June 13, 2025 · 4:05 pm

Flag Day Reflections, Part I

About sixty years ago on Flag Day, two little girls got up early in the morning and went to work in the kitchen, making cupcakes. These little girls had met when their moms rented apartments next door to one another after their marriages ended, and the girls had become fast and, it has turned out, life-long friends.

Cheryl was the host. I was staying at her house for an extended visit, as I did most holidays and summer breaks from school.

My mom had moved away from Cheryl’s town and taken my brother and I with her, but my dad remained. He lived in a men’s only residence in downtown Kenosha, Wisconsin, about 19 blocks away from Cheryl’s house, so I could never stay with him, but I was lucky to have Cheryl and her dear mom, Marion, welcome me in whenever I could come. Marion was an X-ray technician at St. Catherine’s Hospital and left the house before dawn most mornings to work, so Cheryl and I were on our own.

My hosts, a few years later

The cupcakes turned out well, and we set out. It was my dad’s birthday, and we were going to surprise him with the cupcakes. As often happens in life, the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. As we walked, we were tempted to eat first one, then two, and then ultimately all three of the cupcakes we planned to share with Dad.

Oops!

We mustered on, and eventually arrived at the imposing building where Dad resided, standing at the front desk of the huge lobby, two little chocolate-smudged waifs, empty handed, tired and thirsty. The attendant rang Dad’s room and he came down.

The former Kenosha Youth Foundation building (now Residences at Library Park) where my rented a room for many years. I believe it was in the front, left, on the upper floor.

We got the surprise part of our visit right. Dad had certainly not expected us to walk so far at our young age, unattended. I honestly don’t remember exactly how old Cheryl and I were that summer, but I remember being small in the distant way adults remember such things.

“Happy Birthday, Dad! We made you cupcakes, Dad, but we got hungry.”

It’s a story my dad always told with affectionate tenderness.

All these years later, that Flag Day is on my mind, along with so many other thoughts and feelings that I believe must be expressed. These are complicated times. . .

My father was a World War II United States Marine Corps veteran, something my brother and I were always aware of. We knew the Marine’s Hymn, and we knew he had learned to talk like Donald Duck while he was in the service, but he was a quiet man who never spoke to us of his battle experiences. Other than his Purple Heart, we never saw a uniform, a gun, or any military artifacts in our home while he lived with us, nor did I find any among his possessions after he died.

Dad was playful and sentimental with us, teaching us about nature and camping and the stars. On his Flag Day birthdays, he enjoyed the simple things—cake and ice cream, tea or coffee, a home-made dinner. He did not use profanity, never used derogatory terms when referring to other people, and abstained from smoking and alcohol, all of which were somewhat unusual among his peers. He believed in staying fit, mind and body.

Dad and Cheryl on one of our many blue tent camping trips.

For many years, while living at the Kenosha Youth Foundation, he walked across the lawn, past its statue of Abraham Lincoln, into the beautiful old library where he read several daily newspapers, and enjoyed reading non-fiction books, mostly medical titles, as I recall. He continued a daily walking regimen all his life.

My Dad

This gentle man died long before the current resident of our White house launched his political campaign, so I cannot say for certain how he would feel about sharing his birthday with him, or whether he would support his policies. Dad was a Republican so I imagine this last decade would have been a challenge for him, certainly in different ways, but perhaps just as powerfully as it has been for me. Dad’s nature was the very opposite of this president. I like to think he would not have voted for him or supported him.

These are the musings of a daughter, his only living child, as the president of United States of America is set to preside over a huge military parade in Washington D.C. for the Army’s 250th birthday. And as National Guard troops and U.S. marines are staked out in the city of Los Angeles against the wishes of the governor and mayor. As ICE agents conduct raids, sweeping up suspected undocumented immigrants. As many of our government agencies are gutted, our history is being rewritten, and kindness and love and We the People seem forgotten.

But also, as over 2000 gatherings of everyday citizens in America and around the world will be protesting.

I will be among them.

I hope he would be proud, but I do not know.

What I do know is that even if he wasn’t proud of my participation, or he didn’t want me to attend because he feared for my safety, he would not try to stop me. He believed in all of the freedoms he fought so hard for in World War II. And I know that no matter what, he would hug me and tell me he loved me as he always did, throughout the many mistakes, successes, and milestones, large and small, of my life.

And if we could spend his birthday together this Flag Day, I know he would smile and tell the story of the little cupcake girls who visited him on his birthday.

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Filed under Memories, Relationship, The Greatest Generation, Uncategorized, United States Politics, World War II

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May 30, 2025 · 4:20 pm

Book Review: Wynne Leon’s Finding My Father’s Faith

Memoir

Wynne Leon’s marvelous and inspirational memoir begins with the most upbeat paragraph about a somber occasion that I think I have ever read. I was immediately captured! Here are the first few sentences:

There is nothing like a funeral for a pastor. It feels like a graduation ceremony for someone who has spent his whole life working towards the ultimate advanced degree. Over 1200 people came to celebrate Dad and more watched it live-stream on the Internet—a large group that embodied a singular feeling . . .

Thus begins Leon’s reflection on her father, her family, and the journeys that shaped them. I found Leon’s well executed mission to honor, understand, and memorialize her beloved father, while also processing her own secular and spiritual quests, to be honest, uplifting, thoughtful and fascinating. I loved reading also about her mother, Carolyn, and her short courtship and long marriage to her father, Dick. They were surely a match made in heaven!

There is a church outside my door.

