Where has All the Civility Gone?

 I think I’m living the good life. All my needs are met and most of my wants are, too. I don’t fear becoming homeless, being arrested, getting murdered (except by awful happenstance), or any of the other dire events that dominate the news.

 My country is not likely to be invaded. An armed uprising isn’t likely to happen in what remains of my lifetime. Food insecurity—let alone malnutrition or starvation—isn’t something I face.

 We have enough to live safely and happily, and enough to share with less fortunate people. We’ve even saved enough to celebrate our 50^th wedding anniversary with a big trip next fall. (Vienna for a month—I’ll be writing about that before long.)

 So with all this comfort and security, why am I so anxious and apprehensive? Why does the other shoe feel perpetually ready to drop? And why am I cocooning instead of enjoying my family and friends? It feels like I’m stuck in an existential quagmire on par with Everything Everywhere  All at Once.

 Here’s my answer: we are victims of emotional abuse on a gigantic scale.

 Too much is happening in the world and too much of it is terrible, bizarre, and frightening. Question: How many wars or conflicts are raging right now? Answer: According to World Population Review, there are 40.  

 In a world with 193 countries, 20% of them are in some type of armed conflict. Five major wars—including Ukraine/Russia and Israel/Palestine—and 35 smaller conflicts involving terrorist insurgencies, civil wars, and drug wars. The casualties are massive.

 And as if that weren’t enough, the President of the United States is threatening to start several wars of his own. Venezuela, Greenland, and Iran come quickly to mind. I often hear that he’s not serious, he’s just stirring the pot, trying to intimidate people. In my book, that’s emotional abuse on a world scale.

 Then there are the deaths, injuries, and destruction from CBO/ICE abuses of power—not only harming protestors and immigrants, but traumatizing everyone who sees the replays. Those un-uniformed masked men with rifles and guns pointing everywhere, smashing car windows and dragging bystanders out of their cars are terrifying. Terrifying on purpose.

 Even in public speech, civility has evaporated. The President throws the F-bomb around like a toddler who discovers he can make the adults go nuts just by saying it. He calls learned, cultured, and accomplished people names like the worst high-school bully you can remember. He insults other countries and their leaders with apparent relish.

 In my opinion, the man is the definition of vulgar. And his vulgarity has infected what used to be called civil discourse. I see rude behavior and rude language everywhere—from TV talk shows to the local Kroger. I hear about it on the news when reports come in of road-rage assaults and mass shootings at birthday parties and weddings for heaven’s sake. I tell my husband, in all sincerity, not to honk at someone who cut him off because that driver might have a loaded gun on the seat next to him.

 And so yes—I’ve answered my own question. I’m anxious and apprehensive because I’m a victim of nationalistic (in contrast to domestic) emotional violence. We need someone to issue and enforce a restraining order for our own safety and protection.

 I’m looking at you, Congress. And at you, SCOTUS. Do your damn jobs!!

Awe-ful Art

 I had a wonderful time visiting my sister Janet and her husband Dave in Port Aransas this past week with Michael. Such a fun time that I didn’t write my blog on Monday like I normally do, but I’ll try to make up for it today. Janet and Dave are Winter Texans, fleeing North Dakota’s freezing temperatures and snow for several months of benign and even lovely weather on the Gulf Coast. And we usually visit them in mid-February, mainly because that’s when Janet's birthday falls.

 For the last several years, it has been ridiculously cold in Port A during our visits. Winters around here are supposed to be mild, but it’s not guaranteed. We've had terrible timing on these trips weather-wise in the recent past. We were happy to be there during a quite nice period of mostly sunshine and warmth this year. The one day of rain didn’t interfere with our plans a bit.

 On a side trip to Rockport, we visited the Rockport Center for the Arts. It’s a lovely small gallery/museum that features local artists and has quite nice jewelry and artsy tchotchkes for sale. On our visit, we saw an exhibit that mesmerized me by the Austin artist B. Shawn Cox.

 Titled Hanging by a Moment, Cox’s work is, to quote their website, an “exploration of perception, cultural subtext, and the elusive nature of “the moment” … using painting, drawing, installation, and lenticular techniques.”

