Not long ago, I introduced you to Ethel, my inner curmudgeon. The other day I became aware that she had invited some friends over, and they had what amounted to a group therapy session in my head. Some might call it a gripe session. There are no official minutes from the meeting since nobody wants to be in charge or take notes, so the stories were haphazard and occasionally had no point at all. A few items are worth repeating however.
Harold, a retired bean counter and nitpicker, had a lot to say about this new thing called ghosting. Unfortunately, it is not new. People have been rudely ignoring phone calls and messages for years. He insisted that it is different these days because we have thousands of ways to communicate with each other and still cannot get a straight answer. He was a bean counter so his numerical estimate must be correct and definitely not hyperbole. I must admit, it does seem there are those who do not bother to reply to questions unless it benefits them in some way. Even some politicians – I clutch my pearls in disbelief – choose not to participate in debates or interviews if they deem such things to be beneath them. It would be nice if they would take the time to genuinely engage in normal conversations, instead of completely ignoring requests or invitations to participate in healthy, informative dialogue. Canned speeches full of the same stale nonsense, or carefully staged photo-ops, are annoying and useless. Harold is not wrong.
Millie, a frachetty lady who carries a tiny yapping dog named Paris in her purse, interrupted everybody as they tried to speak. She demanded to know why she cannot look up a recipe on the internet without being forced to read an entire biography and family genealogy before reaching the list of ingredients and directions to make the dish. Millie continued until someone told her about the “skip to recipe” button. Embarrassed that she never noticed that before, she finally stopped butting into other people’s complaining, and resorted to petting the freakishly small purse dog.
Bob is a no-nonsense retired navy officer. He claimed to be losing his mind over all the weird ways parents are choosing to spell their children’s names. Razzlee, Klaytynn, Allyzabith, and similar butchering of the English language, in the search of the most unique name ever, has made him suspicious everywhere he goes.
His final comment was too much. “If I’m in a doctor’s office, a nurse named Kryngeleigh ain’t sticking a needle anywhere in my body.” Even the grumpiest curmudgeons agreed that while he had a valid argument it is not fair to judge a person based on the name given them by someone else. He mumbled under his breath that they could have their name changed to something sensible, but the argument was lost by then.
The pet peeve convention continued until all were exhausted and went home. There remained only one lady, Daphne, who had been sitting quietly, knitting through the entire parade of complaints. My head hurt from all the griping, so I braced myself for whatever it was she was about to say.
Much to my relief, she smiled and offered to make a pot of tea. Clearly not from the fancy part of London, her slightly Cockney accent indicated a working class background. It was strangely soothing when she said, “Oy luv, come ‘ere and ‘ave a cuppa with me,” reminding me of long-lost days spent with friends whose aunties and grandmas believed that a good cup of tea could fix anything. I think they may have been right.
Like many English people I remember from childhood, for me afternoon tea is a daily ritual. I never fully appreciated it until I was grown and long-gone from my roots. A cup of tea, growing flowers, taking a daily walk regardless of the weather, all seem to take the edge off persistent irritations. A brief distraction or time-out does wonders for my peace of mind. So, as I age and am forced to deal with the curmudgeon festivals in my head, it is good to know that in addition to previously discussed creative pursuits, it is the small things that can shut down those nagging complaints that in reality plague people of all ages.
In a world where we rarely see anyone being respectful towards those with whom they disagree, and where common decency is not common at all, it is not only pleasant but critical to carve out small niches in the day for some fresh air and a good cuppa.
Sometimes the right words are impossible to find, which makes it difficult to write a sensible essay. The thinkie-wordie lobes of my brain are more like a trampoline full of jumbled thoughts bouncing up and down, wildly flopping all over each other like children at play.
As I ponder what to write about, usually a topic emerges, asking to be developed. For the past few weeks, no single idea has been able to make it through the clutter. The world outside my head has been full of unpredictable plot twists and turmoil. So many thoughts have been jumping on the trampoline at once that it has been hard to catch one while dodging the bouncing kids.