There is much to recommend in this book: real life examples of what a life of service can be, what incarnational ministry is and how it served Dick during his time working as a missionary in India, and as a Presbyterian minister in the Philippines and the U.S., the love of family and friends, the divergent paths we take to find our own way to spiritual, psychological and emotional health, meditation practice, self-examination, and everything between birth and death. It is somehow light and deep at the same time, an accessible and entertaining look into humanity’s search for and need for meaning. I love this book!

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May 18, 2025 · 5:24 pm

I Am a Writer

Something I don’t write about much is my writing background. And of course there’s a reason for that. I have spent a significant amount of time, effort, and money over a period of many years on writing, and though I don’t consider any of that effort to be wasted, I do think sometimes, sometimes when the shadows fall a little too dark, a little too thick, that I should have done more with it, this writing thing, by now. That it should have gone somewhere. Perhaps I’m even a bit embarrassed to admit that with a BA in English and an MFA in creative writing, and years of study and teaching under my belt, I still haven’t published a novel.

Have I written a novel? Oh, yes. I wrote my first novel three decades ago. I was teaching English and became active in the National Writing Project, a fantastic program for teachers that encourages us to become writers, ourselves. I wrote a contemporary novel during that time but never attempted to have it published. It was my learning novel, the one that I would never throw away, but also, the one that wouldn’t be good enough to publish. Don’t ask me exactly how I came to this conclusion. I think I read an awful lot of books and articles about writing, and this was my take on first novels. They were like the first pancake, or the first kiss. You just had to do it and get it out of the way. The payoff would be better pancakes and better kisses later. Fluffier, more evenly browned, delicious. Or maybe my own writing just embarrassed me so much that I couldn’t even think of approaching anyone with it. So, I printed it out and boxed it away.

The itch to learn more and to focus more on writing took me to Goddard College next. I continued teaching and worked on my master’s from 2007-2009. During this exciting period, I wrote constantly, including many formal papers for my instructors and my thesis, which was a young adult historical fiction novel about a Catholic Polish teen and his Jewish neighbors during World War II. This one, I thought, I would try to get published. I just didn’t hurry it.

I attended Goddard West in Port Townsend, WA. I have never been to the original campus in Vermont, which has sadly, closed, but I still hope to visit there someday.

After the MFA, I focused on researching agents and publishers and writing queries. Admittedly, I didn’t try very hard. It was excruciating for me to put myself out there—my writing out there—which to me, amounted to putting my inexperience and inadequacy on full display, a neon sign of not-good-enough, flashy and annoying, just begging someone far more hard-working and talented than myself to squash it.

Time went by and I wrote with friends for fun, and to learn more. Shout out to you, Alicia, Lynn, Mike, Maria Elena, and of course all of my amazing students! I thought maybe I needed to put more time between me and my second novel. I started blogging. I was still teaching.

But then I found myself seriously ill with a rare form of cancer, and the world stopped spinning. I lost track of days, weeks. My brother was also ill and had come to live with us. My surgeries were successful. But I felt unwell. Months of chemo took a toll. And my brother. My beautiful brother, my only sibling, died.

I read that the average life span for appendiceal cancer was seven years, and yes, I also read that was not to be taken to mean that I would die in seven years—there were so many factors involved, and it was just an average. Many people died sooner. Others lived for twenty years or more. Blah, blah, blah, I thought. I have seven years.

With my husband’s blessing, I cashed in a small savings account and took a short trip to London and Paris (my one and only trip outside the U.S.), and it was wonderful, and I knew I wanted to write. My writing vision could not have been more clear. I came home and worked on a new novel.

East Finchley, Outside London.

A Beautiful Place to Write.

I taught for a couple more years. Other than my family, my teaching career was what I was most proud of and committed to. Still, I felt my energy shifting. I expected an early death. I imagined myself too weak to be the kind of teacher I had always aspired to be, which was the Robin Williams as John Keating kind of teacher from Dead Poet’s Society. That was who I should be, but instead, I felt—I believed, I was tired, in failing health, more Virginia Poe dying slowly of tuberculous while Edgar became ever more prolific than John Keating taking on the entire world of poetry and elevating young minds and spirits. I saw myself settling into an early writing retirement where my husband would continue to work, but I would just be . . . . the quiet writer in residence.

Robin William as the victorious Mr. Keating

The sadly beautiful Mrs. E. A. Poe

And so, I finished my third book. It is not published.

I found I missed gainful employment and have steadily worked part-time since my early retirement, teaching and library work mostly.  I am fighting my hermit-like tendencies, and I’m enjoying getting more involved in actively reading and responding to my fellow writers online, as well as the few writers I know personally. This is a joy and a responsibility. I believe we must support each other, and I am so in awe of all of you! I just finished reading a fellow Goddard graduate’s Sci-Fi thriller, The Regolith Temple, yesterday, and was blown away! Roxana Arama, I will be writing a review for your excellent book very soon!

I am still waiting to hear back from an agent who requested my full manuscript many months ago. I’m considering next steps.

I’m not dead. I stopped going in for cancer scans several years ago. I can’t afford them, and anyway, I’m quite spectacularly healthy. Weirdly! So maybe the seven years thing was really just about itches and actually had nothing to do with my diagnosis. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful, and I’m still in love with this beautiful planet. And pancakes and kisses.

I’m walking every day and working on another novel.

Trying to say it a little more often.

The simple sentence I’ve never felt worthy of.

I am a writer.

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Filed under Cancer, Cancer Journey, HIstorical Fiction, Identity, Literary Agents, London, Memories, Personal History, poetry, Relationship, Research, Teacher, Uncategorized, Voice, Writing, Writing Advice

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April 25, 2025 · 4:31 pm

Polished Maple Tables

An early picture of our old house, before renovation.