 His subjects, primarily cowboys and cowgirls, are sometimes rendered in ballpoint pen and other times in very large paintings. But the eye-catching and breathtaking element of many pieces was that the picture changed and followed you as you walked by. This is called, I learned, lenticular art.

 I had never heard of lenticular art, but I discovered that I had a childhood familiarity with it. Remember those little squares with images on them that once upon a time came as prizes in Cracker Jack boxes? When you tilted the square, the image jumped from one view to another. A magician might wink at you or a baseball player might swing the bat as you moved the square around.

 It seemed like magic in grade school and Cox’s paintings seemed even more magical to me at 75. One very large painting featured a cowgirl with bouncy curls and a happy-go-lucky smile rendered in bright, saturated colors. She looked straight at you … until you walked by. Then she turned and followed you, still smiling.

 Startled by this, I turned around, walking back to the center, and she looked forward again. I walked to the left, and she turned left, still smiling. For a few moments, I walked back and forth on a three-foot-wide path just for the delight of seeing my cowgirl friend turn her head this way and that, smiling the whole time.

 Wow, what is this lenticular art? I'd never heard the term, and I'm fairly art savvy. I looked it up and discovered that it's a painstaking process of making small crosshatches on special media called a lenticular lens. It’s too complicated for me to explain, so here’s a description I borrowed from a helpful website, Labyrinth Art.

 “The term ‘lenticular’ comes from ‘lens.’ In this context, it refers to the plastic sheet covered in tiny lenses (lenticules) used in this type of printing. These lenses refract light at different angles, allowing your eyes to see different images as you change your viewing position.”

Seeing behind the curtain on this trick doesn’t change the magic for me because I still don’t have a clue how anyone creates a lenticular image. God bless you if it makes more sense to you. The bottom line is that Cox’s images were awe-inducing and made my visit to an art space in a very small town as wonderful as a visit to the Museum of Fine Arts Houston.

 Keep your eyes open and you might find something awe-ful in your life this week!

 Ciao

 

 

 

O Canada!

 Sometimes the current state of the nation makes me fantasize about running away. I’ve felt that way under more than one administration, notably Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush. Admittedly, my views on those fellows have moderated since then. Compared to our current president, they weren’t so bad.

 But whenever I get really upset, the idea of going someplace else pops up. After all, there are lots of lovely places in the world to live and many of them are affordable for Americans like me who have a stable income. Thank you, FDR, for social security. Language is the biggest barrier. Although I studied Spanish, French, and Latin in school, I am sadly not multi-lingual.

 Canada is, of course, the natural place to look when running away from America. Except for Quebec, it is English speaking, which is a big draw for me. And I grew up near the Canadian border, about a two-hour drive south of Winnipeg. I traveled a lot in Canada as a child, camping with my family. Canadians are nice people and, from my North Dakota-nice point of view, regular people just like us.

 Canada has been the shelter for many Americans over the centuries. Enslaved Americans used the Underground Railroad to reach freedom in Canada for over hundred years because Canada offered legal freedom long before the US abolished slavery. And draft resisters famously escaped to Canada to avoid or to protest the war in Vietnam during the 60s and 70s. Those were my high school and college years and the draft resisters were my peers.

 LGBTQ+ Americans found shelter in Canada during the 80s and 90s before the US recognized same-sex marriage or even basic protections. Canada legalized same-sex marriage in 2005, 10 years before the US did. And since the 90s, some Americans have relocated to Canada for healthcare or for economic stability because the country offers universal healthcare, lower medical costs, and a more predictable social safety network.

 Today, people talk about escaping the political climate in America by going to Canada. As the US begins to look more and more like something out of The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood’s prescient dystopian novel that we seem to be leaning into, Canada is certainly inviting.

 Would I really move to Canada? Honestly, it is not that easy to accomplish. You can’t just show up on their doorstep and ask to come in for longer than a visit. You have to qualify under the rules of one of their immigration programs. Those include skilled worker, provincial nominee program, family sponsorship, or an employment sponsorship. But wait! There’s another possibility for lucky people like me.