I’d like to speak to the manager. The ultimate manager. If the Creator were standing in front of me as a human, what would I say to him? I’d like to find a quiet place beside a creek in the woods, and ask him what he thinks of the job we are doing as humans these days. What would God say to the people claiming to follow his teachings, who then in the same breath ostracize those they disapprove of? Would he be okay with lying and violence if they were done for what his followers believe is a good reason?
I have always loved watching tennis matches. It is an escape from the daily grind of depressing news and aforementioned negative behavior. One of my favorite aspects of the entire experience is that no matter if a player is winning or losing, especially at Wimbledon, good sportsmanship is expected. The rule is usually followed. Regardless of what happens beyond the grounds, once inside decorum must be observed.
Hopefully this does not sound snobby. I see it as a sign that the art of being polite and respectful is still possible in a world overflowing with anger and division. I rooted for my favorite players as they progressed through the early rounds of the tournament to the quarterfinals and on to the championships. I found myself almost brought to tears at the end of the matches. Regardless of how hard they fought, they came to the net and shook hands.
After the Spaniard Carlos Alcaraz handed Serbian Novak Djokovic a blistering defeat in the men’s championship, nobody stormed off the court or threw their racket. They embraced at the net and thanked each other for a great match, after which the winner climbed through the rows of seats to hug his mother and coaches. On the way, he shook hands with the Djokovic family and coaches. Then he climbed back down and accepted his trophy, making sure to congratulate his opponent for a great tournament and legendary career. It is not a sign of weakness to be gracious.
Closer to home in our local schools, opposing teams join hands and say a prayer after ball games. Good sportsmanship is expected and normally everyone complies. These are important lessons we learn at home, at church, and at school. What happens to those children, after being raised to show respect for their opponents, as they enter the adult world? I wonder sometimes how they assimilate into an environment that does not always value fair play, where people may mouth the words, creating the appearance of sincerity, but frequently do not act accordingly.
We already know that this is a turbulent election year. You may also have heard of Project 2025, which is over nine hundred pages describing a complex blueprint for restructuring the American government. It is impossible to summarize in a few words. What is most important to know is that while some say it has little chance of being implemented in its entirety, parts of it such as privatization of education and healthcare are already underway. Other sections could very easily become law as soon as next year, hence the reference to 2025. Its boldly stated policy agenda is to “deconstruct the Administrative State.”
There are plans to eliminate a number of top level agencies, while imposing new morality based rules on American citizens. This plan may never come to fruition, but the public needs to know of its existence and be aware that it is waiting in the wings and ready to begin immediately if given the chance.
I see no evidence of fair play or good sportsmanship in any part of what I have read in it thus far. While trying to sort out this trampoline full of crazy ideas, and dealing with complicated problems on many levels, I choose Wimbledon rules. I believe they have been approved by the manager.
As of a few weeks ago, my husband is retired and is now at home all the time.
All. The. Time.
To understand this strange phenomenon in context you must realize that for as long as I have known Dusty, going to work for him has always involved a suitcase, a trip to the airport, and a long journey to some fascinating, and sometimes dangerous place. The final leg was either by helicopter or crew boat to the ship unless it was docked, then out into the ocean for weeks or months. More recently, the suitcase was smaller and the trip was only four or five days per week to Missouri or parts of Arkansas. He has never had a “normal” day job like most people because he isn’t like most people. He is an adventurer, fiercely independent, a thinker of big thoughts. He is a creative fixer of many things who would put McGuyver to shame. When you are hundreds of miles from shore you cannot run to the hardware store when something breaks. You improvise with what you have.
I was an only child, so being alone comes naturally. Easy as falling off a log. During those extended periods of time I became accustomed to having the house to myself. I wandered around in my little bubble, thinking my thoughts uninterrupted. The dogs and I had a sort of flow to the day.
Until now.
A quick scan of the living room confirms this. There is his coffee cup perched on the end table. Numerous remote controls scattered across several surfaces. A piece of PVC pipe. Large set of wooden vice grips. Insect repellant. Mail from months ago. A piece of rope. A socket wrench fitting. Screw drivers. Knee braces. Hats. User manuals for all sorts of gadgets. Gloves and a sweaty bandana. A back scratcher that we refer to as the creepy monkey hand because that’s what it looks like, and Floki (one of the dogs) is terrified of it. Every winter there is a fresh crop of jackets and hats.