One of the most enjoyable writing exercises I’ve done lately comes from a biographical poetry template based on a poem by George Ella Lyon. I came across it on Jeannine Quellette’s brilliant Substack, Writing in the Dark. The exercise is familiar to me in a distant way, as though perhaps I’d done it before but lost it. Or perhaps it suited me perfectly this past week because I have been contemplating writing memoir and fictionalized biography, so it seems as though I always had it—a poem about beginnings, and the echoes still heard, the lessons still being learned.

Thank you, Jeannine Quellette, for sharing the lesson! You can visit Jeannine’s website and read her poem, “From Chickweed to Ash,” here: https://writinginthedark.substack.com/p/from-chickweed-and-ash.

Here is my version:

Polished Maple Tables

I am from polished maple tables

From Pall Malls and Folgers

Green grass, Blue water, the whoosh of wind and wings

Flocks of seagulls

I am from Lilies of the Valley, Bleeding Hearts, Lake Michigan’s endless sand and waves

I’m from World War II, Ramblers, and Divorce

From Rachel and Frederick and William and Lorene

From Rae and Bill

I’m from long car rides and listening to albums on the stereo

From Mr. Wonderful and Stop Crying and What did you learn in school today?

I’m from no church, lost pets, and rented houses.

From a mother who scoffed at religious people

And a father who blamed organized religion

For the world’s woes.

But I’m also from Christmas trees and baking cookies, from bunnies and Easter baskets.

And I’m from the hand-written prayers I found in my father’s bedside table when he died.

I’m from Chicago and Kenosha

From Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota

From Scots called Johnstone, and Swedes called Nelson

From ground beef casseroles, navy bean soup, and sour cream raisin pie

From Great Aunt Mary who broke up with her beau when he jumped into a fountain,

Never to wed, who lived with her sister Lorene’s family and then mine until The Divorce when she

Was sent back to Chicago to an old folk’s home

And Mother was hospitalized

I am from women who sewed and worked in libraries

and who cooked and cleaned other people’s houses.

And from men who sought love and adventure and worked on farms and in factories.

I am from Midwestern barefoot summers and sea glass and wandering the West

Restless and yearning for polished maple tables and a place to call home.

                                                                                                             RLP, 2025

If you would like to write your own “I Am From” poem, here is the template. Use it as a springboard. Jump in and adjust it to suit. I hope the writing brings you joy, or something like joy, which is sometimes as simple as finding a way to express the inexpressible past.

Blessings! And please share your poems in the comments!

Kenosha, Wisconsin

                                                          Template: I Am From

I am from ________________ (specific ordinary item)

From ____________ (product name) and _____________ (product name)

____________ (adjective), ______(adjective), _________ (sensory detail)

I am from _____________ (plant, flowers, natural item)

_______________________________________ (description of above item)

I’m from ______________ (family tradition) and _____________ (family trait)

From ___________ (name of family member) and ______________ (another family member)

I’m from the _______________ (description of family tendency) and ________ (another one)

From ______________ (something you were told as a child) and _________ (another)

I’m from __________________ (representation of religion or lack thereof), __________ (further description)

I’m from ___________________ (place of birth and family ancestry)

_______________________ (a food that represents your family), ___________ (another one)

From the ___________ (specific family story about a specific person and detail).

Dad, Lori, and Billy

Early Days in Kenosha

Thanks for visiting! Wishing you all good things. With Love, Lori

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Filed under Family, Personal History, poetry, Relationship, Uncategorized, Voice, Wisconsin, World War II, Writing

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March 31, 2025 · 4:58 pm

The Mornings are the Worst

This is not my kitty. It’s a sweet expression though, and I love kitties.

I woke up this morning acutely aware of several things. None of them were good, considering the state of current affairs, but, for me, the first breath of consciousness each day brings the unwelcome reminder that I no longer have any teeth (on the top of my jaw anyway. This may or may not be called the “crown” of my gums . . . I have asked Mr. Googly, but I’m still not sure). Also, I only have 13 teeth left on the bottom, which, hey, I’m grateful for so that’s why I state it only as an aside and not as part of my general complaint. Anyway, this is what waking up means to me.

I am aware that this is not an appealing topic.

Well, some people love me. But sometimes I get sad anyway.

I am an American woman with ill-fitting dentures that I take out at night. Most nights. Some nights I just leave them in.

But you aren’t supposed to leave them in. Why? Something about giving your gums a rest and not letting bacteria build up. According to The American College of Prosthodontists (ACP), the association that represents the specialty of prosthodontics: “Yes, you can wear your dentures at night, but it is preferred that they be removed. You should remove your dentures at night, and this will give your gums and bone a chance to relax from the pressure of the denture during the day. If you need to wear your dentures for social reasons or to prevent your jaws from over closing, you should find time during the day to properly clean your mouth and your prostheses. You should never wear your dentures 24 hours a day without performing proper oral hygiene. Dentures should be cleaned at night and stored in water during the night.”

So, that’s a no, yes? My guy in Fallon said to take them out . . . (he never mentioned unless I needed to keep them in for “social reasons” or to avoid over-closing jaws) . . . more on that later.

So, I usually take them out. Then—I wake up in the morning feeling like my face is a sad stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway after a torrential downpour. Part of me is washed away.

That’s me on the left. All smiles. Brand new teeth.

By now, some readers might be thinking (in addition to oh dear lord please stop), what about implants?