 My great-great grandparents were Canadians from the Township of Leeds and the Thousand Islands in Ontario. My great-grandmother Eva was born there as well. Eventually, they moved to Michigan where Eva met my great-grandfather, Wallace Petrie. He happened to be on his way from upstate New York to North Dakota to make his fortune. Love happened in Michigan, marriage happened in North Dakota, then my grandmother, my mother, and I happened. (Along with a bunch of other children in each generation.)

 On December 15, 2025, Canada passed Bill C-3, a significant reform of its citizenship laws. In a nutshell, Bill C-3 made people with Canadian ancestors (considered “lost citizens”) recognized citizens. All you have to do is apply for Proof of Citizenship by Descent, documented with birth certificates or legal records establishing your lineage, and suddenly, with a bit of paperwork, you’re Canadian. You have dual American-Canadian citizenship. And you can get yourself a Canadian passport to go along with your American passport with a minimum of difficulty.

For those of you who didn’t have ancestors smart enough to be born in Canada, I’m sorry, but you will have to do it the hard way. Even if I never move — unless things get REALLY bad — it’s comforting to know that a door is open, one my ancestors walked through long before I ever thought about walking back.

Now to get busy collecting 200-year-old birth records!

 Ciao

 

 

Come Sing a Song With Me

I left my church service Sunday frustrated and unhappy. It wasn’t the sermon—our minister delivered an engaging and thought-provoking talk on the sin of pride. And it wasn’t the choir’s performance that bothered me—they were in good voice. It was the congregational singing that upset me. Let me tell you why.

 I’m a Unitarian Universalist, have been for over 50 years. Our denomination has two main hymnals, the grey hymnal, with 415 hymns, and the blue hymnal, with 75. The grey hymnal is the old standard; the blue hymnal, introduced in 2005, offers fresh music with contemporary themes and modern rhythms.

 In all my varied congregations over the years, there are some songs that have been used more than others. Some songs have different words but share melodies. When the blue hymnals came out, we purposely learned the new music and developed new favorites there. Congregations sang in strong, confident voices because we knew the songs.

 Cut to yesterday, which is only an example of a bigger phenomenon. The two hymns selected for the congregation were entirely unknown to me. They both came from the grey hymnal, which I’ve been singing out of for 50+ years, but I couldn’t remember ever singing either of them. And from the halting, mumbled voices around me, neither had anyone else in the pews.

 People weren’t using hymnals because the words floated above us on a giant screen over the altar, with no musical notation. The hymnals were available, of course, but they’re unwieldy and mostly unused. I’m pretty sure someone picked those hymns to enhance the message of the sermon. They did not pick them to be sing-able.

 I remember loud, vigorous singing in church that could lift your spirit and engage your heart. That only happens if people know, or can read, the words and music. If they know the melody, they can make the words work, the reverse is much harder. Although we do sing familiar hymns at my church, we don’t do it often enough. I miss vigorous, heartfelt church singing. In today’s fraught world, I need vigorous, heartfelt church singing.

 I talked with Michael about it on the ride home and mulled my dissatisfaction for a while. And then I had an epiphany. Why do I expect my congregation to sing with heart when a whole culture has forgotten how? Group singing, community singing, used to be a thing in America. And it isn’t any longer. I don’t just miss raising my voice confidently in song at church; I miss it everywhere.

 Where has all the singing gone? At the beginning of athletic events, at birthday parties, at church, at concerts for those who can afford the tickets. That’s about it. But we used to sing together a lot.

 Now is where the old lady’s remember-when, in-the-olden-days, stuff starts. We used to have shows on television with a lot of music. The Lawrence Welk Show, the Ed Sullivan Show, the Smothers Brothers, Hee Haw, The Andy Williams Show, The Dean Martin Show, Sonny and Cher, and Donny and Marie, to name a few.

 We had folk singers, hootenannies, and sing-alongs. Remember Mitch Miller’s Sing Along with Mitch from the 80s? Okay, just the old people do, but look him up. Americans used to sing together, even if we were in our own living rooms among family. And at marches and protests for Vietnam and civil rights, we sang folk standards and old-timey hymns like We Shall Overcome, Blowin’ in the Wind, Kumbaya, and The Times They Are a-Changin’.

