyone needs to have lunch." We hope everyone gets lunch, every day. Read More 

The sky floated a silver feather as I was driving home from Pittsfield. But the sun would not let it shine for long. In a minute or two, the giant fringed cloud had turned to pewter and then to near black, tarnished by the end of the day. A few days later, heading east, an egg-shaped moon rose at sunset, surrounded by soft pink clouds. Behind us, the sky had the same kinds of clouds -- like a sweep of a paint brush -- but they were peach against pale aqua. And then, a minute earlier than the day before, the November sun had pulled up its covers and gone to sleep. Read More