When I inquired about the cost of implants, I was given the “ballpark” figure of $40,000. “It’s like buying a car,” my Fallon guy said. Indeed. And I would be the first person to say that I’d much rather have a complete set of permanent teeth than a new car. Absolutely! But that’s false equivalency; it isn’t a choice between teeth and a car. Not at all. There’s no money for either of those things. I was lucky to be able to scrape the money together for the dentures, which came to something closer to $4,000 (including the cost of the extraction of my “unsavable” natural teeth). I drive a car that I bought used 10 years ago for much less than $40,000 and have managed to pay off. So I’m not in the market for a new car, and implants were never going to happen.

This breaks my heart, and it also angers me. Why is dental care so difficult to attain? Is it because of a general American lack of concern for healthcare for its citizens overall? Is it because I am lazy and do not deserve teeth? I mean, I have a job. I’ve always had jobs, but some of them (at peak important dental crisis periods), didn’t include dental insurance. If I had been born into a wealthy family, or perhaps if I had been born in a different country, would I still have my teeth? I don’t know. Certainly, lifelong, consistent dental care could have saved me some of my dental losses. I remember having a tooth pulled when I was in my twenties that could have been saved if I’d had the money for a root canal and a crown.

I’d like to hear about the experiences of people from other places. Is this something that happens to many of my peers, but I just don’t know about it because it is humiliating, and no one dares speak of it? And what about people who lose their teeth to accidents or illness? What recourse do they have?

More big smiles. Happier days.

I know there are people suffering much more in places that are much worse. I know that many people of my parents’ generation wore dentures for much of their adult lives, and I don’t remember hearing much grumbling about it, perhaps another reason that their designation as The Greatest Generation is so apt. My parents survived The Great Depression, they fought in World War II (Dad was a Marine in the Pacific) or supplied the troops (Mom worked in an airplane factory), they ballroom danced like athletes, swinging with The Big Bands, and they never complained. Perhaps part of the saying about keeping a stiff upper lip comes from their ability to hide their discomfort about dentures? I don’t know, but I admire them for it.

Does that mean I should just embrace my toothlessness? I mean, my parents weren’t crying about it. And if I should embrace my loss, how, exactly, do I do that?

I miss my teeth. I miss my smile. Like Elf, I love to smile. Smiling is my favorite.

Also, I can’t eat numerous foods that I love. This includes crispy raw vegetables and taco shells and chewy candy—the obvious things—but also many others like pizza or sandwiches or  good crusty bread. Believe me, dentures do not allow it.

Again, I could be wrong. According to The American College of Prosthodontists, “Most patients need to learn how to use dentures properly and as a result, it takes a little time to get used to them. After a while, you should be able to eat fairly normally, but it may take more time to get comfortable with harder foods or sticky foods. Using a small amount of denture adhesive (no more than three or four pea-sized dabs on each denture) may help stabilize the dentures and help hold them in place while you learn how to get comfortable with them and may make the learning process easier.”

“Fairly” is one of the key words in that paragraph. Fairly normally seems to include scrambled eggs, overcooked vegetables, soup, cooked cereals such as cream of wheat, mashed potatoes (a high point), and pudding. Oh! and thank goodness, ice cream is still an option.

Perhaps I struggle with eating because my dentures are particularly ill-fitting compared to others. This I don’t know. What I do know is that they fall out, they move around, and they whistle occasionally (something I could never accomplish before, that, no, I am not grateful for).

I also know that the denture adhesives help a bit, but the downside of using them includes the overflow stickiness that can make it impossible to move parts of my lips at times. True, I use more than the American College of Prosthodontists’ advised “three or four pea-sized dabs.” That’s because three or four pea-sized dabs do absolutely nothing!

Also, said stickiness, which isn’t sticky enough to stop the dentures from moving around during everyday activities like talking and eating, is somehow too sticky to allow its removal at the end of the day. The only way to get most of the adhesive off I’ve found is to scrape my gums and the roof of my mouth vigorously with one dry paper towel after another until I am sore and gagging and my husband has left the room.

I would be remiss if I didn’t also mention that many dental adhesives contain zinc, and though a certain amount of zinc is recommended, and is usually sourced from a regular diet, digesting extra zinc via the adhesive breaking down and being swallowed can mean that the denture wearer using adhesives with zinc may experience health issues.  Excess “oral zinc can cause copper deficiency, and zinc contained in dental adhesives may thus cause hypocupraemia.” [Prasad R, Hawthorne B, Durai D, McDowell I. Zinc in denture adhesive: a rare cause of copper deficiency in a patient on home parenteral nutrition. BMJ Case Rep. 2015 Oct 9;2015:bcr2015211390. doi: 10.1136/bcr-2015-211390. PMID: 26452740; PMCID: PMC4600814]

The good news here is that I’ve just done a search and discovered there are many varieties of dental adhesive currently on the market that are zinc free. This was a welcome surprise! Examples include: Secure Waterproof Denture Adhesive – Zinc Free, Extra Strong 12 Hour Hold Super Poligrip, and Effergrip Zinc Free Denture and Partials Adhesive Cream Extra Strong Denture Adhesive Cream, Zinc Free.

This bit of happy news, you might hope, will conclude my treatise on the sorrows and lessons of dentures, but I would be remiss if I did not mention . . ..

Intimacy in the bedroom at night on the rare occasion my spouse and I are both awake past eight o’clock. I think this must be one of the unmentionable “social reasons” cited by the American College of Prosthodontists. Alas, my post-natural-teeth desirability rating has fallen. I was never a supermodel, but I was the woman who never went without mascara or lipstick, who shaved her legs every day, and did everything possible within my budget to remain healthy and attractive.

Perhaps I’m being punished for my “vanity.”