 Schools, especially elementary schools, had music classes where we learned the standards. All Through the Night, Amazing Grace, America the Beautiful, The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Blue Tail Fly, Bingo, Buffalo Gals, Camptown Races, Dixie, Down by the Bay, Farmer in the Dell, Frѐre Jacques, Go Tell Aunt Rhody, God Bless America, Home on the Range, The Hokey Pokey, I’ve Been Working on the Railroad… I could literally go on and on.

 We knew these songs and we sang them at Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts, around campfires of all kinds, at gatherings of all kinds. And, of course, we sang Christmas carols, in public, with other people. And we knew more words than the first two lines of the songs. We had song sheets or song books when we needed them.

 What happened to singing? What happened to group fun? Why is everyone sitting in front of a computer or cell phone or TV set watching other people do things and not doing anything themselves? Where are our friends besides in text messages?

 Sadly, I have no insightful conclusion today, simply a longing for something missing from life in 2026. If you have any answers, I’d love to hear them. Wouldn’t it feel great to get together and sing your heart out with a bunch of other people?

 What are you doing next weekend?

Ciao

P.S. Here's a rendition of one of my favorite UU hymns from the blue hymnal. It's not rousing, but it is SO heartfelt. Plus, I know the composer. Come Sing a Song With Me 

Liberté, égalité, fraternité

 I typically stay away from political topics, but once in a while—like my vaccine post on September 1, 2025 —I must address behavior that I consider morally bankrupt and even criminal. The murders by ICE agents in Minneapolis are the epitome of that behavior.

 Many people are as appalled as I am, and many are writing or posting about it.  My post is about my feelings, widely shared I believe. I do not pretend to be objective or reportorial. What I am is outraged.

 How dare you, Trump and cronies, upend the course of American life with phony and false narratives about deporting the “worst of the worst” when we can clearly see that this is a lie? Do you think Americans are stupid?

 Despite the outright lies of Kristi Noem, a woman who has perfected prissiness and belligerence, and of Border Patrol official Gregory Bovino, neither Renee Good or Alex Pretti were terrorists, domestic or otherwise. Neither of them presented a threat to ICE agents. Both of them were murdered in cold blood.

 How do I know this? Because I watched the many on-site, in-the-moment videos bystanders made on their phones. Not the AI-doctored crap that rightwing influencers are putting up on the internet to prove Noem and Bovino were correct. No, I’m talking about the IRL videos that abound thanks to the people of Minneapolis taking their jobs as documenters of wrongdoing seriously.

 To Donald Trump, Kristi Noem, Gregory Bovino, and every other lying mouthpiece of this administration I say this: Our eyes do not deceive us. You cannot deceive us. We know immorality and criminality when we see it. It’s past time to stop your false narrative and take responsibility for your actions.

  When reality feels unbearable, I turn to art that mirrors it back to us—sometimes more truthfully than the official record. Therefore, I am recommending two movies to everyone who has not seen them.

 The first is Civil War, a thriller about America—our America, this America— in a civil war. It takes no sides, assigns no rightwing or leftwing interpretations to events. Civil War simply reveals what a civil war would do to our society and our citizens if it happened now.

 The scenes of an America we recognize destroyed by bombs, of Americans we recognize lining up for food in a Wal-Mart parking lot, of American combatants who look just like us because they are us dumping bodies in unmarked graves are beyond chilling. Kirsten Dunst stars in the movie and is supported by a strong cast. Jesse Plemons delivers a disturbing cameo as the soldier overseeing the burial detail. That was, for me, the film's most harrowing scene.

 The other movie I highly recommend is Bonhoeffer. It is an historical drama about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German theologian, and anti-Nazi dissident. In this movie, you will see how cleverly and insidiously the Nazi movement overwhelmed Germany and perverted its people into accomplices in the worst war crimes in history. You will recognize some of those tactics in practice by our government right now.

 (Let me add that there is some controversy about an important detail of this film that Bonhoeffer’s family disputes in the strongest terms. You can find that information on the internet and I urge you to read it.)