The scan continues to the other side of the living room. Piles of mail. Tubes of paint. Stacked boxes of…oh wait. That buzzing sound in my ear is my own hypocrisy looking over my shoulder, whispering “Shhh, that’s your stuff.”
To be fair, neither of us is a neat freak. The mess apparently does not bother me when it is mine, although I do experience occasional cleaning frenzies. This space is inadequate for both of our free form thinking, which is just a polite way of saying that we are woefully lacking in organizational skills. Piled on top of that reality is extra laundry, more dirty dishes, more grocery shopping, and way more cooking. No wonder this place looks like a natural disaster zone most of the time. We are both at home. All. The. Time.
Between now and next spring, there are NFL games on Thursday thru Monday if you work the streaming game just right. And don’t forget college football. The television show Supernatural has 327 episodes. The combined total of all the Law and Order series equals 1,355 episodes. Ask me how I know.
Ellie Mae and Patches, two of the Dogs of Dustlandia, are a bit miffed over the nerve of this man to take their nighttime sleeping spots. They are forced to lie on soft, comfortable dog beds on the floor. The horror. I’m not sure they’ll ever be the same.
All joking aside, there are plenty of positives to the story. My Scrabble nemesis is home, so we have more time for all the silliness and trash talk that accompany those hideous displays of childish behavior. We laugh at some pretty ridiculous things and dive into strange rabbit holes. Only three people can make me laugh until my sides hurt, and he is one of them. My grown kids are the other two. We like to keep our crazy in the family.
We found each other late in life after many unexpected twists and turns, so I’m constantly aware of how quickly the years and decades get away from us. I am also mindful that many people no longer have their spouse or significant other with them. I am grateful to share these retirement years with someone who gets me. That is a rare gift.
In spite of the assortment of tools and other unusual home decor, I treasure these days.
All. Of. Them.
The King of Dustlandia has approved this message.
It smells like September out there. A little pungent and spicy as the grass turns dry and sparse going to seed.
I thought it was probably too late for the trees that were giving up and letting go of brittle leaves that had already turned brown. Last year’s autumn leaf change was a spectacular symphony of colors that seemed to last much longer than usual. Perhaps this year it will fade away quietly, not with a bang but a whimper. I am okay with that. We cannot always expect a symphony. Sometimes it is just a little harmonica toot, and I doubt we would appreciate the beauty as much if it happened every year.
Rain finally arrived for the first time in weeks, temporarily settling the heavy clouds of dust from the dirt road. Nothing like a good old tropical depression from the Gulf of Mexico to bring some desperately-needed relief from the long, hot summer. Former hurricane Francine meandered around, lost in Arkansas for days before finally raining herself out. After she washed away all the accumulated grime, I was pleasantly surprised to spot some brilliant yellow and orange popping out on a few maple trees. Highway 9 from Rushing to Mountain View rarely disappoints.
Those cool, wet days are tonic for the soul. I appreciate the quietness of a good soft rain dripping off the roof, birds squawking in the distance, and the smell of damp leaves. Even the dense fog is soothing and peaceful.
I am forever fascinated by nature. Also mindful of the fact that I am only a bystander, none of it exists to keep me entertained. It is honest and authentic, never compromising. Trees do what trees do, without apology or deceit. No matter how insane current events become—and let’s just agree that everything has been far north of insane lately—the sky is always there. It changes constantly, but no matter which colors it chooses to wear, there is no mistaking the fact that it is beautiful and it doesn’t really need us. We do not control it. We do not control the rain. We do not control how much color the oaks and maples will display every fall.
Nor should we. I am thankful for whatever the trees show us, as long as we leave them alone and let them do their thing, unhindered by our desire for roads and parking lots.
I have always thought that the further we stray from our natural roots, the worse our lives become. Admittedly, I am spoiled enough to want air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and wi-fi. Of course I drive a vehicle and enjoy other modern conveniences, but have no desire to live anywhere else besides our little tree-filled haven, far from the maddening crowds. I would not be happy in a finely manicured suburb or an apartment building. I like my surroundings a bit wild and rural. Our neighborhood association is run by squirrels, raccoons, birds, and possums. They can be quite irrational at times, but we accommodate them as much as possible.