I lost my teeth because I tried too hard?

I don’t think so. Mostly because it was never vanity to begin with. It was insecurity. Or, it was being a woman and knowing how women were judged. It may have been many things, but whatever sad mid-century thing it was, it was certainly never vanity.

But, hey. I’ve been up for hours now. I’ve put myself back together. Therefore, the only things I have left to worry about for the rest of today are: The state of current affairs. My missed visit to my family. Medical bills. Owing the IRS. More stray kittens needing to go to the veterinarian. The car that suddenly broke down.

Never mind.

I’m going to make a nice dinner and have a glass of wine. Some nice, homemade, soft and easy-to-chew food. Maybe soup? And a chilled Chardonnay. Definitely, a chilled Chardonnay.

After all, what do I have to worry about? What do any of us?

The mornings are the worst.

My cat, Jack. He’s not a morning guy either.

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Filed under Advice, Aging, Dental Care, Dentures, Health, Identity, Loss, Patient Advice and Support, The Greatest Generation, Uncategorized, World War II

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March 8, 2025 · 4:45 pm

Surviving Sue Review and Traces in the Snow

Today in the Reese River Valley. My photo.

Two consecutive snowstorms, and the sun sparks diamonds on the snow-hushed surfaces here in Austin and in the Reese River Valley just below us, giving us time to read, to wander, to cook, and to write.

Walking after a snowstorm is one of my favorite activities, along with walking in a warm rain, or on a starry night, or along a tree-lined lane at the height of autumn. It’s like walking inside a dream, a vision, a movie . . . all of it a magical changing work of art. This has been that kind of a weekend. An appreciated and needed balm for the eyes, ears, heart, mind and soul.

Our footprints going down our driveway last winter after a similar storm in Austin, NV. My photo.

After today’s walk, I finished reading Dr. Vicki Atkinson’s memoir, Surviving Sue: An Inspirational Survivor’s Story About a Daughter and her Life with a Mother Who was Riddled with Alcoholism, Alzheimer’s, Anxiety, Depression, and Munchausen’s. Vicki is a fellow blogger, one I follow and read with pleasure, always knowing I will find something positive, real, and insightful in her posts. Vicki is generous with her readers, sharing of herself, her humor, her highs and lows with an empathic interest in our perspectives.

This is Vicki’s voice, and it shines on the pages of her book. She is a profoundly kind-spirited woman who grew up learning how to turn the injury and injustice of her mother’s mental illness into something bigger than her own pain. With keen intelligence, her father’s and sister’s love, and later through her own family and probably also due to her dedication to her studies, Vicki survives and thrives, and she does it without ever compromising her own values.

Vicki’s Wonderful Memoir

Vicki’s compassion for her mother is more than challenged over the years, but somehow, she stays the course of doing what she believes is best for everyone concerned. For those who don’t know Vicki or haven’t read Surviving Sue, I’d like to stop here to encourage you to read it for yourself. This story is worth your time. It may even affect the ways you view some of your own experiences, past or present. It may soften your heart. It’s a beautiful book, and an engaging read.

Surviving Sue, Eckhartz Press, Chicago. Copyright © 2023. Vicki’s Blog is victoriaponders.com. Vicki also shares a podcast with her friend and colleague, Wynne Leon of Surprised by Joy (Blog). Their podcast, The Heart of the Matter can be found at sharingtheheartofthematter.com.

Now it’s time for the cooking part of the day. I’ve got an eggplant, lots of spices, cheese, pasta, greens, and tomatoes. Oh, and wine.

Should be a beautiful night.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

24 Comments

Filed under Books, Commentary, Nature, Reading, Seasons, Uncategorized, Voice, Winter, Writing

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March 2, 2025 · 5:34 pm

Thirteen Days Early / Nevada, USA / Are These the Ides of March?

Austin, Nevada. Yesterday. A Walk Through the Cemetery. The thorny branches covering the grave will burst into bloom this summer. I find that comforting.
These are the same type of wild roses. This is the June bloom in our yard.

The “Ides of March,” is a day in the ancient Roman calendar that falls on March 15 and is associated with misfortune and doom. It became renowned as the date on which Roman dictator Julius Caesar was assassinated in 44 bce and was further immortalized in the tragedy Julius Caesar by English dramatist William Shakespeare. In the play, a soothsayer warns Caesar to “beware the Ides of March.”                Ostberg, René. “Ides of March”. Encyclopedia Britannica, 23 Oct. 2024, https://www.britannica.com/topic/Ides-of-March. Accessed 2 March 2025.

Yesterday, Austin, Nevada was bathed in sunshine and warm temperatures. Today Austin is buried in snow. It’s mostly awesome, not really a misfortune or doom, and we knew it was coming. Thank you, meteorologists!

Austin History, March 1, 2025
Austin Yesterday
Nearer My God To Thee, Nearer to Thee

We needed snow. We had a dry winter.

Today

As the snow continues . . .

Weather is life. No doubt this is the reason it is so often the topic of small talk. It’s life.

Weather is also death. I fear for our friend who left town just as the snow started, heading west on Highway 50 directly into its path.

And it affects all of us. Humans and nonhumans alike.

Here then is a tiny presentation of the weather in Austin, Nevada, USA, over a two-day period. Life and death. Ironic juxtaposition that the photos with elements of death are awash in sunshine? It was not intended. And that is telling.

It stopped snowing for a bit. But it’s starting again.

Whatever the weather where you are, I hope you are safe and always, always, rolling with the changes. Happy Spring–Soon!