 I am demoralized but not deterred. I believe that the rule of law will persevere, although I foresee much more pain before things turn around. I don’t want a longer list of martyrs to the cause of liberty and freedom, but I fear there will be more. I hope that our collective voices of outrage will bring down the figurative walls of Congress so that our representatives hear—and heed—our outcry.

We must keep speaking, keep documenting, keep resisting—because silence is complicity.

 Liberté, égalité, fraternité

 

 

In My Dreams

 Everyone knows that when your phone rings and it’s still dark outside, the voice on the other end of the line will bear bad news. The only question is what kind of bad news are you about to hear. So when our home phone shrilled in the dark, and I saw that it was 5:15 am, my heart clenched and my throat went dry. I said a groggy hello, not knowing that this would be the most dreadful conversation of my life.

“Is this Mrs. Devereux?”

 “Yes, who are you?”

 “I’m a nurse at CHRISTUS Mother Frances Hospital in Sulphur Springs. We have your daughter Victoria in the emergency room.”

 I expected to hear terrible news about something like a serious car accident, but instead she said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been a fire at her home.”

 I gasped and grabbed on to Michael, who had walked around to my side of the bed. “A fire?”

 “Yes. The ambulance brought her in with burns and lacerations. We’re treating her now.”

 “What about the girls?”

 “I don’t know anything about anyone else. They just brought in your daughter.”

 A few minutes later, as I tried to comprehend what I’d just heard, Victoria came on the line. She spoke between heaving sobs, and I could barely make out her words. The nurse came back on the line. “I think you need to get here as fast as you can.”

 In shock and disbelief, Michael and I clung to each other, speechless.

 Our bags were already packed because we were going up to Sulphur Springs later that day for a weekend visit. Our granddaughters were celebrating their birthdays with a joint party on Saturday. Heaven would turn 4 on the 31^st and today, the 20^th, was Hayden’s first birthday.

 We had packed the evening before, so fifteen minutes after I hung up the phone, we got in our car and drove north toward Victoria and, we prayed, toward Heaven and Hayden.

 It was a five-hour drive from our house outside of Houston to her North Texas home. We drove as fast as we dared, but it wasn’t fast enough.

 About nine, Victoria called us again. Still crying, but much more composed.

 “Are the girls there with you, Tori?”

 “Not yet,” she said, “Before they took me away in the ambulance, a fireman told me the house was too hot to go into.”

I couldn’t understand why the firefighters didn’t get Heaven and Hayden immediately. Why would they wait?

 “Just a minute, Mom, they’re here.”

 Suddenly I heard Victoria give a low, sobbing moan that shook my world.

 “NO! NO! NO! Where are my babies? Please bring me my babies!”

 The children hadn’t survived the fire. Victoria was beyond speech. We were an hour and a half away. All we could do for her was drive faster.

 The story of how we all coped— and are still coping— with the tragic loss of our two beloved girls is far too long to tell here; it takes up several chapters in my memoir, The Requirements of Love. But tomorrow is the 4^th anniversary of Heaven and Hayden’s deaths. It is a time of profound grief for everyone who loved them.

 One element of that grief is the loss of them as children growing up and maturing. Heaven had a saucy, lively, intelligence to her that I can envision at an older age, but Hayden was barely one. A beautiful child, and a happy one, she hadn’t had the chance to show us yet who she might become. I feel that loss very deeply.

 This year I decided to peek into the future that never happened, to see the girls with fresh eyes. I got on my favorite AI program, Copilot, and did an age progression of my favorite photo of them. I wanted to see Heaven as an 8-year-old and Hayden as a 5-year-old.

 It took a lot of tinkering. In the first round of changes, the AI program left Hayden with her wispy bits of baby hair instead of showing it grown out as it would have. And in the original photo, Hayden is looking down. She had beautiful blue eyes and I wanted her to show them to the camera, so I had the photo adjusted to make her look ahead.

 That photo made me cry, but it also made my smile. I am so glad to think of my girls growing and thriving. I don’t know what happens after we die, but a happy afterlife certainly appeals to me. Just because they are lost to this world doesn’t mean they couldn’t grow up in some other one.