Obviously nature can be harsh and unforgiving too. Tornadoes, hornets, copperheads, poison ivy…those are not as inspirational as changing leaves and glorious sunsets. For years I have heard people talking of the summer of 1980 when the state experienced the worst streak of hundred degree days ever. I’m not sad that I missed that heat wave, and was instead blissfully unaware and languishing in the always cool Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina.
And here in the waning days of summer, there is some peace. When that last cricket chirping in the field finally stops, I’ll take a deep breath of October. Crisp. Refreshing. A refuge from all of the human activities that keep us distracted.
No matter how horrendous the day’s crop of lies and half-truths are, or how often the mass media would have us blindly hurtling from one outrage to another, all I need do is look up at the sky above or down at the earth below my feet, left and right at the trees, and I know I am not alone. I feel grounded. Something is constant. The stupidity will pass. Until then, the mountains will hold me close in their embrace.
More than just late September, it smells like hope out there.
You know that feeling you get when you’re driving an old standard transmission vehicle with a shady clutch? You’re stopped on a hill and you never had a chance to perfect that little dance where the left foot has the clutch down, the right foot has to jump quickly from brake to gas, and your timing must be spot on as you give it gas while letting off the questionable clutch.
For those of us who never had anyone to teach us this dance as a kid, it’s terrifying. Rolling backwards as a long line of cars sits behind you, the drivers probably laughing or cursing at the idiot who should have stayed home keeps stalling out – that was me. I’ve done that. I’ve done it on the steep curve on the Fox/Timbo mountain. I would rather drive on solid ice than be stuck on that hill rolling backwards.
Armed with hope and a healthy dose of common sense, I’ll never try that again.
The theme of hope is woven into much of my thinking and writing. Without it, very little good ever happens. It forces us to be pragmatic and try new solutions that may work with a bit of gumption and ingenuity, and the invention of the automatic transmission.
Hope requires action in order to be useful.
In the aftermath of the recent flooding and devastation caused by Hurricane Helene, I stared in absolute horror at the videos and photos of some very familiar places where I lived for years, almost unrecognizable covered in mud, debris, and some unspeakably heartbreaking destruction. I worried for old friends who were smack dab in the middle of all of it and had not been heard from in days. I saw remnants of roads that I once drove on daily, broken and impassable, or completely gone. I also saw hope. I saw bravery and selfless dedication as people armed with chainsaws, food, and bottled water organized mules, boats, and ATVs to reach their neighbors. I saw convoys of trucks from other states loading up supplies heading out to help people they had never met. In spite of pointless, dangerous political distractions, hope was and still is in charge.
Hope is indestructible.
Looking around at our current situation in society, I see a lot of negatives that need to be fixed. Hope cannot do it alone, though.
First, let’s make sure we operate with factual information. The recent run on toilet paper blew my mind. Apparently, there were many people convinced that our supply of bathroom tissue would be cut off by a potential dockworkers strike. Paper products are manufactured here in Arkansas, and other parts of the U.S., so there was no need for panic buying. We are not dependent on foreign TP. Calm down.
Truth is vital. Sometimes I feel like I’ve stepped outside myself and am viewing everything from a different altitude, and the thought occurs to me that we are spending unreal amounts of time arguing about the merits of truth. As if there are nuances and room for discussion as to whether or not it’s even worth the effort.
Some folks boldly defend their right to lie as a first amendment issue, or just repeat them louder, insisting that we have some nerve questioning their nonsense – about toilet paper, hurricanes, foreigners, and so many other things I can barely remember most of them.
Hope must be fueled by truth.
From friends who are able to communicate from the disaster zone in Western North Carolina, I can confidently say that government agencies have been in place since before the storm hit, nobody in need of help is being turned away, and that military personnel have been dispatched to help with logistics and distribution of aid.
Hope does not live in crazy Facebook memes. They should be ignored.
There are more good people in the world than bad, but the bad ones seem to feel entitled to push their way to the microphone and try to control the narrative. Don’t let them. If they really wanted to help those in need, they would not have time for grandstanding. They would follow the lead of Dolly Parton and make substantial donations.
Dolly is the epitome of hope in action. And she can probably drive a stick shift.
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