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February 2, 2025 · 4:37 pm

Veterinarians Deserve Our Praise and Support, and What Happens When Ferals Find a Home

Double Decker Comfort: Tanner takes the top. Gremlin below.

Sometime late last winter, or perhaps it was early spring, a beautiful feral cat began coming into our carport. She was fluffy, blue-eyed, and her body was entirely white except for a gray tail. We nicknamed her Snow White (It was just a nickname. After all, we weren’t keeping her. She wasn’t our cat.) Snow White was clearly hungry, so we fed her. We had three beautiful cats of our own. We had adopted two gorgeous long-haired brothers from Kindred Kitties in Kenosha, Wisconsin a few years before (on purpose!), Jack (pure black) and London (pure gray), and we had Annabelle Lee, a calico Manx stray that had burst into our kitchen through the cat door a year earlier on Halloween and never left. We had plenty of cat supplies and food to share. Snow White never got too close to us or to our cats, but she came often and ate a lot.

It wasn’t long before we realized why she was so hungry. One day we spotted her walking along the white picket fence in the front of our house, tail up. Following her, in perfect formation, were four little kittens, each of them a variation of her white and gray. Two were fluffy like their mom, two were sleek. She brought them straight into the carport. She ate, she nursed them, and then they left. This established a daily ritual which alarmed us because oh my goodness we couldn’t afford to have five more cats and to get them fixed and vaccinated—and oh no how can we take on this responsibility but how can we not—and wow, aren’t they just the most charming and adorable little things . . . ever?

Then one of the kittens got sick. The tiniest and most delicate of the bunch. While the other kittens played after eating, she would sit immobile, her blue eyes weepy, her nose runny, and her fur appearing sticky and dirty. Right about this time Snow White took off, leaving all four of her kittens with us. She stayed away, but the kittens stayed in the carport. Three of them looked healthy, but the tiniest was clearly getting sicker by the day. I made up a washing solution of warm water and peroxide, and Mr. P began washing her with a soft washcloth. She was too weak to resist. We also gave her softened food and cream (which I was told later never to do, but it did seem to revive her). She began to respond to the treatment and soon seemed to appreciate Mr. P’s ministrations.

Tiny Gremlin in the Carport

You may be wondering why I wasn’t washing her, too. It’s because I am a horrible coward. I couldn’t go near her without crying. There is something horribly weak about me. It is the worst part of me, the thing that I am probably most ashamed of.  I cannot bear to see innocent creatures suffer. Or even think about it. This is the real reason I do not eat meat.  

Mr. P knows this about me. He also cares deeply about animals, but he can somehow separate that feeling from his appetite, and when it comes to helping, he is stronger and can push through the sadness.  And I knew he would. Now, if he weren’t here when this happened, would I gather up the courage to take care of the baby? Yes. I know that I would. This I am sure of. I am so grateful though, that I was not alone this time.

We were by then calling the littlest one Gremlin—even though she wasn’t our kitten (Self-Delusional R Us) . . . and we had dubbed the others Tanner, Cole Porter and Annette Bening. Cole Porter and Annette Bening were the two sleek, shiny ones. Cole appeared to be wearing a tuxedo and Annette a matching gown. They were an elegant duo. Mr. P dubbed the other one Tanner because though he was mostly ivory with some gray, he had an interesting area of light beige running in a cap pattern on the top of head and wrapping around the bulk of his back. So now we had four growing kittens in our carport, all of them with names.

As Gremlin’s health improved, we noticed that Annette Bening began to develop Gremlin’s original symptoms. She was heartier than Gremlin had been though, and not as easy to get close to. We thought she would be okay. She wasn’t. The next morning, I found her as I walked to church. Annette had probably died during the night. She was dead at the bottom of the stairs that led from the front yard to the street below. I hesitated going on to church, but then continued on. I cried to my priest when I got there, and she said a prayer for sweet little elegant Annette, who never had a chance to grow up.

This was very hard on us. We decided we would take the remaining three kittens to the veterinarian 70+ miles away in Eureka, and we would get them whatever health care they needed, plus we would get them all fixed. It was a big expense, but one that made us feel immeasurably better. The vet said they were big enough for the operations, and all three came through fine. They were given medications too, in a series, and they all were doing well after that. We learned that only Tanner was a male. Cole Porter and Gremlin were both female.

We set about trying to get our original cats and Annabelle to accept the newly adopted siblings into our home. It wasn’t easy. They are still not the best of friends, but it’s better.

Jack: Ugh. Kittens.

London: On My Bed? Really?

I wish this were the end of the saga of Snow White’s kittens, but it’s not, quite. We lost Cole Porter shortly after her surgery. She was outdoors when Mr. P and I took three tiny new kittens who had shown up (one of them tumbling out of a thorny bush and right into my arms) over to our dear friend’s special kitty house. Our friend, who is one of God’s sweetest helpers, had kindly offered to take in the new foundlings. Unbeknownst to us, Cole Porter had been hiding in the wheel well of our car. We didn’t knock on the hood or honk the horn before driving out of the carport, as we should have done. Cole Porter must have been terrified, and she hung on for several blocks. Then we heard a thump and to our horror we saw a kitty fly out into the snow on the side of the street.

Cole Porter was dead. And we had stupidly caused it.

Our little town has been home to many feral cats over the years, with very little human interference. There is no county catch-and-release effort to spay and neuter them here. Kind souls do what they can for the cats, but there is often not enough money, or even any money, for private citizens to handle the costs of really addressing the problem. Other folks focus their efforts on getting rid of the cats—trapping them and taking them out into the desert and dumping them, or using them as bait for their hunting dogs, or simply shooting them. These occurrences are too horrible for me to even contemplate. It is hard to even write the words. As I admitted, I have an aching weakness when it comes to suffering.