 Here are both pictures. Look closely and you’ll see what I see: each of the pictures is real.

  

Ciao

 

 

 

What Gives You Hope?

 I try to keep my voice light even when, occasionally, I address difficult topics. So many of the world’s stories these days batter my soul and I need relief from them. I suspect many of you feel the same way and my topics often veer away from our troubling reality. Nevertheless, I watch the evening news every day. I read the newspaper every morning. I always wake up to All Things Considered on NPR. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment.

 I am so overwhelmed some days by what I read and hear that I just want to sit in my recliner and read some non-reality-based fiction. Fantasy is good, and I’m currently rereading the 14-book series The Wheel of Time.

 The first time I read it, I had to wait a year or two between books: the first year for the author, Robert Jordan, to release the hardback version, which I found too expensive to buy, and then perhaps another year for the more affordable paperback version to come out. In this way, over almost two decades, I completed the entire series. Michael read it, too, and it gave us a lot to talk about as we went along.

 Michael likes to reread books and he read this series so many times that the pages darkened and fell out. He accepted this loss for years, but around the time of Covid, decided he had to replace them and began purchasing them in boxed sets. As he finished a set, he would buy the next box of books.

 Michael is a very fast reader and it didn’t take him long to read every one of the 14 books again. I started thinking that I would like to reread the books. This is not typical for me. I rarely return to a book, no matter how much I like it. I find having it in the bookcase, running my eyes across the spine once in a while, and remembering my enjoyment is enough.

 Because I didn’t expect to dive into the series again, I didn’t mind when our son, Nick, asked to borrow them even though he lives in Brooklyn. On our next visit, Michael packed them all in a suitcase and surrendered them on Nick’s solemn oath that they’d be returned. (Details on the return were sketchy. Nick works and has a family, so we knew he wouldn’t be speed reading like his dad.)

 After Nick finished, his wife decided that she would take a turn with the 14 books. A working mom, Kate didn’t have lots of time either, so the months stretched into a few years. By that time, someone had decided to make a television series out of the story.

 It was an ambitious undertaking because the themes and multiple story lines of the Wheel of Time are complex and wickedly intertwined. There have been two seasons so far and Michael and I have watched both.

 They have high production values, lots of excellent special effects, and good acting. What more could you want? Well, I wanted them to stick to the story! The writers changed things, probably because the books are so dense that doing them faithfully would be a 20-year undertaking. But it bothered me.

I couldn’t remember plot details clearly — it had been decades since I read the books — and I frequently pestered Michael with questions about things that seemed wrong to me. Quite often, they were deviations, but not always. It frustrated me not to remember clearly.

 Sometime between those two seasons, Nick returned all 14 of the books. Michael reread the whole series yet again. I looked at them in their neat rows on a prominent shelf and started thinking maybe I’d read them too. But I didn’t start — until last week.

 Battered by news that made me cringe and cry and rage all at the same time, I decided to sink myself so deeply into fantasy that I blocked out reality. I’m almost finished with Book Two in less than a week, and these are 900-1000 page books.

 It isn’t working perfectly. I still know the horrible events of the world and of our country because I’m still connected to the news cycle. But when I’m reading, I am so engrossed in the complexities of that story that I get a reprieve from reality. And that’s all I want, a reprieve.

 I’m not trying to pretend the bad news and, frankly, evil, isn’t still out there and getting worse by the day. But in Jordan’s books, the good guys and the evildoers are battling on a cosmic level, and good seems to win somehow, even when things seem hopeless. It is encouraging.

 One lesson of the series is that this battle between good and evil is never-ending. It seems worse when we are in the middle of it, like right now, but it’s happened before and goodness has prevailed. Another lesson is that people are surprising. A good guy turns out to be corrupted; a bad guy has an epiphany and changes sides. What you think you know isn’t real until you see it happen.

 I have a bit of Book Two plus 12 additional books left to read in the Wheel of Time. That should take me through winter. By springtime, I’m praying that things in our world will be looking up as much as they improved in the Wheel of Time’s world. If not, I have several more fantasy series that I haven’t read in years. Good always wins in those books, too.

 What gives you hope and comfort these days?