Annabelle Lee: Queen of Roof

The town needs help and organized, kind, positive planning. As it is, more kittens are being born all the time. Not from “our” cats, but from those who weren’t “lucky” enough to have their mommy drop them off in our carport, or the homes of the other kind souls in town with the means to get them fixed. The people need help, the kitties need help, and all of the veterinarians who work to help animals every day need help, too. Vets work hard, and their work takes a huge toll on them. Imagine spending your days doing everything you can to help animals, and seeing their fear, loneliness, and suffering, and often not being able to change their situations. Euthanizing far too many.

It has been “confirmed (using stronger statistical methods than previous studies of suicide among veterinarians) that suicide is more likely among veterinarians than among the general population — 1.6 times more likely for male veterinarians and 2.4 times more likely for female veterinarians.”

(September 4, 2019 by Randall J. Nett, MD, MPH; Tracy Witte, PhD; Elizabeth G. Spitzer, MA; Nicole Edwards, MS; and Katherine A. Fowler, PhD. CDC NIOSH Science Blog. blogs.cdc.gov)

This sad statistic doesn’t surprise me, the woman who can’t bear the sound of an animal crying.

No Crying Here: This is the Life

“Veterinarians have to deal with what one scholar called the ‘caring-killing paradox.’ A veterinarian, for example, might provide wellness visits for a kitten. They weigh the little kitten, give vaccinations and provide advice. Months later, if the kitten contracts feline leukemia virus, the focus of the care changes. After end-of-life discussions with the pet parent, the vet must euthanize the patient they once cared for… Veterinarians also witness a range of emotions from pet parents. The loss of an animal companion can bring profound grief. And veterinarians see the tearful last minutes between a person and their pet, followed by the outpouring of sadness after the animal has passed… They also see pets who have been abused and mistreated. Veterinarians are learning how to recognize signs of animal abuse. All 50 states now have laws that make animal cruelty a felony, and veterinary forensic pathology is taught at conferences. Law enforcement supports veterinarians reporting abuse, as studies have linked households with animal abuse to other forms of domestic violence. The profession is becoming increasingly aware of these stresses. In autumn 2021, the AMVA held their first-ever roundtable discussion to address veterinary suicide prevention. Several goals of the roundtable was to increase veterinarians’ ability to recognize symptoms and to vocalize resources available, such as suicide prevention hotlines, to those in crisis. Trauma and stress lead to mental health struggles among veterinarians and the profession is becoming increasingly aware of the issue.”

(Emilie Le Beau Lucchesi, May 12, 2022 8:00 AM.www.discovermagazine.com/mind/researchers-try-to-understand-high-suicide-rate-among-veterinarians).

Jack and London, The Original Wild Ones

It should also be mentioned that veterinarians have access to drugs used for euthanasia. This has been shown to be another reason for the high number of suicides among the profession.

(NIH. National Library of Medicine. National Center for Biotechnology Information. Suicide in veterinary medicine: Let’s talk about it – PMC).

This is a longer than usual post for me. I hope that you have stayed with me. I am passionate about animals . . . about caring for the voiceless, and I have often been too quiet about it. In a world graced with the beauty of all God’s creatures, bright and beautiful, great and small, and the many fine people who devote their lives to helping them, mine is an insignificant voice. But earnestly, with love and hope, I ask that all of us do what we can to help the voiceless, and to appreciate and thank those who are working to better their lives. For we all share this miraculous planet. Together.

It Was Meant to Be

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January 25, 2025 · 4:25 pm

And Then Came 2025

At “The North Pole”

Sky Park at Santa’s Village

Skyforest, CA

I headed home from my holiday travels at the end of December, heart-filled with the love of family. I was tired, but happy in the distinct way grandmothers know well. I had just been given a multitude of irreplaceable moments with my best beloveds . . . Tiny hands holding mine, some still so small, and some growing too fast. Also bigger hands and hearty hugs. Teens and twenty-somethings updating me on their lives. Strong, beautiful, and grown. Smiles. Laughter. Storybooks shared. Snowman crafts. Game playing. Sleepy cuddles. All of it so cherished.

After tearful goodbyes, I checked in for my flight and went in search of a new journal at the airport gift shop, thinking I could begin it on January 1st. Last year, returning from my Christmas trip, I had purchased one there, and it had been a terrific addition to my writing life. Alas, this time nothing spoke to me, probably because I already had it in mind that I wanted a guided journal like the one I used in 2024 (The Breathe Journal 52 Week Guided Planner) and they didn’t have anything similar.

Once home, my usual routines resumed, but with more than the usual spark of wonder and worry that a new year brings. This was not going to be just any new year. Apprehensive, sad, and often angry, too, I knew that I was going to have to work hard to maintain my usual optimism and good will. Honestly, my optimism was at one of the lowest levels I have ever known. Somehow, I was still hanging on to my feeling of good will in all my daily encounters. My genuine love of the people I see during the course of a regular week’s activities lifts me up. But when I was at home reading the news, I was feeling helpless and exceptionally low.

Mr. P and I stuck to our walking schedule, which we know is a nonnegotiable necessity, and I was happy to return to my library job and to church on Sundays. These things always help. Still, I knew I needed to get more writing in, and was stuck—am stuck—as far as my historical fiction manuscript goes, so I searched online for a new journal. I found and ordered Journal Like a Stoic: A 90-Day Stoicism Program to Live with Greater Acceptance, Less Judgment, and Deeper Intentionality by Brittany Polat, PhD.

By the time the journal arrived, we were more than halfway through January, and I was physically unwell. I am only into my third day of using it, but I would say it is helping me in the way that almost any honest attempt at writing truthfully from my heart and mind can do. It focuses my mind with reading, questions me with depth, and sets a task before me. I like it.

From the book: “Stoicism is a philosophy of life in the fullest sense. As a framework for daily living, it can guide us in every decision we make, from our career choices to what’s for dinner tonight. What’s more, it helps ground us when we’re living through what feels like unprecedented times.”

The kitty is also interested in stoicism.

The three disciplines of stoicism are logic, ethics, and physics. The four virtues of stoicism are wisdom, justice, courage, and temperance. All these things I can get behind, believe that I mostly already embrace them. I say mostly, because I am ignorant when it comes to physics, and historically slack when it comes to temperance. Still! I am in. I will faithfully read and respond to the prompts in the book. I will write honestly.

I plan to continue with the other things in my life that sustain me: my love of friends, family, community, church, library, nature, reading, art, music, cooking, and pets (to name a few). And I will write the occasional blog post! I love connecting with all of you!

Cheers

To us! To a year of introspection and growth, and to a lifetime of love-motivated action and purpose. God Speed.

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January 9, 2025 · 4:19 pm

I’m Disappointed Enough to Ask . . .

Austin, Nevada. United States of America.

“Rosalynn and Jimmy Carter“/ CC0 1.0

I write this on January 9, 2025, the day of President Jimmy Carter’s funeral. Jimmy Carter died on December 29th, 2024. He was 100 years old, a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, a dedicated man who worked alongside his wife in public service and advocacy for human rights and humanitarian causes throughout his life (Habitat for Humanity being only one of them).

He graduated from the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland in 1946 with the distinction of being in the top ten percent of his class. His service in the US Navy included being selected to join the nuclear submarine program, where he and 23 other sailors opted to expose themselves to radiation to rectify a partial meltdown of an experimental nuclear reactor at Chalk River Labs in Ottaway, Ontario, Canada. As a result, the core of the reactor was successfully removed. Source: (https://www.warhistoryonliune.com/featured/jimmy-carter-us-navy.html).

Jimmy Carter was a humble man of faith who continued to teach Sunday school during his presidency. These are just a few examples of his character and place in our country.

This post is both meant as a tribute to President Carter and as a question for my community. You see, Mr. P. and I just returned from a tour of our town and were not able to spot a single American flag flying at half-staff. We were not out on a mission to check on flags. It is our usual practice to get out and about on our days off together, and today I was not working at the library because it was closed in remembrance of President Carter.

We were out in the cold bright light of a January day to take in the beauty of our town and the mountain trails and to get a little exercise.

Driving through the park at the top end of town I remarked, “Look. Someone forgot to place the flag at half-mast.” It didn’t strike me as that odd, just an oversight perhaps. Afterall, county workers had the day off, perhaps they had forgotten.

But after our walk we were intrigued enough to actually look for American flags being flown at half-mast. We did not find a single one anywhere in our town. There were a few empty flag poles. All the rest of the American flags were flying high.

I am deeply hurt. Why is not one American in this town following protocol?

Really. Please tell me, friends.

Here are the rules for flying the American flag at half-staff according to Veterans Affairs at https://www.va.gov>opa>publications>celebrate>halfstaff.pdf.

“An easy way to remember when to fly the United States flag at half-staff is to consider when the whole nation is in mourning. These periods of mourning are proclaimed either by the president of the United States, for national remembrance, or the governor of a state or territory, for local remembrance, in the event of a death of a member or former member of the federal, state or territorial government or
judiciary. The heads of departments and agencies of the federal government may also order that the flag be flown at half-staff on buildings, grounds and naval vessels under their jurisdiction.
On Memorial Day the flag should be flown at half-staff from sunrise until noon only, then raised briskly to the top of the staff until sunset, in honor of the nation’s battle heroes. In the early days of our country, no regulations existed for flying the flag at half-staff and, as a result, there were many conflicting policies. But on March 1, 1954, President Dwight Eisenhower issued a proclamation on the proper times.
The flag should fly at half-staff for 30 days at all federal buildings, grounds, and naval vessels throughout the United States and its territories and possessions after the death of the president or a former president. It is to fly 10 days at half-staff after the death of the vice president, the chief justice or a retired chief justice of the United States Supreme Court, or the speaker of the House of Representatives. For an associate justice of the Supreme Court, a member of the Cabinet, a former vice president, the president pro tempore of the Senate, the majority leader of the Senate, the minority leader of the Senate, the majority leader of the House of Representatives, or the minority leader of the House of Representatives the flag is to be displayed at half-staff from the day of death until interment.
The flag is to be flown at half-staff at all federal buildings, grounds and naval vessels in the Washington, D.C., area on the day and day after the death of a United States senator, representative, territorial delegate, or the resident commissioner from the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico. It should also be flown at half-staff on all federal facilities in the state, congressional district, territory, or commonwealth of these officials. Upon the death of the governor of a state, territory or possession, the flag should be flown at half-staff on all federal facilities in that governor’s state, territory or possession from the day of death until interment. The president may order the flag to be flown at half-staff to mark the death of other officials, former officials, or foreign dignitaries. In addition to these occasions, the president may order half-staff display of the flag after other tragic events. The flag should be briskly run up to the top of the staff before being lowered slowly to the half-staff position.”

So, I’m disappointed enough to ask . . .

Why is there not one American flag flying at half-mast in Austin today?

Photo by Rocco Cappella on Pexels.com

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